Dammit, he’d planned to go out for a good hard ride before dinner, exercise some of the tension out of his body so that he’d be in absolute control tonight.
But he couldn’t leave her here like this, trembling bravely before him, imagining God knew what, and letting her anxieties multiply.
He indicated the flimsy peach-and-lace confection spread out suggestively on the bed. “You won’t be needing that until much later this evening,” he said casually. “Come and look at this view.”
She swallowed convulsively and came toward him. He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her closer. He pointed. “Over there is Brighton. We’ll go there tomorrow or the next day. You will want to see the royal pavilion, of course—it has to be seen to be believed—it’s still being added to. The prince regent has—well, you’ll see. As well there’s shopping. Brighton may be small, but it has many elegant and fashionable shops. I think you’ll enjoy the lanes too.” As he gestured and pointed with one hand, he soothed and stroked with the other, as if unaware.
“The lanes?”
“A delightful rabbit warren of shopping delights. You’ll want to return with some small gifts for your family, I presume.”
“Yes, yes, I would.”
“It’s very warm in here. Let me help you unbutton your pelisse.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned her toward him and began undoing the buttons that ran down the front of her pelisse.
“Oh, but you don’t need—” She caught her breath as his knuckles brushed across her breasts. Her nipples rose. He pretended not to notice and kept undoing buttons.
He kept talking, distracting her from his roaming hands. “Have you ever been dipped in the sea? It’s supposed to be very healthful, though if you ask me, it looks rather grim—some of those female dippers look like wrestlers to me.” He brushed his hands over her breasts again. “Do you swim at all? I could teach you when the weather warms up a bit.”
“Swim? No, I d-don’t.” She shivered, but this time he didn’t think it was nerves.
“Now, let’s get this off you.” He slipped the pelisse off her shoulders and tossed it on a nearby chair. “We might ride to the beach tomorrow if the weather is fine. My friend Tremayne keeps a fine stable and he said we were to ride as often as we want.” Tremayne, of course, had laced the offer with double entendres. “Did you bring your riding habit with you?”
“Ye—er, I think so.” She looked vaguely around, but he turned her around to look out the window.
“Can you see that slight hill over there?” She craned her neck to see where he was indicating, and he began to unhook her gown.
“What are you—”
“Making you more comfortable.” He planted a warm kiss on her velvet-soft nape, and she sighed and arched against him. He slipped his hands around her and stroked her breasts through the fabric of her dress. There were innumerable layers between his hands and her softness, but he could feel the hard aroused points of her nipples. He scratched them gently and felt her shiver.
He nuzzled her neck, nibbling on her skin, and she murmured her pleasure and leaned back against him. His fingers flew, unhooking her dress rapidly. It fell apart, revealing the lovely line of her back, and the nasty tight bindings of her corset.
How he hated corsets. Women didn’t need them. How women could bear to be laced in, their lovely soft flesh tortured and pushed into some stupid unnatural shape . . .
He started on the hooks of her corset.
“Oh, but I’ll need that,” she said.
“What for?”
“If we’re going riding before dinner.”
“We are, but trust me, you’ll be better off without it.” He attacked her corset, undoing hooks, tugging free the laces. It too fell open, and he slipped it off her and tossed it unheeding across the room. Vile thing.
Her smooth white skin was creased with red lines from where the blasted thing had bitten into her. He ran his tongue along each crease, warming, soothing, sucking, the taste of her entering his blood.
“Edward.” She sagged against him, gripping the windowsill to support herself.
Now all she wore was a chemise—a delicate, flimsy thing, through which her skin glowed—and her stockings. No drawers? God give him strength.
He gave silent thanks for her girls’-school upbringing that taught that only fast girls wore drawers. He ran his hand down over her hips, caressing the lush curves of her backside through the soft fabric. And moaned.
He was as hard as a rock. He breathed deeply, fighting for control.
Slowly he turned her around to face him. Oh, lord, the chemise hid nothing, caressed her ripe curves in a pretense of modesty that flaunted her beauty, even as it teasingly veiled it.
Creamy gossamer, cut low at the neck, a generous, tantalizing scoop barely covering a gorgeous pair of breasts, clinging to the rosy hard points of her nipples.
He groaned, wanting to rip it off her, to fling her back on the bed and plunge into her, into that warm place hidden beneath the shadowy dark smudge at the apex of her thighs. And to bury his face in those breasts.
Steady, Ned.
Her eyes devoured him, luminous with questions, her mouth ripe, plum-dark and satiny. He cupped her face between his hands and brushed his mouth over hers, once, twice, inhaling her breath, her sweetness. He would have moved back then, but she twined her arms around his neck and drew him closer as she opened her mouth to receive him, taste him.
His blood surged, pumping hard and hot through a body rigid and shaking with unfulfilled desire. His control was slipping. He had to leash it.
He slipped his fingers through her hair, sending pins flying. The scent of her hair, sweet as a summer night, blurred his awareness as her soft curls tumbled around them.
He ravished her mouth with deep, deliberate kisses, struggling to maintain
