Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

“Imust say, that’s a true disappointment. He hasn’t any phallus.”

“What?” Kate asked, laughing.

When they’d reached their picnic spot, Harry placed her hands on her hips, clenched her teeth around a cheroot, and regarded the immense green slope a few pastures distant.

“No phallus at all.” She exhaled a puff of smoke. “And here I had such high hopes, considering he’s known as ‘the Long Man’.”

Kate exchanged amused glances with Lark. They both turned to regard the giant outline of a man carved into the chalk hillside. The ancient figure ranged over the entire slope, standing out in white lines against green.

“Ames and I went to see the Cerne Abbas carving in Dorset,” Harry went on. “The giant depicted on their hillside is magnificently pagan. He has a horrific grimace on his face, and he’s waving a big, knobby club in his hand. Not to mention, sporting a monumental erection.”

Lord Drewe frowned. “Really, Harriet. That’s enough discussion of phalluses. I don’t see why you and Ames should even care.”

Harry sent her brother a look. “It’s an artistic appreciation.” She gestured at the ancient carving on the slope. “This one’s just an outline. No facial expression whatsoever. Rather rigid and staid-looking, isn’t he? And confined, locked up between those two lines.”

“I think they’re staffs,” Kate suggested. “So perhaps that’s some consolation. He’s missing the monumental erection, but he does have two impressive staffs.”

Harry took the cheroot from her mouth and gave her a shocked look. “Why, Miss Kate Taylor.”

Kate knew a moment of pure distress. What had she been thinking, to overstep and speak so crudely? The Gramercys were the aristocracy. She was their poor relation at best, and a complete stranger at worst. Just because Harry could make scandalous jokes, that didn’t mean she should do the same.

Harry turned to her brother. “I like her. She can stay.”

“She stays, whether you like her or not.”

“I suppose that’s right,” Harry said. “If amiability were a requirement for inclusion in this family, Bennett should have been handed his permanent exile years ago.”

Kate breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t cease marveling at the notion that she might be a part of this. This wild, impolitic, eccentric, creative assortment of individuals. They liked her.

Now, if only Thorne would join in. The pagan figure carved on the distant hillside was a more active participant in the conversation.

He’d separated himself from the group, on the excuse of letting Badger tumble through the heather. As she looked closely, Kate thought he had the dog engaged in a training exercise. However, she couldn’t follow quite what he was training Badger to do, because she kept getting distracted by the flexing of his thighs whenever he crouched to praise or correct the pup.

It wasn’t only his physical firmness that drew her attention. His character was solid, too. She’d long known him to be stern and immutable, but since their engagement party, Kate was beginning to glimpse the good qualities his silence masked. Patience, confidence, steadfastness. Such traits didn’t clamor for attention. They just quietly . . . existed, waiting to be noticed.

She’d made it her hobby these past few days—noticing. And the more she noticed, the more she yearned to know more.

“Well, that’s a lovely view for a picnic,” Aunt Marmoset said, joining them. “I do enjoy gazing upon a well-carved man.”

“He’s called ‘the Long Man of Wilmington,’ Aunt Marmoset.” Lark scribbled in her journal.

“How odd. I’d been under the impression his name was Corporal Thorne.” Aunt Marmoset came and put her hand in Kate’s pocket. “My dear, hold onto that one. Tightly, and with all four limbs.”

Kate blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. We have similar tastes.”

The old lady withdrew her hand, leaving Kate’s pocket oddly heavier—full of spice drops, she assumed.

“Remember what I told you,” Aunt Marmoset whispered. “Strong. Overwhelming at first. But with a bit of work, you arrive at the sweetness.”

Kate had to laugh. “I am coming to adore you, Aunt Marmoset. Even if you’re not truly my aunt.”

Over the past few days, she had begun to sort out the web of Gramercy family relationships. She knew Harry had meant it as a joke the first night, but she secretly had made herself a chart. Aunt Marmoset was Evan’s mother’s sister, come to live with the family when their father took ill. Therefore, the old lady was not a Gramercy and no potential blood relationship to Kate whatsoever. But that fact didn’t seem to diminish Aunt Marmoset’s efforts to welcome her with warmth and good humor and a great many spice drops.

