She’d been angry with him; he was angry with her.
She didn’t want to be angry any longer. Not now. Now she wanted a different kind of heat, something to make her forget anger and fear. Forget shame. Forget Brentwood.
The fire must finally be burning to his satisfaction; he put the poker down and turned to face her. The lawn of his shirt was so fine, she could see his arms through the fabric.
If only he weren’t still wearing his waistcoat.
“Don’t look at me that way, Anne.” He sounded tense again, but not angry.
“What way?” The fire was working amazingly quickly; she was quite warm now. Hot, even. She slipped Stephen’s jacket off her shoulders and hung it carefully over the back of a chair.
She walked toward him. She felt . . . reckless.
She stopped when she got to within a few feet of him. Closer and she might completely embarrass herself by starting to unbutton his waistcoat. Her fingers itched to do so.
She wanted to feel his hands on her again. She wanted to taste his mouth again. After her waltz with Brentwood, she needed to feel Stephen’s touch to feel clean again.
She closed her eyes briefly. She should tell him her secret; she should not lie to him with silence.
She didn’t want to tell him, not now. What harm would there be in delaying?
She would tell him . . . later.
“Are you going to give me a thorough tongue-lashing ?” she asked.
Oh! A jolt of heat shot from her breasts to the place between her legs. She should not have mentioned tongues.
“I should.” Stephen’s voice wasn’t much more than a strained whisper. He was staring back at her, an air of . . . hunger about him.
She wet her lips and watched his eyes follow her tongue. “Why?”
He blinked. “Why, what?”
She was having a hard time following this conversation as well. Her body was shouting at her to stop talking and do something better with her mouth. “Why do you wish to give me a dressing-down?”
His eyes flicked over her. She had said “give me a dressing-down” and not “take my dress down,” hadn’t she? She was certain she’d said the former; she wished she’d said the latter.
“Yes.” His eyes snapped back to her face. “Yes, I want . . . I want to . . .”
He stepped toward her and grabbed her shoulders. He shook her, not hard, but hard enough that one loose hairpin fell, sending a length of hair tumbling down to cover his fingers. He dropped his hold on her as if scalded, whipping his hands behind his back.
“What were you thinking this evening?” His voice was hoarse.
“When this evening?” She could easily reach his waistcoat buttons now. They were calling to her. “In the garden with you?”
She flushed. She should not have said that either; she did not wish to tell him what she’d been thinking—and feeling—then. Though if she did, would he be so kind as to make her think and feel those things again? The door was closed. She was already a fallen woman. At twenty-seven, she would likely not get many more chances for this kind of . . . activity.
Once he knew the truth—once everyone knew the truth—she’d get no more chances at all, unless she wished to take up the usual occupation of fallen women.
“No, damn it.” Stephen sounded goaded. “When you were dancing with Brentwood.”
Brentwood. Oh. She felt trapped and dirty again.
And what had Stephen been doing while she’d been suffering with Lord Brentwood?
Perhaps anger was better than this cold, sick feeling.
“I’m surprised you noticed. I thought all your attention was on your partner—your mistress—Lady Noughton.”
His brows snapped down. “Did Brentwood tell you Maria was my mistress?”
He’d called the woman by her first name.
Anne bit her lip. It felt like he’d stabbed her with a knife.
Stupid! It was nothing to her what Mr. Parker-Roth did. She and he were strangers, brought together by scandal and this sham betrothal. They would part ways—to her great delight—by the end of the Season. Sooner, if possible.
If she tried to speak, she’d cry. She nodded, but one ridiculous tear leaked out anyway.
He must think her the most pathetic creature in Christendom.
His hand came up to cradle her jaw; his thumb caught the tear and wiped it away. His voice was now as gentle as his touch.
“She was my mistress, Anne, but she is no longer. We parted ways in February. It took me too long, but I finally saw what a petty, grasping woman she is.”
Now both his hands held her face tilted up toward his. He was staring at her mouth. Her lips felt swollen. Her heart—and an organ rather lower down—started to pound. She put her hands on his waistcoat.
“There’s been no one else in my bed since.” He brushed his lips over her forehead, over her cheek. “And never anyone in my heart.”
His mouth touched hers then, just touched it, not pressing, not mashing her lips against her teeth as Brentwood had done during that terrible house party.
She wanted more pressure, but she made herself stay still. If this was her only chance, she would not rush it. Though she was no longer a virgin, she knew nothing about physical love. She wanted to see if there was more to it than the embarrassment and pain Brentwood had given her. What better way to find out than to let the King of Hearts be her teacher?
He lifted his head, his hands sliding up into her hair, plucking her pins free, dropping them to the carpet. She felt her wild red mane tumble down over her shoulders and back.
“Your hair is beautiful.” He buried his face in it, then turned to kiss her neck just below her ear.
Her breasts ached; the place between her legs ached. She was so hot she felt she was burning, and her temperature had nothing to do with the fire in the grate. She wanted to press herself against him, but she stayed still. She would not rush blindly ahead and so, in her ignorance, miss something wonderful. And she did think it would be wonderful.
