Page 91 of A Portrait of Love

Her lips parted in surprise.

“I want to make your first time as pleasurable for you as I can.” He gazed down at her darkly flushing face. “It will be a first for me, too.”

“You cannot mean—”

Simon smiled. “No, love, I don’t mean that I am a virgin. But I have never been with a virgin.” His expression became serious. “Are you anxious?”

She stared up at him. “I am anxious,” she admitted.

And then she surprised him, “But not enough to want to stop, Simon.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Honoria felt like an epic heroine who had journeyed half a lifetime to reach this moment.

She had known since last night that she would have to continue this process of discovery. There was no other decision. And if it only lasted for a brief time—

She crushed the painful thought and ground it under foot; there was the rest of her life to think of such things.

Honey lifted her arms and Simon slowly raised her gauzy gown over her head, and then stood frozen, clutching the dress in his big hands, his eyes riveted to her body.

His chest expanded as he inhaled forever, and his lips barely moved. “Beautiful.”

She fought the urge to cross her arms over her body. She did look pretty; she’d known that in the shop when the older woman had frowned at her serviceable, plain stays and chemise and had shaken her head.

“Your husband looks like the kind of man who might appreciate something like this,” she had said, holding up the crème silk stays, embroidered with white butterflies. Before Honoria could ask her how she knew what Lord Saybrook would want the other woman added some garters that matched.

The woman had been right. Simon had actually taken a step back to look at her. He looked positively poleaxed.

Never had anyone looked at her with such raw want; even her toenails must be blushing.

Her dress fluttered from his hand and he shook his head. “It will almost be a shame to take that off you,” he said in a rough voice. He looked up and met her gaze, his own black with lust. The unscarred corner of his mouth curved slowly upwards. “But I will do it anyway.”

He held out a hand and she took it, letting him lead her toward his bed. It was dark outside but the room blazed with the light of at least two dozen candles.

Honey glanced at the candelabrum nearest the bed. “Could you—”

“I need to see you. And I want you to see me.”

She saw the grim line of his mouth and understood. For all his bravado about not caring about his appearance he obviously felt it keenly. Honey was glad—not that he worried about his scars, but that the lights would remain. Her modesty would not have permitted her to admit that she wanted to see what he looked like, especially that part of him she had watched with such yearning this morning.

He reached behind her, his fingers going to her laces. “I think this must be Mrs. Fenton’s work?” he asked, his hands working more skillfully than a French maid’s to unlace her.

It pained her to know that he could only have gained such experience in practice. All those years that she had been yearning for him, he had been undressing countless women.

Honey turned away from the unpleasant thought, watching as her beautiful new garment slid down and over her narrow hips, landing on the floor.

He stood back again, holding out a hand to steady her while she stepped out of the fallen corset. The new chemise she wore was cobweb-thin muslin and she knew from looking at his face that it did nothing to hide her body.

He grunted and again shook his head, as if he were engaged in some fierce inner argument.

Yearning and desire burned in his eyes as he lifted her chemise over her head.

“Good God.” He looked like a man standing before an altar and his hands shook as he dropped her chemise and closed the distance between them.

Honey wrenched her eyes from his adoring face and shook her head, stopping him in his tracks. “No.”

His mouth fell open and she almost laughed at his expression of shock. “You have undressed me. I wish to—” she stumbled over her bold intentions.