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  Jacqueline snuggled closer, not a care in the world. It had been a long while since Anne had held a child this way. With Jacqueline, the action felt as natural as breathing.

  Thankfully, when Jacqueline entered earlier, she hadn’t closed the door all the way, which allowed Anne to maneuver the sleeping girl through the narrow opening.

  The moment she stepped into the corridor, she came face-to-face with the Marquess of Shevington. He leaned against the wall, a hard look on his chiseled features, his body tense. Exhilaration like nothing she’d ever experienced before quickened her pulse. Thank goodness she’d had a firm hold on Jacqueline, or she would have dropped her precious bundle.

  “May I help you, my lord?”

  He let out a pained chuckle. “God forgive me, yes.”

  When he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, saying nothing more, Anne took that as her cue to leave. “Pardon me, my lord. I need to take Jacqueline back to the nursery.”

  She scooted around him as if he were a rabid dog and hastened away. Even though she’d made this journey only once before, her feet carried her to the nursery with absolutely no help from her mind. For her thoughts stayed trapped in a moment of time, centered on a tortured marquess.

  Tortured, yes. That was the exact emotion she saw blazing in his eyes for the brief second their gazes had connected. So many questions gurgled to the surface. Too many for her to grasp before the next deluge hit.

  After she had settled Jacqueline into her bed, Anne hurried back to her bedchamber. She practically skidded around the final corner and came to a stop. It was then that one question elbowed all the others aside. Why hadn’t he stayed?

  The empty corridor stretched before her, desolate and gray. In the logical part of her mind, she knew his defection was for the best. Had he stayed, they would more than likely have made love. She could no longer deny her body’s longing for a deeper, more intimate connection with him. And he wanted her too. She had seen the need burning in his eyes before he’d turned away.

  Though she had little experience with such matters, she had no doubt that one night in his arms wouldn’t be enough. Before long, his entire staff would know about their late night activities, and her reputation would be in shreds.

  Suddenly chilled to the bone, Anne entered her bedchamber with the same enthusiasm as a prisoner on her way to the gallows. She hovered just inside, peering at her surroundings through a fog-stained lens. The happiness she’d felt earlier was nowhere to be found. She’d been a fool to believe she could walk away from his lordship unscathed.

  They hadn’t even made love yet, and here she was, maudlin and hurting. How would she ever survive him if he welcomed her into his bed—over and over? She wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  A strong arm snaked around her waist. Anne’s breath caught in the back of her throat. For a brief moment, she thought of the masculine silhouette she’d seen in the woods on the day of her arrival. Of the overwhelming unease that had pushed her back toward safety. In the next instant, all thoughts of danger fled. Somehow she knew, knew the man holding her from behind was Lord Shevington.

  Had she caught his familiar musky scent? Or had she seen his reflection in the window across the room? Recognition didn’t stop her from tensing against his hold.

  “I couldn’t leave,” he whispered near her ear.

  She closed her eyes, absorbing his words. He hadn’t rejected her. He’d stayed because he wanted this as much as she did. Despite all the reasons why they shouldn’t, they were going to spend the night entangled in each other’s arms, gloriously naked, and passionately sated. The darkness lifted, and Anne leaned back in his arms.

  He kissed her shoulder, then smoothed his lips along the exposed line of her neck. “Tell me to leave, and I will.” He swallowed, hard, his words belying his internal struggle to do the honorable thing.

  She did not want honorable.

  Covering his hand at her waist, she showed him where she wanted it most—against her aching breast. A whoosh of warm, pent-up breath fanned over her throat. He tested the waters, squeezing her, learning the feel of her.

  The warm pressure of his palm caused her back to arch, seeking more. She felt equal parts exposed and vulnerable and safe and cherished.

  “My God, you’re beautiful.” His other hand slid down her stomach with slow, gentle pressure. He did not stop until his two middle fingers cradled her intimately.

  Anne clenched her thighs together, holding him in place. His touch was decadent, foreign, exciting. “I feel as though I’m splintering in two. Kiss me. Please.”

  With great care, he lifted her chin until their gazes met. “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  His expression flattened.

  The vise on her chest made breathing difficult, speaking impossible. She settled for a wobbly smile and a choked out, “Yes.”

  “Which is it, my dear?” He brushed a lock of hair away from her face.

  “Both.” She grasped his hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I want to be with you more than anything. But I’m not blind to the consequences of my decision.”

  “What do you want from me then?”

  “Kiss me, touch me, make love to me for as long as we have together.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Shev drew in a deep, even breath and released it slowly, methodically, forcing the tension from his body. The calming exercise was the only thing keeping him from taking Anne against the solid oak door.

  Instead of ravishment, Shev wanted to take his time with Anne. She deserved a considerate lover for her first time, not a beast bent upon his own pleasure. Though there was something to be said for a fast, hard coupling against an uncomfortable surface.

  He dropped a kiss on Anne’s sweet, upturned mouth. “Don’t move.” Closing the door, he turned the key. The silence that followed vibrated in the air. Anticipation.

