She made a strange noise—half gasp, half whistle—and spoke almost as if to herself, “I knew you were the not-stupid man.”
He allowed himself a bitter smile. “I’m sorry but I very much feel I am the stupid man in this moment.”
“Dr. Andrews,” she said. “Do you desire me?”
He looked at her face, her intelligent eyes, her sweet mouth. There was no place for equivocation here. His cock had not equivocated.
“Aye,” he said.
“Then your eagerness is a compliment to me.” She studied him.
“But for me ... so quickly ... like a boy.”
“You are a man. The man of my dreams.”
His head spun. She had said that yesterday, before he had kissed her, but he had not believed her.
She was speaking again. “You have denied your appetites for so long, is it any wonder that in this singular way, you are like a boy?”
“I regret—I widnae have myself be that way with ye.”
She touched his lower lip with her thumb and brushed it slowly. “I would rather have you spend quickly with me than to know you had used other women and had become inured to this kind of pleasure.”
“I could ne’er become inured to ye.” And indeed, he could feel his tumescence beginning to return just from the feel of her thumb on his lip. Then she took her thumb from his mouth and moved her hand away from his face and rested it on his waistcoat, on his chest, over his heart.
She left her hand there a long time. He remembered that it was the same place she had first touched him, in her cottage.
Yes, it’s my heart. You have it. Be careful. Dauntless Arabella, please be more careful with it than you were with my cock. I can only spill my heart once.
“I would be quite willing,” she said, “to undertake a program of exercises to build your stamina.” She trailed her hand down his waistcoat to his member and took it in her hand again and he felt how hard he already was.
He gasped, afraid that he might spill again precipitously, but he did not.
“Miss Lovelock,” he said carefully. “I’m sorry but I wonder ... if ye might remove yer—”
“Clothes?” One eyebrow of hers was quirked and her mouth was in a mischievous pout. “I think that will have to wait until we are in a warm room with a closed door.”
And again he feared that he would spill, this time from only her grip and her suggestion that he might see her body bared. That ripe, surely perfect body that he had imagined so many times over the last three years as he had laid in his own bed, alone, at night.
But he did not know what to make of this saucy Arabella who took his shaft in her hand and pouted and hinted at future nakedness. It aroused him. Unquestionably. But, for the first time, he wondered if she might have changed. Maybe she was no longer the Arabella whom he had worshipped in his mind for so long?
He struggled to speak clearly. “I was going to say ‘remove yer hand.’”
“Yes, Alasdair.”
And she released him. He had a momentary pang of want and need, but his name in her mouth. For the first time. Oh, blazes. He wanted that even more—for her to call him Alasdair—than her hand on his cock.
“This is not what I imagined,” he said, his hands at his waistband. He had some difficulty but he was finally able to button his fall over his engorgement. “Forgive me, but this is not romantic.”
She was no longer turned toward him but instead faced the opposite carriage seat. “No,” she said flatly, her eyes ahead. “It is not. Most decidedly it is not. I was fooled by romance. I will not be fooled again. I want only harsh light and cold air and your desire and mine.”
So. Shehadchanged. Had hardened. How was he to steer their course now?
“Miss Lovelock—” he started.
“You have spent in front of me, you can call me Arabella.”
Last night, she had nearly thrown open the bedchamber door at the inn and invited him into her bed when she saw his smile and his dimples. How she had wanted him on top of her, holding her, having her. But she did not want to scare him. She already knew how lucky she was that he knew her past and still wanted to kiss her. So she had restrained herself and did not invite him into her bedchamber.