All the Gramercys had blended in with Spindle Cove life. Drewe had rightly pointed out that the village was a haven for unconventional ladies—and Harry, Lark, and Aunt Marmoset certainly met the standard. They’d been enjoying regular activities with the other ladies: country walks, sea-bathing, making decorations for the fair.

But today the family had decided on an outing—not only to satisfy Harry’s curiosity about the Long Man, but to give them time alone. In the village, they’d still kept the possibility of kinship a secret. Here, they could speak freely.

Kate haltingly approached Lord Drewe. As always, his aristocratic presence and sheer male splendor humbled her. His gloves alone . . . they held her rapt. They were things of seamless, caramel-colored perfection, encasing deft, elegant hands.

“Any news from your men of business?” She hated to pry, but she knew from Sally that he’d had several expresses since arriving in Spindle Cove.

“No information of value at Margate,” he said regretfully. “No information at all.”

Kate only wished she could claim surprise.

“But now they’re canvassing the area around Ambervale, looking for any servants from Simon’s time. Perhaps one of them would remember Elinor and the babe.”

“That sounds like a possibility.” If a slim one.

His gloved fingertips touched her elbow, drawing her gaze up to his face. “I know the uncertainty is difficult to bear. For us all. Lark, in particular, is growing very attached to you. But today we should simply enjoy the outing.”

“Yes, of course.”

On the flat green, two liveried servants had been working hard to erect a canvas pagoda, topped with red banners gaily striping the blue sky.

The Gramercys did nothing without a certain degree of pageantry, Kate was coming to understand. From the carriages, the footmen unloaded two large hampers stocked with a variety of savory dishes and freshly baked sweets provided by the Bull and Blossom. This might be a picnic, but it wasn’t a rustic affair.

As she and Lark helped unpack and arrange a tray of jewel-bright jam tarts, Kate realized there was one question her charts hadn’t helped her settle. “Who is this Ames that Harry’s always talking of? Another cousin? A family friend?”

“No,” Harriet called back, overhearing them. “Not a cousin and certainly no kind of friend.”

“Now, Harry,” Lark said. “Just because the two of you had a little argument . . .”

“A little argument?” Aunt Marmoset scoffed. “More like a waterless reenactment of the Battle of Trafalgar, with saucers and teacups launched in place of cannonballs.”

“Ames must have been playing Lord Nelson, then,” Harry replied. “Because she has been dead to me ever since.”

“ ‘She’?” Kate had been picturing someone male.

Lark sighed and drew her into confidence. “When my sisters and I were younger, Miss Ames was our paid companion. And now . . . now she is simply Harriet’s companion. Her life companion.”

“Oh,” Kate said. And then, more slowly, as the import sank in—“Oh.”

“I know it’s not very usual. But nothing is in this family. Are you terribly scandalized?”

“No, not . . . terribly.” Though the revelation certainly put a few things in perspective. “But what of all those engagements? The duels Lord Drewe fought?”

“Harry tried her best during her season, and she loved the drama of suitors battling for her attention. But she could never go through with the weddings,” Lark explained. “Her heart was with Miss Ames all along. Don’t let her ranting mislead you. They’re devoted to one another. They’ve had a falling out, but they always mend it in time.”

“I heard that,” Harry said. “And you’re wrong, Lark. This time, we’re through. If we were true companions, as you say, she would have allowed me to accompany her to Herefordshire.”

Lark tilted her head. “Oh, Harry. You know Miss Ames’s family isn’t nearly so understanding as ours.”

Very few families were, Kate imagined.

“I know it well. They’re horrid to her.” Harry kicked at a tent pole with the squared toe of her boot. “Always have been, or else she wouldn’t have needed to be a paid companion in the first place. If she’d let me go along, I could have protected her.”

“I’m certain she misses you sorely,” Lark said.

Harry looked off at the horizon and released a sigh. “I’m off for a ramble. Perhaps the Long Man’s phallus is embarrassingly small and only visible on closer inspection.”