  When he faced Anne again, his gut clenched at the sight of her flushed cheeks and beautiful body silhouetted beneath the thin scrap of nightclothes she wore. Nerves he hadn’t experienced since his first encounter with a woman trembled low in his stomach. Sweat dampened his palms, and heat scored the back of his neck.

  “Is something wrong?” Anne smoothed her hands down the wrap that covered her night rail. “I’m afraid my clothing tends toward practicality rather than seduction.” Embarrassment edged her voice.

  Shev closed the distance between them. “Your beauty needs no such embellishments to shine.”

  The smile she sent him couldn’t quite mask her skepticism.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your hand. Hold it out.”

  She carefully did as instructed. Grasping her fingers, he lifted them to his mouth and kissed each delicate knuckle, one by one, then lowered her hand until her palm covered his straining erection.

  “Here is your proof.” He coaxed her fingers down his length, gritting his teeth at the exquisite torture of her innocent touch. “This is what your practical attire does to me.” Another stroke. “I burn for you, Anne. For your body, your caress, your cries of passion.” He traced his thumb along her lower lip. “I don’t give a damn about lace and furbelows. All I need is you.”

  Gratitude misted her eyes. She acknowledged his declaration with a gentle, exploratory squeeze. His staff jumped and his heart raced. Anne was a fast learner.

  With shaking hands, he cradled her face and tilted her chin up, readying her for his kiss. He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth and felt her sharp intake of breath. He nuzzled his nose against hers, first one side, then the other, before kissing the opposite corner of her delectable mouth. He could feast on her all day and never tire of her taste.

  “Lord Shevington—”

  “Shev…Marcus…lover…anything but Lord Shevington.”

  “Marcus, may I see you?”

  He took a moment to replay her query in his mind. No matter how he twisted the phrasing around, he s
till came to the same conclusion. She wanted him to disrobe. Thank the Lord. He had never much enjoyed prolonged love play; however, he knew some women needed the gentle—or not so gentle—worshipping of their bodies before they could reach their pleasure.

  But with his Anne, he found himself looking forward to both forms of seduction—hard and fast, slow and thorough.

  Shev covered her mouth with his, pushing his tongue between her lips, tasting, seeking, claiming. When he pulled away, he spread his arms wide. “Would you care to do the honors?”

  She eyed his fashionable ensemble, nibbling on her lower lip.

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Please.”

  He held back a smile at her earnest plea. Had he ever been so innocent? Probably, but it had been so long ago, the memory was lost.

  “Remove my coat, then untie my cravat.”

  She gave him a quick nod before fumbling with his coat’s large buttons. Concentration lined her brow.

  “Relax.” Shev reached up and smoothed his thumb over the crease. “You’ll soon learn how much I abhor perfection. Do what feels natural, not what you think I’ll want.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “You won’t.” He bent and placed a kiss on her lips. “You couldn’t.”

  “You have more faith in me than I deserve.” Her gaze skittered away. “I may be a good governess, but I have little experience with men.”

  He hooked a finger beneath her chin, nudging her attention upward. “This is what I know, Anne Crawford.” Shev allowed all the emotion that had been welling up inside him to surface. “Because of you, I am happier now than I have been in a lifetime. I savor every moment with you—your wit, your kindness, and your innocence.” He punctuated each point with a feather light brush of his lips.

  While he sought to comfort her, she sought to disrobe him. The realization nearly unmanned him. He shuddered at the feel of his silken neckcloth gliding along his neck and falling away.

  She moved behind him, grasping the lapels of his coat and drawing off the form-fitted article. With great care, she draped both pieces of clothing over the back of a nearby chair.

  Rather than look to him for additional guidance, she took control, pointing to a chair. “Please sit, my lord.”

  Once again, Shev struggled to hide his smile. Even with passion singing in her veins, his proper governess spoke to him with polite deference rather than as a lover, a partner. “If you must be so blasted polite, the least you could do is use my Christian name.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” she replied, her lips twitching.

  Later, Shev would reflect on this pivotal moment. Of how one teasing comment made a marquess fall in love with the governess.

  Later.

  Right now, he needed to figure out how to get his damned boots off without his valet.

  He managed the feat in record time though he could not applaud his finesse with the task. When he dropped the second boot to the floor, he motioned Anne forward. “The rest is all yours.”

  Boldness infused her body, making her movements languorous, sensuous. She glided into the vee of his legs with the confidence of a lover who had been there before. The tips of her fingers traced along his jawline, brows, and the waves of his hair with a reverence that made his throat ache.

  “Anne—”

  She stopped whatever nonsense had been about to roll off his tongue with a soft, delicate kiss. Even though his instincts urged him to deepen their connection and pull her close, he fought the impulse. He wanted to see where she would take them. What she would do to him.

  Straightening, she untied her wrap and allowed it to float to the floor. The night rail she wore beneath was so sheer Shev could make out every curve of her beautiful body, every previously forbidden valley and secret dale.

  She tugged on the tie holding her modest neckline together. The moment she did, the sides gaped open, revealing the tops of her generous breasts.

  Shev’s mouth went dry. He made to stand, and she took a step back, prompting him to resume his seat or the show would be over. He sat.

