“That is unfortunate.” Her companion said.
Miranda barked out a laugh. Only, rather than sounding cynical, some of the hurt she felt escaped. She withdrew a fan and waved it below her chin to recover any dignity she’d lost.
Because her chortle had sounded almost like a sob.
Mr. Spencer didn’t comment but led her off the trail to a charming folly draped in ivy and other unrecognizable vines. It seemed to have been all but forgotten by the gardener. He covered her hand with his, comfortingly.
Miranda was well aware that he had not led her into the darkness so that he could comfort her.
Inside of the shelter, a wooden table split the space in two, flanked by two benches. The vines provided additional privacy, dangling down the sides like nature’s drapes.
Eerie shadows sent a shiver rolling through her, and he squeezed her hand yet again.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” Emotion caught her voice.
He pressed a handkerchief into her hand. It was something Baldwin would have done. He’d only been gone for eighteen months and yet it felt like a lifetime.
“He wasn’t really all that old. Sixty,” she confided. “And he seemed healthy enough.”
“His death came as a shock to you,” Mr. Spencer observed quietly from beside her. For some reason, his presence wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“It did.” She sniffed. “But he’s been gone for almost two years. I ought to stop missing him by now, really.” Baldwin had been good to her and, in turn, she’d done everything she could to make him happy.
He had been one of the only people in her life to ever show her any affection. With him gone, she’d experienced a sense of abandonment she had not expected.
But enough maudlin conversation. Self-pity wasn’t why she’d come here. And she would feel better after.
She would feel needed, precious, significant.
For a while.
Miranda dropped Mr. Spencer’s arm and grasped his hand instead, walking them deeper into the secluded shelter until the backs of her thighs pressed against the end of the table.
“But you did not invite me out here to listen to my maudlin tales.” She slid her hands up the lapels of his jacket and pulled his mouth down to meet hers.
Chapter 2
Friction
Peter had considered the possibility of kissing her before asking her to accompany him in the garden. In fact, he’d be lying to himself to deny that he’d wondered how her body would feel pressed against his.
He no longer had to wonder. He stifled a groan.
The sensation of her breasts pressed against his chest was better than he could possibly have imagined.
“Not so angelic, after all. Are you, Peter Spencer?” she whispered against his lips at the same time she stroked the wool of his trousers where his already engorged cock pulsed, eager to escape the confines of clothing.
She rubbed her palm over the stretched fabric, up and down his length, and then in a slow circle. She wasn’t afraid to apply force, to create friction.
It felt good. So damn good.
He wasn’t a virgin. Not at all, in fact. But more recently, he’d dedicated all of his attention to his music. Any physical release he’d enjoyed over the past two years had come at his own hand. Was this why he’d asked her to follow him into a dark garden?
He jerked his hips away from her. Much more and he was going to embarrass himself.
Logically, he knew there was nothing exceptional in this sort of behavior. Lady Starling was not a husband-hunting innocent. But marriage wasn’t in his future, near or otherwise, and he needed to be certain she understood that.
“Lady Starling.” He grasped her wrist. “I cannot make an honest woman of you.”
She laughed. And if anything, his words emboldened her. She pushed his waistcoat aside and fumbled at the buttons of his trousers. “I am quite aware, Mr. Spencer. And I won’t attempt to make an honest man of you. I simply want you inside me.”
“You don’t have to—” He gasped.
Her hand was on his cock, sliding and squeezing, rubbing, exerting the perfect amount of pressure, promising unheard of pleasure.
Did she think she owed him sexual favors for his kindness? His cock, hard and turgid, was prepared to take what she had to give. Instinctively, he thrust his hips forward.
“Tell me now if this isn’t what you want,” she said.
Peter opened his eyes enough so that he could read her expression. Her lips were parted, shiny from their kiss, and her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
Sensing his conflict, she halted her sensual onslaught and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Leave now if you don’t want me.” Organic sexuality threaded her voice. “But if you do, damn you, lift my skirts and take me.”
It was not a request; it was a demand.
He studied her eyes, vaguely noticing golden flecks around her pupil, like glimmering stars of light in a dark forest. What drove this woman? He saw desire, yes, but he saw something else. Something he couldn’t quite identify.
“Fine then.” She dropped her lashes, as though sensing defeat and then jerked her hand back as though burned. And that was the moment he recognized it.
He did not allow her to push him away. Her wanting him wasn’t about taking casual pleasure. Her wanting him was fueled by vulnerability, rejection, loneliness.
If this was what she wanted, what she needed, then he would give it to her.
“Very well.” He nudged her backward against the table, his hands groping at her skirts until the hem was around her waist. He lifted her onto the surface, holding her at the very edge, hooking his arms beneath her knees.
Her posture, head tipped back, spine arched, conveyed that she didn’t want his kiss. She didn’t need seduction.
He widened his stance, hovering the tip of his cock at her entrance.
“Do it.” She pulsed against him. “Now.”
Her need was a tangible thing; desperation hovered in the air around him. It gave him a power he didn’t usually feel.
Peter pushed past her silken petals, surrounded by velvet heat, but forced himself to pause for her body to adjust to his girth.
“More,” she all but begged. Her inner muscles throbbed around him.
Peter watched her expression, oddly reminded of a night he and a few other gents had stumbled into an opium den. They hadn’t remained for long, wise enough not to flirt with the milk of the poppy. But in those brief moments, he had been nearly overwhelmed by the aura of pain there.
Emptiness. Misery. Hopelessness.
He buried himself a few more inches, exerting control he hadn’t realized he possessed. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face and another burned one of his eyes.
She tightened her legs around him, a vice around his waist, drawing him inside in an almost violent spasm. “More.”
He met her with a thrust of his own, and she gasped.
“Yes.”
And then another.
Heaven. Completion.
The wet heat surrounding him was a reminder that he’d gone far too long without a woman. He’d allowed only his music to absorb his lust. When he’d awakened in the night, disquieted by sexual urges, he’d poured his energies into playing.