As Harry started off across the pastures, legs striding free in her divided skirt, Kate watched her with a twinge of sadness. Obviously, it pained her to be parted from someone she loved.

And what pained Harry, pained Kate. She was truly coming to care for these people. To lose them now would devastate her.

As if he knew her spirits needed a lift, Badger came shooting up from the meadow, attacking Kate’s skirts with muddy paws, sniffing around all the refreshments and smothering her in delightfully cold, tickling kisses.

Thorne approached soon after, but offered no pawing or kisses. A keen disappointment.

Aunt Marmoset tapped Kate’s shoulder and pointed. “There’s a picturesque church in that direction. I noticed it as we drove by, but I couldn’t make out the name. Be a dear, Kate, and satisfy my curiosity. Corporal Thorne,” she added, “kindly escort her.”

Kate smiled and rose to her feet, glad of the excuse to walk. She pocketed a few meat pies for Badger, and the three of them set off across the field, walking in the direction of the church.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Kate said gently, “You could try to be a little more sociable, you know.”

He made a gruff noise. “I’m never sociable.”

True enough, she supposed. “Why do you dislike the Gramercys so much?”

“I’m looking out for you.” He looked over his shoulder at the picnicking group. “There’s something not right about those people.”

“They’re unusual, I’ll grant you. But it’s only eccentricity. It’s what makes them so amusing and interesting and lovable. It’s what gives me hope that they might accept and love me. They value family bonds above scandal, disagreements, convention. Just because they’re a bit odd, I don’t see any reason for suspicion.”

“I do. I don’t trust them or their story.”

“Why not?” she said, hurt. The more agitated she became, the faster she walked. By now they were hurrying toward the church, and Badger ran to keep up. “Because you don’t think I could possibly be related to lords and ladies?”

He pulled to a halt, turned and fixed her with an intense look. “If I hadn’t spent the last year thinking of you as a lady, I promise you—things would be different between us.”

Her face heated. Other parts of her heated, too. She hadn’t regarded him this closely or directly in days, and now . . .

He was so stunning it hurt.

For a man with few manners and little grace, she now saw he was always immaculate in his attire, be it full uniform or what he wore today—crisply fitted breeches and a simple, dark coat that stretched capably across his broad shoulders. Nothing was fussy, just precise. It was as though fabric didn’t dare rumple in his presence. No button would be so bold as to fall out of line. His boots were polished to a blinding gloss.

And his face . . . Almost a week now since he’d seen her home from Hastings, and every time she looked at him, she still found his face to be that inexplicable, unbearable degree of handsome.

“Must you make this so difficult?” she asked. “You must know I’m all nerves, purely on the Gramercys’ account. They’ve been so kind. I want to be open and honest, and yet I’m afraid of letting my hopes soar too high. I don’t know my place with them, and that’s difficult enough without feeling confused about you, too. I’m pulled in too many directions.”

“I’m not pulling you anywhere. I’m staying close enough to look out for you, without interfering.”

“Of course you’re interfering. You interfere with my breathing, you teasing man. I can’t just ignore you, Thorne. I’ve never been able to ignore you, even when I disliked you. Now I’m a toy on your string, dangling on your every move and word. One minute, you’re paying me no mind at all, and the next . . . you’re staring at me the way you’re doing now. As though you’re a voracious, starving beast and I’m . . .”

His jaw tightened.

She gulped and finished in a whisper, “Edible.”

His exhalation was prolonged, measured. An impressive display of restraint.

“Well?” she prompted. “You can’t deny it. There’s something between us.”

“There isn’t nearly enough between us, and that’s the danger. Don’t you have a modest frock in your wardrobe? For God’s sake, just look at that gown.”

She cast a glance downward. She’d dressed for the outing in her best traveling frock—a handed down dove-gray silk. The hues were modest enough, and the sleeves rather long for summer. But from the direction of his gaze, she supposed he’d taken an interest in the row of ribbon bows that marched down the front of the bodice, holding two edges of gray silk together across a thin slice of white lace. It was all part of the gown’s design, of course, but the garment was cleverly stitched to create the illusion that just a few ribbon ties stood between demure modesty and a state of undress.

