She gasped as he realigned his lips to hers and robbed her of thought with a single, shocking . . . wicked . . . wonderful caress.

  Was that his tongue?

  It was . . . gloriously stroking along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing her open, then it seemed he was consuming her, and she was more than willing to allow it. He traced a slow path of fire along her lower lip, and Penelope wondered if it was possible for someone to go mad from pleasure.

  Surely not every man kissed like this . . . else women would get nothing done.

  He pulled back. “You’re thinking again.”

  She was. She was thinking he was magnificent. “I can’t help it.” She shook her head, reaching for him.

  “Then I am not doing it correctly.”

  Oh dear. If he kissed her any more correctly, her sanity would be threatened.

  Perhaps it already was.

  She really, honestly didn’t care.

  Just as long as he kept at it.

  Her hands moved of their own volition, reaching up, stroking through his hair, pulling him closer, until his lips were on hers again, and this time . . . this time, she let herself go.

  And kissed him back, reveling in the deep, graveled sound that rose from the back of his throat—the sound that spiraled straight to the core of her and told her, without words, that for all her lack of experience, she’d done something right.

  His hands were moving then, up, up until she thought she might die if he didn’t touch her . . . there, on the curve of her breast, sliding wickedly into the torn cloth of her dress, the cloth he’d ripped to save himself the trouble of seducing her.

  Not that it seemed as though he would have had any trouble at all.

  She stroked one hand down his arm until she was pressing his hand to her, stronger, more firmly, sighing his name into his mouth.

  He pulled away at the sound, throwing his greatcoat back to reveal them to the waning firelight, pushing the cloth aside, baring her to his gaze, returning his hand to her, stroking, lifting until she arched toward him.

  “Do you like that?” She heard the answer in the question. He knew she’d never in her life felt anything so powerful. So tempting.

  “I shouldn’t.” Her hand returned to his, holding him there, against her.

  “But you do.” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the base of her neck as his expert fingers found the place where she strained for his touch. She gasped his name. He scraped his teeth across the soft lobe of one ear until she shivered in his arms. “Talk to me.”

  “It’s incredible,” she said, not wanting to ruin the moment, not wanting him to stop.

  “Keep talking,” he whispered, peeling the fabric back as he pressed her breast up, baring one aching nipple to the cool room.

  He stared at her then, watching the tip pucker at the air or his gaze or both, and Penelope was suddenly horribly embarrassed, hating her imperfections, wishing she was anywhere but there, with him, this perfect specimen of man.

  She moved to grasp the greatcoat, afraid that he would see her. That he would judge her. That he would change his mind.

  He was faster, clasping her wrists in his hands, staying her movement. “Don’t,” he growled, force in the words. “Never hide yourself from me.”

  “I cannot help it. I don’t want . . . you should not look.”

  “If you think I’m going to avoid looking at you, you’re mad.” He shifted then, throwing the greatcoat back, out of her reach, making quick work of her destroyed dress, brushing the torn edges away.

  He stared at her then, for long moments, until she couldn’t bear watching him anymore for the fear that he might reject her. For it was rejection that she was most used to when it came to his sex. Rejection and refusal and disinterest. And she didn’t think she could bear those things now. From him. Tonight.

  She closed her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath, preparing for him to turn away at her plainness. Her imperfections. She was sure he would turn away.

  When his lips settled on hers, she thought she might cry.

  And then he was taking her mouth in one long kiss, stroking deep until all thought of embarrassment was chased away by desire. Only when she was clinging to the lapels of his coat did he release her from the devastating caress.

  One wicked finger circled the tip of her breast lazily, as if they had all the time in the world, and she watched the movement, barely visible in the deep orange glow of the dying fire. Pleasure pooled there, at the tight, puckered tip . . . and in other scandalous places at the sensation.

  “Do you like that?” he asked, low and dark. Penelope bit her lip and nodded. “Tell me.”

  “Yes . . . yes it’s splendid.” She knew it made her sound simple and unsophisticated, but she could not keep the wonder from her voice.

  His fingers did not stop. “It should all feel splendid. You tell me if it doesn’t, and I shall rectify the situation.”

  He kissed her neck, running his teeth across the soft skin there. He looked up. “Does that feel splendid?”

  “Yes.”

  He rewarded her by pressing kisses down her neck, sucking at the delicate skin of her shoulder, licking down the slope of one breast before circling the hard, peaked tip, nipping and caressing—the whole time avoiding the place where she wanted him most. “I’m going to corrupt you,” he promised her skin, one hand sliding down the swell of her stomach, feeling the way the muscles there tensed and quivered at his touch. “I’m going to turn you from light to dark, from good to bad. I’m going to ruin you.” She didn’t care. She was his. He owned her in this moment, with this touch. “And do you know how it will feel?”

  She sighed the word this time. “Splendid.”

  More than that.

  More than she’d ever imagined.

