Her lips tipped up. “Consider me your neighborhood goddess. Yes, you may.”
His hand slipped around her ribs and cupped one breast, their eyes still locked together. Her mouth formed an almost comical circle as breath slipped soundlessly from her lips. He didn’t have to ask if his caress felt good: She instinctively arched into his hand.
His thumb rubbed across her nipple, and he felt the shudder through her entire body.
“You’re not wearing a corset.” His voice had dropped at least an octave.
She shook her head. “My corsets are built to make my breasts look larger than they are. That is not the effect I wanted when playing Hamlet.”
He took up a gentle rhythm and watched as pleasure rippled over her face. “Hamlet with breasts. I would like to see that.”
“You would?” The silky invitation in her voice was unmistakable.
They kissed until everything faded from the little glade: the song of birds, the skitter of the squirrel, back for more crumbs. Nothing existed but Joan and the involuntary sounds she made.
Until she tore her mouth away, panting, and cried, “Bloody hell, Thaddeus!” Then she froze, eyes on his, obviously waiting to see if he was shocked.
He was shocked, but by himself, not her. He came up on his knees, a bellow of laughter coming from his chest such as he hadn’t experienced in years. More than years. Perhaps since childhood.
“It’s long been an ambition of mine to see a Hamlet with breasts,” he said, eyes on hers so he could see the faintest sign of hesitation.
None.
She smiled, but it wasn’t the practiced sensuality that she’d wielded like a weapon against unthinking mankind. This smile was joyful, a little shy, mischievous, desirous, sweet.
The real Joan.
The realization rocked him to his core.
“As it happens,” she said with an enchanting giggle, “I can help you with that ambition.”
She untied the simple knot at her neck. And began pulling handfuls of linen from her breeches.
He watched, unmoving. No gentleman would disrobe a lady. But if a lady disrobed herself? There was nothing he could do in the world, at this moment, other than watch Hamlet disrobe.
Some part of his mind was dimly aware that he wasn’t acting like himself. That the whole being whom he’d crafted—the future Duke of Eversley—had deserted him, leaving:
Thaddeus.
Thaddeus, his inner self, sprang to life with the same joy with which he used to argue about astronomy in school, certain that individual stars hid galaxies behind them. The way he used to dedicate himself to an injured animal, nursing it, coaxing it to live, no matter how abused it had been.
Only Thaddeus, not a future duke, watched Joan pull her shirt up until a pale band of skin showed at her waist, the color of new cream. She crossed her arms, ready to pull it over her head. “Shall I?”
He swallowed hard.
Her smile widened, and she took his silence for an answer, because the shirt made the squirrel jump as it thumped the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Thaddeus saw the young fellow take an enormous leap in the air and then settle back down, coming up on his back legs to launch into an angry monologue.
“He’s cross,” Joan murmured. She reached slender arms up in a casual manner, and crossed them behind her head. She looked mischievous more than anything—but he saw a pulse beating in her neck, and her breath was unsteady.
His hands came out, hovered in the air. “You’re the most beautiful—” He caught the words back. She hated empty compliments, even when they were true. “Did you know that every star is unique?” he asked instead.
She shook her head.
“They look the same from our vantage point. But were we able to approach them, we would see that each flames in its own way. Men compare breasts to apples or melons.”
Joan quirked up one side of her mouth. “I’d put my own in the apple category.”
“You’re like a star: so perfect that you are dangerous to the naked eye.” The curve of her breast looked like a mathematical theorem, the explanation of the universe.
Or of man’s desire.
“May I?” he asked, desire pumping through his blood, his voice a rumble. She raised an eyebrow, so he ran a finger along the curve of her mouth. “Touch you? Caress you?”
“Yes.” It was a simple word, but with independence and confidence behind it. Something in him calmed. He wasn’t taking advantage of her, because Joan considered herself his equal.
Perhaps it took a woman with no claims to birthright to dismiss his title, to view him as a man and nothing more. Everything in him rejoiced.
