Minx

by Julia Quinn

  “But several of the wells need fixing, and—”

  “Shush.” He pinched her lips shut. “You don’t have to worry about money anymore.”

  “I neber exacdly worried aboud id,” she tried to say while he was still holding her mouth closed. He sighed and let go, and she continued, “I’m just thrifty, that’s all.”

  “That’s fine.” He tilted her chin up with his index finger and placed a sweet kiss on her lips. “But if I want to be a little extravagant once in a while and buy my wife a present, I expect no complaints from you about it.”

  Henry admired the ring he’d slipped on her finger, a shiver of excitement rushing through her at his use of the word “wife.” “None,” she murmured, feeling quite frivolous and utterly feminine. After regarding the ring from the left, the right, and two inches away from the flickering candle, she looked back up and asked plainly, “When can we be married?”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her again. “I think this is what I love best about you.”

  “What?” she asked, not caring in the least that she was fishing for compliments.

  “You are utterly frank, disarmingly forthright, and refreshingly direct.”

  “All good qualities, I hope?”

  “But of course, minx, although I suppose you could have been slightly more forthright with me when I first arrived at Stannage Park. We might have been able to clear up that whole mess without venturing into the pigpen.”

  Henry smiled. “But when can we be married?”

  “In two months time, I think,” he said, the words sending an agonizing wave of frustration through his body.

  “Two months?”

  “I’m afraid so, my love.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Apparently, for I will most probably perish for wanting you during that time.”

  “Then why don’t you simply get a special license and be done with it next week? It cannot be that difficult to obtain one. Emma said she and Alex were married by special license.” She paused and frowned. “Now that I think of it, I think Belle and John were, too.”

  “I don’t want you hurt by any gossip regarding a hasty marriage,” he said gently.

  “I’ll be more hurt if I can’t have you!” she said, not gently at all.

  Another wave of desire pulsed through his body. He didn’t think she’d meant the word “have” in the carnal sense, but it inflamed him nonetheless. Forcing his voice into even tones, he said, “There will be talk because I am your guardian. I don’t want to make it any worse, especially since it would not be very difficult for anyone to discover that we were alone for more than a week in Cornwall.”

  “I didn’t think you cared about ton gossip.”

  “I care for you, minx. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I won’t be. I promise. One month?”

  There was nothing he wanted more than to have the wedding in one week, but he was trying to be mature about the matter. “Six weeks.”

  “Five.”

  “All right,” he said, giving in easily because his heart was on her side even if his mind was not.

  “Five weeks,” she said, not sounding terribly pleased with her victory. “It’s so long.”

  “Not so long, minx. You’ll have many things to keep you busy.”

  “I will?”

  “Caroline will want to help you shop for your trousseau, and I expect that Belle and Emma will want to take part as well. I’m certain my mother would also want to assist, but she is vacationing on the Continent.”

  “You have a mother?”

  He quirked a brow. “Did you think mine was some sort of divine birth? My father was a remarkable man, but even he was not that talented.”

  Henry screwed up her face to show him that his teasing would not be taken seriously. “You never mention her. You rarely mention your parents at all.”

  “I don’t see much of my mother now that my father has passed on. She prefers the warmer climes of the Mediterranean.”

  An awkward silence fell between them as Henry suddenly realized she was sitting on the floor of her bedroom in her dressing gown in the company of a rakishly virile man who was exhibiting no intentions of leaving anytime soon.

  And the most appalling thing was that she was not the least bit uncomfortable about it. She sighed, thinking she must have the soul of a fallen woman.

  “What’s that about, darling?” Dunford murmured, touching her cheek.

  “I was just thinking I ought to ask you to leave,” she whispered.

  “You ought to?”

  She nodded. “But I don’t want to.”

  He took a ragged breath. “Sometimes I think you don’t know what you say.”

  She placed her hand in his. “I do know.”

  He felt like a man being willingly led to torture. He leaned forward, knowing that this could only end in a solitary frigid bath but unable to resist the temptation of a few stolen kisses. He traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, savoring the sweet taste of her. “You’re so lovely,” he murmured. “Exactly what I wanted.”

  “Exactly?” she echoed with a quavering laugh.

  “Mmm-hmm.” He slipped his hand inside her dressing gown and let it rest on her chemise-covered breast. “Not that I knew it at the time.”

  Henry let her head fall back as his lips trailed down the line of her throat. The heat of him seemed to be everywhere, and she was helpless against this onslaught of her senses. Her breath came in irregular pants and then stopped altogether when his hand on her breast gently squeezed. “Oh, God, Dunford,” she gasped, fighting for air, “oh, my God.”

  His other hand slid down the length of her back until it cupped the round firmness of her derrière. “It’s not enough,” he said fiercely. “Lord help me, it’s not enough.” Holding her tightly against his frame, he lowered her down until her back laid against the carpet. In the flickering candlelight her brown hair seemed to sparkle with tiny sunbursts of gold. Her eyes were like molten silver, languid and drugged with desire. They were beckoning him . . .

