At Eton, and later Oxford, his friends taught him something altogether contradictory—that exciting sex was for courtesans and mistresses, but intercourse between husband and wife was dull and dutiful.
He didn’t know who to believe.
He did know that he wanted Cecilia. To the point of madness.
His wildness last night hadn’t frightened her. She had…enjoyed it. He could still hear that gorgeous sound she made when she came from his rough, hard thrusts against the door.
And hell, there went his cock again, already hard from imagining her.
His heart rammed into his throat when he heard a soft tread on the wooden stair outside. For a brief moment, he considered waiting by the bed, or perhaps sitting in the armchair by the fire to prove he wasn’t entirely besotted and overeager.
The doorknob turned, and in three strides, he was there, ready for her.
Cecilia stepped into the cottage, eyes bright and smile wide. Remembering how she’d guided him last night, he took her in his arms without hesitation.
She wrapped herself around him. Their caressing hands were feverish, their kisses ravenous. Her taste was of sweet, spiced brandy, a flavor he would forever link to her and the feel of her mouth against his.
“Impatient for your next lesson?” she asked throatily.
Last night proved that she seemed to like it when he spoke to her, especially if he used coarse language. “Been hard for you all day.”
In response, she kissed him greedily.
“I could barely concentrate on giving the girls their lesson,” she gasped when she pulled back. “All I could think of was you—teaching you.” Her hands slid down his back, then lower until she gripped the cheeks of his arse. She purred as she dug her fingers into him. “My God, you’re delicious.”
He let out a huff of laughter. “Thought squeezing arses was strictly the prerogative of men.”
“Thankfully, you and I are far more enlightened to believe such nonsense.” Then, cautiously, “Do you dislike it?” She moved to take her hands away.
Quickly, he urged her back against him. “Let me show you how progressive I am.” He leaned down and kissed her again, their tongues meeting.
Need built, fast and hot, and he ached with the desire to be inside her. But it had to wait.
He pulled back and stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “I’ve something for you.”
“I can feel it,” she murmured, her hand cupping his iron-hard cock.
A growl rose in his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to press himself into her touch. But he had another purpose, so he took a reluctant step back. Holding his hand out, he said, “Come with me.”
She frowned in curiosity, but laced her fingers with his, allowing him to lead her to the table. A smile lit her face as her gaze fell on all the details he’d been so meticulous in arranging, from the array of food carefully placed on pretty plates, to the beeswax candles throwing golden light across the small banquet.
He held his breath as he waited for her to see the gift. Her smile widened when she spotted the wrapped parcel.
She brushed her fingers over the cornflowers—they hadn’t wilted, and were as vividly blue as when he’d picked them—before undoing the string. Fastidiously, she unfolded the paper, as though she was loath to tear it.
“A fine book,” she said, holding up the slim volume. It was, in truth, rather plainly covered, the spine minimally adorned, which was by design. “Looks familiar…”
“It should. It was once yours, and now it’s yours again.”
Her eyes widened, then she opened the book and read the title page. “The Scoundrel’s Willing Captive.”
“The one I nicked from your collection of salacious novels,” he confessed, suddenly shy.
“You kept it all these years?”
Heat crept into his face. “Read it too many times to count. I used to sniff at its pages, hoping that I’d catch a hint of your scent. I’d hoped—” He swallowed. “I’d hoped that you’d touched yourself, and then turned a page, so that your fingers fragranced the paper. Just thinking about it, I’d hold the book in one hand and frig myself with the other.”
She sucked in a breath, her own cheeks stained deeply pink. Her tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip. He stared at it, fascinated.
“Do you want to keep the book?” she asked, her voice breathy. “For…inspiration?”
“I want you to have it back. I want to picture you holding it, thinking of me with my cock in my hand.”
Her lashes fluttered. “For someone with limited sexual experience,” she murmured, “you seem to know precisely what to say.”
“Instinct,” he answered. “And…I never thought myself the sort who felt things like inspiration—I’m a man of the sciences. But with you…” He struggled to locate the right words, to give them shape and set them free.
She was silent, allowing him to find his way on his own.
Drawing confidence from her, he said, “You inspire me. You always have.”
She held the book close to her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. Her face upturned, she stepped closer to him. “I never knew. I almost believed you didn’t like me—whenever I’d come into a room, you wouldn’t look at me or speak to me.”
“Hell, all I wanted to do was stare at you,” he admitted. “You were so lovely, but more than that, I could feel it within you. This…will. Something wild and strong and beautiful, but you wouldn’t let it out. Perhaps it was to protect yourself. Maybe it was to shield my family from your spirit, powerful as it is.”
Her gaze dropped. “You sensed this from seeing me across a drawing room?”
“If I’m wrong—”
“Not wrong.” She shook her head. “Here I’d congratulated myself on successfully playing the role of demure, proper governess. And I didn’t fool anyone.”
“But you did. Whenever my parents spoke of you, they always praised your propriety, that you were a good example for my sisters.”
A wry laugh broke from her. “And yet a sixteen-year-old boy saw through all that.”
“Not a boy.” Small flares of irritation flickered, because he was not a child, and she needed to know that. “This boy—who’s no longer a boy.”
“A man,” she murmured. After setting the book down, she stroked her hand along his shoulder, up his neck, and wove her fingers into the hair above his nape. “Kiss me—slow and deep.”
“I want to. God, how I want to.” He clasped her wrists, feeling her pulse beneath his fingers, trying to memorize her by touch. Because once he said what he needed to, she might push him away and walk out the door. Yet he had to give her the full truth before they went any further. “There’s something you need to know. Something that might make you end this now.”
Her hands dropped and she took a step back. “You’re affianced.”
“I’ve no bride awaiting me,” he answered, but had to add, “yet.”
She said nothing, her face still and unreadable.
“That farthing’s meaning far outpaces its monetary value, because it contains another of my father’s reminders.”