“Yes,” she whispered.
“Thank Christ,” he groaned, and then he was peeling her bodice down, working her arms out of the fabric, undoing the hooks on the front of her corset.
One, two, three, four.
The undergarment popped apart, her breasts springing forward, and the relief was palpable. Until he opened two more and pulled her chemise away, leaving her breasts bare. She lay on her back, the coolness of the grass reminiscent of the long-ago days at Talleyrand Park when she had run wild with Izzy. There had been a hill they adored rolling down every summer as many times as they could until they were watching the clouds swirl overhead, giggling, grass in their hair and staining their gowns.
How far removed this was from those innocent times.
“Perfection,” Hudson praised her.
His dark head bowed, and he sucked one of her nipples into the hot, velvety recesses of his mouth. Exquisite sensation blossomed. He released her with a lusty sound and then flicked his tongue over the tightened bud, torturing her in a new way. She was helpless to do anything but clutch his upper arms and arch her back, offering herself to him.
He took what she gave, moving to her other breast to lick and suck as well. Just when she thought she could bear no more, he caught her nipple in his teeth and tugged. She cried out, painfully aware of her body in a way she had never been before. It was as if he had brought her to life, awakened her from sleep, and now all she could do was seek more.
He kissed the curve of her breast and glanced up at her with a hooded stare. “There are ways I can pleasure you without chance of a child.”
His words restored some of her capability for rational thought. How could she have forgotten? She had so many important tasks to accomplish. Her design was in its infancy. And here she was, weak and willing after one day of marriage.
But another part of her, a previously undiscovered side, was curious. Trusting. She wanted to know more and was not ready to so hastily put an end to the interlude.
“I do not know what came over me,” she said, tamping down the wicked impulses. “This is quite unlike myself, I assure you.”
“Frankly, I hope it is not.” He cupped her breast, his thumb unerringly finding the peak and toying with her until she shifted, luxuriating in his touch.
“You cannot approve of—”
He kissed her swiftly, stopping the flow of her words. Ending her thoughts as well as his lips worked their blissful magic. He nipped her lower lip as he had her nipple and her ear, and she moaned as she struggled to contain another wave of desire licking through her. How could she resist him?
He broke the kiss, his gaze searing and insistent on hers. “I hope that answers your doubts.”
Doubts? Had she possessed them? Her mind was a thousand tiny jagged shards. Her body was his for the taking. And they were married, were they not? What was the harm in more? More pleasure, more kisses, more touches, more Hudson?
“It does,” she agreed, surrendering to her needs.
Surrendering to him.
“I promise you I will honor your wishes,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of each breast.
He did not linger, however, much to her disappointment. Instead, he rolled her to her back with the gentlest care. And then he moved down her body, rising to his knees at her feet. She took a moment to allow her hungry gaze to greedily drink in the sight of him, still shirtless, his broad chest on vivid display, his trousers tight against his thickly muscled thighs thanks to the dampness which lingered. His abdomen was lean and taut. Those sensual lips called to her, slightly darkened from all their kisses and more alluring than ever.
His hands settled on her skirts, his gaze commanding. “Yes or no, Elysande?”
She was not certain what he was asking. But for him, she could not help but to think the answer was yes. Regardless. Perhaps that was the haze of desire fogging her mind. Perhaps it was the newness of their marriage, the natural hopes of every new bride. She could not say.
“Yes,” she told him.
“You can trust me.”
She knew she could, instinctively. New Wycombe could not be more different than Old Wycombe, and she could not be more relieved. He was an honorable man; who else would have risked his own life in the name of justice?
Slowly, he raised her skirts. Inch by inch, her gown and petticoat and chemise traveled. Over her calves. Above her knees. All the way to the tops of her thighs.
“Hold your hems,” he instructed.
She obeyed, wondering what he could possibly be about, but grasping the layers of fabric anyway. It pooled around her waist. Her breasts were still bare, pushed up from her corset, and she thought she must look like the world’s greatest doxy. But then she forgot to think altogether when his big hands settled on her hips, pulling her drawers down until he found the fastening and undid them.
Down her legs went her drawers. Until she was wearing nothing but sturdy country boots and stockings. His hands were on her bare skin, caressing her tenderly. She forgot to worry about how she must look. Forgot anything and everything but the place where his hands met her skin.