His hands rounded her delicious curves as if his fingers had grown to this size in order to caress her. A shudder went down her spine, and she closed her eyes, holding her breath. Thaddeus bent down, watching Joan’s silky skin quiver when he gently blew on her nipple. Hearing a squeak when he licked her for the first time. Feeling her slender body shake as he closed his lips around her nipple.
“Hell,” Joan breathed.
He stopped kissing her in order to laugh. Her eyes popped open and she stared at him, annoyed. “That wasn’t a reproach. Feel free to return to your former activity.”
“I was told, growing up, that cursing was a sign of lack of control.”
“Me too,” Joan said. She squinted her eyes. “Pretend I am Miss Whittier, the most proper governess of all who entered the castle.”
He teased her nipples, one with each hand. “Never a fantasy of mine, but all right, Miss Whittier.”
Joan’s breath caught. And then: “I didn’t mean that!” Her face changed and somehow, improbably, she looked older and very stern. “Lady Joan, I pray that I never hear such an exclamation from your lips again. Such a one as you must be even more prudent with your language than must a true lady.”
Thaddeus’s hands stilled and his brows drew together.
“My father sacked her,” Joan said cheerfully. “I didn’t tell, but Viola did. My stepsister may seem shy, but she’s a fierce protectress. From that moment, I decided that the rules governing ‘true ladies’ didn’t apply to me.”
She wiggled, arching her back into his hands. “You might continue what you were doing before.”
With no hesitation, Thaddeus bent to the highly enjoyable task of driving his lady, “true” or not, from hoarse noises to the occasional unladylike exclamation. By then, his erection was straining the front of his breeches, and he could feel sweat on his back.
The world had closed to her curves, her body, her smell and taste. He felt as if he were snatching a moment from time, dizzyingly heady, impossibly delicious. Forbidden.
“I never thought you . . . Who are you?” Joan murmured at some point. Her arms were over her head, her creamy breasts spangled by sunlight.
Whoever he was, he was following instinct rather than rules for the first time in his life. Thaddeus moved from kissing her lips again to kissing her breasts, and again, until she was shaking beneath him, her nipples hard, her fingers tugging at his hair.
Instinct.
It wasn’t something that dukes were encouraged to think about. Who needed instinct when he had generations of tradition to follow?
Instinct told Thaddeus how Joan wanted to be kissed, when she would welcome a nibble, how to turn his thumb in order to create a rougher stroke. She felt sweeter and more delicious than anything he’d ever tasted. He kissed his way over a taut expanse of pale skin, and dusted her belly with kisses.
When he spoke, his voice came out in a rasp. “I want to touch you.” Following his instinct, he slid a hand between her legs, clasped her tightly, and felt her body quiver. She was hot and soft through the silk breeches, naked flesh waiting for his caress.
Of course she wouldn’t wear a pair of drawers under her breeches.
“Only a touch,” he added.
Joan had turned rosy pink. “You are so much more adventuresome than I would have expected.”
He pressed his fingers slightly and her breath caught.
“With you,” he said wryly. “My second picnic.”
“Family picnics are never like this!”
He tapped his fingers, and she drew in a breath with a little squeak. “That feels so good.”
Thaddeus was dimly aware of all he’d forgotten: manners and civilization, for one. His father and his title, for another. Gone, as lightly as if they were garments that a man put on in the morning and took off in the evening.
Life, real life, was here, with Joan, whose eyes were not dazed but sparkling, whose mouth was red, who arched into his hand and then looked surprised at herself.
“I trust you,” she told the open air, before throwing one arm over her eyes.
Her breeches were made from silk grown fragile from age.
He dragged his hands over the curve of her hips. “Tsk, tsk. These breeches cover your kneecaps. Quite unfashionable, Hamlet. And ribbon garters?” He snorted.
