To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) by Anne Barton Page B

in his hands and thrust—long, measured strokes that rekindled all the desire she’d felt before. She arched her back and moved with him, meeting him thrust for thrust and matching his pace. They moved faster and faster until her ears filled with the sound of her blood pounding and her body hovered on the edge of bliss.
    His body tensed. “Amelia.”
    She broke apart then, whimpering as release took her. Her body clenched around him, pulling him deeper until he cried out too and spent himself inside her.
    They lay together, panting, and it was several minutes before either one of them had the strength—or inclination—to speak.
    “That was beautiful,” he murmured sleepily. “You’re beautiful.”
    Amelia nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck and threw an arm across his chest. “That was amazing. And exhausting. You never warned me about that.”
    “You should sleep for a bit—you’ll need the energy for later tonight,” he added wickedly. He extricated himself from her cozy embrace, got up, walked to the washstand, and brought her a damp cloth. After she’d washed, he covered her with the soft counterpane and slipped back into bed beside her, pulling her close.
    They fell asleep just so—nose to nose, skin to skin—and utterly content.
    * * *
    Amelia was awakened from the most blissful sleep she’d ever known by a distinct thump .
    “Miss Amelia!” A whisper from beyond the door—loud and urgent. The door rattled in its frame.
    She bolted upright in bed. Dear God.
    “Stephen.” He lay beside her, snaking an arm around her thigh, even as he slept. She shook him.
    “’Morning.”
    “Yes, it is. Morning!” she whispered. “Cicely is at the door. Hide!”
    Amelia sprang out of bed, scooped her robe off the floor, and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Stephen picked up his clothes and boots and hurried behind the door. “I thought my days of fast getaways were over.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your robe is inside out.”
    So it was. Blast.
    She opened the door a crack and Cicely immediately pushed her way in, nearly crushing Stephen with the door.
    “Your mother is home.”
    “What?”
    “She’s in the drawing room. Mr. Giles is doing his best to prevent her from coming upstairs. If Lord Brookes hurries, he should be able to get past the first landing without being seen. He can depart through the rear door. Meanwhile, we must make you presentable.”
    Cicely marched passed Stephen to the armoire, apparently unimpressed by the fact that he was shirtless and fastening his breeches.
    “Hurry,” Amelia hissed, more to herself than anyone.
    Stephen pulled his boots on smoothly but quickly and shrugged into his jacket. He jammed his hat on his head, then clutched his balled-up shirt in one fist and his waistcoat in the other. “I’ll call on you later,” he promised, and kissed her lips so softly and sweetly that Amelia almost forgot Mama could climb the stairs at any moment.
    “Put this on.” Cicely tossed Amelia a morning gown—the primmest in her wardrobe. A wise, if not entirely fitting, choice.
    Stephen stood by the door, grinning and hesitating as though he wanted to watch her shed her robe.
    “Go!” Amelia waved him away.
    She didn’t bother with a corset—simply threw on a chemise and the dress. Cicely made a quick pass over the room and clucked her tongue as she picked up a long white cloth off the floor. “He left his cravat.”
    Before Amelia could formulate a response, her maid walked to the window, pushed up the sash, and called out, “Lord Brookes!” before unceremoniously tossing the cravat out the window.
    Turning to Amelia, she said, “There’s no time to properly fix your hair. Let me braid it quickly and wind it around your head.”
    Cicely was done in a trice and Amelia stood before the mirror. “You know,” Amelia said, “I have missed Mama. I don’t think I realized it until just now.”
    “It’s been awfully quiet around here without