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“You are so. Unbelievably. Beautiful,” he said, not quite managing to say it like a proper sentence. His mouth was far too busy with other pursuits to string the words together smoothly. “Your dress tonight… I can’t believe you wore red.”
She looked up at him, unable to halt the playful smile that spread across her lips. “I don’t think white suits me.” And after tonight, she thought naughtily, it never would.
“You looked like a goddess,” he rasped. And then he stilled, just a little, and pulled back. “But do you know,” he said, his eyes burning with wicked intent. “I think I still like you best in breeches.”
“George!” She couldn’t help but laugh.
“Shhhh…” he warned, nipping at her earlobe.
“It’s hard to be quiet.”
He gazed down at her like a pirate. “I know how to silence you.”
“Oh, yes, pl—” But she couldn’t finish the sentence, not when he was kissing her again, even more fiercely than before. She felt his fingers at her waist, sliding under the silky sash that held her dressing gown against her body. It came undone and then slipped entirely to the floor, the silky material shivering across her skin as it fell.
Goosebumps rose on her arms as they were bared to the night air, but she felt no chill, only awareness as he reached out reverently to stroke her, slowly, from shoulder to wrist.
“You have a freckle,” he murmured. “Right” – he leaned down and dropped a light kiss near the inside of her elbow – “here.”
“You’ve seen it before,” she said softly. It wasn’t in an immodest spot; she had plenty of frocks with short sleeves.
He chuckled. “But I’ve never given it it’s proper due.”
“Really.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He lifted her arm, twisting it just a bit so that he could pretend to be studying her freckle. “It is clearly the most delightful beauty mark in all of England.”
A marvelous sense of warmth and contentment melted through her. Even as her body burned for his, she could not stop herself from encouraging his teasing conversation. “Only England?”
“Well, I haven’t traveled very extensively abroad…”
“Oh, really?”
“And you know…” His voice dropped to a husky growl. “There may be other freckles right here in this room. You could have one here.” He dipped a finger under the bodice of her nightgown, then moved his other hand to her hip. “Or here.”
“I might,” she agreed.
“The back of your knee,” he said, the words hot against her ear. “You could have one there.”
She nodded. She wasn’t sure she was still capable of speech.
“One of your toes,” he suggested. “Or your back.”
“You should probably check,” she managed to get out.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, and she suddenly realized just how much he was holding his passion in check. Where she was joyously setting herself free, he was waging a fierce battle against his own desire. And she knew – somehow she knew – that a lesser man would not have had the strength to treat her with such tenderness.
“Make me yours,” she said. She had already given herself permission to let go. Now she was giving it to him, too.
She felt his muscles contract, and for a moment he looked as if he were in pain. “I shouldn’t…”
“You should.”
His fingers tightened against her skin. “I won’t be able to stop.”
“I don’t want you to.”
He drew back, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he put a few inches between their faces. His hands were at her cheeks, holding her absolutely still, and his eyes burned into hers.
“You will marry me,” he commanded.
She nodded, her only thought to give her agreement as fast as she could.
“Say it,” he said savagely. “Say the words.”
“I will,” she whispered. “I will marry you. I promise.”
For about a second he stood frozen, and then before Billie could even think to whisper his name, he’d picked her up and practically thrown her onto the bed.
“You are mine,” he growled.
She edged up onto her elbows and stared up at him as he stalked closer, his hands first tugging his shirt from his breeches and then moving to pull it over his head entirely. Her breath caught as his body was revealed. He was beautiful, as odd as that seemed to say about a man. Beautiful, and perfectly made. She knew he did not spend his days thatching roofs and plowing fields, but he must do some sort of regular physical activity because there was no softness to his form. He was lean and defined, and as the candlelight danced across his skin, she could see the muscles flex beneath.
She scooted up into a sitting position and reached out, her fingers itching to touch him, to see if his skin was as smooth and hot as it looked, but he was just beyond her grasp, watching her with hungry eyes.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. He stepped closer, but before she could touch him he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “When I saw you tonight I think my heart stopped beating.”
“And is it now?” she whispered.
He took her hand and laid it over his heart. She could feel it pounding beneath his skin, almost hear it reverberating through her own body. He was so strong, and so solid, and so wonderfully male.
“Do you know what I wanted to do?” he murmured.
She shook her head, too entranced by the low heat of his voice to make a noise of her own.