But it would be more wonderful without his annoying waistcoat. She slipped the top button free.
He chuckled by her ear. “Are you undressing me, Lady Anne?”
Her fingers froze for a moment. Was she being too bold? But he’d sounded amused. She swallowed and moved trembling fingers to the next button. “Surely you must be too hot.”
He gently sucked on the skin below her ear and her nipples tightened. “You are right, I am a trifle overheated.” He straightened, making it easier for her to reach all his buttons. “Thank you for thinking of it. I will definitely be more comfortable with fewer clothes.”
She met his gaze briefly and then dropped her eyes to her fingers’ work. His look was too intense; he might read her secret in her face if she wasn’t careful. She loosened the last button and pushed aside the waistcoat, running her hands over his shirt. This was better. Not perfect—his bare skin would be perfect—but it was much, much better.
“Are those all the buttons you mean to loosen, Anne?”
“Y-yes.” She knew which other buttons he meant; it was hard not to know. Just below his waistcoat, only inches from her fingers, his erection was straining against his fall so it seemed almost a charity to free it, but she was not yet that bold.
“A pity, but I suppose you are wise.” He shrugged out of his waistcoat, threw it over a chair, and then grinned at her. “You know, I find I’m still rather warm. Would it offend you if I removed my shirt as well?”
Her mouth went dry, as dry as another part of her was wet. “No,” she managed to whisper. “It would n-not offend me at all.”
“Splendid.” He shed his cravat and then pulled his shirt up and over his head.
Oh! He was beautiful. The firelight flickered over his broad shoulders and muscled arms and lit the hair that dusted his chest and trailed down over his flat stomach to the waist of his breeches.
She’d never seen a man without his shirt. Brentwood had kept his on—and his waist
coat and coat as well—when he’d taken her virginity. They’d been in Baron Gedding’s garden, after all, and it had been chilly.
If only he had shed his clothing, the sight of his pale, soft flesh might have shocked some sense into her and she would have fled. But no, she’d fancied herself in love. When he’d taken her into that secluded section of the garden, she’d been thrilled. She’d thought him romantic and brooding—and she’d thought herself daring.
She’d never been daring before—or after until right now. It had been out of character, but she’d been seventeen and stupid—and perhaps a little angry Papa was adding to his family again. She knew she’d be given charge of the baby—or babies as it turned out.
So she’d gone into the shrubbery with Brentwood. As soon as they’d reached an especially leafy spot, he’d backed her up against a wall and thrust his tongue into her mouth, almost gagging her. His hands had been all over her body, pinching her breasts, grabbing her bottom. She’d tried to feel thrilled and passionate and womanly, but it was difficult when she was also trying to breathe. And then suddenly she’d felt cool air on her thighs and, before she could free her mouth to protest, a burning pain as something hard and long was shoved into the most private part of her body. She’d stiffened in shock, but Brentwood hadn’t noticed. He’d been too busy grunting and moving against her.
At least it had been over quickly.
“Anne, are you all right?”
“What?” She blinked. Damn, she’d let that cursed memory blind her to what was happening now. Stephen was frowning at her, concern clear in his eyes.
“You look . . . stricken.”
He stooped to pick up his shirt. Was he going to put it back on? No. She would not let Brentwood ruin this, too. She pulled it out of his hands. “It’s nothing. Just . . . hold me. Please?”
“Of course.” He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her up against his bare chest.
It was wonderful. He was warm and solid and strong. She felt safe, not trapped as she’d been with Brentwood.
She could not remember the last time anyone had just held her.
“Better?” he murmured. His breath whispered over her hair, and then his lips brushed the top of her head.
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and let the past go, at least for now. She wanted to live in the present—this present with her cheek on Stephen’s naked chest and his warmth all around her. Mmm. She slid her hands up his broad back.
“Anne.”
“Hmm?” Was his skin sweet or salty? She touched him with her tongue, and heard—and felt—him inhale sharply.
Salty. His skin was faintly salty.
She felt his erection press against her belly and she smiled. She kissed one of his nipples. He caught his breath again—and then he pushed her away.
“No.” She tried to get back to his warmth, but his hands on her shoulders kept her from her goal.
“Anne.” He shook her just a little and she looked up. His face was guarded; his jaw, clenched. “Anne, what do you want? I will hold you, but if you keep on this way, I’ll be tempted to do far more than that.”
“Good.” She would tell him what she wanted. She ran her hands up his arms, over their rock hard muscles. “Kiss me.”
His gaze sharpened; she’d swear she could see little flames in his eyes. His muscles under her fingers tensed. He was so strong . . .
“But gently. Don’t crush me. I want to be able to breathe.”
He laughed. “Very well. I will try, but if I get carried away and become more enthusiastic than you like, you must tell me.” He relaxed his arms, bringing her a little closer. “If your lips are otherwise engaged, you may give me a slight push.” He brought her closer still so her bodice almost touched his chest. “Or, if that doesn’t work, a strong shove. Will that be acceptable?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head up. “Now perhaps you could attend to my request and use your charming lips for something other than discourse.”
His lips turned up slightly. “My pleasure, madam.” He lowered his mouth so it just touched hers. “Is this what you had in mind?”
