by Lily Maxton
He lifted his eyebrow, and in that moment, he looked exactly like the imperious earl he was. She’d forgotten, actually, that he was part of the elite upper aristocracy. She addressed him as Michael in their letters—and in her mind, when they’d danced, he’d simply been Michael.
“And a little thing like that would stop you? We shall have to do it late at night, when no one will be on the shore.”
“I couldn’t,” she protested, though her mind was already working. Grasping on outrageous thoughts.
He shook his head slightly. “You disappoint me, Miss Middleton. What happened to the young woman who disregarded propriety when it didn’t suit her?”
“And what happened to the man who berated me for it?” she asked hotly, not knowing if she was angry with him or with herself. Her hands were trembling. Why were her hands trembling? She clasped them tightly in front of her.
“Easy, Anne,” he murmured, staring down at her with the oddest smile. It only made her more furious. “Our letters made me realize something—when I returned to claim the earldom, I thought I needed to be perfect because everyone’s eyes were watching me, and they were all comparing me to Charles. I dreaded making some misstep in front of them. So I tried to be perfect. But it hasn’t made me happy. And then I meet you, the only woman I’ve ever met who doesn’t give a fig about perfection or imperfection, who actually dares people to judge her. I think I was jealous of you. It was why I disliked you at first.”
“I didn’t like you much, either,” she muttered. “And I never liked Charles. He wasn’t kind to Elizabeth. The people who looked up to him weren’t close enough to see who he really was.”
Thornhill looked thoughtful. “You’re right, most likely. He wasn’t very adept at running an estate, but no one was aware of any of that. What failures he did have, he hid them well. But regardless, I’m done trying to live up to whatever impossible ideal I created for myself.”
“So you’ve decided to flirt with scandal instead?” she asked as imperiously as any earl.
“I’ve decided to do what I want. And what I want is to race you. No,” he amended with a sparkle of mischief in his gaze. “I want to win.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he appeared as relaxed as ever. He actually had the nerve to grin. It was such a boyish expression, so at odds with how she usually pictured him, that her chest felt tight, or full, or something foreign and uneasy. “You won’t win,” she said, managing to sound much calmer than she truly was.
“Until you’ve proven me wrong, I’ll have to assume that I will.”
Her hands tightened convulsively. “What are we wagering? A shilling?”
His head tilted. “I’d like to play for higher stakes.”
“Such as?” she asked. “A pound note?”
“A kiss.”
Anne didn’t move, but her stillness hid a tumult of panic. “I don’t want to kiss you,” she said, hushed but emphatic.
“Then you’ll have to swim very fast.”
She didn’t know quite what to make of this new side of the formerly stodgy earl. To her chagrin, this new earl intrigued her. Which wouldn’t do at all.
She drew in a deep breath through her nose, and said brightly, “Elizabeth is here tonight, too. You should speak with her.”
Finally his smile faded. “Why?”
To remind you of the type of woman you truly desire. “You are cousins, are you not?”
“Of course I’ll go and greet her,” he said politely. “And Miss Olivia, as well. Where are they?”
Anne waved her arm in the general direction of where she’d left them. She remained rooted to the floor. She didn’t want to see his expression when he laid his eyes on Elizabeth—beautiful, perfect Elizabeth—again.
“I’ll be waiting for you later tonight,” he said softly. “I trust you won’t back out of our wager?”
A scowl flitted over her features. “I won’t back out, but I don’t know how we’ll be able to compete fairly when I have a bathing costume weighing me down.”
His lips tilted in a rakish grin. Rakish! A word she’d never associated with him before this very moment. “It’s very simple, Miss Middleton—you’ll have to take it off.”
And he turned his back and left her standing in the corner with a flush of heat rising in her cheeks and her lips parted on a silent gasp.
Chapter Three
The moon was nearly full. It hung large and pale near the horizon, casting a silvery light on the black sea water.
Michael waited on the shore, listening to the gentle lap of waves. The movement of the sea was the only sound that broke the otherworldly stillness of the night. Farther away in the more populated streets, members of the ton would be awake until dawn, pursuing their endless amusements, dancing and gossiping until the sky turned pink.
But here, they didn’t exist. Here it was just Michael and the quiet and the sea and the hope that Anne Middleton wouldn’t suddenly forget her courage and run.
He folded his arms over his chest, wondering how long he had been motionless at the edge of the beach.
“Let’s have this done, then,” an impatient voice said from just over his shoulder.
He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with air that tasted of salt and fish. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”
She stepped beside him and he cast a sidelong glance at her. The simple white gown she wore glowed in the moonlight. Her skin was cast in pale hues, and her hair, a light brown in the day, had turned to shadow. Her gray eyes shimmered silver. She looked like some ethereal creature.
His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch her.
But she was skittish around him. Skittish…not a word he would associate with the blunt, wagering, inappropriate-book-reading woman he was coming to know. But he’d sensed her hesitancy when they danced. He would have to tread carefully tonight.
He lowered to the sand and tugged off his shoes and stockings. His coat went next, and his cravat and waistcoat. He could feel Anne’s eyes on him.
