“Naturally,” Philippa confirmed.
“Near impossible,” Wick said. “Scoop a girl”—he pulled back and gave her a quick inspection from head to toe—“who’s no lightweight onto a horse while wearing armor?”
“My prince,” she said loftily, “would have had no problem with the feat. He considered me as light as a feather.” She gave him a look akin to the one he had given her. “That was thanks to his physique, you understand.”
Wick burst out laughing and then stopped suddenly when Jonas fluttered his eyelashes.
“You have no romance in your soul,” Philippa said. She leaned back against the sofa and sighed. “It was only very recently that I realized the fairy story had more to do with escaping Rodney than being carried off by an acrobatic prince.”
Wick leaned over and peered at Jonas. “Fast asleep.”
“I should bring him back to the nursery. I think he sleeps better in his cradle.”
“No, he sleeps better in your lap.” There was a note in his voice that transformed a simple comment into something altogether different.
She could feel her cheeks turning pink. Maybe he would lean over . . . maybe he would kiss her. She could almost feel his lips on hers.
But not quite.
So she stood up, and together, in the darkness, they made their way back to the nursery. Wick stood next to her, watching silently, as she gently tucked Jonas back into his cradle.
When she straightened and turned around, he was there, just before her. His head bent, slowly, and his lips slipped along her cheek. She stayed still, her heart beating in her throat, willing his lips to touch hers.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, low and sweet.
He was looking down at her with velvet dark eyes. He was too beautiful for her, too sophisticated, too princely . . .
“Yes, you should,” she said.
Chapter Six
From her first night spent in Pomeroy Castle, Philippa had lain awake in bed and imagined Wick’s kisses. They wouldn’t be like Rodney’s slavering invasions, she had decided. And yet—she couldn’t imagine what they would be like. What if he thrust his tongue into her mouth, the way Rodney had? Any tongue in her mouth, other than her own, would be disgusting. She knew it.
But now Wick kissed her lightly, just a brush of his lips. A jerk of fire went straight down her body, through her middle. She raised her arms and wound them around his neck. His lips were firm and not at all wet—so how on earth could such a simple motion make her feel so hot and needy?
For a few moments, she couldn’t help wondering when he was going to push his tongue between her lips, and what she would feel if he did. But instead, he simply stood there in the dark nursery, his head bent to hers, his mouth brushing hers, over and over. Gradually she forgot her worries; besides, her attention was caught by his hands, roaming over her back, sliding lower, shaping her. Soon enough she could think of nothing but the mesmerizing sensation of his touch; it made her feel quite odd. She shivered and tried to move closer to his warmth.
His lips slipped from hers and dusted along the line of her jaw, down the curve of her neck, leaving a little trail of fire everywhere they touched.
He smelled so good, Philippa thought in a daze. What must he taste like? Impulsively, she opened her mouth and tasted him, her tongue sneaking out to touch the hard line of his jaw.
A rough sound came from Wick’s lips, and he turned his face to hers. “Darling,” he said, his voice a husky thread in the silence.
Philippa pressed even closer, molding her body to his muscles. She was dimly aware that his hair had fallen from its ribbon, and she reached up, running her fingers through the loose strands. The touch felt almost as intimate as kissing.
His tongue ran along her lips, and then he breathed, “Kiss me back, Philippa. Please.” She opened her mouth. It was as natural as breathing, as turning one’s face up to the sunshine. Wick’s kiss wasn’t about invasion. It was about the taste of him, and the taste of her, and the way their bodies were trembling against each other.
A groan tore from his throat, then he was kissing her harder than Rodney ever had done, so ruthlessly that she could only hold on, helpless in the firestorm that shot down her legs.
Yet she remained aware enough to know that she wasn’t alone in that storm; Wick’s large hands were trembling as they slid down her back, rounded onto her bottom, and pulled her up and against his body. Which wasn’t a bit like Rodney’s doughy anatomy. In fact, he didn’t feel in the least like Rodney . . .
It was Wick who pulled back, Wick who stepped away, leaving Philippa trying to catch her breath. His chest was heaving too, and she could see the wildness in his eyes. She had never felt more feminine, more desired, and more powerful, in her life.
“I can’t marry you,” he said, low and fierce. “You’re a lady. I cannot marry you.”
“I haven’t asked you to,” she rejoined, her voice catching.
She had to stop him before he said anything, before he said he regretted kissing her. “Good night,” she whispered, pushing her hair back from her face.
Wick stepped forward, his hands reaching toward her as if he couldn’t stop himself. She turned quickly and walked to her bedchamber door, pausing to glance over her shoulder.
He was gazing after her, just as she’d thought—and hoped—he would be.
“I just want to point out,” she said, “that not only am I in the service of your brother, but I gave away my most prized possession, my chastity. As anyone in polite society would confirm, a woman in my situation could never marry a gentleman.”
Then, before he could respond, she whisked herself through the door. Because . . . Because she had, for all intents and purposes, just asked him to marry her.
And if that wasn’t enough to disqualify her as a lady, she didn’t know what would.
Chapter Seven
When Wick appeared in the portrait gallery the following night, he didn’t say a word about her implicit proposal. Instead he inquired about Jonas’s belly troubles, and then told her a story about his Great Aunt Sophonisba. Philippa nodded and smiled, but inside, she was wild with frustration.
Was he never going to mention what happened between them? She had lain awake half the night searching for magic words that would overcome his comment about her birth, and he wanted to talk of trivialities? Then, quite suddenly, Jonas stopped fussing, gave a little snort, and fell asleep.
And just as quickly, Wick snatched the baby from her shoulder and carried him back to the nursery.
Philippa trotted along behind, her heart pounding. She was having trouble remembering her lines, just like an actress about to enter the stage. What should she say? What should she — should she . . .
In the end, she said nothing, because—the baby having been tucked in his bed—Wick pinned her against the wall and kissed her until she was melting against him, and instead of carefully crafted questions designed to make him realize that he should marry her . . . well, he seemed to like those soft sounds she made when he kissed her, which was good because the way he kissed her, put together with the way he touched her, made her intoxicated. Even more intoxicated than old Fettle, when he was lying in the road singing.
The next night was the same, and the night after that. All during the daylight hours, she mulled over ways to make Wick marry her. Somehow. Because if he didn’t ask her soon—well, she really did have to write her father. She had begun to feel horribly guilty, certain that he was worried to death about what had become of her.