A Most Improper Rumor by Emma Wildes Page A

guess, no woman hadn’t experienced a twinge at least of envy.
    He ran his finger along Angelina’s lower lip and smiled. “Hmm, you aren’t very worldly for such a notorious lady, are you?”
    “No.”
    “There are certain devices, sheepskins, for instance, a man can use to catch his seed.”
    Lush and nubile, Angelina rolled to face him. “How?”
    He took delight in her curiosity. “He places it over his cock.”
    “Oh.” Her brow furrowed.
    “Then there are Greek sponges. The female puts them inside her and when the male climaxes, the sponges absorb his discharge.”
    “This is all rather fascinating.” She playfully ran her fingers down his arm. “What else don’t I know?”
    He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “The depth of how much I love you. Marry me.”
    He’d asked before. She’d always avoided a straight answer.
    “I can’t . . . not yet.” She averted her face, breaking eye contact. “It’s far too dangerous.”
    As much as he wanted to ridicule her fears, to promise her he could protect himself, they’d had the argument before and he’d lost each time because he was afraid if he was too adamant, she would simply sever the relationship and retreat again into her self-imposed exile.
    “When Heathton is successful?”
    That widened her glorious eyes. “How do you—”
    He shrugged. “He came to see me. Surely if his reputation is such you’d seek him out to help you, it is pure logic that he could figure out quite quickly who your lover might be. Otherwise wouldn’t your trust be misplaced?”
    Her delicate features registered chagrin. “I was hoping to keep your identity safe. I’ve told no one.”
    “Nor I,” he said with due weight to his words. “Don’t ask me how he knows, but he does. So our little secret is out, at least to him. Doesn’t that mean perhaps someone else also knows? I am not sure if your precautions are necessary or effective.”
    She visibly paled, the color leaching from her face. “Don’t say that. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you . . . Oh God. I am the most selfish creature on earth, but you make me
happy
.”
    Christopher wiped the pearl of a tear off her cheek with a forefinger. “It isn’t selfish to wish to be happy, darling. You deserve it. I want nothing more than to continue to make you happy. For the rest of our lives. Shouldn’t we wed and deal with this together?”
    “No.” She shook her head, her heavy hair moving across her trembling shoulders. “You don’t understand.”
    He thought he understood all too well. He was not only older, but more worldly, and the only way to heal her wounds was to move forward. “Angelina—”
    In answer she kissed him, pressing against him hard enough he tumbled to his back willingly, especially when she moved to straddle his waist, running her nails lightly down his chest, the curtain of her silken hair swinging forward, the sweetness of her fragrance surrounding him, mingling with the earthier scent of their lovemaking.
    “Must we talk about it?”
    Yes, of course they must, but it appeared she wasn’t ready.
    If she wished to deal with her demons this way, he would let her, and gladly, but it was just a measure of postponement, and he knew it, and he thought she did as well.
    But putting off the inevitable reckoning, he discovered as she brought him to full arousal, was his pleasure.
    When she rose and sheathed him deeply as she sat on his hips, he closed his eyes and let her move sinuously in erotic rhythm to each lift of his pelvis. It wasn’t long before he saw the signs of her rising climax, and she made an inarticulate sound when he reached between them and touched her in exactly the spot he knew would tip the balance between the climb and the summit. A keening cry echoed in the room when she went still, her thighs tightening around him, and he thrust up once more, his own burst of pleasure so explosive he shuddered as she collapsed forward, his arms coming up to