“You’re like a gift,” he said, his voice rough. “All wrapped up for someone else. A man can’t look at you, but think of loosing those bows, one by one.”

“They’re false bows,” she stammered. “They’re sewn together.”

His gaze never left her bodice, surveying. Strategizing. “I could rip them with my teeth.”

And then what?a foolish part of her longed to ask.

They stood like that, facing one another. Saying nothing, breathing hard, and imagining far too much.

Eventually Badger nosed at her boots, impatient to be on with things. They couldn’t stand here and look at each other all day. No matter how exhilarating it was.

“It’s only physical,” he said, walking on. “It will pass. You’ll be able to release me soon enough.”

It would have been comforting to believe so, but Kate wasn’t convinced.

“I need to know something of you,” she said as they neared the church. “Lark is always asking me questions about you. About us. And I don’t know how to answer. What’s your birthday, to begin?”

“Don’t know it.”

Kate felt a twinge of sadness for him, but then—she’d survived without a proper birthday for twenty-three years.

“How about your favorite color?”

He threw a careless, sidelong glance at her frock. “Gray.”

“Be serious, please. I’m engaged to you, temporarily, and I know nothing of you. Nothing of your family, your history, your childhood.” And after their engagement party, Kate knew he’d been paying a great deal of attention to her.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“That can’t be true. I was raised at a miserable girls’ school, but even I have amusing stories from when I was a child. There was the time it was my turn to help in the kitchens, and I decided to be creative with the seasonings for our evening soup. I accidentally dumped the entire contents of the pepper pot into the broth, and I was too afraid to own up to it. And then it was supper, and I still couldn’t say a word. I’ll never forget watching all my friends and teachers take that first mouthful of soup—”

She broke off, laughing. “Oh, I caught so much trouble. Everyone went to bed hungry, of course. They had me copying out Proverbs for days.”

She waited for him to dredge up some similar story of youthful foolishness. Everyone must have at least one. Everyone. But she waited in vain.

Before she could ask him another question, Badger suddenly perked to attention. His funny little ears stood straight up, pointing skyward like twin church steeples. Then they flattened and he was off like a flash of lightning, streaking toward the church.

“Badger, wait,” she called, rushing after the pup.

Thorne paced her in easy strides. “Don’t call him back. He’s got his sights on a hare or a rat, most likely. Chasing is what he’s bred to do.”

The dog darted toward the small churchyard tucked behind the main buildings. Evidently, the pup’s quarry had escaped through a small hole in the bottom of the stone wall. Badger wriggled through the crack, disappearing from their view.

“Drat,” Kate said, breathless. “We’ll have to go around.”

“This way.”

They quickly skirted the circumference of the small cemetery until they came to the wrought-iron gate. Thorne opened it, and she rushed past him, into the crowded jumble of the high-walled churchyard. Mossy, timeworn monuments tilted at various angles, like rows of rotten teeth.

“Badger! Badger, where have you gone?” Kate started down a row of monuments, ducking and peering at the uneven ground. Remembering the meat pie in her pocket, she fished it out and held it as a lure. “Here, darling. I have a lovely treat for you.”

Thorne skirted the slab of an aboveground sepulcher and came to a halt in the center of the churchyard. He whistled.

After a brief pause, Badger came bounding out from behind a bit of crumbled stone.

“Thank goodness. Did he catch something?” Kate was almost afraid to look.

“No. But that’s good. He’ll run faster next time.”

There was real pride in his voice. And genuine affection in the way he rubbed the dog’s scruff and ears. He must care about that dog, despite all his disavowals.

There was so much more to him than he was allowing anyone to see. Right now they were secluded from the Gramercys, the Spindle Cove gossips . . . from the rest of the living world. This might be her only chance to get at it.

“Give me something,” she pleaded. “Your father’s trade, or the names of your siblings. The house where you were raised. A friend, your favorite plaything. Anything.”

His face hardened as he rose to his feet.

