He got her out of her dress, stays, and petticoats without embarrassing himself or falling on her like a ravening beast, but stopped short of removing her chemise.
“You are being considerate of my modesty?” Jeanette asked, taking a seat on the bed.
“No, love.” He sank to his knees before her. “I’m trying, futilely I suspect, to preserve my sanity. Might you please spread your legs for me?”
Surely a little ravening to begin the proceedings was permitted, a little ravening and kissing and driving the lady wild? Or more than a little?
“Spread my legs for you?” Jeanette did not like the sound of that at all. “Why?”
Sycamore grasped her ankles, his thumbs brushing over the bones in a slow caress. “So that I can pleasure you with my mouth, of course. I want you as witless as I’m becoming.”
His mouth on her…? She’d heard of such things, or overheard of them, in the women’s retiring rooms, though the conversation always ended abruptly when somebody noticed she was on hand.
“Is that really necessary?”
His hands slid higher, to her knees, his touch so very warm and shocking. “Not necessary, but…” Knees were pedestrian joints, bones and sinew fashioned to facilitate locomotion. When Sycamore touched Jeanette’s knees, they developed all manner of strange and erotic sensitivities.
He gazed up at her and seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “Not necessary, no. How would you like to proceed?”
“I thought I would lie on the bed, then you would…” She waved a hand. “And then we cuddle for a bit while you nap.”
Sycamore rose and took the place beside her, which meant Jeanette pitched against his side. He wrapped an arm around her waist when she would have risen to pace. The concept of becoming his lover had been alluring. The reality was damnably awkward.
“I’m to climb the Matterhorn while you stare at the ceiling and wonder how much longer I will need to reach the summit?” he asked, taking her hand. “Then we make a mess of the sheets, I become a snoring heap atop your person, and you wish copulation wasn’t such an undignified way to earn some cuddling?”
“You make it sound so…” So selfish and tawdry. Jeanette rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Some women are not cut out for frolicking. I am one of them, and I apologize for leading you to believe otherwise.”
The perfect man and the perfect moment had finally arrived. She could raise a fist at all the sour memories her husband had left her and take up the mantle of the independent widow at last. She could have some pleasure, maybe gain some insight into why straying wives and friendly widows invariably seemed to be such happy creatures.
And yet, all Jeanette wanted to do was get dressed and forget this day had ever happened.
And maybe cry a little. In private. For no reason.
Sycamore kissed her cheek. “I adore a challenge, and I agree you are not cut out for frolicking. Let’s get me out of these damned breeches, shall we?”
He rose and stood before her.
“I don’t understand.”
“My breeches, Jeanette. That’s the next step, and you decide whether to take it.”
She did want to see him, to lay eyes on the male body part that occasioned such pride in its owners and such mischief in society generally. The marquess would have scolded Jeanette for unladylike curiosity.
She undid the buttons of Sycamore’s waistband, then worked her way down both rows of buttons holding the flap of his breeches closed.
He stepped free of the last of his clothing, took a handkerchief from the pocket, and stuffed it under the pillow, then stood idly in the center of the carpet, scratching his chest and resembling an adult male lion rather than a harmless fellow preparing for a nap.
“Let’s to bed, shall we, Jeanette?”
He was letting her look at him and trying to be casual about it. Maybe hoping she’d look at him? “Come here, Sycamore.” She’d delivered an order, not a request, and that gave her a small, guilty thrill.
He stood directly before her, his hand cradling her cheek. “You are not made for frolicking, but you are made for loving. We do this however you choose, Jeanette.”
That he could be coherent while his male member was in such a state… and such a member. His arousal put the marquess’s endowments to shame and angled straight up along a flat belly crosshatched with muscle.
The idea that copulation could be more than rutting, that it could be loving, did something odd to Jeanette’s breathing. She traced a single finger up his length, and a muscle in his belly leaped.
“There’s a lot of you, Sycamore Dorning.”
“And for the next hour, all of me is yours. What do you want, Jeanette? What do you truly, truly want? What have you denied yourself or not known how to ask for?”
She had been denied freedom, independence, privacy, and control of her own body. But that was all behind her now.
“I want…”
He waited, while Jeanette struggled to articulate feelings too raw and intimate for words.
“I want too much. Let’s test your climbing skills, shall we?” She scooted under the covers, knowing she had just been either prudent or cowardly, but the day was not going as planned. Her daydreams about Sycamore Dorning had never progressed to well-lit bedrooms and spread knees.
Not quite.
He joined Jeanette on the bed, lying on his back and threading an arm under her neck. “The sheets are chilly. I could use some cuddling.”
Sycamore was as warm as a toasted brick and much more interesting. Jeanette curled up against his side, resenting the thin cotton of her chemise. She wanted closeness with him. Maybe that was what she did not know how to ask for.
He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin against her temple. “Was it awful, being married to the marquess?”
That was not a lover’s question. “Yes. He was demanding, bad-tempered, and determined to get
