Instinct.
It wasn’t something that dukes were encouraged to think about. Who needed instinct when he had generations of tradition to follow?
Instinct told Thaddeus how Joan wanted to be kissed, when she would welcome a nibble, how to turn his thumb in order to create a rougher stroke. She felt sweeter and more delicious than anything he’d ever tasted. He kissed his way over a taut expanse of pale skin, and dusted her belly with kisses.
When he spoke, his voice came out in a rasp. “I want to touch you.” Following his instinct, he slid a hand between her legs, clasped her tightly, and felt her body quiver. She was hot and soft through the silk breeches, naked flesh waiting for his caress.
Of course she wouldn’t wear a pair of drawers under her breeches.
“Only a touch,” he added.
Joan had turned rosy pink. “You are so much more adventuresome than I would have expected.”
He pressed his fingers slightly and her breath caught.
“With you,” he said wryly. “My second picnic.”
“Family picnics are never like this!”
He tapped his fingers, and she drew in a breath with a little squeak. “That feels so good.”
Thaddeus was dimly aware of all he’d forgotten: manners and civilization, for one. His father and his title, for another. Gone, as lightly as if they were garments that a man put on in the morning and took off in the evening.
Life, real life, was here, with Joan, whose eyes were not dazed but sparkling, whose mouth was red, who arched into his hand and then looked surprised at herself.
“I trust you,” she told the open air, before throwing one arm over her eyes.
Her breeches were made from silk grown fragile from age.
He dragged his hands over the curve of her hips. “Tsk, tsk. These breeches cover your kneecaps. Quite unfashionable, Hamlet. And ribbon garters?” He snorted.
“Hair ribbons,” Joan said, peeking at him. “Hush with your criticism. Even as children, my brothers had stout legs. The breeches flap at the knee without ribbons.”
Thaddeus pulled free the second ribbon, and ran his fingers teasingly down her calves and then under the breeches to cup her knees. “Are you quite certain, Joan?”
“Touching only,” she commanded, moving her arm so she could see his face.
Until the past two years, Thaddeus had considered himself a lucky man. Fortunate. Privileged in every way possible, barring his father’s absence from his life.
Now he knew that he hadn’t even understood what could have been in his life, were he truly fortunate.
This, this, sunlit glade. He glanced up and found the squirrel, having tamed them with a scold, was busily investigating the open boxes on the other side of the cloth.
“Yes.” He ran his hands over her calves again. “If you’d prefer, we can stop here, Joan.” He heard the intimate note in his own voice with wonder.
Intimacy was . . . Intimacy was like laughter. Something other people did.
“I’m curious,” Joan admitted, her cheeks stained red.
Her head sank back, arm over her eyes again, and he breathed a silent prayer of gratitude—and pulled her breeches gently down her rounded hips, slender legs, off her feet. Put it away, carefully, so he didn’t incur another scolding from the squirrel.
Before he did anything else, he moved forward so he could gently lift her arm and kiss her mouth, smiling down at her. “It’s just me.”
“You’re clothed, and I’m not. Outside.”
“If we were both unclothed, I might abrogate the rules that have governed my life.” His voice was wry.
“Perhaps that was Hamlet’s problem,” Joan murmured. “Ophelia climbed in his bedroom window when he didn’t have a barrier of clothing to protect his honor.”
Thaddeus shrugged. Personally, he considered Hamlet a scoundrel who wandered around braying Revenge, breaking Ophelia’s trust and her mind—and what about when he ordered his two best friends killed?
Yet Joan admired the prince, obviously, so he held his tongue.
He kissed his way from her breasts, down the gentle curve of her stomach, nibbling to hear her giggle again, down one leg to her knee, starting back toward the soft thatch of hair between her legs.
Joan seemed to be holding her breath. He eased her legs apart and dropped kisses on her thighs, loving the creamy skin that felt like finest silk.
He heard a noise. Throat clearing. He raised his head.
Joan was looking down at him with desire, curiosity, interest. Her cheeks were red as fire. “Touching does not include kissing.”
He pressed a kiss on one thigh. “Yes, it does.”
“Nor looking. You’re looking at me,” she pointed out.
He ducked his head and dropped a kiss on her other thigh. “Yes. You smell so good, and you are beautiful, like the most beautiful flower in the world.”
“You—”
“I want to kiss you everywhere, Joan.” The words hung on the air like the lazy chirp of a sleepy bird.
She swallowed. “I’ve heard of that,” she whispered. “Read about it, I mean. In a book of etchings.”
“So have I.”
“But you haven’t done it before?”
“No. I offered, once, but the lady in question declined.” He brushed his lips against her thigh again, followed with a tiny stroke of his tongue.
She startled and gasped.
He followed his kiss with a lick to the delicate crease of her leg, nestled beside a soft thatch of hair. It was natural to turn his cheek, to nuzzle her. She smelled like a perfume that would cost a fortune.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
The air whooshed from her lungs.
“I love your smell,” he said, his voice rough, nuzzling her again. “Lavender, sweetly feminine. Vanilla, jasmine, lemon.”
He looked up to meet her wide eyes. “What?”
“I’ve never heard anyone talk that way.”
“I want to taste,” he said, his voice dropping below a growl.
“I feel so naked,” Joan whispered.
Thaddeus forced himself to move away.
She met his eyes and, to his shock, a smile lit her eyes. Lazily, she reached above her head again and stretched. Her body lay before him, gleaming, as if one of the stars he dreamed of had fallen to earth.
“It’s unnerving, but I like it,” Joan announced. Her eyes shone like starlight.
“I—” But the words didn’t come to him.
Her lips curled. “You may.”
“May?”
“Continue,” Joan said, laughing. “You may continue.”
Despite himself, Thaddeus discovered he was smiling too. “Continue what?” he asked, making his tone innocent.
Joan put her hands behind her head, and now she was grinning at him impishly. “Kissing me,” she said baldly.
He didn’t wait for clarification but eased her legs farther apart. He understood, dimly, that he’d been given the first gift in his life that truly mattered. For this moment, she had given herself into his care. His own fallen star.
A kiss on her thigh, a lick, a kiss, another lick . . .
“Bloody hell!” the gentlewoman in question gasped.
Thaddeus caught back a grin. Then he settled into the task, letting the warm sunshine and birdsong become part of a tapestry of desire he was building, reminding himself that he wouldn’t take off any of his own clothing: He hadn’t lost his ethical compass.