“Michael—”
She cut herself off as soon as she realized her error. That didn’t change the fact that she used my Christian name. Again. The intimacy in that single word was breathtaking. Perhaps even more so in the harsh light of day, no candlelight and shadows to hide behind.
“This really is a work of art. I’ve never seen so many different stitches.”
She studied me intently with her head cocked slightly to the side. Our days in the sun had given her a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. I adored them. Each and every one of them was evidence of our time together. They would linger even after she returned to town, a reminder of us. I didn’t know what answers she found from her observation, but she moved to put her work away. My stomach dropped, thinking our time was over. A second later it righted itself, as she pulled out something new.
“Would you… I owe you a new handkerchief. From that day in the drawing room with the teacup. I intended to surprise you with it, but perhaps you’d like to learn? I know it may not interest you, but you’ve been so kind teaching me hazard and cribbage. If you’ve any inclination.”
She was grasping a square of fine white linen. She had penciled an intricate pattern of swirls directing the eye to the corner where the initialsM. W.were drawn with a feminine flourish. I traced a finger over the design. Until I watched her work, I would have asserted to my grave that embroidery was useless women’s finery. I never had the slightest inclination to learn, but she wanted to teach me. She wanted to share something with me, and that was a precious thought.
“I think I’d like this to be your work. I would hate to mar it. I would like to learn though, perhaps on something less fine?”
Her grin at my response was infectious, and she started to root through her basket. That was when the first raindrop marked her cheek.
Twenty
THORNTON HALL, KENT - JUNE 3, 1814
MICHAEL
That single raindropbecame thousands instantly as the skies opened up. I shoved the novel and her embroidery into the picnic basket and slammed the lid. As soon as her efforts were safe, I scrambled up, helping her along the way. Clutching the basket and our blanket, I ushered her toward the relative safety of the dogwood. The tree offered little in the way of safety from a downpour this severe. Her back was pressed against the trunk of the tree, seeking as much cover as possible. I dropped the basket and lifted the blanket over our heads, sheltering her a little from the torrent with the fabric and my body. It was only after I pressed my hands to the trunk, her head between them, as I held the blanket taut, that I realized what I’d done.
I’d slotted myself against her sodden frame, no more than six inches between us. It was dark under our little makeshift tent. But I was so close that the dim light was no impediment to studying her. Her once vivacious, now damp, curls were stuck to her forehead and neck. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes, drawing my attention to her eyes, now midnight in the shadows. Her mirthful grin fell, and her lips parted as she registered our proximity. In the mere moments we were without cover, her gown was soaked. It dipped lower with the weight of the water and clung tighter than it did when dry. Her chest rose and fell with her heaving breaths.
My body reacted to the sight. Our frames were too close for her to mistake my interest. I attempted to shuffle my lower half to the side without her notice, but the distance didn’t allow for it. I miscalculated the allotted space, and thigh brushed between hers. Her corresponding gasp was everything. My heart stopped, and I froze, searching her face for reproach. Instead, I found her eyes even wider than before and filled with heat, her lips parted with something akin to want. It was a heady, exhilarating feeling.
“Juliet—” Her name was a harsh, strained thing in my throat.
She swallowed roughly. “Yes.”
“Yes?” I clarified.
She nodded her agreement but it was a tentative little movement. My heart pounded, and I was certain she could hear it. My breathing grew even more erratic than hers. But I needed to be clear with her.
“Yes, more?”
Another nod, and this one more definitive. Desire spread rapidly through my entire being.
“I need the words, Duchess. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. Kate explained— Yes, I want more—not everything—but more. Please?”
Not even the mention of my brother’s errant wife could dampen the need burning through me with that request. I couldn’t be certain in the dim light of our damp retreat, but I suspected the peach of her flush had made its way under her chemise.
“Have you ever been kissed?” I had no reason to find as much joy in her negative response as I did. “May I?”
“Yes,” her voice was barely a whisper, but it was clear as a bell in the damp air between us.
Permission granted, I dropped one hand from the tree. The sodden blanket collapsed onto our heads. My hand trembled, and it was a nearly imperceptible thing as Ifinallycupped her jaw. Her eyes drifted closed as she leaned into my touch. Awe at her trust in me overwhelmed the lust surging through me. The enormity of what she offered me crashed over me.
Before my flawed morals could slake my lust, I pressed my lips against hers. Nothing in my life had ever felt right in this way. I slid her lower lip between mine, andthiswas where I belonged. I would give anything to stay here for eternity. Pressed against her, her lips against mine, shrouded in our damp haven. It took everything I had not to lose myself in the kiss, to devour her, to press her for more than she was ready to give. I forced myself to pull back after the simple caress. She defied my good intentions, following my lips with hers. She crashed her mouth against mine with more enthusiasm than skill. Her actions were paired with a soft whimper, and all at once, the fervor returned.
I took control of the kiss. My touch on her jaw became a grasp. I directed her to tip her head brushing my tongue across her lip. She tasted of raspberries and an intoxicating paradox of rain and sunshine. I had no power to stop the groan that escaped when her tongue tentatively brushed mine. I granted her entry, determined to let her explore at her own pace. Her delightful little hands found their way to me. One clutched in the folds of my shirt. The other tangled in the overgrown hair at the nape of my neck. She tugged me impossibly closer. She broke from me with a startled gasp when my thigh slid more firmly against her center with her frantic movements.
Her breathing was heavy, and I could taste it in our closeness. Her eyes met mine as we shared air, both of us panting. For a moment this simple kiss was the most erotic moment of my life. Then she rocked against me, against the thigh trapped between hers and several dampened layers of skirts. And it was instantly replaced with that new moment.
I couldn’t contain the hoarse curse that escaped me. “Jules.”
