“They’re fools,” he said simply. “And besides, it only proves my point, does it not? This”—he held one long thick lock up between their faces, then tickled it against his lips, breathing in its heady scent—“has been hidden away in a bun for years.”
“Since I was sixteen,” she said.
He tugged her toward him, gently but inexorably. “I’m glad. You’d never have been mine if you’d tugged out your hairpins. Someone else would have snatched you up years ago.”
“It’s just hair,” she whispered, her voice a little trembly.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “You must be, because on anyone else, I don’t think it would be nearly so intoxicating. It must be you,” he whispered, letting the strands drop from his fingers. “Only you.”
He cradled her face in his hands, tilting it slightly to the side so that he might more easily kiss her. He knew what her lips tasted like, had kissed them, in fact, just minutes earlier. But even with that, he was startled by her sweetness, by the warmth of her breath and her mouth, and the way his body turned to fire from one simple kiss.
Except that it would never be just a simple kiss. Not with her.
His fingers found the fastenings of her gown, small fabric-covered buttons marching down her back. “Turn around,” he ordered, breaking the kiss. He wasn’t so experienced at seduction that he could slip them from their loops without the advantage of sight.
Besides, he rather enjoyed this—this slow disrobing, each button revealing another half inch of creamy skin.
She was his, he realized, sliding one finger down her spine before attending to the third-to-last button. His for eternity. It was hard to imagine how he had been so lucky, but he resolved not to wonder at his good fortune, just to enjoy it.
Another button. This one revealed a square of flesh near the base of her spine.
He touched her. She shivered.
His fingers went to the last button. He didn’t really need to attend to it; her dress was more than loose enough to slip from her shoulders. But somehow he needed to do this right, to disrobe her properly, to savor the moment.
Besides, this last one revealed the curve of her buttocks.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her right there. Right at the top of her cleft while she stood facing the other way, shivering not from cold but from excitement.
He leaned toward her, pressed his lips to the back of her neck as both of his hands found her shoulders. There were some things that were too wicked for an innocent like Eloise.
But she was his. His wife. And she was fire and passion and energy all wrapped into one. She wasn’t Marina, he reminded himself, delicate and breakable, unable to express emotion other than sorrow.
She wasn’t Marina. It seemed necessary to remind himself of this, not just now, but continually, throughout the day, each time he looked at her. She wasn’t Marina, and he didn’t need to hold his breath around her, afraid of his own words, afraid of his facial expressions, afraid of anything that might cause her to sink into herself, into her own despair.
This was Eloise.Eloise. Strong, magnificent Eloise.
Unable to stop himself, he sank to his knees, holding Eloise’s hips firmly between his hands when she let out a soft murmur of surprise and tried to turn around.
And he kissed her. Right there, at the base of her spine, in the spot that had tempted him so, he kissed her. And then—he didn’t know why; his experience with women had been limited, but his imagination was clearly making up for that lack—he ran his tongue along that central line, down her spine to the beginning of her cleft, tasting the sweet saltiness of her skin, stopping—but not removing his lips—when she moaned, putting her hands out against the wall to support herself when she could no longer stand.
“Phillip,” she gasped.
He rose and turned her around, leaning down until they were nearly nose to nose. “It was there,” he said helplessly, as if that would explain everything. And in truth, that was all the explanation there was. It was there, that tantalizing little patch of skin, pink and peachy and waiting for a kiss.
Shewas there, and he had to have her.
He kissed her mouth again as he let her gown slide from her body. She’d been married in blue, a pale version of the color that made her eyes look deeper and more tempestuous than ever, rather like a cloudy sky just before a rainstorm.
It was a heavenly dress—he’d heard her sister Daphne say that to her earlier that day. But it was even more heavenly to rid her of it.
She wasn’t wearing a chemise, and he knew that she was bared to him, heard her suck in her breath as the tips of her breasts grazed the fine linen of his shirt. But instead of looking, he ran his hand along the side of her breast, his knuckles lightly nuzzling the side of the swell. Then, as he continued to kiss her, his hand curved around until he was cupping her, feeling the exquisite weight of her in his fingers.
“Phillip,” she moaned, the word sinking into his mouth like a benediction.
He moved his hand again until he covered her, her pert nipple sliding between his fingers. And as he squeezed—gently, reverently—he could, after all, hardly believe this had all come to pass.
And then he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to see her, to see every bit of her and watch her face as he did so. He pulled back, breaking their kiss with a whispered promise that he’d be back.
