“But—” Wide-eyed, Mostyn looked from her to his comatose master.
Penelope sighed, dropped the cloth in the basin, then advanced determinedly on Mostyn—who naturally backed away. “I have no time for this discussion—I need to tend to your master.”
She continued to march forward until Mostyn’s back hit the door. Halting, planting her hands on her hips, she glared, and lowered her voice to an acid whisper. “All this noise is no doubt hurting his poor head. Now begone!”
Dramatically she pointed to the door.
Mostyn goggled at her, swallowed, cast a last glance at the figure on the bed, then turned, opened the door, and slid through.
He closed it softly behind him.
Disinclined to take chances, Penelope stepped closer and pressed her ear to the panels. She waited until she heard Mostyn’s footsteps descending the stairs, then she slid the bolt on the door.
On a huge sigh, she closed her eyes for an instant and leaned her forehead against the panels.
The sound of rustling reached her.
Opening her eyes, turning, she saw Barnaby propped up against the pillows. There was no sign of vagueness in the blue eyes that pinned her.
“What,” he asked, “is this all about?”
His diction was precise—no slurring. The relief that swamped her was disconcertingly intense. A spontaneous, delighted smile curving her lips, she started back to the bed. “Good! You aren’t really hurt.”
He snorted. “After that little tap on the head?”
She grinned even more. “I should have known your skull would be too thick for me to seriously dent it.”
“Perhaps, but what—” Barnaby didn’t get a chance to finish his question before she answered it.
She’d bounced up to the bed; as he spoke, she bounced onto the coverlet, flung herself into his arms, and kissed him.
Which was all very nice, but he was excruciatingly aware that they were in his bedroom, on his bed—and she’d locked the door. Compounding the problem, it was the middle of the night, and from all he’d witnessed, salvation in the form of Mostyn was unlikely to eventuate anytime soon.
Certainly not soon enough.
Shifting in his arms, she pressed closer, wordlessly inviting. Unable to deny her, he kissed her back; closing his hands about her shoulders, he slid into the warm cavern of her offered mouth and feasted, feeding his senses and hers, letting the pleasure unfold.
She was wearing dark green silk, a conservative, severe gown with black buttons marching from the raised waist to her throat, her long slender arms tightly encased, with even tinier black buttons at her wrists. The semifull skirts thoroughly camouflaged her lower limbs.
With her hair looped back tightly in a sleek chignon, her spectacles perched on her nose, she should have looked forbidding.
Instead, as ever, she looked like forbidden fruit.
The dark silk made her skin glow, porcelain fine, pearlescent pale. His hands moved over her back, consciously possessive; the silk rustled dryly, a sensual sound, one suggesting surrender.
His or hers—he suddenly wasn’t sure.
It took effort to draw back from the kiss—in which she’d somehow managed to ensnare him. “Penelope…”
Hugely satisfied, she drew back enough to smile beatifically at him, simultaneously relaxing against him, snuggling her breasts against his chest. “I came to inform you that I’ve made a decision.”
“I see.” Looking into her dark eyes, aglow with an enthusiasm—an energy—the like of which he hadn’t before seen, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, yet felt forced to ask, “What decision?”
She held his gaze, her ripe, luscious lips gently smiling. “The last time we spoke on personal matters, you made an offer—do you recall?”
“I recall very well.” His voice sounded gravelly even to his ears.
Her distracting smile deepened. “You said if I wanted to know more, you’d happily teach me, provided I was eager and willing to learn.” Head tilting, she studied him, her dark eyes amused; she was enjoying the moment—the culmination of what had clearly been a plan. “I’m here to tell you that I’m both eager and willing—I’m here to ask you to teach me more.”
The inevitable effect of her words spread through him, but…studying her eyes, her pleased and undeniably eager expression, he confirmed she had indeed skipped a stone or two on his intended path. Agreeing to marry him, for instance.
Of course, he hadn’t yet offered for her hand.
Before he could find words to seize the moment, she did.
“I realize a lady of my station is supposed to remain ignorant of such things until she weds, but as I’m firmly and ineradicably op
posed to marriage, I had thought I would be condemned to ignorance—which of course isn’t at all to my taste. Not on any subject. Which is why I’m so grateful for your offer.”
