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“You’re likely overset after everything that transpired earlier,” he said gently, ignoring the lust roaring through his veins, the ceaseless need that urged him to kiss her again. To strip her bare. To take her in his arms and lay her on his waiting bed and claim her in every way he could.

“No.” Her tone was adamant if breathless, her gaze unwavering. “That has nothing to do with this.”

But he was a gentleman. Or, at least, his mother had raised him to be one.

Rhys tried again. “It may seem that way, but in the morning?—”

“Oh, do shut up.”

She rose on her toes and kissed him again, her mouth hard and determined, silencing his further protest.

Well, then.

The gentleman within him promptly died. In his place was instantly born a marauding scoundrel with a raging cockstand.

She had given him her acquiescence, and that was all he wanted.

All he required. She was air, she was life, the beat of his heart, the punishing vise of desire.

His tongue plundered her mouth, and she sucked, drawing him in, welcoming his invasion.

He groaned, deepening the kiss as he walked them as one toward the bed inhabiting the far wall of the bedchamber.

Rhys kissed her with every step, their breaths mingling and their tongues tangling.

Their hands roved over each other’s bodies in mutual exploration.

More hairpins dropped. They kicked away their footwear, leaving it abandoned and jumbled on the floor.

She fought with his coat, pulling it down his shoulders and off his arms. His fingers found that interminable line of buttons.

There must have been five hundred of the little mother-of-pearl beggars keeping him from what he wanted.

He unhooked two, then fumbled and struggled with a third.

Too many of them, to be sure. With a growl, he began tearing.

Buttons rained to the Axminster, joining the scattered hairpins. Fabric rent.

She jerked her lips from his, breathing hard. “You’ll ruin my gown.”

“It’s already ruined.” He kissed her hard before withdrawing. “I’ll buy you a dozen more.”

She stared at him, flushed and beautiful, a wanton goddess he could not wait to get naked. “Do it.”

With great satisfaction, Rhys grasped the twain ends of her modest gray bodice and tore them in two. Buttons popped away. Silk ripped. And then he was treated to the most erotic sight he’d ever beheld.

Her pale-blue corset was revealed, cinched at her waist and pushing her full breasts high.

Bits of blonde lace and cream ribbons adorned the feminine confection, which was so at odds with the bland, uninspiring gowns she wore each day.

Here was the heart of her, the true Miranda, hidden away from the unforgiving eyes of the world. His alone.

The fanciful thought pleased him as he lifted a trembling hand to trace over the creamy swells just barely contained by a thin chemise. He flattened his palm over her racing heart.

“Beautiful.”

The praise fell from his lips as he smoothed his touch higher, over the silken heat of her bare skin, the delicate ridge of her collarbone, then up her throat, watching the dichotomy of his sun-gilded hand on her pale skin.

His hand was large, so large he could wrap it halfway around her neck in a tender hold, his thumb sweeping over her jaw as he simply drank in the sight of her.

Her kiss-plumped lips parted on a sigh, her lashes going low. “Help me out of my bodice.”

Fuck.

She didn’t have to tell him twice. In a blur of leaden desire and blinding need, he worked her from her bodice first, then her ravaged skirts and the petticoats beneath.

Her padded bustle fell to the floor with a thump, and then she was there, in stockings, chemise, and corset only, whilst he was still mostly fully clothed.

Miranda seemed to settle upon that problem in the same moment, for her verdant gaze seared his. “Take off your waistcoat and shirt.”

Holding her stare, he tore at the buttons on his waistcoat before shrugging it to the floor.

His necktie and white evening shirt met the same fate until he was bare-chested.

Her hungry eyes traveled over him, and he felt the effect of her womanly curiosity as if it were a touch.

He stood still, allowing her to look her fill, his cock hard as marble, straining against the placket of his trousers.

And then her gaze was back on his, and she was reaching behind her back, the action thrusting her breasts forward.

Her arms worked, the lacing of her corset slackening and draping down over her bottom.

The undergarment thus loosened, Miranda brought her hands forward, her nimble fingers removing each hook from its eye as he watched.

The last hook was freed, and the blue satin fell away.

Through the filmy chemise, he could see her hard nipples jutting outward, the perfect pink circles of areolas.

