“You own property?” Perhaps it was the context—naked, under the covers, replete with spent passion—but Ann’s admission had the quality of a confidence.
“I lease it out, or my solicitors do. The proceeds go into the cent-per-cents.”
She fell silent as if expecting Rye to leave the bed in a fit of male insecurity because she wasn’t penniless.
“My family seat is let out as well,” he said. “I did not see how I could manage my English acres in addition to farms in Provence, vineyards in Champagne, and a London business. Not without hiring a parcel of expensive stewards or factors. Something had to go, and letting out the country house was the logical choice. Do you miss your home?”
“That’s complicated.” She rolled to her back, and Rye wanted to pull her close again. “For more than half my life, I haven’t lived there, and nobody I love is there anymore. It’s a place full of memories.”
“Spain is a place full of memories for me, and I assure you, I have no wish to return there ever, and yet, neither of us has sold our family homes, have we?”
His question provoked a frown. “I have my old age to consider. A cook’s post is physically demanding and more than a little dangerous. At some point, I will be venerable enough to maintain my own household without causing a scandal. I will have earned my spinster honors and the freedom that go with them. What of you?”
What of him? Rye racketed from London to France and back, tried to keep an eye on Jeanette without intruding, managed the boys, peddled his wares…
“Like you, I envision a time later in life when I am not so caught up in plying my trade, in getting and spending and laying waste my powers, to quote Wordsworth. My childhood was happy, and if I ever have children, I want the same for them. Fresh air, a wood to play in, summer afternoons spent reading tales of heroic nonsense.”
And for the first time, he could envision such a life with a specific woman, the one sharing the bed with him. Why her?
Because Ann worked hard for the sheer satisfaction of accomplishing something meaningful. Because she’d turned her back on an easy road and pursued a dream instead. Because she had taken Hannah on despite the resulting inconvenience.
Because she made love like she meant it.
And yet, Ann had put in her years as an apprentice and earned her way to a prestigious post as a cook. Was she to give that up for the privilege of risking her life in childbed every two years?
“You are silent,” Ann said. “I treasure that about you. You don’t maunder on to hear your own voice, and you notice what’s around you. I don’t want to leave this bed.”
Neither did Rye, but a gentleman—especially one without his clothes—did not presume. “Shall I love you again?”
“We will love each other.” She straddled him, bringing the covers up over her shoulders and then tucking close.
Rye reveled in caresses to her back, arms, and—when she gave him the room—her breasts, and in delicate explorations of her feminine flesh. She allowed that and reciprocated with cautious attention to his stones and cock. A trickle of desire became a stream and then a river in full spate.
And yet, he waited, until Ann was undulating slick flesh along the length of his rigid arousal.
“Must I send an engraved invitation, Annie?”
“Yes. I haven’t much experience with men who take their time. Send an invitation or give the command, and please do it soon.”
“Do you cook your best dishes in a hurry?”
She went still. “Rushing a recipe is a sure means of ruining the result.”
“Precisely.” Rye shaped her hips, loving the feel of her. “Some meals can be thrown together without much effort, and they nourish adequately. Others must be prepared carefully, and they deserve to be savored. Take your time with me, Annie. You can always try a different approach next week.”
Her smile was complicated. Clearly, she was pleased with the notion of taking charge of their lovemaking, but sadness lurked in her gaze as well. A next encounter was possible—she had a half day each week—but then what? What of next month or next year?
Rye could not offer her declarations of undying devotion, but he could offer her pleasure and affection, and so he did. When, after three eternities of fiddling about, she took him in hand and fitted their bodies together, he left the decision of how fast and how deeply to complete the joining to her.
When she sought his kisses, he gave them to her.
When satisfaction overtook her, he abetted her pleasure so vigorously she moaned against his chest and clutched his hand for dear life.
And when she subsided into his arms, panting and flushed, he held her as if he would never let her go.
Though, of course, he must. He wouldn’t want to, but when the time came, he must let her go nonetheless.
Chapter Twelve
Ann had never known exactly how to handle what came after a tryst. The problem had usually been solved by the threat of discovery, which necessitated a hasty return to normal duties. That same haste meant she’d never been so thoroughly satisfied as she was drowsing in Orion Goddard’s arms.
Or so bewildered.
She’d lost count of the times he’d sent her spinning off into bliss, sometimes on a gale-force wind, sometimes on a gentle breeze. And always, always, he’d been there to hold her and soothe her when passion eased its grip.
Orion Goddard was a lavishly considerate lover, tender, skilled, affectionate, and so… so at ease with the whole business.
No, that wasn’t quite right. He was at ease with himself. His day could not be ruined by an insinuation that he’d used too much flour in his béchamel sauce. He could admit errors and fears, and he wasn’t shocked that Ann had chosen a career in the kitchen over rural domesticity.
But then, rural domesticity with Orion hadn’t been among the options she’d considered. Was it an option now? Did she want it to be?
“Buttered gingerbread,” he said, stroking Ann’s bum with a warm hand. “With mulled cider if you have it, a restorative after our exertions.”
His touch was like buttered gingerbread, just as rich, delectable, and smooth. Ann peered down at him, for she was still sprawled on his chest. “You are hungry?”
“My appetite for certain pleasures in present company knows no limit, but a shared snack would be a paltry consolation for having to leave this bed.”
So that’s what came next. He offered his flattery with a brisk little pat on her backside, and still, Ann did not want to give up the warmth of his embrace.
“I have misplaced my self-discipline,” she said, forcing herself to sit up, which put her nether parts in contact with his breeding organs. Rye brushed her braid back over her shoulder, as casually as if ladies perched naked upon him regularly.
Ann doubted that was the case. His intimate company was skilled, but Orion would never be profligate with his affections.
“What?” he asked, leaning up to wrap his arms around her. “Do you need to hear that this was special, Annie? That you have forever altered my definition of lovemaking?”
He was special. She was too much of a coward to say that. “You make me feel special.”
“Because you are, and if a lover can’t remind a lady that she’s precious and dear, he has no business putting himself on offer to her. If he can provide her such assurances, she might like the fellow, but only a little and only in the privacy of her thoughts.”