“For goodness’ sake, Thorne. Do you realize, I don’t even know your Christian name? I’ve been stretching my brain to recall it. Surely someone in the village would have used it, at least once. It would be in Sally’s ledger of accounts in the shop, maybe. Or Lord Rycliff would have mentioned it sometime. Perhaps in church. But the more I think on it, the more I’m certain . . . no one else in Spindle Cove knows it, either.”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is.” She grabbed him by the sleeve. “You are important. And you need to let someone know you.”

His eyes bore into hers, nailing her in place. His voice sank to a low growl. “Stop pushing me.”

When a powerful, unpredictable man loomed over a girl and glared at her that way, her every instinct was to back down. He knew that, and he was using it against her.

“I won’t give up,” she said. “Not until you give me something.”

“Fine.” He spoke in a remote voice, utterly devoid of emotion, as if rattling off a list of drill commands or ordering up a list of dry goods. “I never knew my father. Never wanted to. He got my mother with child too young, out of wedlock, and then abandoned us both. She turned whore, found a place in a bawdy house. I could sleep in the attic, so long as I worked for my keep and stayed out of the customers’ sight. I never went to school. Never learned a trade. My mother came to like her gin, and she came to hate my face, the more I grew to resemble my father. Never missed a chance to tell me I was useless, stupid, ugly, or all three. If she had anything solid to hand, she’d beat the message in for good measure. I left when I had the chance, and I never once looked back.”

Kate couldn’t respond. Words failed her.

“There,” he said, taking the forgotten meat pie from her hand and tossing it to the waiting dog. “Charming story for the breakfast table.”

Her own silence mocked her. She’d asked for the truth. She’d pushed him for information, and now she was allowing him to push her away.

Kate willed her tongue to work. Say something nice. Anything.

“I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I find you unbearably handsome.”

He stared at her. “Miss Taylor . . .”

“I do. I find you unbearably, painfully handsome. I didn’t always.” The words spilled from her lips, unconsidered. “But ever since Hastings . . . it’s hard for me to even look at you sometimes. It can’t come as much surprise. You must be aware how many women are attracted to you.”

He made a derisive sound. “It’s not for my fine looks.”

Kate went silent, suddenly keenly aware of all his other attractions. His strong body, that air of command, the fiercely protective instincts. The talents that must fuel those “tales” Sally Bright mentioned in the All Things shop.

“I’m certain women are attracted to you for a host of reasons,” she said. “But I can only speak for myself. And I find you unbearably handsome.”

He frowned. “Why are you saying this? I don’t need this from you.”

“Perhaps you don’t.”

But I think you do.

She might not be able to comprehend the horrors he’d faced on a battlefield, but she knew how it felt to be an unwanted child. She understood how it felt to be deemed worthless and ugly by the very person charged with her care. She knew how each and every unkind remark worked on a child’s confidence for weeks, months, years. Bruises faded from the skin, but insults worked like weevils, burrowing into a person’s soul.

She knew it took dozens of kindnesses to counteract just one slight, and even then—she knew how she’d come to dodge compliments, even well into adulthood, dismissing them as mere pity or insincerity. Because how could they be true? The ugly words were still there, deep inside, and they outlasted everything. They were the bones in this churchyard. No matter how much soil was heaped atop them, no matter how many cheerful flowers were planted over the grave—they would always be there.

Those hateful words could outlive dirt.

She knew. And she couldn’t watch him hurting and not do something to counteract it.

“I find you unbearably handsome,” she said. “I know you’re modest and guarded and you don’t need to hear it. But I need to say it. So there it is.”

She touched her fingertips to his cheek. He flinched, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

“Stop that.”

Make me.

Reveling in the thrill of disobedience, she framed his face in her hands, letting the tips of her longest fingers graze the dark fringe of his hair. The icy chips of his eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

So she let her gaze fall to his lips, wondering—not for the first time—how that grim slash of a mouth could transform into something so passionate and warm when they kissed. She touched the pad of her thumb to the hollow of his cheek. Where a dimple might appear, if he could ever be coaxed to smile.

She very much wanted to see him smile. She wanted to make him laugh, long and loud.

“You’re handsome,” she said.

“You’re absurd.”

