The act of coupling, the simplest and most profound privilege of the committed couple, had become resounding proof of her inadequacy, a punishment rather than a pleasure.
And thus did her sadness acquire an edge of anger.
“You’re sure?” Sycamore asked, shrugging out of his riding jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. “Just because we have time and privacy doesn’t mean you must take me to bed, Jeanette. I would be happy to cuddle with you and indulge in a discussion of your family’s French vineyards or the latest fashion in lady’s bonnets.”
She unbuttoned his waistcoat and laid it over his jacket. “You mean that. You would snuggle up with me and make idle conversation if I wished it.”
He passed her his cravat, undid his shirt buttons, and pulled the shirt over his head. “I would. Mind you, I might have to see to myself before leaving the bed, lest I go blind with frustrated desire, but that’s the work of a moment and hardly work at all. Ask any male over the age of fourteen.”
He tossed the shirt onto the chair and stood naked from the waist up, his hair slightly disheveled. “Shall I take off your boots?”
Her first inclination was to wave him away and finish undressing unassisted, as she had many times before. Her corset laces tied in front for that purpose, because she did not like being fussed at as she disrobed at the end of the day.
But Sycamore had asked, his touch was exquisite, and the right to enjoy such intimate consideration was also something the marquess had stolen from her.
Jeanette sat on the bed and hiked her skirts a few inches. Sycamore knelt before her, and soon her boots were off. He sent her a questioning glance—still asking her permission, though more subtly—and she nodded.
He made removing her garters and peeling down her stockings into a worshipful act, and why, oh why, had Jeanette never known that a man’s touch on her feet, ankles, and calves could inspire erotic sensations?
“You have the prettiest knees,” Sycamore said. “If I could draw as well as my brother Oak does, I’d immortalize your knees.” He kissed each one, left then right, and rested his cheek against her bare thigh.
Jeanette stroked his hair, feeling awash in regret—why had she ever, ever agreed to marry an arrogant fool twice her age? The regret was edged aside by tenderness for the man kneeling before her.
“I am overdressed for the occasion,” she said, rubbing Sycamore’s earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. “So are you.”
He eased back and to his feet in one motion and held out a hand to Jeanette. She expected him to whisk her dress over her head, yank off his boots and breeches, and toss her onto the bed.
Instead, he kissed her, first on the cheek, then lightly on the mouth, until Jeanette stepped close, got a firm grip of his hair, and showed him how she longed to be kissed. She paused a few breathless moments later to remove both her dress and her chemise, and the sensation of being skin to skin with Sycamore’s heat had her nearly pushing him onto the mattress.
“My boots, Jeanette,” he muttered as she plastered herself against his chest. “Must not…” He stepped back, panting, his eyes dancing. “Country air agrees with you, my lady.”
“It does. I had forgotten that. Get out of those clothes, Sycamore, lest I rend them from your person.”
He closed his eyes for one moment, as if praying for fortitude—or for his clothes to be rent from his person—then toed off his boots and peeled out of his breeches and stockings.
“Does my lady approve of this ensemble?” he asked, turning in a slow circle. “Perhaps she’d like to inspect the adornments I’ve chosen for this delightful occasion?”
He was thoroughly aroused and thoroughly unconstrained by self-consciousness. Sycamore was, in fact, smiling at her, his expression conveying buccaneering high spirits, a challenge, and also deep affection.
“You are showing off your great good looks,” Jeanette said, folding back the covers and settling onto the bed. “Do you know what my favorite part of you is?”
He closed his hand around his rampant shaft and stroked himself idly. “You can have more than one favorite part of me, Jeanette. A lady should not have to choose.”
“Come to bed, Sycamore. My favorite parts of you are your eyes. You have honest eyes.”
“I have girlish eyes, all periwinkle and lavender and unmanly. Do you know what my favorite part of you is?”
He climbed onto the bed and kept coming until he was crouched over Jeanette like a lion guarding his next meal.
“I am not inclined to be reduced to my female parts,” Jeanette said, “though a general sort of appreciation for them is permissible under the circumstances.”
Sycamore nuzzled her breasts, took a nipple in his mouth, and suckled just long enough for Jeanette to begin undulating her hips, not quite long enough to make her groan.
“I love your heart,” Sycamore said, crouching closer. “I love that fiercely guarded citadel you call your heart. You will never give up on your brother, no matter how clodpated he is. You will still be looking out for Tavistock when he’s a grandpapa, and when you ought by rights to be bitter and shallow and vain, you are dear and lovely and brave.”
“Sycamore, I’m not.” And yet, had Jeanette been given those words of flattery as a new bride, as a girl of seventeen… Had somebody looked upon her with that much respect and liking before her engagement, she might have been the woman Sycamore spoke of.
“You are all of that,” he said, levering himself up to kiss her brow. “And my every most passionate longing come true. Please don’t argue with me, for I will win by cheating.”
He nudged at her with his cock, the merest, most maddening tease.
“I might let you win,
