His greedy heart sped up. “You do?”
“I do.”
He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath.
Roland drew on every bit of strength he possessed to remain still. “You did not always feel thus.”
He needed to remind her, to remind himself. They were married now, but this remained a delicate dance they performed. She had already crushed his heart once. And she had been so badly hurt by Shaw. They owed it to each other to take their time. To be sure. To remember everything—all the bumps and bruises and pains along the journey that had reunited them.
“I was wrong about you,” she said. “About so very much. And I am sorry for that. Roland, I…do you think we might begin again? Could we go back to who we were then, when we first met?”
God, he hoped they could.
“We can try,” he allowed, trying to maintain his pragmatism, which had always stood him in good stead.
As much as she was hesitant to trust him, he was also uncertain about her. He loved her—that much had not changed. But he was not willing to throw his heart upon the fire for her merely to watch it burn.
She rolled to her side then, rising on her elbow to hover over him, blocking out the stars. But the view of Pippa was far more wondrous than all the constellations in the sky. She was all he wanted to see.
“Roland,” she said, her voice husky and low.
There was desire in her voice. He recognized it. And he felt it too.
The sweet scent of her wove around him, casting its spell.
“Pippa,” he returned, wanting to touch her so badly and yet refraining.
The choice must be hers, he reminded himself sternly. And he had been doing an admirable job of allowing just that. Nary a kiss since he had lost his restraint in the breakfast room. Interminable nights of watching the light beneath her adjoining chamber door and hoping she would come to him, only to watch the lights go down and take himself in hand instead.
“You have not kissed me in days,” she said, taking him by surprise much as she had when she had taken his hand.
“I am giving you time.”
“What if I do not require it?”
His reaction was instant. Yearning thundered through him. “Then the move is yours to make, Duchess.”
* * *
Could she?
Did she dare?
Duchess, he had called her. How strange, the name. Odder still, the title, the change of circumstance. Being the mistress of Wylde Park was a daunting task and a frightening new reality. But being this man’s wife was most intimidating of all. She still had no notion of where they stood.
All she did know was that she wanted his mouth.
And more than his mouth.
She wanted his hands, his touch on her skin, the weight of his body on hers.
The move was hers to make. So she did.
Pippa lowered her head and pressed her lips to his. His reaction was instant and gratifying. On a groan, he caught her waist in his hands and pulled her atop him. Because he had invited her to observe the stars after dinner, she had chosen a simple gown with very few underpinnings. Which meant that when her skirts pooled around him, her legs bracketing his, there was only a scant few layers of fabric separating her from the rigidity rising to prominence in his trousers.
This did not feel wrong.
Instead, it felt right.