  With shaking hands he parted the silky folds of her robe. Her nightgown was white cotton, sleeveless yet almost virginal. The thought raced through his mind that he was the first man ever to see her like this—and the only man who ever would. He’d never dreamed he could feel this possessive, but the sight—and the feel and the smell—of her untouched body created a firestorm of primitive instinct that made him want to brand her as his.

  He wanted to own her, to devour her. God help him, he wanted to lock her away where no other man could see her.

  Henry stared at his face, watching it turn into a mask of fierce emotion. “Dunford?” she said hesitatingly. “What’s wrong?”

  He gazed at her for a moment, as if trying to memorize her features, right down to the tiny birthmark next to her right ear. “Nothing,” he finally said. “It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  He let out a hoarse, self-deprecating laugh. “It’s just—the things you make me feel—” He lifted her hand and placed it over his racing heart. “It’s so strong—it frightens me.”

  Henry’s breath caught in her throat. She’d never dreamed he could be frightened by anything. His eyes were blazing with an unfamiliar intensity, and she wildly wondered if her own looked the same. His grip on her hand loosened, and she moved her fingers up to his face, gently running one over his lips.

  He growled with pleasure, then caught her hand once more, imprisoning it at his mouth. He kissed her fingertips, lingering over each one as if it were a delectable sweet. Then he moved back to her index finger, tracing lazy circles around its tip with his tongue.

  “Dunford,” she gasped, barely able to think with the bolts of pleasure shooting up her arm.

  He took her finger further into his mouth, sucking gently as he ran his tongue over her fingernai
l. “You’ve been washing your hair,” he said softly.

  “H–how did you know?”

  He sucked again gently before replying. “You taste like lemons.”

  “They have an orangery here,” she said, barely recognizing her voice. “There is a lemon tree, and Emma said I might—”

  “Hen?”

  “What?”

  He smiled, slowly and lazily. “I don’t want to hear about Emma’s lemon tree.”

  “I didn’t think you did,” she said dumbly.

  He leaned down a few inches. “What I do want to do is kiss you.”

  She didn’t move, couldn’t move, so mesmerized was she by the blazing light in his eyes.

  “And I think you want me to kiss you, too.”

  Tremulously, she nodded.

  He closed the distance between them until his lips were resting gently against hers. He explored her slowly and teasingly, demanding nothing of her that she wasn’t prepared to give. Henry could feel her entire body tingle. Every inch of her was alive with the heat of his body. Her lips parted slightly, and a soft moan escaped.

  The change in Dunford was instantaneous. That tiny, whimpering sound of desire triggered something deep and desperate within him, and he became a fierce aggressor, branding her body with his own. His hands were everywhere—exploring the gentle curve of her waist, running up and down the smooth length of her legs, sinking into the heavy mass of her hair. He groaned her name over and over, almost like a litany of desire. It was as if he were drowning; clinging to her was his only means of staying afloat.

  And then, once again, it wasn’t enough.

  His fingers, surprisingly nimble, slipped the buttons of her nightgown loose, and he spread the thin, white cotton open.

  He sucked in his breath. “My God, Henry,” he whispered reverently. “You’re beautiful.”

  Her hands moved reflexively to cover herself, but he held them away, saying, “Don’t. They’re perfect.”

  Henry laid perfectly still, uncomfortable under his unwavering gaze. She felt too bare and exposed. “I–I can’t,” she finally said, trying to push her nightgown back up.

  “Yes,” he murmured, realizing that her discomfort stemmed more from her feelings of vulnerability than from fear of their intimacy. “You can.” He covered one of her breasts with his large hand, deriving an inordinate amount of pleasure from the way her nipple puckered under his touch.

  He leaned down, just barely catching the disbelieving expression on her face as he took one peak into his mouth. She gasped and bucked beneath him. Her hands clutched at his head, and he got the feeling she wasn’t certain whether she was trying to pull him closer or push him away. He teased her puckered skin, running his tongue around its perimeter as his hands squeezed the gentle roundness of her breasts.

  Henry wasn’t sure if she was dead or alive. She didn’t particularly feel as if she were dead, but she’d never been dead before, so how would she know? And she had certainly never experienced such intense feelings while alive.

  Dunford dragged his head up and peered into her face. “What are you thinking about?” he asked huskily, amused and curious about the odd expression on her face.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said with a shaky laugh.

  He quirked a smile, deciding he’d rather continue his amorous activities than pursue the topic further. With a delighted growl, he moved his head to her other breast, teasing it until it reached the same state of arousal as the first. “You like that, do you?” he murmured, hearing her little whimpers of pleasure. Feeling an overwhelming sense of pure affection for her, he moved back up and nuzzled her nose. “Did I remember to tell you in the last five minutes that I love you?”

  Unable to suppress a smile, she shook her head.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, but . . .” Her words trailed off, and she looked embarrassed.

  “But what?” He touched her cheek, moving her face slightly so that she could not avoid looking him in the eye.

  “I was just wondering . . . that is . . .” She stopped and bit her lip before continuing with, “I just want to know if there is anything I can, that is to say—”

  “Out with it, minx.”

  “Anything I can do for you,” she finished, closing her eyes since he would not allow her to look away.

