“I am not surprised that you recognize the sound.” Penelope could not resist. “What does the other indicate?”
He pinned her with his beautiful hazel gaze. “Feminine pleasure.”
Heat flared on her cheeks. She supposed he would easily recognize that, too. “Oh.”
He returned his attention to the ceiling. “Would you care to tell me what it is, precisely, that has made you unhappy?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“No.” The blankets beneath her provided ample padding against the wooden floor.
“Are you frightened?”
She considered the question. “No. Should I be?”
He slid her a look. “I don’t hurt women.”
“You draw the line at abducting and spanking them?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He turned his back to her once more, through with the conversation, and she watched the back of him for long moments before, whether from exhaustion or exasperation, she blurted, “It’s just that when a woman is kidnapped and forced into agreeing to marriage, she hopes for a bit more . . . excitement. Than this.”
He rolled slowly—maddeningly—to face her, the air between them thickened, and Penelope was instantly aware of their position, scant inches apart, on a warm pallet in a small room in an empty house, beneath the same blanket—which happened to be his greatcoat. And she realized that perhaps she should not have implied that the evening was unexciting.
Because she was not at all certain that she was prepared for it to become any more exciting. “I didn’t mean—” She rushed to correct herself.
“Oh, I think you did an excellent job of meaning.” The words were low and dark, and suddenly she was not so very sure that she wasn’t afraid after all. “I am not stimulating enough for you?”
“Not you . . .” she was quick to reply. “The whole . . .” She waved one hand, lifting the greatcoat as she thought better of finishing. “Never mind.”
His gaze was on her, intent and unmoving and, while he had not moved, it seemed as though he had grown larger, more looming. As though he had sucked a great deal of air from the room. “How can I make this night more satisfying for you, my lady?”
The soft question sent a thrum of feeling through her . . . the way the word—satisfying—rolled languid from his tongue set her heart racing and her stomach turning.
It seemed the night was becoming very exciting very quickly.
And everything was moving much too quickly for Penelope’s tastes. “No need,” she said, at an alarmingly high pitch. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” The word rolled lazily from his tongue.
“Quite thrilling.” She nodded, bringing one hand to her mouth to feign a yawn. “So thrilling, in fact, that I find myself unbearably exhausted.” She made to turn her back to him. “I think I shall bid you good night.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, the soft words as loud as a gunshot in the tiny space between them.
And then he touched her.
He clasped her wrist, staying her movement, turning her to face him, to meet his unflinching gaze. “I would hate for the evening to leave you so . . . unfulfilled.”
Unfulfilled.
The word unfurled deep in her stomach, and Penelope took a deep breath, trying to settle her roiling emotions.
It did not work.
He moved then, his hand sliding away from her wrist, settling on her hip instead, and in that moment, all of her awareness was focused on that spot, beneath skirts and petticoat and cloak, where she was certain she could feel the searing heat of his massive hand. He did not tighten his grip, did nothing to bring her closer, nothing to move her in one way or another. She knew she could pull away . . . knew she should pull away . . . and yet . . .
She didn’t want to.
Instead, she hovered there, on the brink of something new and different and altogether exciting.
She met his eyes, dark in the firelight, and begged him silently to do something.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Play your card, Penelope.”
Her mouth dropped open at the words, at the way he gave her power over the moment, and she realized that it was the first time in her entire life that a man had actually given her the opportunity to make a choice for herself.
Ironic, wasn’t it, that it was this man. This man who had taken all choice from her in the span of mere hours.
But now, there it was, the freedom of which he’d spoken. The adventure he’d promised. The power was heady. Irresistible.
Dangerous.
But she did not care, because it was that wicked, wonderful power that propelled her to speech.
“Kiss me.”
He was already moving, his lips capturing the words.
* * *
Dear M—
It’s utter misery here—hot as Hades even now, in the dead of night. I’m sure I’m the only one awake, but who can sleep in the worst of a Surrey summer? If you were here, I’m sure we would be mischief-making at the lake.
I confess, I’d like to take a walk . . . but I suppose that’s something young ladies should not do, isn’t it?
Warmly—P
Needham Manor, July 1815
* * *
Dear P—
Nonsense. If I were there, I would be mischief-making. You would be enumerating all the ways that we would soon be caught and scolded for our transgressions.
I’m not entirely sure what young ladies should or should not do, but your secrets are safe with me, even if your governess does not approve. Especially so.
—M
Eton College, July 1815
It should be said that Penelope Marbury had a secret.
It wasn’t a very big secret, nothing that would bring down Parliament or dethrone the King . . . nothing that would destroy her family or anyone else’s . . . but it was a rather devastating secret personally—one she tried very hard to forget whenever she could.
It should not be a surprise, as, until that evening, Penelope had led a model life—entirely decorous. Her childhood of good behavior had aged into an adulthood of modeling excellent behavior for her younger sisters and behaving in precisely the manner that young women of good breeding were expected to behave.
Therefore, it was the embarrassing truth that, despite the fact that she had been courted by a handful of men and even engaged to one of the most powerful men in England, who seemed to have no problem at all displaying passion when it moved him, Penelope Marbury had never been kissed.
Until then.
It really was ridiculous. She knew that.
It was 1831, for goodness sake. Young ladies were dampening their petticoats and revealing their skin, and she knew from having four sisters that there was nothing at all wrong with a chaste brush of the lips now and then from an avid suitor.
Except it had never happened before, and this did not feel at all chaste.
This felt utterly wicked and not at all like the kind of kiss one received from one’s future husband.
This felt like something one never discussed with one’s future husband.
Michael pulled back just barely, just enough to whisper against her lips. “Stop thinking.”
How did he know?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would be rude to ignore his request.