She shivered and widened her stance, opening herself further so he could take her. “Then you should take your pleasure.”
He hesitated. “You misunderstand me. I would draw outyourpleasure for hours if I could. But instead…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but instead returned his mouth to her pussy. He latched onto her clitoris and began to suck, swirling his tongue around her as he did so.
Electric pleasure arched immediately through her entire body, and she flailed against the wall, digging her hands into his shoulders. Her hips ground helplessly against his talented tongue, reaching for more, shaking for more.
And then she fell over the edge of intense sensation, her orgasm ripping through her as she wailed. She didn’t care who heard her or who saw her or what happened next. All that mattered was this man’s mouth and the magical things he was doing with it. Her orgasm felt like it went on forever, to the edge of pain, of madness. And only then did he draw away, kissing her thigh again, this time so gently that it almost brought tears to her eyes.
“That was everything I have ever dreamed of,” he murmured, his low voice even rougher than before.
She blinked, her addled mind unable to fully process that statement. She tugged at him, pulling him to his feet and drawing him against her. She kissed him, tasting the salty sweetness of her release on his lips and tongue.
He leaned against her, the hard ridge of his erection patently clear against her belly. She rubbed against him, aching for more in a way she had never fully felt before.
But he didn’t take her. To her surprise, he pulled away, his fingers gliding against her cheek before his hand dropped to his sides.
“Wh-why?” she whimpered, smoothing her gown back down over her body.
He let out a ragged sigh. “I wanted to give you pleasure. And I got to do that. I will live on that memory for the rest of my life.”
“But I…” She shook her head and cut herself off. She’d spent far too much time begging her husband to care for her—she wasn’t about to do the same with a stranger whose face she didn’t even know.
“Please don’t hate me,” he whispered.
Anna caught her breath. “I couldn’t. What you just did…it was wonderful. And I will also hold this memory dear.”
He was silent a long moment, and she thought he might say more. That he might offer something beyond the pleasure he’d given. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her once more, this time with gentleness. A goodbye, and one that felt intensely bittersweet despite the fact they didn’t even know each other.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Tears leapt to her eyes and she blinked them away. “Thankyou,” she whispered.
He released her and turned away. She watched his shadow depart and then sagged against the wall where he had drawn such pleasure from her weak body.
And wished she was free to follow him and find out exactly who he was. But she wasn’t. And knowing his face would only make things harder in the long run. At least that was what she told herself before she smoothed her skirts and left the hallway to return to her mundane, empty life as the Duchess of Sedgewick.
CHAPTER1
Winter 1813
Oliver
Oliver Wynn gripped the reins tighter and knew it wouldn’t help at all. He’d been a driver long enough to know when a situation was hopeless. They weren’t going to make it. The rain had turned to ice, the roads were slick and treacherous and the cold was biting. Even through his thick gloves, his fingers felt frozen.
He could only imagine the Duchess of Sedgewick, his longtime employer, was little more comfortable in the carriage he drove. And if he didn’t get them to someplace safe, her comfort would not be the problem. Her safety would be.
He squinted into the slashing rain and blinked against the weather. There in the distance were…lights. At least he thought they were lights. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. But it was better than nothing, so he steered the exhausted horses in the direction of the faintest hope. It took longer than he wished. The mud was thick and icy, the animals could only go so fast, but at last they turned through a gate and up a winding drive toward a large manor house on a hill. Oliver could have wept with relief as he pulled the horses up and stretched his fingers. After gripping the reins so tightly in the last few hours of the journey, he could scarcely feel the digits.
He began to maneuver down from the top of the vehicle, being careful on the icy step, just as servants rushed toward the rig.
“Bad weather,” one of them grunted as they took the reins of the horses.
“Nearly deadly,” Oliver agreed. “I was relieved to see the house. Is your master at home?”
The stablehand nodded. “Oh yes. Mr. Pembroke is in residence. And I'm certain he will put your passengers up.” The young man glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “There he is now. You may speak to him, yourself.”
Oliver smoothed his sodden coat and moved toward the steps and the man who stood at the top of them. As he neared him, his breath caught. The master of this house was very handsome, indeed, with lightly graying dark blond hair and eyes so brightly blue that they were impossible not to look at. He had a strong jaw and full lips. It was an intelligent face. A commanding face.
He was casually dressed, with no jacket or cravat, likely because he wasn’t expecting company in the middle of an ice storm. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and Oliver marked a slash of what appeared to be paint on one of the man’s rippled forearms.