Her expression was one of confident expectation that he would fall in with her plan and educate her ignorance.
His outward expression mild, inwardly he swore. He should have stipulated that she had to marry him, or at least agree to marry him, first—but he hadn’t. Could he now renege, renegotiate his offer?
Not easily. She’d told him she wasn’t looking for marriage, but…
firmly and ineradicably opposed
?
His hands stroked up and down her back, gently soothing—him. Releasing her, putting distance between them wasn’t possible; now he had his hands on her, he couldn’t get them off. She lay more or less on him; his body craved her warmth, the sensation of her softness, the subtle and arousing assurance of her willingness.
Mentally scrambling, he summoned a mildly intrigued expression, as if he were merely curious about her stance. “Why are you so set against marriage? I thought it was what all young ladies strive for.”
Her lips set; she shook her head decisively. “Not me. Just think”—leaning more heavily on his chest, her hip rolling provocatively across his, she freed one hand to gesture—“what allure could marriage possibly hold for me?”
His body, hard and aching from the moment she’d flung herself into his arms, and now throbbing with her hip so warmly wedged against his groin, was only too willing to demonstrate.
But she continued, “What could marriage offer me in compensation for its inevitable cost?”
He frowned. “Cost?”
She smiled, cynical and wry. “My independence. My ability to live my life as I choose, rather than as a husband would prefer.” She looked into his eyes. “What gentleman of our class would allow me to freely visit the slums and stews after we were wed?”
He held her gaze steadily—and couldn’t answer.
Her tight smile dissolved into one of amusement. She patted his chest. “Don’t give yourself a brain sprain—there is no answer. No gentleman who wed me would allow me to do what I feel I must, would allow me to pursue what I see as my life’s work. Without that work, what satisfaction would I have? Therefore I will have no wedding.”
He looked into her dark eyes, and knew he was going to change her mind. Unfortunately, stating that goal at this time would instantly ensure his failure.
“I…see.” He forced himself to nod. “I see your point.” And he did; rationally, logically, her stance made sense.
It just simply couldn’t be. Couldn’t continue.
Because he needed her as his wife.
Having her sprawled over him, firm svelte curves a delectable present wrapped in dark green silk, was steadily eroding his capacity to think. Regardless, quite obviously argument wasn’t going to save him tonight.
He’d made an offer to teach her more about desire; now she’d taken him up on it, he couldn’t draw back. If he did, she wouldn’t trust him. No matter what explanation he conjured, she’d feel slighted and rejected; she’d pull back from him, and never let him near her again.
If he mentioned marriage, she’d put up walls and lock him out—and that he couldn’t accept. Couldn’t allow to happen.
Even worse—much more horrifying still—was the risk that now he’d encouraged it, if he didn’t slake her thirst for knowledge in this sphere, she would find someone else—some other man—who would.
Some cad.
Instead of him.
That
definitely
wasn’t going to happen.
She was watching him, her eagerness apparent in her eyes, her expression; as he studied it, she tilted her head, arched her brows. “Well?”
The word was unexpectedly sultry, seductive, and provocative—question, challenge, and sheer temptation rolled into one syllable.
He felt it, and the certainty of what he and she were about to do, here in his bed, slide through his consciousness and invade his body, until every muscle seemed to thrum with heat.
Letting his lips slowly curve, his gaze locked in the darkness of hers, he raised a hand to her face and lifted her spectacles from her nose, easing the earpieces free of her hair. Knowing the gesture was a surrender. Sensing it in his bones. “How much can you see without them?”
She blinked, smiled, and scanned his face. “I can see things within five feet quite reasonably, although the detail isn’t always as fine as I’d like. Farther away becomes progressively fuzzy.”
“In that case…” Extending his arm, he set the spectacles on the bedside table. “You won’t need these.”
She frowned. “Are you sure?”
Looking back at her, he cocked a brow. “Who’s teaching whom here?”
She laughed. Bracing her hands on his chest, she tensed to push up and move off him.
His hands on her back, he held her to him, rolled, trapping her beneath him, bent his head and kissed her startled “Oh!” from her lips, then sank into the welcoming warmth of her mouth.
Sank into her.
