The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

Richard chuckled, the sound full and solid with male pride. His hands moved to the front of her body, each one grasping a dangling end of the bow knot she’d tied in the belt of her dressing gown.

His lips touched her ear. “Are you my present?”

Before she could respond, he gave a sharp tug, staring down at her with hot desire as the robe came loose.

“Richard,” she whispered, but he had already moved on, sliding those wonderful wonderful hands up along her body, pausing for an agonizing moment on her breasts before reaching her shoulders and pushing the robe away. It felt to the floor in a cloud of pale blue silk.

Iris stood before him in another one of her decadent trousseau nightgowns. It was not a practical garment; it would not even pretend to keep her warm at night. But she could not remember ever feeling so womanly, so desirable and daring.

“You are so beautiful,” Richard whispered, skimming his hand back down to her breast. His palm teased the tip, moving in a slow circle over the silk of her gown.

“I’m—” She cut herself off.

Richard look down at her, one finger touching her chin until her eyes met his. His brows rose in question.

“It’s nothing,” Iris murmured. She’d almost protested, almost said that she wasn’t beautiful, because she wasn’t. A woman did not reach the age of one-and-twenty without knowing if she was beautiful or not. But then she’d thought—

No. No. If he thought she was beautiful, she damn well wasn’t going to contradict. If he thought she was beautiful, then she was beautiful, at least on this night, in this room.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

His eyes flared with heat, and his face dipped toward hers. When their lips touched, Iris felt a jolt of desire at the very core of her womanhood. He’d kissed her there just a few hours before. She let out a little moan. Just the thought of it made her weak.

But this time he was kissing her lips. His tongue swept in, tickling the sensitive skin at the roof of her mouth, daring her to respond in kind. She did, her desire making her bold, and when he groaned and pulled her more tightly against him, her body thrilled with power. She moved her hands to his chest and shoved his coat from his shoulders, tugging it down as he yanked his arms from the sleeves.

She wanted to feel him again. She was beyond wanton; it had been mere hours since the last time, and already she wanted to pull him down to her bed, to feel his weight pinning her against the mattress.

This couldn’t be normal, this incredible, unearthly need.

“My present,” she said, bringing her fingers to the snowy white cravat at his throat. It had been tied simply, thank heavens; she didn’t think her trembling fingers could have managed one of those intricate knots that was all the rage among the London dandies.

She then turned her attention to the three buttons at the neck of his shirt, her lips parting as his throat was revealed to her, his pulse beating with a hard, strong rhythm.

She touched his skin, loving the way the muscles jumped beneath her fingers.

“You’re a witch,” he groaned, yanking his shirt over his head.

She just smiled, because she felt like one, as if she had new powers. She had touched his chest the last time, felt the hard muscles flexing beneath his skin, but she hadn’t been able to do anything more. He’d been so quick to make everything about her. When his hands had run up and down her body, she’d lost control, and when his mouth covered her most private place she’d lost all thought.

But not this time.

This time she wanted to explore.

She listened to the heavy rasp of his breath as her fingers trailed along his taut abdomen. A thin line of hair, dark and crisp, trailed from his navel to the waist of his breeches. When she touched it his entire belly sucked in, almost enough for her to slide her hand under the fabric.

She didn’t, though. She was not that audacious. Not yet.

But she would be. Before the night was through, she vowed that she would be.

The food was forgotten as Richard swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down—not roughly, but not gently, either—and Iris felt a frisson of feminine glee as she realized how close he was to the edge of his control.

Emboldened, she let her hand drift back down toward his breeches. But just before her fingertips slid under the waistband, his hand landed heavily on hers.

“No,” he said roughly, holding her still. And then, before she could voice her questions, he said, “I can’t.”

She smiled up at him, some flirtatious inner demon finally waking up in her soul. “Please?” she murmured.

“I’ll make you feel good.” His free hand moved to her leg, squeezed her thigh. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

“But I want to make you feel good.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment Iris thought he was in pain. His teeth were gritted together, and his face was a harsh, tense mask. She reached up to smooth his brow, sliding her fingers along his cheek as he turned his head into the cradle of her hand.

She felt him acquiesce, felt a little bit of the tension slide from his body, and her other hand, the one resting so dangerously on his belly, edged under his breeches. She did not go far, just to the springy hair that lay on his flat abdomen. It surprised her, although she didn’t really know why, and she caught her lower lip in her teeth and looked up at him.

“Don’t stop there,” he groaned.

She didn’t want to, but his breeches were flat-fronted and snug, with barely enough room for her whole hand. She moved to the fastening, then slowly set him free.