“Thank you,” she said, trying to think of something to make his visit less awkward. “Would you like to sit down? That must have been a strenuous climb.”
Thaddeus moved forward but didn’t seat himself. Instead, he stopped just in front of her. Joan’s smile trembled because his eyes were dark and intense, with an expression she’d never seen before.
Her heart sped up, and she rushed into speech. “If you’re climbing into my window like Ophelia, I suppose that your flowers have meaning?”
His eyes searched her face. “They mean that I want to marry you.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “Probably some other things too, but that’s the most important one.”
Joan was rarely silenced, but she was now. In fact, she only realized she was gaping at him when she snapped her mouth closed. “You do?”
Thaddeus nodded.
“But you can’t—”
He made an abrupt movement. “Don’t. My father made that mistake, and wretched though he was as a parent, I can still learn from him.”
Joan felt dazed, as if she were in a play but had lost the script. Never read it, in fact. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t.” He stared down at her, tall and intimidating, though she felt entirely at ease in his presence. “Our bargain is fulfilled. You performed in public. I refuse to marry Lucy Lockett.”
“I see,” she said, feeling very happy.
“I refuse to give you the name of a gentleman to marry.” His jaw set.
Joan smiled at him. “I can find my own candidates.”
“I’m one of them,” Thaddeus said. He ran his hand through his hair again. Part of it was standing straight up. His gaze was unflinching. “I shall fight for you, Joan. That’s what the silly girl Ophelia was doing. She gave back the love letters when instructed, but then she climbed in Hamlet’s bloody window to make a point. To fight for what she wanted.”
Her thoughts jumbled and her heart raced to a gallop. “I don’t know what I want.”
“It will come to you,” Thaddeus said. He took a step forward and clasped her hands in his. “It’s the middle of the night and thoroughly inappropriate, but will you kiss me? Please?”
“More inappropriate than kissing on an island?”
“Yes,” he said uncompromisingly. “There’s a bed behind us.”
The moment he said the word, the bed loomed in Joan’s view, a soft haven piled with pillows. It would be more comfortable than the picnic blanket. Heat simmered through her. Not that she meant to . . .
She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. His lips were cool when her lips first touched them, but then they tumbled into a kiss that felt like the beginning of a sentence. A beginning to the play, to the carriage ride, to the . . .
To everything.
She pushed the thought away and concentrated on running her hands over his head, feeling strong, silky hair curl around her fingers. He would hate a true curl, she thought dimly, but his hair had life.
A long time later, perhaps five minutes, more likely an hour, she stumbled backward, bringing Thaddeus with her, and managed to get him onto the bed. “I’m tired,” she said, when he looked as if he might disagree.
Instantly, his brows drew together.
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Not that I want to sleep at the moment.” She wound her arms around his neck and ran her tongue along the seam of his lips.
He succumbed with a grunt, digging his elbows into the bed, kissing her again, deeply. His chest touched hers but the rest of his body angled to the side, and for the life of her, Joan couldn’t figure out how to pull him on top of her.
Not for . . . that.
But it had felt so good on the island. It would feel even better now, with a mattress beneath them. Finally, she resorted to her favorite tool: speech. “Up here,” she gasped, breathless, tugging at him.
“Bossy,” Thaddeus muttered, but he shifted. It felt so good that the air swooshed from her lungs, and a nakedly desirous noise came from her throat.
Thaddeus stared down at her, his eyes intent and grave.
“Don’t tell me that doesn’t feel good,” Joan said, playing with his hair again and dusting his chin with kisses. “I can feel you.”
He rocked his hips forward. “Improper.”
“We’ve been more improper. Besides, you’re Ophelia, trying to change my mind about you.”
“I never simply try,” the future duke stated.
“No?” Laughter was burbling up in her chest, joy making itself known in liquid syllables.
“I succeed.” Flatly said, with total confidence.
She nipped Thaddeus’s lip. “How would you define success at the moment?”
“I want all the love letters you write in the future.” He said it even as his eyes asked a question about the past.
She snorted. “You must be joking. To whom could I possibly have written love letters? Although I was deeply taken by a dancing master when we were girls. My father had to send him away because I would lurk in the corridors to give him roses. I found out later that the poor fellow begged to leave the castle.”
Thaddeus paused in the act of kissing her chin, one hand making delicious circles on her hip. “Fled, did he?”
“I gather my courtship was overly fervent,” Joan said, her eyes glinting with laughter.
“I won’t mind,” Thaddeus said, “if you wish to court me.”
“I shan’t,” Joan stated. “I—”
But he was kissing her again, and she lost track of the sentence. By the time he drew back, her body was alive, and her mind was silent. Need was coursing through her, making it impossible to think. His hand was still on her hip, so she slowly bent her knee, causing her nightgown to fall over his fingers.
“That’s an invitation,” she whispered. Everything in her was clenched, tight with longing.
“To touch you?”
She could feel herself turning pink. “Or . . .”
“Or?”
“You could kiss me,” she said in a rush. “The way you did before. Not that it means I agree to marry you, because I haven’t.”
“No?” The word was a drowsy murmur on the silent air.
She eased her legs apart. “No. Not—not yet.”
His hand moved in just the right way, caressing her thigh, his powerful fingers stroking her skin. Her breath caught, and she let her knee fall to the side. “Please,” she whispered. “Thaddeus.”
He groaned. “I love it when you say my name.” His voice was rough and low.
“I love it when you touch me,” she breathed, arching into his touch. “Oh, yes, like that.”
His other hand did no more than encircle her breast, rub his thumb once across her taut nipple, and she began to tremble. He moved his fingers and an embarrassing squeak came from her throat. Her eyes flew open, and he laughed silently, his mouth drifting over hers. “Like this?”
“Yes,” she choked.
“Joan,” he whispered, and then he plundered her mouth at the same moment that his hand played her like a stringed instrument. She convulsed under his touch, squeezing her eyes closed and crying out.
Feeling rippled through her again and again: It would begin to subside, and Thaddeus would languidly move his fingers again, and new sensation would roll away from his touch, making her gasp for air.