The boots were quickly disposed of and landed with twin thuds, joining the cambric shirt on the colorful Persian carpet.
The earl was immensely enjoying being undressed. In fact, no woman had ever done this for him—not even Marguerite, who had been quite a proficient lover herself.
C.J., who was in the process of skillfully unbuttoning his chamois pantaloons, looked up at him, distressed to catch a dark cloud dimming Darlington’s chiseled countenance. God, he was beautiful in the late afternoon half light, augmented by the candle glow; but his troubled look made her cease her progress.
It was not fair to her, the nobleman thought. “Stop,” he heard himself say.
“Is something the matter, Percy?” she inquired softly.
“It’s not right,” he murmured.
“What’s not?”
Summoning every dram of willpower, Darlington took C.J.’s hand in his and removed it from his loins, then entirely misread her look of distress. “Cassandra, you fascinate and delight me endlessly . . . but I cannot ask you to compromise your . . . to perform . . . to . . . desire you to behave in a manner . . . to do for me what no gently bred . . .” He had no words. Thought and reason had deserted him under her caress. “For God’s sake!” he finally exclaimed. “You are Lady Dalrymple’s niece, and here I am expecting you to pleasure me like a . . . like a cyprian!”
C.J. pulled away and rested against one of the large silken cushions. “Forgive me,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. Several moments of painful silence passed between them. To be fully honest with her sexuality meant that she would have to be fully honest with Darlington about her past, and she could never disclose how she came to be so carnally experienced.
“What are you thinking?” he asked her.
“That . . . it cannot possibly be . . . untoward . . . to obey the promptings of nature with the man one loves. Yes, I am Lady Dalrymple’s niece. And her ladyship—as well as her late husband—and my . . . and my father . . . are all ‘originals.’ Given where I came from, I can only be who I am.” God help me for that lie, C.J. thought.
“You don’t think me an ogre?”
“I think you my love!”
“My Cassandra. Come here.” Darlington opened his arms, into which C.J. melted with alacrity. Their mouths met in a passionate kiss, which deepened as they recommenced the exploration of each other’s bodies.
“What now?” C.J. asked when the earl seemed to shiver under her touch.
“No. N-nothing,” he responded, his voice straining as her hand found his most vulnerable spot—apart from his heart—and stayed there, learning him, stroking him. He was aching for her, and he knew she could feel it. C.J. drew the length of him through the placket in the buttery soft leather breeches.
Darlington moaned in anticipation when he felt her warm breath against his skin. Her fingers moved in skilled, smooth strokes, and when she placed her soft mouth over him, he fought not to explode immediately from the sheer perfection of the sensation. Concentrating on not succumbing to release too soon, Percy would give her a gift too, he thought to himself, to prolong their mutual bliss—turn each moment into a higher plateau on the journey to complete ecstasy—a total oneness of their bodies, minds, and souls.
C.J.’s tongue was as practiced as her hands as she varied her pressure and speed, sending electric sensations straight through to the core of his being. “Cassandra,” he cried huskily, drawing her even nearer as he clutched handfuls of her silken tresses. “My love.” He needed her now. He had to know, to feel what it was like to bury himself deep inside her softness. But he also knew how much more pleasure they could give each other if they took their time. Darlington cupped his hands on either side of C.J.’s face, easing her gently away from him so that he could remove the final fabric barrier.
He slid his skintight yellow-gray trousers over his thighs. God in Heaven! This encounter was not his first in the past seven years, Lord knew, but it was certainly only the second time in his life that he had ever cared so deeply for a woman. He owned that he had fallen hard for the extraordinary young lady who was wresting his breeches from around his ankles. Everything she said or did brought a fresh, unexpected, and highly pleasurable surprise. And what she had been doing to him with her soft hands, and her moist lips, and practiced tongue, was one of the most superbly delicious surprises he had ever experienced.
“I have always believed,” C.J. whispered, helping Darlington remove the remainder of his clothing, “that if you can get your tongue around Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter, you can get it around anything.”
He had remained ready for her, despite the almost comical extrication from his trousers. When he clasped C.J. to him, and they had the first opportunity to enjoy such unimpeded warmth, the lovers found themselves moaning in low, short breaths, hungering to explore every contour of each other’s body. Darlington’s hands cupped C.J.’s full, rounded breasts, feeling their weight and exquisite softness. The suffused light from the candles turned her skin alternately rose and apricot, russet and peach.
C.J. arched her back. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Percy. Now.”
“Not just yet,” he replied softly.
He arranged her body over the cushions so that the two of them could lie side by side. Her hand trailed along the length of his firm, sculpted body, from the tender hollow at his throat, down along