  His body tightened. Her shy, unpracticed words aroused his desire like nothing he could have imagined. “You’d better not,” he said hoarsely. At her look of rejection, he continued, “Later, though. Definitely later.”

  She nodded, seeming to understand. “Then would you kiss me again?” she whispered.

  She was half dressed, flushed with desire, and under him, and he was madly in love with her. There was no way he could deny her request. He kissed her again with all the emotion pulsing through his soul, one hand gently teasing her breasts and the other twisting through her hair. He kissed her endlessly, barely able to believe that one set of lips could be so fascinating, that he didn’t need to move back to her neck or ears or breasts.

  But his hands were another story, and he could feel one of them dipping ever lower, past the smooth, flat planes of her abdomen to the soft, curly thatch that covered her womanhood. She stiffened, but not very much; he had already torn down most of her restraint by making love to her breasts. “Shhh, my love,” he whispered. “I just want to touch. God, I need to touch you.”

  Henry responded to the fierce emotion in his voice; she felt the same passion flowing through her own body. She was telling herself to relax when he lifted his head, stared deeply into her eyes, and said, “May I?”

  His voice was so achingly humble and full of respect she thought she might shatter. Jerkily she nodded, thinking that, of course, this would feel nice. It was Dunford, and he would never do anything to hurt her. It would be nice. It would be nice.

  She was wrong.

  She nearly screamed from the spasms of pleasure that shot through her at his touch. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “Nice” could not even begin to describe what he was doing to her. It was too good, too much. Her body couldn’t take it. She began to scoot away from him, thinking she would surely explode if he continued this sweet torture.

  Dunford chuckled at her squirmings. “You’re going to get a burn from the carpet,” he teased.

  Henry looked at him blankly, her brain so hazy with passion it took her a few moments to process his words. He laughed again and rolled off her, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her to the plush bed. “I know I said the bed would be a big mistake,” he murmured, “but I can’t have you rubbing your back raw, can I?”

  She felt herself sinking into the bed, and then he was on top of her again, the heat of him scorching her skin. His hand immediately stole down her body, back to her womanhood, where it teased and tickled, pushing her further and further toward oblivion. He slipped his finger inside of her, his thumb continuing to plea-sure the sensitized nub of flesh. He flicked back and forth, back and forth . . .

  “Dunford,” Henry gasped. “I . . . you . . .”

  His weight was pressing her into the mattress. He was hard and hot, and she couldn’t control her body as her legs wrapped around his.

  “My God, Henry,” he groaned. “You’re so ready. So . . . I didn’t want to . . . I never intended . . .”

  Henry was beyond caring what he had intended. All she wanted was the man in her arms—the man she loved. And she wanted all of him. She pressed her hips upward, cradling his insistent hardness.

  Something within him snapped, and his fingers left her as he furiously tore off his breeches. “Hen,” he moaned, “I need you. Now.” His hands were on her breasts, then her backside, then her hips. They seemed to move with lightning swiftness, driven by a determination to touch every last inch of her silken skin.

  He gently gripped her firmly muscled inner thighs and slid them further open. The tip of
his manhood touched her, and he groaned at the wet heat of it.

  “Henry, I . . . I . . .” His lips couldn’t form the rest of the question, but she could see it in his eyes.

  She nodded.

  He moved gently forward, her soft skin resisting this new invasion.

  “Shhhh,” he murmured. “Relax.”

  Henry nodded. She’d never dreamed a man would feel this large within her. It felt good . . . but so very strange.

  “Henry,” he whispered, his face set into lines of concern. “This may hurt. But only for a moment. If I could—”

  She touched his cheek. “I know.”

  He surged forward, sheathing himself completely within her. Henry stiffened at the sudden flash of pain.

  He immediately held himself still, holding his weight off her by supporting himself on his elbows. “Did I hurt you?” he asked urgently.

  She shook her head. “Not really. I just . . . It’s all better now.”

  “Are you certain, Henry? Because I could pull out.” His face clearly told her that such an option would be the worst sort of torture.

  Her lips curved into a small smile. “All I need is for you to kiss me.” She watched as his mouth slowly descended. “Just kiss me.”

  He did. His lips devoured hers as his body began to move—gently at first, then with an increasing rhythm. He was losing control, and he needed her to experience the same abandon. He moved his hand between their bodies and touched her.

  She exploded.

  The feeling began in her belly, then her body grew stiff as a board. She gasped, thinking that her muscles could not take this tension, that they would surely splinter—and then, miraculously, she went limp, her entire body warm and tingly yet utterly relaxed.

  Her head lolled to the side and her eyelids drooped shut, but she could feel Dunford’s intent gaze on her face. He was looking at her—she knew that as surely as she knew her name—and his eyes were telling her how much he loved her. “I love you, too,” she sighed.

  Dunford hadn’t thought he could possibly feel any more tender toward her than he already did, but her soft declaration of love was like a warm kiss placed directly on his heart. He wasn’t sure what precisely he had intended when he came to her room. He supposed subconsciously he had wanted to make love to her, but he had never dreamed he would feel this much happiness from pleasuring her.