Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

neck, and his hand was under her skirt, moving up her leg.

She was panting with desire. His thumb was on the soft flesh of her inner thigh, pressing, stroking, and she wasn’t sure she could stand. She clutched at his shoulders for support, sighing his name, moaning it, begging him over and over again for more.

And his hand moved even higher, until it was at the crook of her leg, where it met her hip, so close…so close to…

He touched her.

She went stiff, and then she sagged against him, instinctively softening herself as he touched her. “Thomas,” she moaned, and before she knew it, he’d laid her on the ground, and he was kissing her, and he was touching her, and she had no idea what to do, had no thought at all except that she wanted this. She wanted everything he was doing and more.

His fingers continued to tickle, and then he slipped one inside of her in the most wicked caress of all. She arched beneath him, gasping at the shock and pleasure of it. He’d slipped inside so easily. Had her body been waiting for this? Preparing itself for this very moment, when he would settle himself between her thighs and touch her?

She was breathing faster, harder, and she wanted him closer. Her blood was pounding through her body, and all she could do was grab at him, clutch his back, his hair, his buttocks-anything to pull him against her, to feel the mounting pressure of his body on hers.

His mouth moved to her chest, to the flat plane of skin left exposed by her dress. She shivered as he found the neckline of her dress, his lips tracing it around…down…from her collarbone to the gentle swell of her breast. He took the fabric between his teeth and began to tug, gently at first, and then with greater vigor when it did not give. Finally, with a muffled curse, he brought his hand down and grabbed at the fabric that gathered over her shoulder, giving it a yank until it slid over her arm. Her breast slid free, and she barely had a chance to gasp before his mouth closed over the tip.

A soft shriek escaped her lips, and she did not know whether to pull back or push forward, and in the end it did not matter, because he was holding her securely in place, and judging from his growls of pleasure, she was not going anywhere. His hand-the one that had been delivering such sweet torture-had curved around her backside and was pulling her relentlessly against his desire. And his other hand-it slid along the soft, sensitive skin of her arm, stretching her up, and up, until their hands were both over their heads.

Their fingers entwined.

I love you, she wanted to cry.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t allow herself to utter a word. He would stop if she did. She didn’t know how she knew it, or why she was so certain, but she knew it was true. If she did anything to break the spell, to bring him back to reality, he would stop. And she could not bear it if that happened.

She felt his hands move between their bodies, fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and then there he was. Hard and hot, pressing her, then stretching her, and she was not sure if this was going to work, and then she was no longer so certain she was going to like it, and then-

He thrust forward with a primal grunt, and she could not help it-she let out a tiny scream of pain.

He froze instantly.

As did she.

He pushed himself up so that his head drew back, and she got the impression that he was only just now seeing her. The haze of passion had been pricked, and now-oh, it was everything she’d feared…

He regretted it.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”

What had he done?

It was a bloody stupid question, and an even stupider time to ask it, as he was lying atop Amelia, buried to the hilt, and they were in a field. A field. He’d taken her virginity without even a care to her comfort. Her dress was bunched around her waist, there were leaves in her hair, and good God-he hadn’t even managed to take off his boots.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She shook her head, but he could not tell from her expression what she meant.

He would marry her now. There could be no question. He had ruined her in the most debasing way possible. Had he even whispered her name? In the entire time he’d been making love to her-had he said her name? Had he been aware of anything besides his own unrelenting desire?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but words could never be enough. He moved to withdraw, so that he could help her, comfort her.

“No!” she cried, grabbing his shoulders. “Please. Don’t go.”

He stared down at her, unable to believe her words. He knew that this had not been rape. She had wanted it, too. She had moaned for him, clutched his shoulders, gasping his name in her desire. But surely now she would wish to end it. To wait for something more civilized. In a bed. As a wife.

“Stay,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

“Amelia,” he said raggedly, and he prayed she could hear all of his thoughts in that single word, because he did not think he could give voice to them.

“It’s done,” she said softly. But then her eyes grew fierce. “And I will never regret it.”

He tried to say something; he made some sort of noise, but it came from deep within, from some elemental spot where he had no words.

“Shhh.” She touched her finger to his lips. “It’s done,” she said again. And then she smiled, her expression the culmination of a million years of womanly experience. “Now make it good.”

His pulse quickened, and then her hand crept up the back of his leg until it reached the bare skin of his buttocks.

He gasped.

She squeezed. “Make it wonderful.”

And he did. If the first part of his lovemaking had been all frenetic thrusts and mindless passion, now he was a man with a purpose. Every kiss was pure artistry, every touch designed to bring her to the heights of pleasure. If something made her gasp with delight, he did it again…and again.

He whispered her name…over and over again, against her skin, into her hair, as his lips teased her breast. He would make this good for her. He would make it wonderful. He would not rest until he’d brought her to the heights of ecstasy, until she shattered in his arms.

This was not about him. For the first time in weeks, something was not about him. It was not about his name or who he was or anything other than what he could do to bring her pleasure.

It was for her. Amelia. It was all for her, and maybe it always would be, for the rest of his days.

And maybe he wouldn’t mind that.

Maybe it was a good thing. A very good thing.

He looked down at her, his breath catching as he saw her lips part in a tiny sigh of desire. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Nothing compared, not the most brilliant of diamonds, the most spectacular of sunsets. Nothing compared to her face in that moment.

And then it was clear.

He loved her.

This girl-no, this woman-whom he’d politely ignored for years had reached inside him and stolen his heart.

And suddenly he didn’t know how he’d ever thought he could allow her to marry Jack.

He didn’t know how he thought he could live apart from her.

Or how he could live just one more day without knowing that she would one day be his wife. Bear his children. Grow old with him.

“Thomas?”

Her whisper brought him back, and he realized he’d stopped moving. She was gazing up at him with a mix of curiosity and need, and her eyes…her expression…He couldn’t explain what it did to him, or rather how, but he was happy.

Not content, not satisfied, not amused.