And yet . . .
“Do you mean it?” she asked.
“Ah, Evie. You cannot ask a man that when he is trying to make love to you.” He groaned a little, and brought his mouth down on hers, the kiss ferocious. Surprised, she brought her hands up to his face, holding him still as she attempted to process the intensity of the sensation. The way he opened her lips with his, the urgency of his tongue as it claimed her mouth, the way he bent over her, pressed against her, his hands fisting in her voluminous skirts, as though he was trying—and largely failing—to prevent himself from eliminating what little distance still lay between them.
Evelyn brought her hands against his chest, and a moment later, he stopped, resting his forehead against hers. “Charles,” she said.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes.” He whispered the word, breath hot against her face.
Foolishly, her heart ignited at the confession. She knew better than anyone that Charles could not be relied upon in matters of the heart—or rather, matters of desire. His tastes were varied, and he tired of his loversalmost as soon as he gained them. He had admitted as much to her the last time they had come together.
And yet to know that a man who had seen so much still wantedher, though they had been friends for so many years, made her head spin and her reckless heart rejoice.
“Then do not hold back,” she said. “I want to know everything.”
Everything. She did not know what the word meant, Charles knew; there was so much more to pleasure than he could show her in just a few hours. So much more than he could show her in days, though he wanted nothing more than to devote his next week to her pleasure and his.
More than that, he wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms, and wake to the sound of her breathing. Domestic bliss had never seemed likely to him, but such a thing would be possible with Evelyn.
Do not offer for me.
In his weaker moments, her words tormented him. He knew she would not accept even if he did offer, and there was another lady set to become his wife. Vile, obnoxious thought. What lady such as Rosamund could satisfy him with her coldness when he had the object of all his youthful desires standing with her palms on his chest, her face turned trustingly up to his?
Confound it. He could not take her here, not like this.
“Your hair,” he said, reaching behind her to unpin it. “I prefer it down and around your shoulders. It looks like moonlight.”
“How poetic.”
“You may make a romantic out of me yet.” He stepped back, largely to give himself a chance to cool down a little, and admired the effect of her sleek hair falling down past her shoulders. She had aged gracefully, her skin still soft and supple, the lines around her eyes invisible except when she smiled.
And her eyes.
Heaven help him, her eyes would be his undoing. So large, filled with desire he had no problem reading. Having her wanting him was the greatest aphrodisiac a man could need.
He had watched age stroke gentle fingers across her face; he had seen her mind develop and grow and mature; he had come to admire every part of the woman she had become. And he ached for her.
When he kissed her again, she responded instantly, and he picked her up, barely breaking the kiss as he carried her through to her bedchamber and placed her carefully on the bed. She blinked up at him.
“You were able to lift me,” she said blankly.
“Did you think me incapable?” He reached down for the buttons across her bodice, impatient now. “I don’t know if that is a slight against you or me.”
“Well, I am by no means small, and you have a slim build.”
“When the mood takes me, I do fence, though I confess to not being a boxer. Does that disappoint you? Am I unmanned in your eyes?”
“I doubt you could ever do that,” she said with captivating honesty.
“What did I do to deserve you?” he said to himself as he finished the buttons of her bodice and assisted her with lifting it over her head. On her lower half, she wore skirts, and underneath petticoats, a tightly laced corset, and underneath it all, her chemisette. Too many layers, in his opinion, but he had ample experience in removing them, and after easing her skirts and many petticoats down her legs, she was left only in her corset, chemisette, and drawers.
If he had not already been aroused, this sight alone would have been sufficient to produce the desired effect. She did not have large breasts, but the corset made the most of them, and her hips flared deliciously below.
She had freckles across her shoulders. What a detail he had not known before.
