privacy. Somebody she could spend time with far from the prying eyes of family and Polite Society—somebody safe .
She brought his hand up to cover her breast. “And if I do not find the goods to my standards?”
“You decline their further keeping.” His voice had gone from purring to growling, and against her backside, Gwen felt the unmistakable tumescence of male arousal. His fingers closed softly over her breast. “What say you, Guinevere?”
She said prayers—for her sanity, for her reason, because the feel of his hand, gentle, exquisitely knowledgeable, and warm on her breast created havoc with her every faculty.
“You will think ill of me if I embark on this… consignment with you.”
His hand went still then shifted to rest over her heart. “My dear Guinevere, I think ill of the man who used you so poorly and took so much without giving anything in return. I want to take from you, too, make no mistake, but I want to give as well.”
Between the fire before her and the man holding her, Gwen was warm, but when she gazed at the dreary autumn landscape beyond the windows, she recalled that bleak sense of looking down the years, down the decades, with nothing but more coping, more duty, and more maternal devotion to sustain her.
She had crafted an existence that avoided pain and indignity, avoided any chance of encountering those who might disrupt her peace or threaten Rose’s well-being, but her life also avoided pleasure, intimacy of any variety, and even companionship.
Five years ago, when scandal had hung close at hand and heartbreak even closer, those choices had been understandable, but now, when she considered the idea of Douglas Allen giving himself to her, the hummingbirds went into a frenzy.
“I don’t know if I am capable of enjoying intimacies the way you describe, Douglas. I was told—”
He turned her by the shoulders, which allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder and hold onto him.
“—I was emphatically assured I was not suited to intimate relations.”
“And I was told I couldn’t sit a horse for anything.”
“You ride beautifully.”
“I ride well enough to enjoy it,” Douglas replied, stroking a hand over her hair, “because I practiced on the equine version of a schoolmaster until I was competent.”
“And you’re a schoolmaster?” Though in some regards, that term suited him perfectly.
He traced his nose along her eyebrow, the gesture affectionate, approving even, and not characteristic of any schoolmaster in Gwen’s acquaintance. “By no means am I expert at bedsport, though I am proficient enough that you’ll have pleasure from me. A woman is entitled to that, Guinevere. Shall I show you some pleasure?”
Five
Guinevere was in his arms and more than tolerating his advances, and yet, Douglas knew the battle against her nerves, her fundamental propriety, and even her shyness was not yet won. Five years ago, even a year ago, he would never have importuned a decent woman like this, but he’d learned that life could upend the best plans, and opportunities to discreetly, respectfully share pleasure were fleeting and few.
Which point would not be made with lectures and homilies.
He kissed Guinevere’s cheek, a warning shot, another chance for her to step back, hustle away to the nursery, or find some damned correspondence she needed to tend to. She leaned into him, and he resisted the urge to lay her down on the nearby sofa.
“I’d very much like you to kiss me, Guinevere.”
My, how articulate he sounded. His voice did not betray the riot going on behind his falls or the way his heart thumped hard against his ribs.
“I thought the fellow did the kissing.”
Argument, of course. He was coming to relish it from her. “When the fellow has handed the lady the reins, she decides the pace and direction taken on the outing.”
Guinevere did not have to go up on her toes to kiss him, but she had to look up. Her green eyes were wary, which was wise of
She brought his hand up to cover her breast. “And if I do not find the goods to my standards?”
“You decline their further keeping.” His voice had gone from purring to growling, and against her backside, Gwen felt the unmistakable tumescence of male arousal. His fingers closed softly over her breast. “What say you, Guinevere?”
She said prayers—for her sanity, for her reason, because the feel of his hand, gentle, exquisitely knowledgeable, and warm on her breast created havoc with her every faculty.
“You will think ill of me if I embark on this… consignment with you.”
His hand went still then shifted to rest over her heart. “My dear Guinevere, I think ill of the man who used you so poorly and took so much without giving anything in return. I want to take from you, too, make no mistake, but I want to give as well.”
Between the fire before her and the man holding her, Gwen was warm, but when she gazed at the dreary autumn landscape beyond the windows, she recalled that bleak sense of looking down the years, down the decades, with nothing but more coping, more duty, and more maternal devotion to sustain her.
She had crafted an existence that avoided pain and indignity, avoided any chance of encountering those who might disrupt her peace or threaten Rose’s well-being, but her life also avoided pleasure, intimacy of any variety, and even companionship.
Five years ago, when scandal had hung close at hand and heartbreak even closer, those choices had been understandable, but now, when she considered the idea of Douglas Allen giving himself to her, the hummingbirds went into a frenzy.
“I don’t know if I am capable of enjoying intimacies the way you describe, Douglas. I was told—”
He turned her by the shoulders, which allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder and hold onto him.
“—I was emphatically assured I was not suited to intimate relations.”
“And I was told I couldn’t sit a horse for anything.”
“You ride beautifully.”
“I ride well enough to enjoy it,” Douglas replied, stroking a hand over her hair, “because I practiced on the equine version of a schoolmaster until I was competent.”
“And you’re a schoolmaster?” Though in some regards, that term suited him perfectly.
He traced his nose along her eyebrow, the gesture affectionate, approving even, and not characteristic of any schoolmaster in Gwen’s acquaintance. “By no means am I expert at bedsport, though I am proficient enough that you’ll have pleasure from me. A woman is entitled to that, Guinevere. Shall I show you some pleasure?”
Five
Guinevere was in his arms and more than tolerating his advances, and yet, Douglas knew the battle against her nerves, her fundamental propriety, and even her shyness was not yet won. Five years ago, even a year ago, he would never have importuned a decent woman like this, but he’d learned that life could upend the best plans, and opportunities to discreetly, respectfully share pleasure were fleeting and few.
Which point would not be made with lectures and homilies.
He kissed Guinevere’s cheek, a warning shot, another chance for her to step back, hustle away to the nursery, or find some damned correspondence she needed to tend to. She leaned into him, and he resisted the urge to lay her down on the nearby sofa.
“I’d very much like you to kiss me, Guinevere.”
My, how articulate he sounded. His voice did not betray the riot going on behind his falls or the way his heart thumped hard against his ribs.
“I thought the fellow did the kissing.”
Argument, of course. He was coming to relish it from her. “When the fellow has handed the lady the reins, she decides the pace and direction taken on the outing.”
Guinevere did not have to go up on her toes to kiss him, but she had to look up. Her green eyes were wary, which was wise of
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