Her eyes went wide at the words, but he did not give her time to consider them as he moved his hand again, lifting her hips and sliding her gown down, over her legs and off until she was utterly bare, and he was between her legs, parting them slowly, saying the most wicked things as his hands slid along her legs. He stalked her on his knees as he parted them, pressing long, soft, lush kisses to the soft skin of her inner thighs just above her stockings. “In fact . . .” He paused, swirling his tongue in a slow, stunning circle. “ . . . I don’t think I can go another moment . . .” Again, on the opposite thigh. “ . . . Without . . .” Slightly higher, closer to the ache. “ . . . Tasting you.”
And then his mouth was on her, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling almost unbearably at the place where pleasure pooled and strained and begged for release. She cried out, sitting up straight before he lifted his head and pressed one large hand to her soft stomach. “Lie back . . . let me taste you. Let me show you how good it can be. Watch. Tell me what you like. What you need.”
And she did, God help her. As he licked and sucked with his perfect tongue and his wicked lips, she whispered her encouragement, learning what she wanted even as she was not sure of the end result.
More, Michael . . .
Her hands slid into his curls, holding him close to her.
Michael, again . . .
Her thighs widened, willing and wanton.
There, Michael . . .
Michael . . .
He was her world. There was nothing beyond this moment.
And then his fingers joined his tongue, and she thought she might die as he pressed more firmly, rubbed more deliberately, giving her everything for which she did not know to ask. Her eyes flew open, his name on a gasp.
His tongue moved faster, circling at the place where she needed him, and she moved, all inhibition gone, lost to the rising, cresting pleasure . . . wanting nothing more than to know what lay beyond.
“Please, don’t stop,” she whispered.
He didn’t.
With his name on her lips, she threw herself over the edge, rocking against him, pressing to him, begging for more even as he gave it to her with tongue and lips and fingers until she lost awareness of everything but the bold, brilliant pleasure he gave her.
As she floated back from her climax, he pressed long, lovely kisses to the inside of her thighs until she sighed his name and reached for his soft mahogany curls, wanting nothing more than to lie next to him for an hour . . . a day . . . a lifetime.
He stilled at her touch as her fingers sifted through his hair, and they remained that way for long moments. She was limp with pleasure, her whole world in the feel of his silken curls in her hands, in the scrape of his beard at the soft skin of her thigh.
Michael.
She stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to say what she was thinking . . . that the experience had been truly remarkable, and that if this evening was any indication, their marriage would be far more than he’d ever imagined it could be.
All would be well. It had to be. Experiences like this one did not come along every day.
He finally shifted, and she sensed the unwillingness in the movement as he pulled the greatcoat up around her, surrounding her in the scent and heat of him before he rolled away and came to his feet in a single, fluid movement, lifting his wool frock coat from where he must have placed it, carefully folded, earlier in the evening.
He pulled it on, quick as lightning. “You’re well and truly ruined now,” he said, the words cold.
She sat up, clutching his greatcoat to her as he opened the door and turned back to her, his wide shoulders fading into the blackness beyond. “Our marriage is no longer a question.”
He left then, the door closing firmly behind him, punctuating his words, leaving Penelope seated in a pool of fabric, staring at the door, sure that he would return, that she had misheard him, that she had mistaken his meaning.
That all would be well.
After long minutes, Penelope pulled on her dress, her fingers shaking at the feel of the torn fabric. She returned to her pallet, refusing to allow tears to come.
Chapter Six
Dear M—
You may think that since you’ve returned to school, I’ve been in a constant state of ennui (note the use of French), but you would be entirely wrong. The excitement is nearly overwhelming.
The bull got loose from Lord Langford’s pasture two nights ago, and he (the bull, not the viscount) had a fine time knocking down fences and making the acquaintance of the cattle in the area until he was captured this morning, by Mr. Bullworth.
I wager you wish you were home, don’t you?
Always—P
Needham Manor, September 1815
* * *
Dear P—
I believed you until the bit about Bullworth capturing his namesake. Now, I’m convinced you’re merely attempting to lure me home with your extravagant tales of attempted animal husbandry.
Though, I would be lying if I told you it wasn’t working. I wish I’d been there to see the look on Langford’s face. And the smile on yours.
—M
post script—I am happy to see that your governess is teaching you something. Très bon.
Eton College, September 1815
Dawn had barely broken when Bourne paused outside the room where he had left Penelope the night before, the cold and his thoughts joining forces to keep him from rest. He’d paced the house, haunted by the memories of the empty rooms, waiting for the sun to rise on the day when he would see Falconwell restored to its right and proper owner.
There was no doubt in Bourne’s mind that the Marquess of Needham and Dolby would relinquish Falconwell. The man was no fool. He had three unmarried daughters, and the fact that the eldest had spent the evening with a man in an abandoned house—with Bourne in an abandoned house—would not endear the remaining unwed ladies Marbury to potential suitors.