He hesitated before removing any more clothing. With his bare feet and wearing only a shirt and trousers, he was already shockingly informal. But clothing would hinder his swimming. And as much as he was worried about scaring her away, he also wanted to win. Desperately.
“Will you be wearing the dress?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. Careful to keep it from trembling with the sudden want of her that had blindsided him earlier and not left him alone since. “You won’t swim as fast.”
“I know.” Her lips pursed. She stared down at him. Then she reached behind her back with abrupt, stilted movements, and he realized she was unbuttoning her gown. His mouth went dry as she pulled it over her head and it landed in the sand, and even more so when she fiddled with her petticoat, and that followed. She worked at the laces of her stays and leaned down to peel off her shoes and stockings, and his mouth felt drier than the Great Indian Desert. He eyed the frilly material of her garters where they lay, feminine and disheveled, atop the rest of her clothes.
Then she stood before him wearing nothing but a short-sleeved cotton chemise that barely reached her knees.
Now it wasn’t just his fingers that jerked toward her, but his whole hand. He reined it in and clenched it into a fist to keep from reaching out.
“I’ll leave the chemise on,” she said, her voice wavering.
Thank God.
Damnation.
“Then, to be equal…” he began. He turned slightly away and unbuttoned the flap of his trousers before pulling them down. The gesture left him standing in his shirt and drawers, showing off his pale lower legs. Truthfully, he felt a little ridiculous, but he hid his discomfort. If being an earl had taught him one thing, it was how to fake confidence with people’s eyes upon him, even when he was anything but confident.
“Well, Miss Middleton?” He held out his hand.
He realized she was staring at his calves; he doubted she’d ever seen that part of a man’s anatomy before. The tho
ught made him smile. Her gaze traveled to his outstretched hand. She winced, then hesitated, so he let his hand fall back to his side. He waded into the sea as if he hadn’t noticed, even though he was actually flooded with disappointment at not being able to touch her. He swallowed a curse at the cold bite of the water on his skin.
When he looked back, she followed.
She gasped as the water rose past her knees. “Ballocks!”
A laugh was startled from him. “Good Lord. Where did you learn that?” he asked.
“Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue,” she said with a pronounced shiver. “A very useful book.”
“Another volume I shall have to add to my collection,” he teased. He stopped when the water was above his waist. “I thought we would make the finish line that bathing machine.” He pointed out where one of the sea carriages had been left on shore. “You never told me the forfeit if you win.”
“I’m shocked you’re even asking, my lord. You obviously don’t think I will.”
“I don’t,” he said with a grin, “but we must observe the formalities.”
She hesitated, then said, “The question from my letter—if I win, you have to answer. In detail.”
“Agreed,” he said, a little shock of lust traveling straight to his groin. Or not so little. If he weren’t so chilled, he would have hardened. A rather strong reaction to a simple statement. “We’ll start when you’re ready.”
He lowered himself, kneeling so he was in a position to push off from the bottom. Icy, dagger-like water engulfed his chest. “Ballocks,” he muttered, grimacing.
He heard Anne’s laughter next to him. It was a good sound, beautiful even, like the familiar, lulling call of church bells. And then there was stillness, and all was quiet, until she called out to start, and there was an explosion of droplets and movement.
Neither of them was a particularly elegant swimmer. Their arms and legs thrashed up frothy white water. They breathed heavily and grunted from exertion, a cacophony of human noise amid the splashing. He tasted salt in his mouth.
She hadn’t been exaggerating about winning the races with her sisters. She kept up with him, stroke for stroke, her coarse breaths not very distant from his ear. For a moment, he wasn’t certain who would emerge the victor. But he was just as determined to win as she was. And he was stronger. He surged ahead, arms throbbing from his forceful movements, and glided past the bathing machine a few short seconds before she did.
The displaced water was still churning around them when he turned to her, but she was already wading back to the shore. The chemise barely concealed anything when wet—it clung to her backside as she emerged. A backside that was full and round…and that he could have stared at for a good while longer, but he managed to drag his eyes away.
“I brought towels,” he said, stopping beside her.
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but simply lifted a linen towel from the sand and moved away from him. If she were any other young woman, he would think she was frightened of him, but the thought of Anne being afraid of anything, especially him, was laughable. She certainly hadn’t had any difficulty speaking her mind to him before.
No, he expected she was acting this way for a different reason entirely. A reason he fully intended to take advantage of.
Shivers racked her slender frame. The air was much crueler on their damp skin, and he felt the bite of it, too.
He walked to his pile of discarded clothing. With swift movements, he removed his wet shirt and drawers, dried himself with the linen, and pulled his dry trousers back on. There was no point in becoming ill for the sake of modesty.
He glanced at Anne, stilling when he saw that she was watching him, her towel hanging limply from her hand. Through her garment he could detect the swell of breasts, the slope of her thighs, even the hint of a dark patch at the apex. The elegant line of her throat moved as she swallowed. He felt like doing the same at the delectable sight before him.