  “Remove your shirt, Marcus.”

  Grabbing the material between his shoulders, he hauled the voluminous shirt over his head and let it spill onto the floor next to her wrap.

  Anne’s sharp intake of breath had him struggling to find his own. From the way she stared at his bare torso in awed silence, he assumed she approved of what she saw.

  His chest expanded under her appreciative gaze. He liked that his body pleased her. He liked it very much. “Now you, love.”

  She flicked him a startled glance.

  “Surely you did not think you would be the only one enjoying the view this evening.”

  She laughed. “Fair play and all that?”

  “Indeed.”

  Not taking her eyes from his, she rolled one shoulder until her night rail slipped free, exposing one pert, mouthwatering breast. A hard nipple sat in the midst of a dark, rose-colored aureole, his favorite color.

  Perfection.

  She peered down at herself, transfixed by her own nudity. Then her hand slid beneath her breast, lifting, squeezing, teasing her plump flesh.

  When she peered at him out of the corner of her eye, his control snapped.

  * * *

  Anne couldn’t believe she was standing in front of the Marquess of Shevington and peeling off her clothing.

  And he liked it. Liked her.

  When her night rail had clung to one shoulder rather than fall around her feet, she’d glanced down to see the result of her pathetic attempt at seduction. The moment she saw her bare flesh, her mind flashed to Marcus and what he must think of her failed attempt to follow his lead.

  She had not expected to see him so…molten. Entranced. Ready to spring.

  Now, he loomed before her, raw desire etched into his every sinew, every breath.

  “Anne, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to play this game any longer.”

  She shivered. Apprehension, longing, and something indefinable vibrated along her every nerve, clashing and warring with each other with every breath. But somewhere in the midst of the chaos, she found the courage to shrug the rest of the way out of her nightclothes.

  For what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality a mere half second, she waited. Waited for him to judge her every curve, every blemish, every lack of femininity.

  A hiss of masculine satisfaction pierced the air, and Anne’s heart careened into her chest before smoothing into a steady, though accelerated, rhythm.

  The backs of Marcus’s fingers caressed her cheek. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” Before she could respond, he said, “Never mind. I’m going to show you so there’s no mistake.”

  With exquisite tenderness, his knowing fingers continued their exploration down her throat, over her collarbone, and alongside her breast. There, he tarried, learning the shape of her, the texture of her, the weight of her.

  He cupped her fully, stroking his thumb over her ruched nipple. Anne’s neck arched, and she bit back a moan.

  “Don’t,” he said in a rugged voice. “Don’t hold back. Your pleasure is my pleasure.”

  She covered his hand, halting his mind-fogging manipulations. Nodding toward his buckskins, she said, “Your turn. Allow me to see you before my mind can no longer form a coherent thought.”

  His smile was all rogue. “Have I not yet enslaved you by my touch?”

  “Your breeches, sir.” A sense of vulnerability was starting to steal over her. It took every bit of willpower she possessed not to retrieve her wrap.

  Without another word, his hands went to the buttons holding the narrow fall in place. They released, slowly, one by one. His breeches joined the rest of their clothing on the floor. And there was nothing left to shield his manhood from her curious gaze. It was the strangest, most intriguing sight she had ever seen. Erect, proud, and pulsing, his staff rose until the tip nearly touched his navel.

 
My word. If she understood the mechanics of what they were about to do, he would enter her with that part of him. My, my word. How would her body be able to accept something so large and imposing? Were all gentlemen built just so? Or was the marquess a rare find?

  He gripped his staff with one large hand. “Don’t be alarmed, Anne. Our bodies were made to fit together, to move as one.”

  Releasing himself, he held out his hand. She accepted his invitation, allowing him to draw her into the circle of his arms. Her body melted at the contact. Skin against skin, intense heat, devouring kisses. Nothing had ever felt more right, more like home.

  “I’m going to lift you.” He spoke against her neck. “When I do, wrap your legs around my waist.”

  “Lift me—”

  Before she could get her protest out, he hauled her into the air until they were nose to nose. Instinctively, she curled her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders.

  His broad, broad shoulders.

  She skimmed her palms across the wide expanse of warm flesh. Then something nudged against her, against the sensitive area between her legs. When Anne’s bare skin had met his, she thought she could not burn for him more.

  Wrong. She had been so wrong.

  Words escaped her. She wanted to press into him more but feared his reaction. Would he think her wanton? Unsophisticated? Naïve?

  Then she noticed the wetness, and mortification seized her. What was happening? Could he feel it, too?

  He moved against her and groaned anew. “You are so wet, Anne. So ready for me.”

  So ready for me. Anne frowned, his words finally sinking in. She raised her head. “My body is ready for you?”

  Realization smoothed the worry lines from his forehead. “That’s right, love.” He moved against her twice more, and Anne’s back arched. They both moaned. “If your body didn’t prepare for my entrance, we would not move so well together.”

  “Thank God.”

  He laughed and began walking toward the bed. The silken friction of him sliding along her inner folds made her mind reel with pleasure.