“I could hardly get up the minute you walked out. I do not even know why I am here.”
Ah damn it, he needed to forget his anxiety, forget his own fears. He did know how to woo women. She was a woman.
“Because you want to be here.” He moved closer. “With me.” He dropped his cigar on the dew damp grass.
“Do I? I barely know. All I know is that I missed you watching me.”
When he lifted a hand, she stepped back.
He smiled, his fingertips brushing her cheek. “You want more kisses, Mary. You can hardly have them if you do not let me near.” Damn it, he needed to persuade her to stay and not run again, to persuade her to be his wife – and the only way he knew how to do that was through sex. He needed her to let him close.
* * *
Is that why I am here, to let him kiss me again? She had not been able to define the pull which led her here.
She had seen him enter earlier, and her heart had leapt at the sight of his splendid figure as he stood at the top of the stairs. But she’d wanted to know where he’d been. Why he’d stopped following her?
To give her choice…
But choice had left her with a desperate, quivery feeling inside. Choice, separation from him, had been painful – and yes, she longed to be kissed.
He had a magnetic quality. When he’d walked out his gaze had called follow, and an invisible thread had pulled her here.
Lord Framlington pulled that invisible thread again and it drew her nearer still.
His fingers trailed across her jaw, then his thumb brushed over her lips.
She met his gaze, though she could barely see him in the darkness beyond a silhouette. The smell of tobacco carried on his breath.
This is madness. Why did I come to him? Why am I doing this?
“Not here,” she breathed as his lips neared hers. “Anyone may see us.”
She could not see his lips curve and yet she sensed they did. His fingers opened, spreading to cradle the line of her jaw while his other hand gripped her waist. He pressed her backward.
In a trance she let him back her into the darkness, into the corner where the wall of the house turned at the side of the steps, and met the high yew hedge bordering the garden beyond the terrace.
They were deep in the shadows, she could not see him at all, but she could feel his tall frame against her and his strong hand half holding, half caressing at her waist, while the hand cradling her jaw slid to her nape and pulled her mouth to his.
Oh heavens.
His lips were firm then soft against hers, coaxing her to kiss him back.
A sensual ache spiralled through her stomach, sliding down between her legs. Her arms lifted and her fingers settled on his broad shoulders as she leaned into him, clung to him, and gave herself up to kissing him back.
It was delicious and wicked, and utterly stupid. But she didn’t care, she didn’t want to think, she just wanted to feel. Her body fitted to his perfectly, her back curving, her hip bone pressing to his, her breasts crushed against his chest.
A groan rumbled deep in his chest. She felt it in her mouth and her breasts.
His tongue slid between her parted lips, tentatively at first, then deep, then tentative again, tempting her, encouraging her to seek more.
She wanted more with a bone-deep longing; his kiss dissolved her senses.
Her fingers clasped his hair as he pressed her further back, the wall grazing one shoulder while the sharp clipped bows of the yew hedge pierced her other.
The sound of the orchestra spun into the night air. The supper hour was over.
He did not stop, his tongue danced about hers as his fingers cupped her bottom and pulled her hips more snugly to his.
A ridge of hard flesh in his trousers pressed against her abdomen, it ought to have scared her. It did not.
His grip stayed tender and gentle while the play of his tongue enchanted.
“God, Mary, you’re beautiful,” he whispered into her mouth. “Better than I imagined.”
His fingers slid up over her hips and her waist, then settled at her ribs and his thumbs brushed the first curve of her bosom.
“Mary,” he said her name again with a dizzying awe. Then he kissed her jaw and her neck, while his palms settled over her breasts, kneading her flesh through her gown.
Voices spilled from the open French doors onto the terrace. People would be dancing again soon, crowding into the ballroom and walking out on to the terrace. Her heart pounded hard, fear, excitement and bewilderment mingling.
He didn’t stop, his teeth nipped her neck while one hand left her breast and slid downwards.
Oh.
He touched between her legs, stroking inward over the material of her gown pressing it to the warm wet flesh at the juncture of her thighs.
She knew men and women joined there. That was where she craved him.
His strokes were tender, careful, like his teeth and lips on her skin, and the grasp of his hand on her breast.
Anticipation and desire climbed, as if her body sought a peek.
Her breath quickened and a sob broke from her lips as delicious sensations wove a spell in her blood.
The hum of conversation seeped from the ballroom along with a melody the orchestra played.
She should tell him to stop, but wrapped in the darkness, hidden from view, the danger had become exhilarating.
His hand clutched her breast harder and his thumb swept back and forth across her hardened nipple, while his fingers stroked forward and back in the cleft between her legs caressing her aching flesh.
Her hands clawed on his shoulder and his neck, clinging, as a whimpering sound left her lips.
He silenced her with a kiss.
She could not kiss him back, she could not think as whatever peak she raced towards approached as if she flew on a firecracker.
Goodness. Oh heavens.
She exploded, and fell from the sky, then the sensation inside her was carried on a flood of water swirling beneath her skin, reaching out to her toes and fingertips as she gripped hard at his neck and shoulder, afraid she would truly fall.
A sound of amusement, half laugh, came from his lungs, slipping into her mouth as he drew away.
He looked down at her, but she could not see his face, or his eyes. His fingers touched her face and his thumb ran back and forth across her cheekbone.
“I could make a sound and have someone find us like this.” he whispered.
“Is that what you want?” His thumb touched her lips as she breathed heavily, still a little disorientated. He was breathing heavily too and through her grip on the back of his neck, even through his neckcloth, she could feel his heart racing hard.
She was not afraid, nothing about him spoke of danger, but I do not know him at all.
“I want you,” he answered, in a hushed voice. “I want you as my wife.”
“You want my dowry.”
“I want you, and your dowry. I know your brother hates the idea of a man in need of a fortune,