The immediate response of every muscle he possessed to the sensation of having her beneath him was intense, revealing—and ravenous enough to have him mentally holding his breath while he wrestled his instincts back under his control.
She might have invited him to make love to her—she hadn’t invited him to ravish her. A distinction his civilized brain understood, but which his more primitive side—the one she called forth—wasn’t so interested in.
Inwardly grim, he reined that less civilized self in; only once he felt confident he had it contained did he allow his hands to move. To slide from beneath her, to grasp her waist, tensing…letting his possessiveness taste that much, savor the fact that she was there, committed, his to take.
It was a heady moment; in response, he pressed her lips wide and deepened the kiss, plundering in a languid, leisurely fashion that was a promise of intimacies to come.
Having accepted her script—having once more, entirely unexpectedly, found himself following rather than leading—he had no lingering reservations; he would do as she asked, take the lead and show her more, and introduce her to passion.
To the heat that swelled beneath his hand as he slid it in one slow heavy stroke from her waist, up her silk-clad side, to the swell of her breast.
Penelope gasped through the kiss; he’d caressed her in similar fashion before, yet this time, with the certainty that he wouldn’t stop with just the caress blazoned in her mind, his touch seemed more potent, infinitely more powerful.
Every touch was a promise, every sweep of his palm and fingers both an exploration and a claiming.
A delight. Warmth welled, and spilled through her. More definite heat—flames filled with pleasure—flared, grew, and raced through her. Her breasts were soon aching, too tight for the ungiving confinement of silk, her tightly ruched nipples points of sharp delight.
She would have spoken, mentioned her discomfort, but with his mouth locked over hers, with his tongue evocatively tangling with hers, she had neither the chance, the ability, nor the wits to form words.
Words—reasons, rationality, and logic—no longer seemed relevant, not in this world he’d waltzed her into, a world where desire had so swiftly risen she thought she could taste it—sharp, addictive. Compelling.
Trapped under his weight, she pressed her aching flesh into his palm, softly moaned.
He responded, but with an unhurried calm, a lack of urgency that had her own spiraling. Pressing one hand between them, he deftly slipped the buttons closing her bodice free, starting from her throat and slowly progressing down…until her bodice gaped and the pressure on her breasts eased.
The loss of discomfiting pressure perversely left her hungry for more, for something more—then he pressed aside the loose halves of her bodice, and through the delicate translucency of her silk chemise, cupped her breast.
She gasped, clung—to the kiss, to him. Her hands had, as usual, locked at his nape. As he weighed, then stroked, then gently kneaded, her hands drifted to his shoulders and gripped. When he brushed his thumb across her engorged nipple, she caught her breath, fingertips sinking deep.
He played, tested, tortured her senses—explored and learned of her, of her responses. Taught her, showed her, what she liked, how much delight could flow from just a simple touch, albeit an illicit one.
His other hand had remained at her waist. Anchoring her, holding
her. Now, once more pressing beneath her, it slid down, over her hip, until his large palm cradled her bottom, then slowly cruised over it, assessing, not yet possessing but with the promise that would come. His weight above her, on her, held her down, bore her down, pressing her bottom into that questing hand. Even through the layers of her skirts and petticoats, his touch sent heat, damp and somehow urgent, flushing beneath her skin.
A strange restlessness grew and spread within her. Like the opening of a well, a void, a hunger.
She could taste desire in his kiss, feel it in his touch. Was this passion, rising in response?
Raising his head, breaking their kiss, he looked down at her. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the cerulean blue intense. Then his lips curved in a dangerous smile, and he rolled, taking her with him.
She gasped, grabbed his shoulders, went to push up when he settled on his back, propped high on the pillows, but the weight of his arm across her spine held her to him. Drew her to him so his lips could capture hers again, so he could lure her senses once more into the kiss.
Once she was caught, the cage of his arms eased. Her new position ruffled her senses, leaving them skittering with unaccustomed awareness. Her skirts had rucked up as they’d turned; while there was still silk between them—between her thighs and the sides of his hard body—at the back her skirts had flared out and now lay spread across his legs, leaving her bottom unshielded from the fabric of his trousers, if she were silly enough—wanton enough—to sit back.