“I am perfectly well,” she forced herself to admit.
The weakest part of Julianna prayed he would not instantly release her. That he would instead remain here, holding her close. In the water. Near enough to kiss.
Not that she would try to kiss him now.
“Christ, you scared the devil out of me. You can swim?”
“Like a fish.” She gave him a wan smile. “Forgive me for worrying you. That was not my intention.”
“This lake is deceptive,” he told her, frowning. “There are so many shallow areas, then others that give way to deep waters. When you disappeared beneath the surface, I feared…”
His words drifted away. She realized belatedly that she had been so overwhelmed by him that she had not noticed he was moving her nearer to the shallow. Until, all at once, her feet could reach the mucky bottom of the lake. Her right foot got stuck in the mud, and she clutched at him tighter, gasping.
“I have you, my lady,” he promised.
And her heart—stupid, foolish, reckless heart—thrummed. A trill went down her spine.
She wanted him to have her. Now and always.
“I am fine,” she forced herself to say, knowing it would likely force him to release her, though it was the last thing she wanted. “I was merely embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed.” He bit out a bark of laughter. “My God. I would far prefer you to be safe than to fret over such nonsense as embarrassment. I assure you, there is nothing you could do or say that would make me flush.”
“My chemise,” she managed hesitantly, trying not to caress the broad, muscled sweeps of his shoulders and failing dismally. “It is quite transparent. I… I could not swim with the encumbrance of all that fabric. However, I do not dare emerge from the lake as I am. I was hoping you might preserve my modesty and leave me in peace.”
He raised a brow. “Then you might have said so instead of slipping beneath the water and leading me to fear the worst. Come, my lady. I do believe your time in the lake should be at an end.”
Having made his decree, Shelbourne began to haul her from the body of water.
What she did next was foolish, she knew. Reckless and dangerous, too. But that did not stop her.
“Wait,” she told him, digging her toes into the muck.
“What is it?” he demanded curtly.
His gaze had slipped to her breasts, clearly delineated by her wet chemise as she emerged from the water. She threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and pressed her lips to his.
* * *
She had kissed him first.
He should have been a gentleman and thrust her away. He should have put an end to it. But Sidney was no match for the feelings that had been roiling through him since the day he had first met Lady Julianna Somerset. No match for her wet, lush curves melting into his body. No match for the sheer joy of her mouth on his.
She was younger, he reminded himself. His sister’s bosom bow. She had only recently had her comeout.
And naked beneath that transparent chemise. Very much a woman. Kissing him hesitantly. As if she was not certain what to do. Was this her first kiss?God, he hoped so. He wanted this kiss and every other after. He wanted to claim them all.
To claim her.
The summer air was warm around them, the water of the lake cool, but Sidney was on fire. She felt so good. Tasted so sweet. He had to have more.
On a groan, he deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips apart. His tongue slid inside her mouth to her answering sigh of pleasure. She responded by running her tongue along his, seeking more. His groan turned into a moan of raw need.
He had never been so aware of another woman. Had never been brought to his knees by the mere touch of a pair of feminine lips to his. Especially someone so unschooled in the art. But she was a swift learner, Lady Julianna. Eager. Bold.
He kissed her as the water swirled around them. As birds called overhead and the golden rays of the sun made everything shimmer with surreal brilliance. Or mayhap that washer.
Sidney understood what poets felt—that inexplicable urge to describe something seemingly ordinary in an extraordinary way. To string together words in the rudimentary hope of conveying something miraculous with verse and vowel. He thought he could have written a hundred sonnets about the feeling of this woman in his arms.
