All along, the pressure of his member—of his cock, dear God—ensured her that this hunger building between them would be satisfied.
“Beautiful,” he murmured when his mouth abandoned hers. The stubble of his whiskers scratched her jaw and neck as he tasted his way lower.
Her fingers threaded the strands of his hair and gripped his head. So gloriously soft and springy—not at all as she’d believed it would be.
She arched her back when the hot, wet, heat of his mouth replaced his hand on one of her nipples. Dear God! She’d never known such a sensation, such excitement and delicious anticipation.
One of his palms slid beneath her, squeezing her buttocks; the other moved to cover her other breast. At this point, Margaret began to lose all intelligible thought.
Offering an invitation as old as time, she dropped her knees wide so that he could settle atop her. Legs, strong and thick and hard, kneeled between her own.
And then his mouth abandoned her breasts, and his tongue trailed down sensitive skin to her navel. Dipping inside of it.
Her fingers tangled in his hair and rather than arch her back, she found herself thrusting her hips off the mattress, his hand assisting her.
The heat of his mouth abandoned her navel and dipped lower, whiskers scratching, tongue drawing a lazy line to the patch of hair at her apex, and then lower. He inhaled greedily and then turned his head from side to side, scraping his jaw along her inner thighs. His fingertips stroked at her most intimate flesh.
“George!” she cried out.
He stilled. To tease her? To torment her? “Oh, my God, George. Don’t stop.” She wiggled to encourage him.
But he halted his sensual onslaught. After a moment, he drew back, and then, most disappointingly, pulled away, leaving her cold when the night air replaced his touch.
“George?” she said again, hesitantly this time. Was it possible her enthusiasm repelled him? But that did not make sense. He’d seemed to be enjoying all of it as much as she had.
The mattress groaned.
“Where the hell is a Godforsaken flint?” he groused.
Margaret froze. George never swore. In fact, he’d criticized those who did on more than one occasion.
Sudden awareness of this man’s smooth skin, his soft hair, and now the difference in his voice sent the truth of what she’d done slamming into her.
“George… It is you, isn’t it?” Oh, dear God. Oh, dear God.
“George Kirkley is my uncle. Are you not the little maid who flirted with me earlier? The redhead?”
Oh, but she ought to have realized. His skin was not that of an older gentleman but of a youthful one, sinewy and not yet weathered from decades of living. And his taste.
She ought to have known! In horror, Margaret rolled to the opposite side of the bed where she’d dropped her gown moments ago… minutes? Seconds? Hours? Oh, dear God! Oh, dear God!
Searching for the opening and then the armholes, she hastily scrambled to cover herself before he could locate a flint and illuminate their… situation.
The sound of drapes opening coincided with a slash of moonlight cutting across the room.
“Who are you?” he demanded, moonlight reflecting off his silver eyes.
But Margaret was not about to linger for any such interrogation or conversation. Seeing the outline of the door, she burst to her feet and sprung for her escape.
Once in the corridor, she wasted no time. Fearing he would come after her, as though she was a burglar or spy after all, she didn’t even take the time to look backward.
She would make for a dismal spy indeed! She nearly laughed hysterically at the thought.
She’d seduced the wrong man!
The wrong man! She swallowed hard as she rounded the corner to safety.
Thank heavens she was familiar with her surroundings. In a matter of seconds, she had arrived at her own chamber, entered, and locked the door behind her.
She could hardly comprehend the error she’d made. And then she frowned. She had gone to the precise chamber Penelope had told her belonged to George. She was certain of it.
Penelope had been mistaken! Margaret would take her sister-in-law to task in the morning for making such an egregious error, but for tonight, she could hardly comprehend the magnitude of what she’d nearly done.
And not with just anyone but with her fiancé’s nephew!
Oh, dear God! She chastised herself again and again. She deserved this for allowing herself to attempt such a selfish errand.
At the same time, her traitorous body throbbed with the wicked need he’d awakened. She touched her fingertips to her lips. They were swollen. Her breasts ached and an emptiness at her core beseeched her to be touched.
“Oh, Lawrence! What have I done?”
3
A Late Arrival
By the time Sebastian Wright, Marquess of Rockingham, was able to step into his trousers and stumble to the door to peer outside, his late-night visitor was long gone. In frustration and disbelief, he scrubbed one hand down his face.
“Lucky, lucky Uncle George.” He chuckled as he closed the door, brows raised.
Just over one week ago, in London, his mother had informed him that her only brother, dear old Uncle George, was finally going to take a wife. She’d announced that Sebastian’s uncle, who’d sworn never to marry, had absented himself from Mayfair a few weeks ago in order to make an offer to Viscount Danbury’s widowed sister, Lady Asherton. He’d traveled to the far ends of England, in fact, to do so.
And now Sebastian had, as well. Because dear old Uncle George had forgotten to take with him a most vital necessity: a ring.
“You will take it to him, won’t you, Sebastian?” The priceless heirloom had been set aside by his mother’s family for the second son to gift his intended. “The house party promises to be most enjoyable, and it’s not as though you have anything better to do with your time.”
“George wants to marry?” Sebastian could hardly believe it. His uncle had never shown any inclination whatsoever to take on a leg shackle. “He has fallen in love with the woman?” It could be the only explanation.
“At his age, why else would he break his vow of bachelorhood?” His mother had shrugged. “But now that he has, he really must do it properly. George is a very handsome man and of an excellent lineage, but the lady is a countess and the ring might help him to persuade her if she is wavering. It would make me so very happy to see my brother settle down and be happy—perhaps even begin a family.”
She’d exerted the most powerful item in her arsenal upon Sebastian—motherly guilt. Something Sebastian nearly always succumbed to.
“George must have the ring to present to her, and there is no one else who can be trusted with something so valuable,” she’d implored him. “Please, darling?”
He was quite certain that she had other reasons for sending him to the ends of the earth. The Duchess of Standish wished to remove her eldest son from the clutches of one Miss Celeste Blanchette, the opera singer who’d caught his eye this month. And, of course, she’d been successful. Because her eldest was a good son, a loyal son.
Padding barefooted across the floor, Sebastian adjusted himself and winced. Celeste would have come in handy in this moment. Her mouth was not only gifted for song…