He reached up for his elegant neck cloth and began to unfasten it, and she watched his long, pale, bejeweled fingers in something of a daze.He pulled the cloth free, his shirt coming open, and she averted her gaze from the disturbing sight of his bare chest. She heard his laugh, and then his hands were on her once more, catching her shoulders and turning her around. Don't worry, my pet. You won't be seeing anything that might shock you. And he pulled the neck cloth over her eyes, effectively blinding her.She wanted to fight back, to struggle, but that would give him an excuse to touch her further, and the less she felt the brush of his cool fingers the better. That's right, he said, his voice soft and approving. Now give me your arm and we'll give you a taste of damnation.Do you really find blasphemy that entertaining? she said, trying not to start when he took her hand and placed it on his arm.Always.She'd never put her hand on any arm that wasn't covered by layers of clothing, including a coat. The devil who oversaw these revels, be he Monsieur le Comte or something else, wore only a thin shirt made of the finest lawn. In her sudden world of darkness she was acutely aware of the feel of his arm beneath her fingers. The sinew and bone. The unexpected warmth of his skin, when his hands and his heart were so cold.