“Beautiful,” he murmured when his mouth abandoned hers. The stubble of his whiskers scratched her jaw and neck as he tasted his way lower.
Her fingers threaded the strands of his hair and gripped his head. So gloriously soft and springy—not at all as she’d believed it would be.
She arched her back when the hot, wet, heat of his mouth replaced his hand on one of her nipples.Dear God!She’d never known such a sensation, such excitement and delicious anticipation.
One of his palms slid beneath her, squeezing her buttocks; the other moved to cover her other breast. At this point, Margaret began to lose all intelligible thought.
Offering an invitation as old as time, she dropped her knees wide so that he could settle atop her. Legs, strong and thick and hard, kneeled between her own.
And then his mouth abandoned her breasts, and his tongue trailed down sensitive skin to her navel. Dipping inside of it.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and rather than arch her back, she found herself thrusting her hips off the mattress, his hand assisting her.
The heat of his mouth abandoned her navel and dipped lower, whiskers scratching, tongue drawing a lazy line to the patch of hair at her apex, and then lower. He inhaled greedily and then turned his head from side to side, scraping his jaw along her inner thighs. His fingertips stroked at her most intimate flesh.
“George!” she cried out.
He stilled. To tease her? To torment her? “Oh, my God, George. Don’t stop.” She wiggled to encourage him.
But he halted his sensual onslaught. After a moment, he drew back, and then, most disappointingly, pulled away, leaving her cold when the night air replaced his touch.
“George?” she said again, hesitantly this time. Was it possible her enthusiasm repelled him? But that did not make sense. He’d seemed to be enjoying all of it as much as she had.
The mattress groaned.
“Where the hell is a Godforsaken flint?” he groused.
Margaret froze. Georgeneverswore. In fact, he’d criticized those who did on more than one occasion.
Sudden awareness of this man’s smooth skin, his soft hair, and now the difference in his voice sent the truth of what she’d done slamming into her.
“George… It is you, isn’t it?”Oh, dear God. Oh, dear God.
“George Kirkley is my uncle. Are you not the little maid who flirted with me earlier? The redhead?”
Oh, but she ought to have realized. His skin was not that of an older gentleman but of a youthful one, sinewy and not yet weathered from decades of living. And his taste.
She ought to have known! In horror, Margaret rolled to the opposite side of the bed where she’d dropped her gown moments ago… minutes? Seconds? Hours?Oh, dear God! Oh, dear God!
Searching for the opening and then the armholes, she hastily scrambled to cover herself before he could locate a flint and illuminate their… situation.
The sound of drapes opening coincided with a slash of moonlight cutting across the room.
“Who are you?” he demanded, moonlight reflecting off his silver eyes.
But Margaret was not about to linger for any such interrogation or conversation. Seeing the outline of the door, she burst to her feet and sprung for her escape.
Once in the corridor, she wasted no time. Fearing he would come after her, as though she was a burglar or spy after all, she didn’t even take the time to look backward.
She would make for a dismal spy indeed! She nearly laughed hysterically at the thought.
She’d seduced the wrong man!
The wrong man!She swallowed hard as she rounded the corner to safety.
Thank heavens she was familiar with her surroundings. In a matter of seconds, she had arrived at her own chamber, entered, and locked the door behind her.
She could hardly comprehend the error she’d made. And then she frowned. She had gone to the precise chamber Penelope had told her belonged to George. She was certain of it.