“Yes.” Mmm, this was what she wanted. This was where they’d been headed before she’d let thoughts of Brentwood intrude.
She would not think of that disgusting creature again.
She opened her mouth and let Stephen’s tongue in. His hand came up to play with her breast.
“Is this still gentle enough?” he whispered.
“Mmm.”
His touch was exquisite, but her bodice was very much in the way. She wished she could shed it as easily as he had shed his shirt.
And then his nimble fingers slipped under the satin, and the neck of her dress loosened. She sucked in her breath as she felt it slide down.
“Would it be all right with you, Anne, if we move to that lovely chaise-longue? I’m finding standing to be rather a challenge.”
She was finding standing to be unusually difficult as well. Her knees were refusing to support her weight any longer. “That’s an excellent notion.”
Stephen scooped her up as if she weighed nothing and deposited her—gently—on the chaise-longue. He stretched out beside her and leaned up on one elbow. “You are so beautiful,” he said.
Her breasts were now exposed for anyone to see, and Stephen was obviously looking. She didn’t care. She was feeling reckless again, and perhaps a touch wanton.
His fingers plucked her nipples, and she sucked in her breath. It was as if there were a vibrating string between that part of her body and her womb. The opening Brentwood had so rudely entered ten years ago grew wetter. If Stephen were to—
Good God, she couldn’t be considering such a thing, could she? It had been so painful and so embarrassing last time.
This time felt nothing like that time.
Stephen gave her a lingering kiss and then slowly—gently—his mouth moved down to her jaw and her throat, her collarbone. Was he going to . . . ? He was. He did. His mouth took his fingers’ place on her nipple and sucked. Her hips shot off the chaise-longue.
“Oh!”
He looked up at her, his mouth suspended above her breast. “Aren’t I being gentle enough?”
What the hell was he talking about?
“You’re growling.” He flicked his tongue over her poor nipple. She whimpered—and then grabbed his head to hold him exactly where she wanted him.
He blew a little puff of air over her wet, hard peak, and laughed. “You are a demanding woman, Lady Anne.”
“Just—oh.” One of his hands had wandered down to the hem of her dress. Now it was sliding slowly up her leg, higher, closer to—
The tip of his finger gently probed her wet folds and touched a tiny, hard spot she’d never known existed. Her hips jerked and then twisted. His finger circled the spot, slipped over it. Each touch wound her tighter and tighter.
Someone was making small, mewling noises and she very much feared it was she. She had never felt—
Oh! She grabbed Stephen’s shoulders and stiffened. Almost. There was something almost within her reach. She didn’t know what it was, but her body did—and Stephen did. His finger teased her with another gentle touch and another and then—
“Ohh.” Wave after wave of pleasure cascaded through her. When the last wave subsided, she lay in Stephen’s arms like a rag doll. Every one of her muscles was limp. “Mmm.” She kissed his collarbone, the part closest to her lips. “That was lovely. I had no idea.”
“Of course you had no idea.” He kissed the top of her head. His voice sounded amused, but somewhat strained, too.
She moved closer to him and discovered the obvious problem. He was not limp at all. His erection, still very large and hard, pressed into her hip.
He moved back so he was no longer touching her.
Now he would want to do what Brentwood had done. She should be distressed, but she was too sated with these new sensations to care.
No, that wasn’t true. She want
ed him to do it. She wanted to give him pleasure like he had given her. She was almost sure it wouldn’t hurt this time. The King of Hearts would know how to make it, if not pleasant, at least not painful. But how could she invite him in?
She reached for the bulge in his breeches.
“No, Anne.” His hand moved hers firmly away. “It’s late. I should go.”
She could persuade him to stay. She reached for him with her other hand, but he deflected her again and stood up, taking a step back.
“You are playing with fire,” he said.
She sat up, her breasts exposed, her clothes in complete disarray. “Perhaps I want to get burned.”
His eyes focused on her bosom and then jerked up to her face. He ran his hand through his hair and gave a breathless little laugh. “I suppose I’m glad you do, but you will have to wait. I’m not taking your virginity on a chaise-longue in a sitting room with an unlocked door.”
“Oh.” She felt a hot flush sweep up her body.
He couldn’t take her virginity. She didn’t have it to give him.
“Don’t look so stricken. It won’t be long. I think after our recent activities, I should get a special license. I can’t wait until the end of the Season to have you in my bed.”
The thought of being in Stephen’s bed caused her exhausted female organs to perk up. She didn’t want to wait till the end of the Season either—she didn’t want to wait till the end of the week—or perhaps even the end of this hour.
But she would have to wait forever. She couldn’t marry Stephen.
She should tell him now. She would tell him if only her traitorous body would stop insisting she could—she had to—wed him . . . and if she didn’t dread seeing the surprise and then the disgust in his eyes when she told him.
He picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Get dressed, will you? You don’t want a servant to see you that way—it would be all over London by tomorrow’s dinnertime.” He buttoned up his waistcoat and reached for his coat. “We may be betrothed, but I’d rather not entertain society with accounts of our amorous activities.”
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