A hand settled on her shoulder, bringing warmth and ineffable relief. “Woman, you will send me to Bedlam.” He turned her into his embrace, just like that.
“You’re always warm, Elijah. I love that you’re warm.” She also loved that he was never in a hurry—usually, she loved this—but she could not allow him to deliberate his way out of the last lovemaking she might ever experience. “You will indulge me, then? I didn’t plan this, not even when I realized the staff—”
He cradled the back of her head in his palm and urged her to rest her cheek against his chest. She felt his mind come to a rest, felt him give up on common sense and gentlemanly scruples, felt him relinquish for a time the struggle of being both protective and proper.
“I will pleasure you. We’ll let everybody think we traveled the lanes, and take our time with each other here instead.”
“We left tracks.”
“The wind and weather will obliterate them easily.” He spoke so gently, Jenny felt tears threaten yet again. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly and thanking the powers who looked after wayward spinsters that Eve had left her gift behind.
Jenny kissed him first, unable to tolerate the emotions washing around inside her. She wanted him, for Christmas, for herself, for her memories; this one last time, she wanted
And she wanted this stolen pleasure to last, so she kissed him slowly and gently, the way he often kissed her.
Gradually, his arms tightened around her. His fingers tunneled through her hair, and Jenny felt the solid, incontrovertible proof of his passion rising against her belly.
“Bed, Elijah. On the bed, please.”
“Not
With that, he heaved her up, boots and all, and deposited her sitting on the edge of the bed. This was fortunate, because Jenny had abruptly become breathless and a little stupid with the fruits of her boldness. She ran a hand over Elijah’s damp hair as he knelt at her feet. “I’m only being polite.”
Foolish words, but they made him smile, and Jenny knew then that this interlude, this purloined hour of passion, was going to be wonderful.
“You’re being insecure, rather, and you’ve no need to be.” He eased a boot off her foot then started on the other. “France will be good for you. French women do not suffer fools. They know how to enjoy themselves without guilt and hypocrisy, and French men—”
He fell silent, his brow against Jenny’s knee. She was certain he’d been about to say, “and French men know how to appreciate such women,” or something along those lines. His silence was more of his worry, more of him being protective.
“French men could never appeal to me.” She shifted, silently reminding him that she still wore a boot—and a great many other items of apparel.
The room wasn’t warm, but neither was it as frigid as the rest of the house. Because of the balcony overlooking the conservatory, the little chamber had the feel of a bower—a marvelous trysting place for a lady who’d given up her virginity in a dusty minstrel’s gallery nearly a decade ago.
Elijah soon had her down to her shift, and when Jenny would have assisted him to disrobe, he instead flopped back the covers. “You warm up the sheets. I cannot vouch for my restraint if you’re the one undressing me.”
How stern and unyielding he sounded as he wrenched off his cravat. Jenny scooted under the chilly covers and let herself watch.
This was Elijah Harrison in a hurry. With impressive dispatch, his boots, stockings, coat, shirt, waistcoat, and breeches ended up in a haphazard pile on a chair. Jenny had just a moment to admire the line of his spine, buttocks, and legs—a mere instant to long for her sketchbook—before he turned and revealed the impetus for his hurry.
“You are aroused, Elijah.” The longing for her sketchbook evaporated in a longing for him. “You are quite, quite aroused.”
His stride across the room blended a prowl and a swagger. Jenny wanted to ask him—not beg him, though— to do it again so she could watch more closely how his muscles and sinews moved.
Except she couldn’t quite find the words. She instead reclined against the pillows, while Elijah climbed directly onto the bed and commenced kissing her.
Really, truly kissing her. Kissing her while he positioned himself on all fours over her, kissing her while she twined her arms around his neck and let herself kiss him back.
He pulled back, frowning down at her. “Your hair—”
Jenny tugged the covers up under her arms and wondered what it was about Elijah’s kisses that addled her wits. “What about my hair?”
“I want it down, Genevieve, and you don’t fool me. When you’re about your pleasures, you’re about as modest and demure as a tempest. Sit up.”
Elijah, dear, reserved, composed Elijah, was very managing when naked. Maybe that was the cause of her witlessness, because in this context, she quite liked him giving orders—and she sat up.
“How many pins does it take to hold up a single braid?”
“Twenty four.” Twenty-two of which were piled up on the night table in an instant, and as for the other two, Jenny would find them when she went hunting for her wits—later.
Elijah lifted the covers and joined her beneath them, the bed rocking and bouncing with his movements like a heaving sea. “You are very bold, Genevieve, but you haven’t let yourself acknowledge this yet. Make love with me.” He wrestled her into his arms then rolled with her so she was straddling him, her hair streaming down around them like so much swagged Christmas greenery.
“Make love with you.”
Splendid notion, particularly with his erect member very much in evidence against her sex. He traced her hairline, pushing her errant locks back, the movement slow and sweet.
Abruptly, sadness threaded through the glee and anticipation fueling Jenny’s arousal. “You should not have taken down my hair. I’ll be forever putting it back in order.”
“You should not consign yourself to Paris. And as for your hair, I love it down. I love every single—” The look in his eyes shifted, as if Jenny’s sadness were contagious. The sternness became tenderness. “I’ve loved every time I’ve seen it down. I’ve loved knowing that while others might see you only properly tucked up and pinned into place, I know the truth.”
His hands cradled her breasts, and lest he embroider further on his metaphor—for it was a metaphor—Jenny closed her eyes and arched into his touch. “I love it that you know, Elijah, and I love it when you do that.”
For he’d applied a sweet, steady pressure to her nipples, the exact right touch to illuminate her insides like one of her German grandmother’s decorated Christmas trees—all candles and sparkle, sentiment and joy.
“Elijah—I love…”
He was wiser than she. Before she could let fly with her folly, he leaned up and kissed her, nothing tucked up or pinned into place about it. His tongue came calling, and one strong arm wrapped around her back while his free hand continued to tease at her breasts.
“Love me, Genevieve. You asked for what you wanted, and I intend to see that you get it.”
When had she started to move? When had she begun to drag the slick, secret folds of her sex over him, to initiate the true prelude to their joining? Jenny curled forward, bracing herself over her lover on one hand. With the other, she positioned him for her pleasure, and paused.
Elijah’s hands slid to her hips. “Minx. Tease. Siren. Houri. Mad woman. Brilliant, talented, daft, mad—”
He might have aired his vocabulary the livelong afternoon, but Jenny rolled her hips forward and took him inside her body in one slow, glorious slide.
“Holy, perishing—some warning might have been in order, Genevieve.” He sounded dazed and witless.
She leaned down, resting her forehead on his. “Do I make you want to curse, Elijah?”
“Curse, sing, laugh, pray. Love me.”
She did. She most assuredly, absolutely did love him. Because he did not stop her from following her dream, because he’d told her where his second cousin might let rooms to her, because he’d suggested she might find instruction with another second cousin who was cranky but very astute and well connected.