“If I am speaking absurdities, it must be your fault. This hard angle of your jaw”—she traced it with a fingertip—“quite scrambles my thoughts, and your eyes . . . There’s some puzzle in them I want to solve.”

“Don’t try. You don’t know me.” His voice was harsh, but his gaze was stark with hunger. Open, naked hunger.

Yes. Triumph surged through her veins. She was getting somewhere now.

“I know you took a melon for me.” She smiled. “That’s a start. And when you look at me the way you’re doing right now, I scarcely know myself. I feel womanly, to a degree I’ve never felt before. But then I feel girlish, too. I have to remind myself not to do something silly, like twirl my hair or bounce on my toes. I think that’s quite definite proof that you’re handsome, Thorne. At least, to one woman.”

And if she was right—and that small spark in his eyes was a deeply buried yearning . . .

Kate thought she could live with being beautiful to just one man.

He took her by the waist, pulling her close. She gasped at the suddenness and strength in the motion. She suspected her shock was his purpose.

“I don’t fear you,” she said.

“You should fear me.” He tightened his hold on her waist. In a matter of three paces he had her backed against the nearest wall. A lush green curtain of ferns and ivy framed her hair and face. “You should fear this. Every minute we’re in this churchyard together, you’re risking ruin. You could lose everything you’ve wanted most.”

She knew he spoke the truth. Just a few hundred yards away were four people who offered the human connection and family love she’d grown up dreaming of and hoping to find. The Gramercys represented her heart’s desire.

And yet she was here, with him. Sharing a highly improper embrace on sacred ground, with only the dead to chaperone. Had she lost her mind?

Perhaps.

Or perhaps she’d found another heart’s desire.

Was there some limit on them? Couldn’t a girl have more than one?

The Gramercys made her feel accepted. But Thorne made her feel desired. Needed. In her youth, she never could have known to wish for this.

She murmured, “What have you done to me?”

“Not a fraction of what I’d like to do.”

She smiled. There it was again—a flash of that dry, disarming wit. Oh, she was in so much trouble. Wringing affection from this man would be like squeezing honey from a stone. But he’d brought her this close, and she couldn’t resist reaching for something more.

Don’t hide from me, she willed. Don’t pull away.

“Handsome,” she whispered, taking a chisel and hammer to the stone. Chipping away as best she knew how. “Fine-looking. Attractive. Striking. Noble. Body-thrilling. Swoon-inducing. Beauti—”

His kiss made a liar of her.

She’d blithely told him she didn’t fear him—but that was before his lips came crushing down on hers. Before his tongue invaded her mouth. Plunging deep, and then deeper still. Exploring, stroking, demanding. Stirring up emotions she didn’t know how to control.

A low growl rose from his chest. He moved forward, pressing his hard, masculine body to hers, and together they burrowed into the ivy covering the wall. The air was a dark, glossy green in her senses. Tiny, grasping tendrils pulled at her, scratched like small fingernails along her skin. They made her feel wild and part of something larger than herself, something elemental and natural and old as time.

As they kissed, his strong hands began to roam her body, shaping and claiming her in ways that must be wrong, but felt so necessary.

She wondered—if she were a woman with more experience, where would she be touching him? Stretching her arms about his waist, perhaps? Might she work her hand inside his coat, to feel the sculpted contours of his chest?

She wasn’t that daring. Instead, she touched her hand to his jaw, robustly formed and rough with new whiskers when the hour was barely noon. She slid her hand around the strong column of his neck, letting her fingertips graze the shorn hair at his nape. She stroked him there, softly. Tenderly. Because everyone deserved a bit of tenderness, and she was so very hungry for it herself.

What he gave her was something far more primal.

He clutched her tight, moaning into the kiss and holding her fast against him. The thrill of power was immediate. It shot through her, forking into every limb and electrifying her senses as he ravaged her mouth.

He muttered a curse as his lips slid to her neck, as though he kissed her unwillingly, against all morals and reason. She thrilled to that bit of blasphemy. It excited her to know that here, in this tiny, walled churchyard, she’d torn down his barriers. He’d lost all sense of duty or restraint, and she’d done this to him.

