“Someone who makes you laugh, perhaps. Someone who listens to you. Someone who—”
Before he could finish, the skies opened and rain poured down on them both. Anne laughed. “I suppose we’ll have to end our walk early,” she shouted over the downpour.
Richard grinned and grasped her hand. “Come. There’s a gazebo on the other side of the hill. We’re going to have to run through a meadow for it. Ready?”
By the time they made it to the gazebo, Anne and Richard were drenched. They dripped onto the wood floor as they took shelter beneath the arched roof. The only sound between them was the patter of rain, their heavy breathing.
Anne smiled, leaning against one of the columns to stare out at the trees. “I missed this about the country.”
“Doesn’t it rain enough in London?”
“It’s not the same. The noise there drowns out the raindrops as they fall from the trees. That’s what I miss. The silence.”
She turned her head to find Richard staring at her with those beautiful, luminous blue eyes. She’d thought them so bright before, but now they matched the stormy sky. How had she not noticed before how thick his eyelashes were? How long? They made his gaze more intense somehow, but she did not understand this look. It was fixated, almost feverish. As if he were under some enchantment, and she was the unwitting enchantress.
He reached for her hesitantly, as if waiting for her to say no. When she didn’t, he gently touched her curls. “Your hair came undone.” What was that voice, so low and husky? Why did it heat her blood so?
“It’s always been a problem to tame. It—”
“It’s beautiful.” His hand cupped the back of her head now. “My god, look at you.”
“What?” she whispered. She didn’t understand. Not his look, or his words, or his touch. Or how she felt. What was this fire inside her? What did it mean?
“You ought to marry a man who could be in a room full of people and only see you.” His thumb dipped to brush her lower lip. “A man who burns for you alone. And if he doesn’t, then he’s a damn fool.”
“Richard . . .” Anne swallowed. “You promised you would be honest with me.”
She heard his breath, the shakiness of it. It gratified her, somehow, that he was as unbalanced as she. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“I don’t understand what I’m feeling. Like I’m . . .” How could she explain? What would he say if she did? Gathering her courage, Anne said, “I want to touch you. And other things.”
She flushed. Other things she had spent days dreaming of. Each fantasy changed after their time together. Tonight, she knew, she would return to her bedchamber and imagine herself licking the rain off his skin. She’d bare his throat and press kisses there. And perhaps, if she dared, she would picture herself undressing him — for she had seen that painting of his body, and it had occupied her mind far too often.
Richard made a sound low in his throat, as if he read her thoughts. “Desire, sweetheart. That’s desire.”
“I’ve never had a man treat me gently,” she told him. “I don’t know how a husband should be intimate with a wife. Will you show me?”
“Christ,” he breathed.
“Please,” Anne whispered. She hated that she was begging for the smallest scrap of tenderness because it was so foreign to her. That was what Kendal had done to her, what her father had done. They had made affection novel, as if it were a custom from some new, unfamiliar culture. “Just . . . just don’t kiss me on the lips, all right? I don’t like it.”
Kendal had kissed her there. It had hurt the way he did it, his lips punishing against hers. He’d told her he hated her. He’d bit her lip and made it bleed. He’d—
Richard’s fingertips brushed the underside of her jaw to tilt her head up. “Where did you go just now? In your memories?”
She didn’t wish to tell him about those other kisses, those other touches, those other memories. So she told him, “They have no place here.”
Somehow, he understood this unspoken language of desire, for it was his native tongue. He understood that she needed his lips against her throat as gentle as moth wings beating there. That she needed his hands sliding down the slopes of her shoulders until they came to the neckline of her dress.
And he knew, somehow, that she needed him to lower the muslin to kiss her exposed skin with the kind of reverence a man would give a goddess, if he came to worship her.
“A husband should touch you like this,” Richard murmured, trailing his lips across the tops of her breasts. “As if he can’t get enough of you. As if he’d die if he stopped.”
He treated her with the same consideration as a stranger to his land. Every movement was forecast, slow, as if he waited for the point where she would turn back and retreat to familiar ground. But she would not give it. For she did not crave safety now, no. She craved his tongue lapping the raindrops off her skin, tasting her. She wished to learn this new language of desire, to become as fluent as he.
Anne threw her head back as he pressed her against one of the columns in the gazebo. “What else?”
