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She wanted him to touch her…dear God, she wanted him to touch her so badly, and it was spreading. It had moved from her breasts to her belly, to the hidden spot between her legs. She felt hot, and tingly, and searingly hungry.

Hungry…there.

It was without a doubt the strangest and most compelling sensation. She could not ignore it. She didn’t want to ignore it. She wanted to feed it, indulge it, let him teach her how to quench it.

“Jack,” she moaned, and his hands moved until he was cradling both of her breasts. And then he kissed her.

Her eyes flew open.

His mouth was on her now, on the very tip, and she actually clasped one of her hands to her mouth, lest she scream with the pleasure of it. She hadn’t imagined…She’d thought she’d known what she wanted, but this…

She hadn’t known.

She clutched at his head, using him for support. It was torture, and it was bliss, and she was barely able to breathe by the time he dragged his mouth back up to hers.

“Grace…Grace…” he murmured, over and over, his voice sliding into her skin. It felt as if he was kissing her everywhere, and maybe he was—one moment it was her mouth, and next her ear, and then her neck. And his hands—they were wicked. And relentless.

He never stopped moving, never stopped touching her. His hands were on her shoulders, and then her hips, and then one of them started sliding down her leg, tugging at her nightgown until it slipped off her entirely.

She should have been embarrassed. She should have felt awkward. But she didn’t. Not with him. Not when he was gazing down at her with such love and devotion.

He loved her. He’d said he did, and she believed him, but now she felt it. The heat, the warmth. It shone from his eyes. And she understood now how a woman might find herself ruined. How could anyone resist this? How could she resist him?

He stood then, breathing hard, working at the fastenings of his breeches with frantic fingers. His chest was already bare, and all she could think was—He’s beautiful. How could a man be so beautiful? He’d not led a life of leisure; this, she could see. His body was lean and firm, his skin marred here and there with scars and calluses.

“Were you shot?” she asked, her eyes falling on a puckered scar on his upper arm.

He looked down, even as he pushed off his breeches. “A French sniper,” he confirmed. He smiled, rather lopsidedly. “I am fortunate he was not better at his craft.”

It should not have been so amusing. But the statement was so…him. So matter of fact, so understated and dry. She smiled in return. “I almost died, too.”

“Really?”

“Fever.”

He winced. “I hate fevers.”

She nodded, pinching the corners of her lips to keep from smiling. “I should hate to be shot.”

He looked back at her, his eyes alight with humor. “I don’t recommend it.”

And then she did laugh, because it was all so ludicrous. He was standing there naked, for heaven’s sake, clearly aroused, and they were discussing the relative unpleasantness of gunshot wounds and fevers.

He crawled onto the bed, looming over her with a predatory expression. “Grace?” he murmured.

She looked up at him and nearly melted. “Yes?”

He smiled wolfishly. “I’m all better now.”

And with that, there were no more words. When he kissed her this time, it was with an intensity and fervor that she knew would carry them through to completion. She felt it, too—this desire, this relentless need—and when he nudged his leg between hers, she opened to him immediately, without reservation, without fear.

How long he kissed her, she couldn’t possibly have known. It seemed like nothing. It seemed like forever. It felt like she had been born for this moment, with this man. As if somehow, on the day of her birth, this had all been preordained—on October the twenty-eighth, the year of our Lord 1819, she would be in Room 14 of the Queen’s Arms Inn, and she would give herself to this man, John Augustus Cavendish-Audley.

Nothing else could possibly have happened. This was how it was meant to be.

She kissed him back with equal abandon, clutching at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere she could gain purchase. And then, just when she thought she could handle no more, his hand slipped between her legs. His touch was gentle, but still, she thought she might scream from the shock and wonder of it.

“Jack,” she gasped, not because she wanted him to stop, but because there was no way she could remain silent amidst the onslaught of sensation brought forth by that simple touch. He tickled and teased, and she panted and writhed. And then she realized that he was no longer just touching her, he was inside of her, his fingers exploring her in a manner so intimate it left her breathless.