His gaze was caressing. “Share it with me.”

With effort, she guided the glass to his lips and gave him a swallow, while he continued to stroke and tease her beneath the water. His mouth came to hers, the kiss carrying the crisp, sweet flavor of champagne. His tongue played in ways that made her heart thunder.

“Now drink the rest,” he whispered. She gave him a dazed look, her h*ps beginning to rise and fall of their own volition, churning the hot soap-clouded water. She was so hot, inside and out, her body aching for the pleasure he withheld. “Finish,” he prompted.

One last convulsive gulp, and then the glass was removed from her nerveless grip and set aside.

Christopher kissed her again, his free arm sliding beneath her neck.

Gripping his bare shoulder, Beatrix tried to bite back a moan. “Please. Christopher, I need more, I need—”

“Patience,” he whispered. “I know what you need.”

A frustrated gasp escaped her as his touch withdrew, and he helped her from the bath. She was so enervated that she could barely stand, her knees threatening to fold. He dried her efficiently, and kept a supportive arm behind her back as he led her to the bed.

He stretched out beside her, cradled her in his arms, and began to kiss and caress her. Beatrix writhed like a cat, trying to absorb the lessons he was intent on teaching her. A new language of skin and hands and lips, more primal than words . . . every touch promise and provocation.

“Don’t struggle for it,” he whispered, his hand stealing between her straining thighs once more. “Let me give it to you . . .” His hand cupped her and pressed. His fingers entered, teased, played. But he withheld what she wanted, murmuring for her to relax, give in, let go. There was both fear and relief in giving it to him, yielding every part of herself without reserve. But she did. She let her head fall back on his arm, her body turning pliant, legs spreading. Instantly the cl**ax welled, her flesh contracting, all awareness distilled to that secret inner place he stroked.

When Beatrix finally recovered, emerging from the opulent haze, she saw a glow of concern in his eyes. He was looking at her na**d side, his hand passing lightly over the large purple bruise from her fall earlier in the day.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I nearly always have something bruised or scratched.”

The information didn’t seem to reassure him. His mouth twisted, and he shook his head. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The instruction was entirely unnecessary. Beatrix had no intention of moving. She crawled farther up to the pillows, letting her cheek press into the down-stuffed linen casing. She sighed and drowsed until she felt Christopher join her on the bed.

His hand settled on her hip, his palm slick with some kind of unguent. She stirred as a strong herbal odor drifted to her nostrils. “Oh, that smells nice. What is it?”

“Clove oil liniment.” Carefully he rubbed the balm into her bruise. “My brother and I were covered in the stuff for most of our childhood.”

“I know about some of your adventures,” Beatrix said. “John told them to Audrey and me. The time the two of you stole the plum tart before dinner . . . and the time when he dared you to jump from the tree limb and you broke your arm . . . John said you were incapable of refusing a dare. He said it was easy to make you do anything, simply by telling you that you couldn’t.”

“I was an idiot,” Christopher said ruefully.

“ ‘Hellion’ was the word he used.”

“I took after my father.”

“You didn’t, actually. At least, not according to John. He said it was unfair that you were always cast as your father’s son, when you weren’t really like him.” Beatrix rolled easily as Christopher nudged her onto her front. His strong, gentle hands rubbed the balm into her strained muscles, the hint of clove oil imparting a mild cooling sensation to her skin.

“John always tried to see the good in everyone,” Christopher murmured. “Sometimes he saw what he wanted to believe rather than what was truly there.”

Beatrix frowned as he worked her shoulder muscles, easing the tension into softness. “I see the good in you.”

“Don’t harbor illusions about me. In marrying me, you’re going to have to make the best of a bad bargain. You don’t understand the situation you’re in.”

“You’re right.” Beatrix arched in bliss as he massaged the muscles on either side of her spine. “Any woman would pity me, being in this situation.”

“It’s one thing to spend an afternoon in bed with me,” Christopher said darkly. “It’s another to experience day-to-day life with a lunatic.”

“I know all about living with lunatics. I’m a Hathaway.” Beatrix sighed in pleasure as his hands worked the tender places low on her back. Her body felt relaxed and tingly all over, her bruises and aches forgotten. Twisting to glance at him over her shoulder, she saw the austere lines of his face. She had an overwhelming urge to tease him, to make him play. “You missed a place,” she told him.

“Where?”

Levering herself upward, Beatrix turned and crawled to where Christopher knelt on the mattress. He had donned a velvet dressing robe, the front parting to reveal a tantalizing hint of sun-browned flesh. Linking her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “Inside,” she whispered. “That’s where I need soothing.”

A reluctant smile lurked at the corners of his lips. “This balm is too strong for that.”