Then she shook her head, as though mentally pulling herself together. “Turn around,” she commanded sharply.
Hiding his smile, Michael obeyed.
…
Anne threw on her petticoat and dress. She didn’t bother with her stays—they would take too long, and she simply wanted to leave.
Anne Middleton had glimpsed a naked man for the first time in her life. A rather beautifully formed naked man, if judged against the idealized Greek statues she’d seen—he’d come a long way from the gangly youth he’d described in his letter—and he’d acted as though it was nothing to be ashamed of. An everyday occurrence, in fact.
Did Lord Thornhill undress in front of young women often? The thought soured.
She marched over to him, kicking up sand with her bare feet in the process. He was sitting on a spread towel, pulling his stockings over muscled calves. She looked somewhere past his head.
“Will you kiss me so I can go home?” she asked stonily.
He tipped his head to look up at her. “So eager?”
“Eager to have this foolish wager forgotten.”
His teeth flashed white. He patted the space on the towel next to him. “Sit.”
“I’d prefer to stand,” she said, her voice cool as the night air.
“I won the wager, didn’t I?”
Her jaw clenched. Swallowing an insult she’d learned from the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, she lowered herself next to him with her legs tucked underneath her.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked.
“Why?”
“You won’t enjoy the kiss if you’re distracted by the cold,” he explained far too reasonably.
“I won’t enjoy it, anyway,” she snapped. She had no idea if that was the truth or not—she only knew she didn’t want to enjoy it.
At least not too much.
“Anne,” he said lightly, “Are you cold or warm?”
He’d turned his face toward her. Each word fanned breath across her cheek.
She nodded. She did feel warm, suddenly—overly warm, considering she’d just come out of the frigid water. His nose was a few inches from hers and the moonlight turned his green eyes to an unfathomable gray.
It was a moment made for romance—if there had been anything romantic about it. “Just finish it,” she hissed, clenching her eyes shut.
He laughed. She opened her mouth to say something unpleasant, but when she felt his bare fingertips brush her jaw, all that came out was a gust of air. He tilted her chin up.
And his lips found hers, molding them as though they were made to fit together, teasing as though they were sharing a private joke, demanding as though she had something to offer him. She couldn’t think what.
She couldn’t really think at all.
But she liked the soft slide of his mouth on hers. She liked the heat of his breath against her lips. She liked his masculine insistence.
“Definitely warm,” he murmured.
So much for not enjoying it. But as long as she did…
She put her hands on his bare chest, testing the way he felt. His skin was mostly smooth, with a light trail of hair that went down his stomach and disappeared under his trousers. She was surprised by how hot his skin felt against her cool palms. One of her fingers brushed his nipple as she explored the expanse of hard muscle, and with a throaty noise he deepened the kiss.
He must have liked that—she hadn’t realized it was a sensitive part of one’s anatomy.
She leaned in closer, wanting to feel him pressed against her. He apparently wanted the same, for he pulled her onto his lap and crushed her to his chest. As the kiss went on and on, his hands traced her jaw, her throat, brushed over her breasts.
She shifted, a slow ache beginning in her abdomen in response to his caresses. Her hands curled around his arms for leverage, and then she did something truly wanton—something that would have shocked her if she hadn’t been so caught up in this wave of sensation. She moved her legs to straddle his waist so the hard ridge of his cock rubbed against her
exquisitely sensitive cleft.
His hand tightened around the back of her neck. The other found the tip of her breast and stroked it through her dress. “My God,” he breathed.
Yes, she had to agree with him.
He sucked on her lower lip, nipping it gently.
But then, just as quickly, he stopped kissing her. He drew back and regarded her, his gaze intense and unfathomable. “Page one hundred and seventy-six.”
Several stunned seconds passed before she realized what he was talking about. And then all the breath whooshed from her lungs. “You…want…to… With me?”
“Yes, most emphatically.” He palmed her breast and twisted the aching nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending a delicious jolt straight down her body.
She wanted it, too. She was curious. Beyond curious. She was restless and wanting, and he was here, ready to show her things she could only read about in disreputable books.
But at the same time, he frightened her more than anyone ever had before.
“I should make something clear,” she began shakily. “I don’t want you to have an attack of conscience because of this and ask for my hand. I’m not interested in marriage. I’m simply…wanting to explore a bit.”
There was a beat of silence. “Anne Middleton,” he said, “you are a strange woman.”
“I mean what I say.”
“I’m aware of that.” He sighed. “Very well. I won’t ask you to marry me. Only an exploration.”
She nodded, and he eased her back onto the towel, following her down, covering her body with his bare chest. When he kissed her this time, there was something more urgent about the contact. His tongue breached her parted lips. He pushed his knee between her legs so she was forced to open them, to cradle him. He kissed a trail down her face and jaw and throat—every part he touched seemed to come alive and swell with heat.
And then he was stroking her leg with his hand—and her dress was suddenly above her knees. She didn’t know when it had gotten pushed up, or if he had done it while distracting her with other things. His thumb skimmed her inner thigh and she sucked in a quick breath; it hissed between her teeth.
