Page 5 of The Secret to Swooning (London Secrets #6)

In Which Our Lovers Prove True Proficients

A nn could not breathe. She could not move.

Every muscle called out, Go to him, you beef-wit !

A fork had once more presented itself on her path: On one side, safety and the plan her parents had charted for her, and on the other, Everette, the rogue who’d caught her and kissed her and wanted her just as she was.

She knew what path she wished to take, had known this morning. But could she find the courage?

“You do not have to explain,” she said. “I am quite aware that a rake cannot control his impulses. You were being gallant by saving me in my swoon, and then the… press of my body against yours tempted you too far. And I think—”

“No.”

She snapped her mouth shut. What had she been about to say?

He slunk low in the red velvet chair, legs spread wide—one bent, the other stretched out to its full length.

One elbow rested on an upholstered arm, and he’d dropped his chin on his knuckles, his fingers held loose and long and—oh, the imprint of them still burned on the skin of her breast even though four layers of clothing—including his gloves—had kept him from truly touching her. As she’d wanted him to do.

His lips were full and kissed to a berry red.

By her . And his short hair, usually fashionably coifed, was rumpled—by her fingers—and beckoning to be tousled further.

He was a veritable picture of sin and desire, and every naughty impulse she was never to admit she knew about, let alone felt, coursed through her.

How could she gather any two connected thoughts with him sitting there like that?

“No what?” she asked, voice shaking.

“Ann, don’t fear me. I’ve made a mess of this.

I can control my urges, you know. I have this past year, ever since you kissed me to make Lord Trevor jealous.

I’ve not touched a single woman. Not wanted to.

Because the only urge that has driven me to madness is the urge to touch you, to bring you pleasure.

“But more than that, Ann, I want to love you. I do love you, and I want to spend every day proving that to you, teasing you, making you laugh and smile.”

Was she crumpled on the floor? Because she could no longer feel her legs.

“Come.” He flashed a wicked grin. “Sit with me again. I promise to behave until I’ve told you all.”

“A-and after you’ve told me all?”

“Then it’s up to you whether I behave or not.” He winked.

Ah. Another invitation to join him. She’d pushed him away twice, yet he’d remained, ever determined, ever faithful. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and made her choice.

She looked over her shoulder at the door. It seemed an insubstantial barrier against her and complete ruin. “We could be discovered at any second.”

“And then you would have to marry me, and I would not be at all upset about that.”

Neither would she.

Neither would she.

Oh. Every doubt fell away, crushed to dust beneath her feet as she strode toward him. When she stood between his knees, she clasped her hands behind her back. “What would a marriage between us be like?”

“I would wake you up with kisses and put you to bed with them, too. I would make you laugh as often as possible and seek you out whenever I’d been away too long. I miss you when you’re not near. Which is too bloody often.”

“Language, Everette!”

“My name sounds like honey on your lips. Can I see what it tastes like?”

Tempting. Torn between desire and decorum, she frowned.

“I even love that,” he said. “The V of your brow when you frown. And the way you tip your nose into the air. You deserve better than that Lord Trevor, which means you deserve better than me, but I since I have belonged to you for quite some time now, perhaps you might consider belonging to me as well?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, reached out for him, tried to thump her entire body right into his lap.

“You seem surprised.” He lifted a hand, caught a bit of gauzy fabric, and held it between thumb and finger. Her skin tingled, breasts tightened, and she had to claw her hands together behind her back to keep from grabbing for him. “I did propose to you this morning.”

She looked away from him. “I have a difficult time believing it. I am not the sort of woman capable of converting a rake. I am no great beauty. No great wit. I am simply… Ann. Obedient and mild.”

His brows knit together. He pulled on her skirt, tugging her closer until their thighs kissed. “Do not disparage yourself.”

She frowned. “I speak only truth—”

He whipped to his feet and danced her across the room.

When he stopped, he spun her. They stood before a gold-rimmed mirror, her breathless, him with the intent gaze of a desperate man.

“Look at yourself, Ann. Pink, kissable lips, and eyes that make a man take a second look. Or third or tenth. You’ve a tart tongue, and sometimes it darts out at the corner of your mouth and makes me ache.

And all this hair.” He thrust the fingers of one hand through the hair at her nape and pressed his face into her neck with a groan.

