He worked so hard to hide this side of him, but here it was, all tenderness.
She loved it.
She loved him.
And he would never accept it.
She froze at the thought, lifting her head, afraid to meet his gaze, worried that he might sense her thoughts. His hands tightened around her. “Did I hurt you?” The question was hoarse, as though he couldn’t bear the idea.
She shook her head. “No . . .”
He moved beneath her, trying to pull himself from her. “Penelope . . . let me . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Michael.”
And then, because she was too afraid to speak—too afraid that if she allowed herself to speak she might tell him something that he did not wish to hear—she rocked against him, lifting herself barely and sinking back onto him, loving the way his head tilted back, eyes narrowed to slits, teeth clenched, neck corded with unyielding control. She repeated the motion, and whispered, “Touch me.”
At the words, he released his control and finally, finally moved.
She sighed at the movement, and he stroked deep, beautifully deep, all pleasure and perfection. They moved together, his hands on her hips, guiding her, as her hands settled on his shoulders, and she leveraged herself above him. “More . . .” she whispered, knowing, somehow, unquestionably, that there was more for him to give.
And he gave it in longer, deeper strokes. “Beautiful Penelope . . . so hot and soft and glorious,” he whispered at her ear. “When I watched you come apart in my arms, I thought I might die with the pleasure of it. You’re beautiful in ecstasy. I want to bring you there again . . . and again . . . and again.” His words were punctuated by his thrusts, by his hands stroking along her back, across her shoulders, down again to cup her bottom and guide her, beautifully, on him.
“Michael, I . . .” And then his hands were on her, between them, and he was so deep, and she could not finish the sentence . . . because that strange, remarkable edge of pleasure was there again, looming up in front of her, and she’d never wanted anything so much as she wanted to reach it.
“Tell me,” he whispered harshly, thrusting harder, faster, giving her everything she did not know she wanted. Needed.
I love you.
Somehow, she stopped herself from saying the words as pleasure rocketed through her. He tumbled over the edge with her, shouting her name in the dark room.
Chapter Twenty
Dear M—
I’m in a bit of a reflective mood—it’s been six years to the day since ???The Leighton Debacle” as my father likes to refer to it, and I’ve turned down three proposals—each less appealing than the last.
Nonetheless, my mother continues to ferry me about to modistes’ shops and ladies’ teas, as though she could somehow erase the past with a few yards of silk or a whiff of bergamot. This cannot go on forever, can it?
Worse, I continue to write letters to a specter and imagine that, one day, replies will arrive in the post.
Unsigned
Dolby House, November 1829
Letter unsent
“Gooseberry fool.”
Penelope did not lift her head from where it lay on Michael’s shoulder, her blond hair spread around them. “I beg your pardon?”
He stroked one warm hand down her spine, sending a shiver of pleasure through her. “So polite.” He leaned over the edge of the chaise, not wanting to disentangle himself from her just yet but knowing that she would grow cold in the large room if he didn’t do something. He grabbed his frock coat from where he’d left it in a pile on the floor in his rush to get to his wife, and pulled the navy wool over them both.
She cuddled against him under the coat and he caught his breath at the feel of her, soft and silk against him. “Gooseberry fool,” he repeated.
“That’s not a very nice thing to call your wife,” Penelope said with a little smile, without even opening her eyes. “Though after what we just did, I might be a bit of a gooseberry fool over you.”
It was incredibly silly, and Michael could not help his laugh.
How long had it been since he’d laughed at something so silly?
A lifetime.
“Funny girl,” he said, tightening his arms around her. “Gooseberry fool is my favorite pudding.”
She stilled at that, her fingers pausing the lovely swirling in the hair on his chest. He took her hand in his and brought her fingers up to his lips, kissing them quickly. “I like raspberry fool, as well. And rhubarb, too.”
She lifted her head, her blue eyes searching his, as though he’d just made an earth-shattering confession. “Gooseberry fool.”
He began to feel idiotic. She didn’t really care about his favorite pudding. “Yes.”
She smiled then, wide and beautiful, and he did not feel idiotic anymore. He felt like a king. She laid her head upon his chest once more, her br**sts rising and falling against his chest in a tempting rhythm.
Then she said, simply, “I like treacle,” and he wanted to make love to her again.
How was it possible that conversation about dessert could be such an aphrodisiac?
His hand trailed down her spine again, curving over her rounded bottom, and he pulled her against him, loving the feel of her. He kissed her temple. “I remember that.” He hadn’t remembered until the moment she mentioned it, when a vision of young Penelope in the Falconwell kitchens, round face covered in treacle, had come fast and clear. He smiled at the sticky memory. “You used to convince our cook to let you lick the bowl.”
She rolled her face into his chest in embarrassment. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
She shook her head, her silken hair catching in the stubble on his unshaven cheek. “Spoons, maybe. But never the bowl. Ladies do not lick bowls.”
He laughed at the proper correction, the deep rumble surprising them both. It felt good to lie there and laugh with her. Better than he had felt in a long, long time. Even as he knew that this moment was all they had, the last quiet moment before all hell broke loose, and he ruined the little goodwill she had for him.
He wrapped a second arm around her, holding her tight against him as the thought echoed through his head.
For now, she was his.
“It appears that your adventure was a success.”
She lifted her head, setting her chin on her stacked palms and looking at him, her blue eyes glittering with teasing. “I am looking forward to the next one.”
His hand slipped down one thigh, toying with the top of her silk stocking. “Why do I hesitate to ask?”
“I want to play hazard.”
He imagined Penelope kissing the ivory dice before tossing them across the plush green baize in one of the hazard rooms downstairs. “You know hazard is a game you cannot win.”
She smiled. “They say that about roulette, too.”
He matched her smile. “So they do. You were simply lucky.”
“Number twenty-three.”
“Unfortunately, the dice only add up to twelve.”
She gave a little shrug, his coat slipping off her pale, perfect shoulder. “I shall persevere.”
He leaned his head forward to place a kiss on her bare skin. “We’ll see about hazard. I’m still recovering from tonight’s adventure, vixen.” And tomorrow, you shall remember all the reasons you don’t want me near you.