Fuck, she thought, thatwasgood.
Beatrice looked down at him, where he had his head buried in her bosom.
Yes, she thought, smiling,thathad been quite good.
Much better than satisfactory.
Perhaps the Marquess of Leith could be made into a very good lover, after all.
Chapter Eighteen
With Beatrice Salisburyon top of him, his bollocks completely spent, Leith felt, at once, like a much older and younger man.
Like he had died and been reborn at the same moment.
He could not remember having ever done something like this—tupping on a stone bench in Vauxhall, of all places—and having enjoyed it.
More than enjoyed.
Indeed, he was aware, in a distant, primal way, that something within him had been knocked loose by all that pleasure.And by the wild, indecent Miss Beatrice Salisbury.
And he feared the consequences.
For now, though, he pushed those disconcerting emotions down.
Because Beatrice was dismounting him and, if he didn’t work fast, his French-lettered cock was about to be on display to Beatrice and any curious passerby.Not that there appeared to be any of those.
Working quickly, he pulled off the letter, and flipped over the placket of his pants.
At least this way, Beatrice wouldn’t be confronted by the sight of his disappointing cock after she had just given him the orgasm of his life.
The only problem, he realized, was that he was holding the French letter.And that he had no idea what to do with it.
He looked down at the thing.It was indecently filled with seed.He had dealt with many of his own French letters in his life and they were seldomthisfull.
Usually, he disposed of the thing as quickly as possible, but there was no place to do so here.He couldn’t lay the thing down without it getting seed all over the stone bench.
Which he supposed would not be the first time for this particular stone bench at Vauxhall.Nevertheless it disgusted him all the same.He found he could not lay it down.
And the bloody fireworks were still going off overhead.
He heard Beatrice’s musical laugh, and he looked up, irritated and embarrassed by his predicament.
But her smile was so kind, her face so much more open and mirthful than it had been when they met only a few days ago, that gap between her teeth both sweet and tantalizing, that his gruff words died in his throat.
“Do you need a handkerchief?”
“Yes, please,” he said, sounding, he was sure, completely ridiculous.
She handed him a length of white fabric from her reticule.Happily, he noticed, it was not too small of a handkerchief.
He tied the letter and wrapped it in the handkerchief and shoved the lot in his pocket.God willing, there would be nodripping.The thought made him shudder.
“I am sorry about the mess,” Beatrice said.“I hadn’t thought of that.I suppose we could have tossed it into the hedgerow, but that hardly seems sporting.”
“It’s no matter,” he said.“And it’s certainly notyourfault.”
It washewho had created such a tremendous spend within the French letter.He was a beast.
