She nodded promptly. “Very well. I promise.”
“And you’ll tell the truth?” he countered, his brow arched again.
She lowered the flower from her nose. “If you will,” she replied with a sweet smile.
He shook his head again, but the look in his eye told her he was serious. Quite serious.
“I will,” she promised, in a much more solemn tone this time.
He turned and took a step toward the window, scrubbing the back of his neck as he looked out into the night. “Damn it. I truly hope I don’t come to regret this,” he breathed, then hung his head. “But my name is Beau.”
“Beau?” She said it slowly and reverently. She never would have guessed it, but it seemed perfectly right. “It suits you.”
Turning to face her once again, he waved away her comment. “Very well, it’s your turn. What’syourreal name?”
She twirled the rose between her fingers again. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed, but my real Christian name is Marianne.”
His face fell. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I told you I’d tell you the truth, and I have. I swear it.”
He eyed her carefully. “But your surname isn’t Notley, is it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It isn’t.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your real surname then?” he prodded.
“I don’t suppose I do,” she replied, setting the rose on the small desk near the door.
The hint of a smile still played at the corner of his firm lips. “Clever of you to keep your real Christian name, I suppose. Makes for less confusion.”
“Have you been confused by being called ‘Nicholas’?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Perhaps. At times.”
He gave her a quick nod. “Well, I suppose I should go.” But he made no move toward the door behind her.
Marianne took a deep breath. “I suppose you should, but…” A tingle brushed up her spine.
“But what?” he breathed.
“I was just thinking that, last night, I told you I don’t entertain men whose names I don’t know.”
“Yes?” His heavy-lidded gaze made her heart thump faster.
“Well…now I know your name.”
She didn’t have to say another word. In two long strides, Beau had pulled her into his arms and his mouth descended to hers. His tongue didn’t hesitate. It pushed past her lips, claiming her mouth.
Marianne leaned up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, matching his tongue’s movement, thrust for thrust.
Beau leaned down and wrapped his forearms beneath her buttocks. Lifting her gently, he carried her the few small steps to the cot, laid her upon it and followed her down.
Again, he didn’t hesitate. His lips moved to her cheek, her neck, herdécolletage, and he quickly pulled down her dressing gown and night rail to expose one pink nipple to his probing lips.
His mouth sucked her nipple into his wet warmth and Marianne cried out softly, arching her back against the onslaught of sensation his tongue had conjured.
In a flurry of movement, he helped her remove her dressing gown completely, tossing the garment onto the floor before moving back to pull down the other side of her night rail, then lavishing attention on her other breast.
