That was a word that had never before struck him as particularly arousing. Now he wanted to make her say it again, wanted to watch the press and pop of her lips on the most eroticpin all the material universe.
“We cannot,” he agreed, moving back between her legs to put his lips to the inside of her knee. “I would not take anything from you, Win.”
“It’s not about that,” she said. “My virginity, that is. The hell with that. I meant the annulment. If it turns out we do need an annulment, we cannot get one if we—if we—lie together.”
Jesus Christ. It was a shock of ice water, a cold plunge into the freezing Thames.
Theannulment.He hadn’t once thought of it. Somewhere in his mind, he’d lost track of who she was, of how she’d come to be here.
She wasn’t really his wife. She was going back to Wales once they disentangled themselves from one another.
And this wasnotdisentangling.
He felt a sudden rush of uncertainty. A fear that he was going wrong in some way—that he should not take things any further. It was too unsteady, too unresolved. He did not know what to do.
Ought he… what? Go? Leave her?
Go down on his knees—well,stayon his knees, rather—and ask her to forget the whole Welsh-sheep-farm-and-thread situation and stay here with him instead?
Ask her to give up her entire life?
God, what a bargain. Her own carefully built life for him—for a role as countess that she did not wish for.
He realized he’d gone still. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her knee, trying to pick apart his surprise and indecision and unexpected hurt.
“Spencer,” she said. “I don’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin things. Only I thought that you’d—”
Her voice was choked, and she broke off abruptly.
He’d hurt her, he realized. He’d hurt her with his sudden silence, for all she would not say it aloud. Brave, stubborn woman.
He ran his fingers soothingly up and down her calves. The lace under his fingers was fragile, almost rough against the fine-grained perfection of her skin.
“No,” he said, and kissed her knee. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her again, again, little hums of apology and succor. “I’m sorry, Win.”
He stood and came to the bed beside her. She turned on her side to face him, but he shook his head. “Sit up. Turn around. I’m going to take this dress off of you.”
The anxious expression on her face transformed into one of relieved delight. It made him smile back at her, though part of him still felt unsettled. He wanted more. Hewantedto make things irrevocable between them, and he—
He was an idiot. The loveliest, cleverest woman in the world was flushed and smiling in his bed, and he had the temerity to act as though that wasn’t enough?
It would have to be enough. She was a gift, a dream made of lemons and honey, and he would not treat her any other way.
She sat and turned. His fingers went to the hooks at the side seam of her dress, and he flicked them free.
“I want to undress you,” he murmured. “And then I want to please you.”
He nudged the dress off her shoulders and watched as she pulled her arms free. Her shoulders were mostly bare now, slim and muscular. He touched her lightly with his thumb, right there in the small revelation of her skin.
“There are all sorts of things we can do,” he said, “that are not relations.” He ran his thumb slowly down the column of her spine, sliding over the now-visible fabric of her chemise. “I’d really like to make you come.”
“Oh,” she gasped.
He stroked the top edge of her chemise along her back and then he couldn’t help himself—he followed his finger’s path with his mouth. Her skin was shockingly warm, unbearably arousing.
He moved to her stays, working at the laces. He was not as practiced at this as he might have wished in this particular moment, and the shaking in his hands did not much help. But he managed, and rewarded himself by cupping her ribs in his hands and then sliding up, up, until he felt the bottom curve of her breasts. He kissed her: the back of her neck, her shoulder, behind her ear.
“Or,” he said into her skin, “we need not do anything at all. We can sleep, if you like.”