“I dream of what it looks like down. You have the beauty of a winter day—sharp and clear and cutting. I’m no poet. Just believe me when I say I love you.”

She’d never been praised for simply being herself in her entire life, never had to work so little for so many words of approval.

She’d never felt as sure of anyone’s regard or respect, but when he spoke, she could not doubt it.

His words rang with steel, unshakable, unbreakable, and from their first interaction—when he’d asked her to dance when no one else would—he’d proved over and over again that he liked her company, liked her.

He made her feel worthy of love, and with him, she did not have to work to deserve it.

She turned in his arms, and his hands found her hips.

They felt good there. Right. An unlikely friendship, an even more unlikely romance.

But when she’d swooned into his arms earlier, her body had heaved a sigh of relief that should have been felt across the globe—ships sent off course and beaches bereft of sand.

At the very least, she must have knocked loose a dowager’s wig or two.

No matter how many wigs or grains of sand or ships her sigh had impacted, it had told a truth.

The swoon, it seemed, would never lie. She’d found the right man’s arms.

“No more raking,” she said, letting her voice find the rhythm of a tease. “Are you even capable of … abstaining?”

“The better question is whether or not I’m capable, at this advanced stage of piousness, of raking at all.

After you kissed me in front of that dim-witted Lord Trevor, I’ve not been able to look at another woman.

My arms ache for only you. Would you like to swoon into my embrace once more so I can show you? ”

She grinned, threw her arm to her head—palm out—and went limp in his arms.

He scooped her up and carried her back to the chair. “Do you think Lady Catherine will sell this little beauty to me? I’d like to put it in our bedroom.”

Ann kissed him, and he turned to fire and urgency beneath her touch, his hands flying to parts of her body that made her groan against his mouth. Something long and hard pushed against the back of her thighs, making the pulsing center of her melt, and—

The door opened. A woman— women , plural—gasped.

“Ann Charlotte Martins!”

Ann fell out of Everette’s lap. “Mama!”

“Lord Dartmore.”

Everette cleared his throat and stood.

“I certainly hope, my lord,” Lady Catherine de Bourgh said, “that you have proposed marriage.”

“He has.” Ann stepped between her mother, their hostess and the man she loved. “And I have accepted.

“You have?” Behind her, Everette sounded both pleased and shocked, velvet wrapped around a sudden gust of morning wind on a still day.

She turned to him, her fingers drawn to the buttons marching down his waistcoat. “I have loved you since you danced with me, and even when I thought you a rogue, I could not stop myself from loving you.”

“What about Lord Trevor?” He pressed warm fingertips to the underside of her chin and lifted it.

“Who?” She grinned.

“Adorable minx.” He lowered with each word until their breath mingled, and she felt the almost of his kiss in the tingling of her lips. And lower.

Two throats cleared quite loudly.

They jerked apart.

“You’ll visit Lord Shelfington this evening, Lord Dartmore.”

Everette bowed.

Mama slowly turned her attention to Ann. “I told you the right man was essential. Now see what you’ve done?”

“You’re absolutely right, Mama.” She tried to appear contrite, though she failed.

Her mother huffed. “Come along now, Ann.”

They spilled into the hallway, Mama and Lady Catherine leading the way.

Everette pinched at her skirt, pulled her nearer him, and she laughed, stumbling into his arms.

Two throats cleared quite loudly.

“Behave,” Ann hissed.

“Do you wish me to?” Everette asked.

She’d made her choice. She had thrown off the chains of perfect behavior, freed herself to love.

So she pinched the sleeve of his jacket, dragged his head down to hers and kissed him until no other sounds—not the chatter of guests or almost silent hiss of candles, not the shocked gasps of servants or the rapid and loud clearing of throats—shook through the perfect hum of their bodies at peace together.

“No,” she said, releasing him just a little bit, “I don’t wish you to behave at all.”

Mama groaned.

Lady Catherine peered at them with narrowed eyes. “You know… should my Anne have tried her hand at scandal, I’m sure she would have proven quite proficient.”

Ann had no desire to be proficient at scandal. She wished only proficiency in the happiness of the heart. “I love you, my rogue.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “And I love you. But I really should speak with your father. The sooner we are wed, the sooner you can swoon into my arms again.”

She’d not wait until they were wed to do so.

I hope you enjoyed my short Austen romp!