One Night with a Rake (Regency Rakes) by Connie Mason, Mia Marlowe Page B

attempting to hum played instead on shimmering strings.
    The gentle swish of her skirts. The warm glide of muscles moving together. The heat of Nathaniel’s gaze as he looked down at her.
    Georgette was no longer capable of coherent thought. All she could do was register impressions in disjointed images of the ballroom and their place in it. Her body was flush against Nathaniel’s as they turned and dipped in perfect concert.
    She was born to waltz with this man.
    And it didn’t feel at all lewd. It felt natural. Meant to be, somehow.
    Wonderful.
    Then the tempo slowed and Nathaniel raised her hand to signal a final underarm turn. She twirled slowly back into a close hold position as they came to a stop. Her skirts continued to turn for a moment, brushing against her pantalets in a silk-on-silk caress. Then the fabric swirled back into the stately column her modiste had meant for it to resemble.
    Nathaniel didn’t move. He simply went on holding her with one arm around her waist and the other sheltering her hand against his chest. When he looked down at her, his gaze was strangely hungry. As if he’d like to start nibbling on her around the edges and not stop until he’d consumed her entirely.
    I suspect I’d like that.
    She ought to say something. Do something.
    But that would mean breaking the spell, and who knew when a moment this perfect would ever come again? She couldn’t bear to leave the protected circle of Nathaniel’s arms.
    “Georgette,” he said softly, his deep bass resonating through her. The way he said her name gave her the shivers. It was as if he were making love to the syllables. Rolling the bits of her name over his tongue, tasting them, caressing them.
    What if he were to do that to the rest of her?
    Her chest constricted. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she raised herself slightly, rocking up on her toes.
    “Forgive me,” he said huskily.
    She didn’t have time to wonder what he was asking forgiveness for. He closed the distance between their mouths and rational thought fled.
    A kiss doesn’t require forgiveness.
    It was exactly what she wanted. Needed .
    Not that it made any sense, of course. If she were thinking clearly, she really ought to bolt from the room. After all, she was all but promised to the Duke of Cambridge.
    But somehow, there was no other way to end her waltz with Nathaniel than this shared breath, this soft, moist joining of their mouths.
    So she didn’t protest when he lifted her off her feet and walked her toward the nearest damask-covered wall without breaking off their kiss. Languid and sensual, it still felt like part of the dance. He set her down with her back pressed to the wall. His body moved against hers ever so slightly, his hardness against her softness.
    The rhythm was hypnotic and somehow musical, as if the waltz were still going on in the way he rocked against her and she tilted into him. Their kiss deepened as she chased his tongue back into his blessed mouth.
    Forgive him, he’d said. For what? He’d given her back her confidence in the ballroom. She’d be able to face Mr. Gooch tomorrow with her head high and her feet in the correct positions at all times.
    Nathaniel had also taught her to kiss. At least she wouldn’t go to her wedding night completely ignorant. But if she lived to be one hundred, she’d never experience perfection to match his lips on hers.
    He’d waltzed with her. She knew now what it was like to feel a man’s body all tangled up with hers. She wouldn’t be surprised by the hollow, strangely pleasant ache it caused. She’d recognize it for what it was and learn to welcome the low drumbeat in her belly, the warmth that pooled between her thighs.
    It was as natural as breathing.
    It was “the way of a man with a maid” conveyed with more clarity than if her mother had bungled through an attempt to explain matters to her. And it was even more exciting than Madam Charpentier’s flowery, salacious descriptions of sexual