"Hen, you don't know what you're saying. I'm not being fair. You should have the chance—"
"Dunford," she interjected, giving his hands an urgent squeeze. "You don't always have to kiss a lot of frogs to recognize a prince when you find one."
He stared at her as if she were a priceless treasure, unable to believe the emotion shining from her eyes. It enveloped him, warmed him, made him feel he could conquer the world. He placed two fingers on the underside of her chin, tipping her face up toward his. "Oh, Hen," he said, his voice catching oddly on the words. "I'm such an idiot."
"No, you're not," she said quickly, out of reflexive loyalty. "Well, maybe a little," she amended. "But just a little."
He could feel his body begin to shake with silent laughter. "Is it any wonder I need you so much? You always know when I need to be brought down a peg." He brushed a fleeting kiss against her lips. "And when I need flattery and praise." His mouth touched hers again. "And when I need to be touched..."
"Like right now?" she asked, her voice quavering.
"Especially right now." He kissed her again, this time with a gentle urgency meant to wipe any last doubts from her mind. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her body toward his, giving him silent permission, to deepen the kiss.
And he did. He'd been fighting this need for her for weeks, and there was no denying the temptation of her willing body in his arms. His tongue dipped into her mouth, probing and tasting, running along the edge of her teeth—anything to bring her closer to him. His hands slid around to her back, desperately trying to feel the heat and shape of her body through the material of her dress. "Henry," he rasped, trailing his lips across her cheek to her ear. "God, how I want you. You." He caught her earlobe between his teeth. "Only you."
Henry moaned, flooded with sensation, unable to speak. The last time he had kissed her, she had sensed that his heart had not been as deeply moved by the intimacy as his body. But now she could feel his love. It was in his hands, his lips; it poured forth from his eyes. He may not have said the words, but the emotion was there, almost palpable in the air. She suddenly felt as if she had permission to love him. It was all right to try to show him her feelings because he felt the same way.
She moved in his arms so she could kiss his ear the way he had hers. He flinched when she ran her tongue along the edge, and she pulled quickly away. "I'm sorry," she said, her words rushing out in a nervous jumble. "Did I displease you? I thought that since I liked it, you might too. I only—"
He placed his hand over her mouth. "Hush, minx. It was beautiful. I just wasn't expecting it."
"Oh. I'm sorry," she said as soon as he moved his hand.
"Don't apologize." He smiled lazily. "Just do it again."
She looked up at him, her eyes saying, Really?
He nodded and then, just to tease her, turned his head until his ear was only a few inches away. She smiled, mostly to herself, then leaned forward again, tentatively running her tongue along the lobe. Somehow it seemed too wicked to use her teeth as he had done.
He withstood the torture of her delightfully inexperienced caresses for as long as he could, but less than a minute later his desire was so hot he couldn't stop himself from grasping her face with his hands and drawing her in for another searing kiss.
His hands plunged into her hair, pulling it wantonly free of its pins. He buried his face in it, breathing in that intoxicating scent of lemons that had been teasing him for weeks. "Why does it smell like that?" he murmured, trailing kisses along her hairline.
"Why does...What?"
He chuckled at the passionate fog clouding her eyes. She was such a treasure—without artifice of any kind. When he kissed her, she held nothing back. She might realize the kind of power she held over him, but he was certain she would never use it. He pinched a lock of her hair with his fingers and used it to tickle her nose. "Why does your hair smell like lemons?"
To his surprise, she blushed. "I use lemon juice when I wash my hair," she admitted. "Viola always told me it would make it lighter."
He looked at her indulgently. "Another piece of evidence that you possess the same failings as the rest of us, minx. Using lemons to lighten your hair. Tsk, tsk."
"It has always been my best feature," she said sheepishly. "That's why I never cut it. It would have made much more sense to wear it short at Stannage Park, but I just could not bring myself to do it. I thought I might as well make the best of it, considering that the rest of me was rather ordinary."
"Ordinary?" he said softly. "I think not."
"You don't have to flatter me, Dunford. I know I'm passably attractive, and I'll admit I did look rather nice in my white gown last night, but—Oh, dear, you must think I'm dangling after compliments."
"No." He shook his head. "I don't."
"Then you must think I'm a goose, prattling on about my hair."
He touched her face, smoothing her eyebrows with his thumbs. "I think your eyes are pools of liquid silver, and your brows are angel wings—soft and delicate." He leaned down and brushed a feathery kiss on her lips. "Your mouth is soft and pink and perfectly shaped, with an enchantingly full lower lip and corners that always look as if they are about to turn up into a smile. And your nose—well, it's a nose, but I must confess I have never seen one that pleased me more."
She stared at him, mesmerized by the husky timbre of his voice.