for her younger sisters and behaving in precisely the manner that young women of good breeding were expected to behave.
Therefore, it was the embarrassing truth that, despite the fact that she had been courted by a handful of men and even engaged to one of the most powerful men in England, who seemed to have no problem at all displaying passion when it moved him, Penelope Marbury had never been kissed.
Until then.
It really was ridiculous. She knew that.
It was 1831, for goodness sake. Young ladies were dampening their petticoats and revealing their skin, and she knew from having four sisters that there was nothing at all wrong with a chaste brush of the lips now and then from an avid suitor.
Except it had never happened before, and this did not feel at all chaste.
This felt utterly wicked and not at all like the kind of kiss one received from one’s future husband.
This felt like something one never discussed with one’s future husband.
Michael pulled back just barely, just enough to whisper against her lips. “Stop thinking.”
How did he know?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would be rude to ignore his request.
So she gave herself up to it, this strange, new sensation of being kissed, his lips at once somehow both hard and soft, the sound of his breath harsh against her cheek. His fingertips stroking delicately, whisper-soft, along the column of her neck, tilting her chin to better access her mouth. “Much better.”
She gasped as he realigned his lips to hers and robbed her of thought with a single, shocking . . . wicked . . . wonderful caress.
Was that his tongue ?
It was . . . gloriously stroking along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing her open, then it seemed he was consuming her, and she was more than willing to allow it. He traced a slow path of fire along her lower lip, and Penelope wondered if it was possible for someone to go mad from pleasure.
Surely not every man kissed like this . . . else women would get nothing done.
He pulled back. “You’re thinking again.”
She was. She was thinking he was magnificent. “I can’t help it.” She shook her head, reaching for him.
“Then I am not doing it correctly.”
Oh dear. If he kissed her any more correctly, her sanity would be threatened.
Perhaps it already was.
She really, honestly didn’t care.
Just as long as he kept at it.
Her hands moved of their own volition, reaching up, stroking through his hair, pulling him closer, until his lips were on hers again, and this time . . . this time, she let herself go.
And kissed him back, reveling in the deep, graveled sound that rose from the back of his throat—the sound that spiraled straight to the core of her and told her, without words, that for all her lack of experience, she’d done something right.
His hands were moving then, up, up until she thought she might die if he didn’t touch her . . . there, on the curve of her breast, sliding wickedly into the torn cloth of her dress, the cloth he’d ripped to save himself the trouble of seducing her.
Not that it seemed as though he would have had any trouble at all.
She stroked one hand down his arm until she was pressing his hand to her, stronger, more firmly, sighing his name into his mouth.
He pulled away at the sound, throwing his greatcoat back to reveal them to the waning firelight, pushing the cloth aside, baring her to his gaze, returning his hand to her, stroking, lifting until she arched toward him.
“Do you like that?” She heard the answer in the question. He knew she’d never in her life felt anything so powerful. So tempting.
“I shouldn’t.” Her hand returned to his, holding him there, against her.
“But you do.” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the base of her neck as his expert fingers found the place where she strained for his touch. She gasped his name. He scraped his teeth across the soft lobe of one ear until she shivered in his arms. “Talk to me.”
“It’s
Therefore, it was the embarrassing truth that, despite the fact that she had been courted by a handful of men and even engaged to one of the most powerful men in England, who seemed to have no problem at all displaying passion when it moved him, Penelope Marbury had never been kissed.
Until then.
It really was ridiculous. She knew that.
It was 1831, for goodness sake. Young ladies were dampening their petticoats and revealing their skin, and she knew from having four sisters that there was nothing at all wrong with a chaste brush of the lips now and then from an avid suitor.
Except it had never happened before, and this did not feel at all chaste.
This felt utterly wicked and not at all like the kind of kiss one received from one’s future husband.
This felt like something one never discussed with one’s future husband.
Michael pulled back just barely, just enough to whisper against her lips. “Stop thinking.”
How did he know?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would be rude to ignore his request.
So she gave herself up to it, this strange, new sensation of being kissed, his lips at once somehow both hard and soft, the sound of his breath harsh against her cheek. His fingertips stroking delicately, whisper-soft, along the column of her neck, tilting her chin to better access her mouth. “Much better.”
She gasped as he realigned his lips to hers and robbed her of thought with a single, shocking . . . wicked . . . wonderful caress.
Was that his tongue ?
It was . . . gloriously stroking along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing her open, then it seemed he was consuming her, and she was more than willing to allow it. He traced a slow path of fire along her lower lip, and Penelope wondered if it was possible for someone to go mad from pleasure.
Surely not every man kissed like this . . . else women would get nothing done.
He pulled back. “You’re thinking again.”
She was. She was thinking he was magnificent. “I can’t help it.” She shook her head, reaching for him.
“Then I am not doing it correctly.”
Oh dear. If he kissed her any more correctly, her sanity would be threatened.
Perhaps it already was.
She really, honestly didn’t care.
Just as long as he kept at it.
Her hands moved of their own volition, reaching up, stroking through his hair, pulling him closer, until his lips were on hers again, and this time . . . this time, she let herself go.
And kissed him back, reveling in the deep, graveled sound that rose from the back of his throat—the sound that spiraled straight to the core of her and told her, without words, that for all her lack of experience, she’d done something right.
His hands were moving then, up, up until she thought she might die if he didn’t touch her . . . there, on the curve of her breast, sliding wickedly into the torn cloth of her dress, the cloth he’d ripped to save himself the trouble of seducing her.
Not that it seemed as though he would have had any trouble at all.
She stroked one hand down his arm until she was pressing his hand to her, stronger, more firmly, sighing his name into his mouth.
He pulled away at the sound, throwing his greatcoat back to reveal them to the waning firelight, pushing the cloth aside, baring her to his gaze, returning his hand to her, stroking, lifting until she arched toward him.
“Do you like that?” She heard the answer in the question. He knew she’d never in her life felt anything so powerful. So tempting.
“I shouldn’t.” Her hand returned to his, holding him there, against her.
“But you do.” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the base of her neck as his expert fingers found the place where she strained for his touch. She gasped his name. He scraped his teeth across the soft lobe of one ear until she shivered in his arms. “Talk to me.”
“It’s
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