  He met her eyes and, without breaking their gaze, he took the tip of one breast deep into his warm mouth, worrying the flesh with tongue and teeth before pulling in lush tugs that had her moaning his name and plunging her fingers into his hair.

  “Michael . . .” she whispered, afraid that she might break the spell of pleasure. She closed her eyes.

  He lifted his head, and she hated him for stopping. “Look at me.” The words were a demand. When she met his gaze once more, his hand slid beneath the pooled fabric of her dress, fingers brushing against curls, and she snapped her thighs shut with a little cry of dismay. He couldn’t possibly . . . not there . . .

  But he returned his attention to her breast, kissing and sucking until her inhibitions were lost and her thighs parted, allowing him to slide his fingers between them, resting softly against her but not moving—a wicked, wonderful temptation. She stiffened again but did not refuse him access this time.

  “I promise you shall like this. Trust me.”

  She gave a shaky laugh as his fingers moved, widening her thighs, gaining access to her core. “Said the lion to the lamb.”

  He tongued the soft skin at the underside of her breast before turning to the other, lavishing the same attention there as she writhed beneath him and sighed his name. His fingers were wicked, separating her secret folds with one finger and stroking gently, slowly, until he found the warm, wet entrance to her.

  He lifted his head, finding her gaze as he slid one long finger slowly into the heart of her, sending a bolt of unexpected pleasure through her. He pressed a kiss to the skin between her breasts, repeating the motion with his finger before whispering, “You’re already wet for me. Gloriously wet.”

  It was impossible to stem her embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  He kissed her long and slow, sliding his tongue deep in her mouth as his finger mirrored the action below, before he pulled back, placed his forehead to hers, and said, “It means you want me. It means that, even after all these years, after everything I’ve done, after everything I am, I can make you want me.”

  Later, she would reflect on the words, wish that she’d said something to him, but she couldn’t, not when he slid a second finger in with the first, his thumb circling as he whispered at her ear. “I am going to explore you . . . to discover your heat and softness, every bit of your decadence.” He stroked against her, feeling the way she pulsed around him, loving the way she rocked her hips against him as his thumb worked a tight circle at the straining nub of pleasure he had uncovered. “You make my mouth water.”

  Her eyes went wide at the words, but he did not give her time to consider them as he moved his hand again, lifting her hips and sliding her gown down, over her legs and off until she was utterly bare, and he was between her legs, parting them slowly, saying the most wicked things as his hands slid along her legs. He stalked her on his knees as he parted them, pressing long, soft, lush kisses to the soft skin of her inner thighs just above her stockings. “In fact . . .” He paused, swirling his tongue in a slow, stunning circle. “ . . . I don’t think I can go another moment . . .” Again, on the opposite thigh. “ . . . Without . . .” Slightly higher, closer to the ache. “ . . . Tasting you.”

  And then his mouth was on her, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling almost unbearably at the place where pleasure pooled and strained and begged for release. She cried out, sitting up straight before he lifted his head and pressed one large hand to her soft stomach. “Lie back . . . let me taste you. Let me show you how good it can be. Watch. Tell me what you like. What you need.”

  And she did, God help her. As he licked and sucked with his perfect tongue and his wicked lips, she whispered her encouragement, learning what she wanted even as she was not sure of the end result.

  More, Michael . . .

  Her hands slid into his curls, holding him close to her.

  Michael, again . . .

  Her thighs widened, willing and wanton.

  There, Michael . . .

  Michael . . .

  He was her world. There was nothing beyond this moment.

  And then his fingers joined his tongue, and she thought she might die as he pressed more firmly, rubbed more deliberately, giving her everything for which she did not know to ask. Her eyes flew open, his name on a gasp.

  His tongue moved faster, circling at the place where she needed him, and she moved, all inhibition gone, lost to the rising, cresting pleasure . . . wanting nothing more than to know what lay beyond.

  “Please, don’t stop,” she whispered.

  He didn’t.

  With his name on her lips, she threw herself over the edge, rocking against him, pressing to him, begging for more even as he gave it to her with tongue and lips and fingers until she lost awareness of everything but the bold, brilliant pleasure he gave her.

  As she floated back from her climax, he pressed long, lovely kisses to the inside of her thighs until she sighed his name and reached for his soft mahogany curls, wanting nothing more than to lie next to him for an hour . . . a day . . . a lifetime.

  He stilled at her touch as her fingers sifted through his hair, and they remained that way for long moments. She was limp with pleasure, her whole world in the feel of his silken curls in her hands, in the scrape of his beard at the soft skin of her thigh.

  Michael.

  She stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to say what she was thinking . . . that the experience had been truly remarkable, and that if this evening was any indication, their marriage would be far more than he’d ever imagined it could be.

  All would be well. It had to be. Experiences like this one did not come along every day.

  He finally shifted, and she sensed the unwillingness in the movement as he pulled the greatcoat up around her, surrounding her in the scent and heat of him before he rolled away and came to his feet in a single, fluid movement, lifting his wool frock coat from where he must have placed it, carefully folded, earlier in the evening.