“Your husband should always ask you a certain vital question.”
“What’s that?”
Richard gazed up at her through those long eyelashes, still wet with raindrops. “What do you want?”
Anne paused. What do you want?
No one had asked her such a question, not ever. It had no place in her life, where she existed only as a memory bank for her father, as a future bride to a duke who loathed her. Such a question was for women with freedom, who could name the things they felt and identify their wants.
But Anne? She barely had the vocabulary. She barely knew how to ask. She was not accustomed to these feelings; they were too new for her. They were territory she had not yet explored, but always wished to.
And she wanted this man to be her guide. No one else.
“What if I don’t have the words?”
“Then allow me to teach them to you. I stop when you tell me to stop.” His hand moved to the back of her dress. “Do I unbutton?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
She held her breath as he deftly undid each button until the bodice of her dress sagged. Slowly — as if he waited for her answer — he peeled the layers of wet fabric away from her breasts to bare them.
Richard made some appreciative noise that sent heat through Anne. Lust seemed too tame for it. Desire, too pretty. No, the impulse she had was savage — but she was not ready. Not yet. She had to learn this language before communicating it.
“You want me to kiss you here?” His voice was rough as he stroked a thumb across her nipple.
“Yes.”
Richard leaned forward and set his mouth on her.
Anne arched against him. “More,” she gasped. “Please more.”
“Show me where you want me to touch you,” he said, dragging his tongue across her skin to latch onto her other breast. “Take my hand, Anne.”
She grasped his hand, sliding it down her hips, then — before she changed her mind — she placed it between her legs. “Here.”
Richard groaned. It was honest, that sound. It required no interpretation, no question, that he was as affected by this as she. “Honest language?” he said, his breath harsh against her breast.
“Always.”
“Cunny,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. “Cunt. Quim. Pussy.” He lifted her skirts and slid his hand into the slit of her drawers. “What about here, Anne?” He gazed up at her with such heat and longing that Anne trembled at the sight. “Shall I kiss you here?”
Anne gasped softly. “Yes.”
“God, you’re exquisite,” he said, lowering her drawers. Then, very slowly, he set his mouth to the core of her.
Anne cried out, pressing back against the column as he kissed and dragged his tongue to places that drew noises from her. That made her tremble until she felt as if her knees might give way.
She almost told him to stop; it was too much. He
r muscles clenched against her will, and her body shook with need, desire, savagery. But she weathered these unfamiliar sensations. His mouth, his tongue, his hands — if she stopped him now, she would regret it the rest of her life.
He was good. Christ god, he was good.
Richard slid a finger inside her. His name was a ragged sound from her lips, drawn against her will. This new language was both overwhelming and simple: it craved contact. She was insatiable. She knew the feeling now; she doubt she could forget the way his warm tongue lapped against her, the sounds he made and whispered encouragements for her to come.
All at once, she shivered and something exploded inside her. She didn’t understand it, why she abruptly became so unsteady. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and his name escaped her in a plea — a scraping, desperate sound.
He came to his feet and held her against him until it subsided, and Anne felt more at peace than she ever had in her life.
“Thank you,” she breathed against his coat. “For showing me that.” She didn’t know what else to say to him.
Richard stiffened and gently pushed her away. “Of course. Our lessons.” What was that tone? So . . . cold, almost? Before she could ask, he was straightening her clothes, redoing buttons. “The rain stopped. We should return to the house now.”
He wouldn’t look at her as he took her hand and led her out of the gazebo.
Chapter 11
Though Richard didn’t act any different after that day in the gazebo, the remaining time they had alone with their lessons was changed. He didn’t touch Anne as readily, nor did he flirt quite so shamelessly. He was, by any accounts, courteous and professional.
Anne did not like it.
She kept thinking of the way he had pleasured her with his tongue, his lips, his hands. How she had called out his name. No other man’s name would fit now. How could it? Richard had marked her.
When the other guests arrived and she introduced herself, she tried not to seek Richard out. His distance was for a reason. She wasn’t going to marry him, after all. He wasn’t for her. She ought to be grateful for this wordless reminder, no matter how much it hurt.
Focus on this ball, she told herself. She could not let herself be distracted by Richard.
Still, Anne was nervous. Though she’d managed well enough on her own as guests came and went from their rooms, a ball was different entirely.