“Hair ribbons,” Joan said, peeking at him. “Hush with your criticism. Even as children, my brothers had stout legs. The breeches flap at the knee without ribbons.”
Thaddeus pulled free the second ribbon, and ran his fingers teasingly down her calves and then under the breeches to cup her knees. “Are you quite certain, Joan?”
“Touching only,” she commanded, moving her arm so she could see his face.
Until the past two years, Thaddeus had considered himself a lucky man. Fortunate. Privileged in every way possible, barring his father’s absence from his life.
Now he knew that he hadn’t even understood what could have been in his life, were he truly fortunate.
This, this, sunlit glade. He glanced up and found the squirrel, having tamed them with a scold, was busily investigating the open boxes on the other side of the cloth.
“Yes.” He ran his hands over her calves again. “If you’d prefer, we can stop here, Joan.” He heard the intimate note in his own voice with wonder.
Intimacy was . . . Intimacy was like laughter. Something other people did.
“I’m curious,” Joan admitted, her cheeks stained red.
Her head sank back, arm over her eyes again, and he breathed a silent prayer of gratitude—and pulled her breeches gently down her rounded hips, slender legs, off her feet. Put it away, carefully, so he didn’t incur another scolding from the squirrel.
Before he did anything else, he moved forward so he could gently lift her arm and kiss her mouth, smiling down at her. “It’s just me.”
“You’re clothed, and I’m not. Outside.”
“If we were both unclothed, I might abrogate the rules that have governed my life.” His voice was wry.
“Perhaps that was Hamlet’s problem,” Joan murmured. “Ophelia climbed in his bedroom window when he didn’t have a barrier of clothing to protect his honor.”
Thaddeus shrugged. Personally, he considered Hamlet a scoundrel who wandered around braying Revenge, breaking Ophelia’s trust and her mind—and what about when he ordered his two best friends killed?
Yet Joan admired the prince, obviously, so he held his tongue.
He kissed his way from her breasts, down the gentle curve of her stomach, nibbling to hear her giggle again, down one leg to her knee, starting back toward the soft thatch of hair between her legs.
Joan seemed to be holding her breath. He eased her legs apart and dropped kisses on her thighs, loving the creamy skin that felt like finest silk.
He heard a noise. Throat clearing. He raised his head.
Joan was looking down at him with desire, curiosity, interest. Her cheeks were red as fire. “Touching does not include kissing.”
He pressed a kiss on one thigh. “Yes, it does.”
“Nor looking. You’re looking at me,” she pointed out.
He ducked his head and dropped a kiss on her other thigh. “Yes. You smell so good, and you are beautiful, like the most beautiful flower in the world.”
“You—”
“I want to kiss you everywhere, Joan.” The words hung on the air like the lazy chirp of a sleepy bird.
She swallowed. “I’ve heard of that,” she whispered. “Read about it, I mean. In a book of etchings.”
“So have I.”
“But you haven’t done it before?”
“No. I offered, once, but the lady in question declined.” He brushed his lips against her thigh again, followed with a tiny stroke of his tongue.
She startled and gasped.
He followed his kiss with a lick to the delicate crease of her leg, nestled beside a soft thatch of hair. It was natural to turn his cheek, to nuzzle her. She smelled like a perfume that would cost a fortune.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
The air whooshed from her lungs.
“I love your smell,” he said, his voice rough, nuzzling her again. “Lavender, sweetly feminine. Vanilla, jasmine, lemon.”
He looked up to meet her wide eyes. “What?”
“I’ve never heard anyone talk that way.”
“I want to taste,” he said, his voice dropping below a growl.
“I feel so naked,” Joan whispered.
Thaddeus forced himself to move away.
She met his eyes and, to his shock, a smile lit her eyes. Lazily, she reached above her head again and stretched. Her body lay before him, gleaming, as if one of the stars he dreamed of had fallen to earth.
“It’s unnerving, but I like it,” Joan announced. Her eyes shone like starlight.
“I—” But the words didn’t come to him.
