“Now,” she muttered. She knew what she wanted now.
He pressed her legs further apart and she readied herself for the surge of his possession. He was more than ready for it, she knew, his member huge, hard and so hot against her skin.
And then she felt his mouth on her, between her legs, moist and hot and . . . unbelievable.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, craning her head to stare down at him, lying between her legs. He looked up at her over the soft swell of her stomach and grinned.
“Having dessert.”
Chapter Sixteen
License my roaving hands, and let them go,
Behind, before, above, between, below.
—JOHN DONNE
Lily came slowly and sleepily awake the next morning. She lay, her eyes closed against the chinks of bright sunlight coming through the gaps in the curtains, gathering her thoughts. She stretched sleepily, languidly. She felt wonderful, as if her whole body wanted to smile.
She was smiling, she realized, though there was nobody else there.
She was married. She was alone in bed.
When had he left? Last night, after . . . dessert. She smiled again to herself. Bliss. Glory.
But only for her. She’d lain boneless, replete, satiated in every way, and waited for him to enter her, to take her as he’d taken her earlier.
Instead he’d slipped out of bed, picked up his robe, kissed her on the nose and murmured, “Sleep well.” And left.
She remembered watching him in the firelight, walking naked to his own room. His back was straight, the slope of his shoulders and the line of his spine beautiful, his backside firm, taut, shapely. He’d closed the door.
She’d felt cold then, without him. She felt cold now.
He’d kissed her on the nose. The nose! Like a child. And he hadn’t taken her in the way a man was supposed to take a woman—not if he wanted heirs. An heir was his main reason for marrying—scandal aside. He owed it to his family name and title.
His body had wanted it; she remembered that proud hard shaft, velvety skinned with heat beneath. She must have done something wrong that first time. And now he was reluctant to repeat the experience.
But what he’d done to her—calling it dessert—would he call it that if he didn’t enjoy it? She thought he had, but then he didn’t follow through.
And he’d left her to sleep alone. Her brother and Emm always slept in the same bed.
It was all very confusing. But they were married; she had a lifetime to work it—work him—out.
• • •
Ned knocked softly, wondering whether she was awake yet. He opened the connecting door and found Lily sitting bolt upright in bed, hugging her knees, the covers huddled around her. “Yes? I mean, good morning.” She looked a little apprehensive.
He didn’t blame her. If she realized how eminently beddable she looked, all soft and flushed and sleepy, with tawny curls clustering around her face and bare shoulders—well, he wasn’t going to pounce on her. Not this morning, at any rate.
“Did you sleep well?” He was dressed for riding in buckskins and high polished riding boots. He’d shaved, which he wouldn’t normally do before a ride, but he was a married man now and the decencies had to be preserved. His hair was still damp.
“Yes, thank you, very well.”
“I wondered whether you felt like a ride.”
Her eyes widened. She glanced at the window, where the sun was peeping in through the curtains. It was a glorious morning. “Now?” she asked.
“Yes, before breakfast.”
It was as if the sun rose in her eyes. She glowed. “Yes, please.” She flung back the bedclothes and sat there, rosy and naked, a creamy mermaid in a welter of sheets. She made no move to get up, no move to dress herself. She simply sat in her bed, wearing nothing but a smile and an expectant look.
He moved to stand behind a chair. His body had reacted predictably to the sight of her naked loveliness. “Do you want me to ring for your maid?” he asked stiffly.
“No, of course not.” After a moment her smile faded and became a look of puzzlement. “I thought you wanted ‘a ride.’”
“I do. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I just thought, seeing it’s a beautiful morning, we should make the most of it. It could very well be raining by the afternoon.”
“Oh.” A blush suffused her whole upper body. It was fascinating. He tried not to stare. “You mean a ride?” She pulled the covers back over herself.
“That’s what I said.”
“On horses?”
“What else would I be wanting to ride?” He tried not to let the sarcasm show.
The blush intensified. “Nothing. I just thought . . . with your boots . . .”
“My boots?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing.” Avoiding his gaze she said in a low, hurried voice, “Thank you, yes, I would love to go for a ride, and if you would please ring for a maid, I’ll put on my habit and be with you in a trice. I’ll meet you downstairs, shall I?”
He didn’t move. He stared at her, and his lips twitched in the beginning of a smile. “You thought a ride meant—?” He arched a brow suggestively. “Because I came to your bedchamber in my boots?”
“Y—no, I don’t know what I was thinking. I was half asleep. Now, please ring for my m—” She was adorably flustered.
His smile grew. “You did. You thought I wanted to f—have marital relations with you in my boots, didn’t you?”
“Well, you did yesterday,” she said defensively. “How am I to know what you mean when you say and do such strange things?”
“Strange things?” He prowled slowly toward her.
Her face was flaming
