“You resented her for being ill?”
“I resented her for disparaging herself. First for not getting with child quickly enough, as though it was something she had any control over. And then for delivering girls instead of an heir. As time wore on, it became her obsession. Even after she became ill…”
Some understanding dawned in Tilde at this information. “You are saying she never took to Althea and Eloise.”
Jasper nodded.
Yes, he was a lord, one of London’s most elite. But he was also a man. One who had refused to allow his daughters to feel neglected. He worried over their upbringing, forfeited the libertine life many of his ilk took for granted, and tormented himself over his daughters’ fears.
Tilde leaned forward and then knelt on the edge of the mattress. When she reached out for him, he did not hesitate to walk into her embrace. And then she was in his arms, and he in hers.
“Tilde.” His voice broke as his lips claimed hers.
The first kiss had been magical. Their second one had been devastating.
This kiss?
It unleashed the passion that had been denied for far too long. It was raw, desperate. Some rational part of her brain panicked. He was her employer! An earl! This could only lead to disaster.
And yet without knowing how they both came to be lying on her bed, Tilde didn’t care. She exulted in his weight as it pressed her into the soft mattress and welcomed the warmth of another body entangled with hers.
A few mere wisps of fabric prevented skin from touching skin. He wore only a dressing gown and night shirt. And she wore only her night rail. His hands had managed to slide beneath it to trail along her leg.
Tilde had long ago determined she’d remain a spinster. She’d given up on the notion of experiencing physical love. She’d convinced herself that it wasn’t something she needed in order to have a fulfilling existence.
But as he touched her, she came alive in a way she’d never imagined.
Hunger.
Her body hungered for…
Before she could even complete the thought, her knees fell open so that Jasper could settle between them.
Her body hungered for this. For him. She hungered to take him inside of her.
In her mouth, to her breasts, into her very core.
And God help her, but she wanted to be conquered––something she’d be abhorred by when she dwelled upon it later. She wanted to belong to a man––belong to him.
“Tilde.” Her name sounded like a prayer on his lips. She opened her eyes when his mouth left hers.
He was holding himself above her on his elbows, studying her questioningly. He caressed her with his thumb: the side of her face, the corner of her eye, the ridge of her cheek. “I’ve ached for you.” He shook his head, as though perplexed by—this.
His thumb grazed along her lower lip. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to do just this.” He replaced his thumb with his mouth, a tender touch, a taste. Then he was driving deeper so that he could taste behind her teeth, searching, exploring.
He conquered her—not with power or strength—but with tender need.
Adoration.
“I’ve been wanting to taste you everywhere.”
She arched her back. When she let out a small cry, he captured it with his mouth.
* * *
His need for her had become an exquisite pain. And now to allow it free reign, God help him, but a ridiculous urge to weep swept through him.
Throughout the entirety of his marriage, he had never cheated on his wife. Even after they’d ceased to be intimate at the onset of her illness. Not that the physical aspect of their union had ever been a predominate aspect of their marriage, but he had found some satisfaction from it initially…