  He pulled it on, quick as lightning. “You’re well and truly ruined now,” he said, the words cold.

  She sat up, clutching his greatcoat to her as he opened the door and turned back to her, his wide shoulders fading into the blackness beyond. “Our marriage is no longer a question.”

  He left then, the door closing firmly behind him, punctuating his words, leaving Penelope seated in a pool of fabric, staring at the door, sure that he would return, that she had misheard him, that she had mistaken his meaning.

  That all would be well.

  After long minutes, Penelope pulled on her dress, her fingers shaking at the feel of the torn fabric. She returned to her pallet, refusing to allow tears to come.

  Chapter Six

  Dear M—

  You may think that since you’ve returned to school, I’ve been in a constant state of ennui (note the use of French), but you would be entirely wrong. The excitement is nearly overwhelming.

  The bull got loose from Lord Langford’s pasture two nights ago, and he (the bull, not the viscount) had a fine time knocking down fences and making the acquaintance of the cattle in the area until he was captured this morning, by Mr. Bullworth.

  I wager you wish you were home, don’t you?

  Always—P

  Needham Manor, September 1815

  * * *

  Dear P—

  I believed you until the bit about Bullworth capturing his namesake. Now, I’m convinced you’re merely attempting to lure me home with your extravagant tales of attempted animal husbandry.

  Though, I would be lying if I told you it wasn’t working. I wish I’d been there to see the look on Langford’s face. And the smile on yours.

  —M

  post script—I am happy to see that your governess is teaching you something. Très bon.

  Eton College, September 1815

  Dawn had barely broken when Bourne paused outside the room where he had left Penelope the night before, the cold and his thoughts joining forces to keep him from rest. He’d paced the house, haunted by the memories of the empty rooms, waiting for the sun to rise on the day when he would see Falconwell restored to its right and proper owner.

  There was no doubt in Bourne’s mind that the Marquess of Needham and Dolby would relinquish Falconwell. The man was no fool. He had three unmarried daughters, and the fact that the eldest had spent the evening with a man in an abandoned house—with Bourne in an abandoned house—would not endear the remaining unwed ladies Marbury to potential suitors.

  The solution was marriage. A quick one.

  And with that marriage, the passing of Falconwell.

  Falconwell, and Penelope.

  A different man would feel remorse at the unfortunate role Penelope was forced to play in this game, but Bourne knew better. Certainly, he was using the lady, but was that not how marriage worked? Were not all marital relations devised on that very premise—mutual benefit?

  She would gain access to his money, his freedoms, and anything else she wished.

  He would gain Falconwell.

  That was that. They were not the first to marry for land, nor would they be the last. It was a remarkable offer, the one he’d made her. He was rich and well connected, and he was offering her a chance to trade her future as a spinster for one as a marchioness. She could have anything she wanted. He’d give it to her with pleasure.

  After all, she was giving him the only thing he’d ever really wanted.

  Not quite. No one gave Bourne anything. He was taking it.

  Taking her.

  A vision flashed, large blue eyes set wide in her plain face, pleasure and something more blazing there. Something too close to emotion. Too close to caring.

  That was why he’d left her, strategically. Coolly. Calculatingly.

  To prove the marriage would be a business arrangement.

  Not because he had wanted to stay.

  Not because removing his mouth and hands from her had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Not because he’d been tempted to do just the opposite—to sink into her and revel in her, soft where women were meant to be soft and sweet where they were meant to be sweet. Not because those little sighs that came from the back of her throat while he kissed her were the most erotic things he’d ever heard, or that she tasted like innocence.

  He forced himself to move away from her door. There was no reason to knock. He’d be back before she woke, ready to take her to the nearest vicar, present the special license for which he’d paid a handsome sum, and get her married.

  Then, they would return to London and live their separate lives.

  He took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the crisp morning air in his lungs, satisfied with his plan.

  That was when she screamed, the heart-stopping sound punctuated with the sound of shattering glass.

  He responded instinctively, unlocking the door and nearly tearing it from its hinges to get it open. He pulled up short just inside the room, heart pounding.

  She stood unharmed at the side of the broken window, back against the wall, barefoot, wrapped in his greatcoat, which hung open to reveal her ruined gown, gaping wide, baring an expanse of peach-colored skin.

  For one fleeting moment, Bourne was arrested by that skin, by the way a single blond curl cut across it, drawing his attention to the place where a lovely rose-colored nipple stood peaked and proud in the cold room.

  His mouth went dry, and he forced himself to return his gaze to her face, where her wide eyes blinked in shock and disbelief as she stared at the great glass window next to her, now missing a pane, shattered by . . .

  A bullet.

  He was across the tiny room in seconds, shielding her with his body and pushing her from the room into the hallway beyond. “Stay here.”

  She nodded, shock apparently making her more agreeable than he would have expected. He returned to the room and the window, but before he could inspect the damage, a second gunshot shattered another pane of glass, missing Bourne by a distance with which he was not at all comfortable.