Her lips curled. “You may.”
“May?”
“Continue,” Joan said, laughing. “You may continue.”
Despite himself, Thaddeus discovered he was smiling too. “Continue what?” he asked, making his tone innocent.
Joan put her hands behind her head, and now she was grinning at him impishly. “Kissing me,” she said baldly.
He didn’t wait for clarification but eased her legs farther apart. He understood, dimly, that he’d been given the first gift in his life that truly mattered. For this moment, she had given herself into his care. His own fallen star.
A kiss on her thigh, a lick, a kiss, another lick . . .
“Bloody hell!” the gentlewoman in question gasped.
Thaddeus caught back a grin. Then he settled into the task, letting the warm sunshine and birdsong become part of a tapestry of desire he was building, reminding himself that he wouldn’t take off any of his own clothing: He hadn’t lost his ethical compass.
She tasted delicious, tart and sparkling as plum jerkum.
“Are you . . . are you bored?” Joan gasped at some point, shivering hard.
“I could stay here all day,” Thaddeus said, hearing the happiness in his voice. “I could kiss you like this for a year.” He bent his head, just to make sure that she didn’t stop shaking, and brought a hand into play. “A century.”
She gasped something, unsurprisingly a word that would never cross the lips of a gentlewoman. But that lady wouldn’t lie fearlessly before him, divested of her male attire, crying out when he sucked hard, nearly sobbing when he gripped her thigh.
“Thaddeus!” Joan reached down with one hand. He curled his fingers around it, at the same time that he applied himself.
And when Thaddeus Shaw applied himself . . .
He succeeded.
Always.
Joan yelped, and then—true to form—threw back her head and screamed as her body caught waves of passion that rippled through her.
Thaddeus got to see all of it. Her silky, wet flesh, the arch of her throat, the glittering sunlight bathing her in diamonds.
As he eased away, he was certain of one thing.
He had just experienced the happiest moment of his life.
Chapter Thirteen
Joan stared at the leaves above her, feeling as if she’d never seen a tree before. Her first tree.
Her legs felt boneless and empty, as
if she lay on the surface of the earth so lightly that she might float into the air, a spent dandelion.
“That . . .” she murmured, and forgot what she meant to say.
There had been so many firsts that her mind actually danced away from the idea of listing them. She was naked outdoors. Her skin was damp, and Thaddeus Erskine Shaw, future duke, friend of her family, was casually stroking her thigh, looking at her skin with as much absorption as if she were . . . as if she were a book that he was reading.
She’d seen him in the library over the years, reading with complete attention, eyes on the page, not even aware of her presence.
Now?
She had the feeling that, for him, there were only the two of them in the world. She propped herself up on her elbows, feeling her breasts shift. As she watched, Thaddeus leaned over and placed a kiss precisely where he had been caressing her.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
His head jerked up: She was right. He had been absorbed in her. Thaddeus’s mouth widened into a smile. He was a beautiful man, fifty times more beautiful when he was happy.
She sat up and reached for her shirt. Instantly he caught it up and handed it to her. She froze. “Ants?”
Thaddeus took it back and gave it a vigorous shake. “If there was an ant, it would be unlikely to bite you.”
“It would crawl on me.”
“Like this?” One hand teasingly skittered up her calf.
She squeaked and jumped. “You!” She pulled the shirt over her head. “You are not supposed to have a sense of humor.”
“I don’t,” Thaddeus said, his eyes utterly sober. Then his other hand crept up her other leg, making her squeak again. He broke into laughter.
Joan hopped to her feet and looked about. Her breeches were off to the side, so she shook them out and stepped into them. She felt embarrassed.
His fingers circled her bare ankle as she was buttoning up her breeches.
“Joan?”
She looked down at him, realizing with a sudden thump of her heart that the worst possible thing had happened to her. She truly was in love with a man whom she could not have. With a future duke.
Deeply in love.
Wilde Child EPB Page 17