He swallowed hard against a violent rush of need, his ballocks already drawn tight.

He wanted her so desperately he thought it might be possible he would explode before he was even inside her.

Slowly , he cautioned himself. Take your time, you randy arsehole.

But then she spoke again, and all the caution he had been urging splintered like his restraint. “Take off your trousers.”

Her boldness took him by surprise, but he liked it. His prick twitched at her command.

Without a word, he unfastened his trousers and smalls both in one swift move, allowing them to fall.

He was naked now. In his haste to rush to the gardens earlier, he had dispensed with stockings.

His cock rose, proud and thick and long.

Her eyes widened slightly as she took in his size. He was large, and he knew it.

Rhys stroked himself from root to tip, slicking his thumb over the pool of moisture beaded on the slit. “Is this what you wanted, darling?”

She licked her lips. “Yes.”

Bloody hell, with that lone word, he was destroyed.

He released himself and reached for her chemise. “Last chance to change your mind.”

“I still haven’t changed my mind about your proposition,” she told him, her voice husky. “But I want this. I want tonight. With you.”

“And you will have it.” He tugged at the fine fabric. “Take this off and get on the bed.”

Miranda grasped twin handfuls of linen and pulled the chemise over her head in one elegant movement, sending it sailing to the floor.

By God, she was glorious. For a moment, he could do nothing but stand there and stare.

Her inky hair flowed loose down her back, her breasts were round and high, her nipples puckered buds that begged for his mouth, her waist deliciously curved, her hips wide and lush.

Perfection.

That was what she was.

A living, breathing goddess.

“On the bed,” he repeated, his voice hoarse with desire.

She turned away, giving him a view of her backside as she took the remaining steps. Her legs were long and feminine, the arches of her calves making his palms itch, and the sweet handfuls of her bottom swaying just beneath her glorious hair.

Miranda turned again, settling herself primly on the edge of the bed, and he remembered to inhale then exhale.

To control his wildly raging need for her.

He moved to join her, guiding her so that she was at the center of the mattress, and he knelt between her spread legs.

The positioning gave him the perfect view of her cunny, all pink and inviting and glistening.

His hands went to her ankles, caressing upward, his fingertips tracing over delicate, feminine flesh.

A dip of his head as he pressed a kiss to first one knee, then the other answered his question.

The scent was her soap, and she even smelled like orange and roses here.

A growl sounded deep in his chest as he dragged his mouth higher, his hands leading the way as they traversed over the smooth, hot skin of her thighs.

He heard her gasp as if it had come from far away, just above the roaring of lust pounding through him.

Perhaps it was eagerness, or perhaps this delight was one she was unaccustomed to enjoying.

Either way, Rhys couldn’t resist kissing along her sensitive inner thigh, to where orange and rose melded with the musky scent of her.

He inhaled deeply, his cock thickening as he pressed it into the bed to stave off his rampaging desire.

He kissed higher, planting his hands on her legs and widening them.

He was so close now. Close enough to taste her.

He kissed the place where her thigh met her mound, cradling her outer hip with a hand.

So near now. He nuzzled her humid flesh, finding her sleek and wanting, her dew coating his cheek and jaw.

She jerked, hips pumping not in the frantic rhythm for more but as if she were shying away.

“What are you doing?” She wanted to know, a new tone of almost panic in her voice.

Rhys soothed her with slow caresses, remaining as he was, even though denying them both his mouth on her was utter torment. “Pleasuring you, darling.”

“But…but…how?”

Her befuddlement was evident, not just in her helpless query but her wrinkled brow.

Christ. He had his answer, and it didn’t surprise him.

Ammondale was a frigid prig. But she’d taken other lovers as well, for that had been the source of the acrimonious divorce.

Surely one of them would have shown her such pleasures. Unless they were selfish arses.

“By using my mouth and tongue on you,” he elaborated. “Until you come.”

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“Ah.” He tried to ignore the primitive surge of elation within him at the realization that he would be the first man to introduce her to the sensual art. “Your past lovers were inattentive clods, then. You will enjoy it very much, I promise. Just relax and let me demonstrate.”

“Are…are you certain?”