And then . . .

Then there was what he was doing to her.

His kisses worked lower along the left side of her throat, and his right hand worked higher from her waist, and the two seemed destined to meet at a specific point. That reddish, round, helpful point that now puckered and jutted against her garments, presenting itself as an eager target.

I should put a stop to this.

She watched the idea pass through her mind. It came, and it went, and she did nothing about it.

When his hand stroked over her fabric-cloaked breast, she nearly fainted with pleasure and relief. His palm ironed the modest globe flat, and then his thumb found the taut, straining peak of her nipple, chafing back and forth in a delicious manner. Her body throbbed with a deep, sweet ache. He kissed the sensitive skin over her pounding heart, then pushed her breast higher, nuzzling the overflowing scoop of warm feminine flesh in his palm.

Nuzzling. Who could have known this cold, ruthless man had it in him to nuzzle? At all?

“Katie.” He groaned. “I burn for you.”

Just a few husky words, but coming from a man so taciturn, she thought they must equal reams of poetry.

I burn for you.

So hot, those words. So dangerous. Their effect was incendiary.

The potent heat of his desire changed her everywhere. Her stockings itched. She wanted them off. Between her legs, she swelled and ached. Her breasts challenged the corset’s limits with her every fevered, panting breath. They rose impatient and quivering, begging for more of his skillful attention.

He hooked his finger beneath the fabric of her bodice and ran it up toward her shoulder, loosening her gown just enough to slide it over one shoulder and down. With his thumb, he eased her neckline lower, all the while kissing and sucking lightly at her neck.

He was going to touch her bare breast.

She was going to let him.

It would happen. Soon.

Please. Now.

He kissed her lips, just as his fingers curled inside her bodice, cupping the slight handful of her breast. She tasted his dark, sensual moan. The pleasure was so intense, she arced off the ivy-covered wall, mindlessly thrusting her hips against him. Her belly met with the hard, pulsing ridge of his arousal.

My goodness.

Someone notify Lady Harriet. There was a monumental erection to be found in Wilmington, after all.

He growled against her lips as he kneaded and fondled her flesh, teasing her nipple with the pad of one finger. Rolling it under his touch, chasing round and round. Kate thought she would go out of her skin with pleasure.

“I must—” He broke the kiss, gasping. “Katie, I want to taste you. I have to taste you.”

“Yes,” she urged. “Yes.”

She worked a hand between them, reaching for the ribbon bow just at the top of her bodice. She hadn’t lied to him earlier—the bows on the gown were ornamental, sewn together.

All except this one.

She watched his eyes widen as she grasped the edge of the ribbon and teased the bow loose. It was like she’d given him a lifetime of Christmas and birthday gifts, all at once. And any self-consciousness she’d ever felt about her smallish breasts and dark nipples . . . it all disappeared in an instant when he pulled the fabric down, exposing her to the cool air and his hot, hungry gaze.

She might not be perfect, but he liked what he saw.

At least, she supposed that was what it meant when a man whispered, “Sweet God above.”

He shook his head, still staring rapt at her naked breast. “This can’t happen.”

“Oh, yes. It’s happening.” She hoped more would be happening rather soon.

“I don’t use women. Ever.”

“You’re not using me.”

“And I don’t take advantage of innocent girls. Ever.”

For goodness’ sake. He wasn’t taking advantage of her, and she wasn’t a girl. Would it help if she begged?

The longer he delayed, the tighter her nipple puckered. It looked like a raspberry now, jutting out from a scoop of blancmange. Ready to be devoured.

“Thorne.” She wriggled, pressing her breast into his hand. “I need . . . something.”

He looked up, pinning her gaze with his. “I know precisely what you need.” The deep richness of his voice melted and spread over her skin.

“Then please.” She tugged at his coat, trying to pull him closer. “Please.”

After a long hesitation he pulled her sleeve back up over her shoulder, then covered her breast.

“You need more than a moment’s stolen pleasure,” he said. “You need care and affection. Tenderness and love.”

With jerky motions, he retied the ribbon bow, then stepped away. “You need a different man. A better man than me.”