As the maid carefully began brushing out her hair, Anne schooled herself into a meager attempt at calm. She was late for the ball downstairs, and she couldn’t afford to waste more time on nerves.
Twelve days, she reminded herself.
Twelve days to find a husband.
Anne turned as a soft knock sounded at the door. “Enter.”
The Duchess of Hastings swept into the room, appearing every inch her station. Rubies glittered at her throat, matching the exquisite dress she wore of crimson silk. The low neckline displayed the creamy expanse of her chest, and the cinched waist showed off her figure to its best advantage. Next to Caroline, Anne felt so very plain.
“I came to see if you needed anything,” the duchess said politely.
Caroline had kept a respectful distance during Anne and Richard’s lessons, but Anne had got to know the duchess better during dinners. Her beauty was matched only by her personality; in all regards, she was utterly lovely. Anne adored her.
“I’m nervous,” Anne said. “I’m so sorry for being late. I—”
“Darling, you don’t have to apologize. I’m not here to lecture, only to help.” The other woman swept an assessing gaze over Anne’s gown. Anne recognized that it was not the current style; her father loathed the low cut fashions of women Anne’s age. So many of Anne’s dresses covered her to the throat, as if she were a governess. This dress was the loveliest she owned. “This is what you plan to wear?”
Anne flushed, embarrassed. “It’s the best dress I have.”
Caroline looked thoughtful. “Charity,” she said, addressing the maid, “go into my wardrobe. The green silk will do nicely. Make haste.”
Before Anne could protest, the maid hurried out of the room. “But I couldn’t—”
“I want you to know something.” Caroline came forward and took Anne’s hands. “You would look absolutely lovely in anything you wore, you must know that. But I believe green would suit your complexion much better than mine. We’re close in size; it would only need minor adjustments.”
The maid scratched lightly at the door before entering again, this time with one of the most beautiful dresses Anne had ever seen. The color was a deep green, the gleaming shade of a polished emerald. It possessed none of the extra adornments that ladies had added to their gowns; no bows or fripperies. No, the gown depended entirely on the talents of the modiste, and the dressmaker had outdone herself.
“You like it,” Caroline said appraisingly. Anne hadn’t realized she’d reached out to touch the gleaming fabric.
Anne curled her fingers into her palm and dropped her hand. “This is too daring.”
“Daring,” the duchess said, “is precisely what you need.”
Anne knew Caroline was right. She must be bold now. Courageous. She could not hide behind her father’s shadow and expect to gain freedom from it. To do that, she needed to take chances.
You’ve already taken so many chances, she reminded herself. Look at you. It’s changed you for the better.
So would this. It was another leap of faith, a moment of trust. Richard had told her that he would teach her how to trust, and she was beginning to understand the benefit of it. How it made a person feel less abandoned, alone, and vulnerable.
“All right.”
Caroline grinned. “Charity, let’s get started.”
The time it took to fit Anne into the dress went by in a blur. Another maid came in to adjust for her measurements as Charity coiled Anne’s hair into a becoming style topped with small white flowers.
When they finished, the woman in the mirror made Anne draw in a breath. It was her, yes. No different. But the duchess was right when she said the emerald silk perfectly complemented her. It brought out the color of her hair, the slight blush to her cheeks.
As for the shape, the dress showed off her collarbones, the slopes of her shoulders. The neckline wasn’t so extreme as the usual style, but it left just a tantalizing curve of her breasts visible.
Perfect, Anne thought.
Her father would hate her in this. He would say she intended to draw too much attention to herself. And Kendal? He would have disapproved. He had always taught her to disappear, to be unseen. But that was how she would escape: by being visible. By being herself.
Perfect, Anne thought again with a smile. That was why she loved it.
“There,” Caroline said approvingly, sliding her arm through Anne’s. “Now we’ll arrive to the ballroom together, so I may introduce you.”
“I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you away from your guests—”
“Shh.” Caroline leaned in, as if to impart a secret. “My dear, what’s the point in being a duchess if I can’t break the rules from time to time?”
Anne smiled at that. She had wanted to break the rules her entire life.
And now she was going to.
Chapter 12
Richard was bored. It was an hour into the ball with no sight of Anne. He had sent Caroline up to see what the problem was, and now the duchess had disappeared, too.
He was dancing with some viscount’s daughter — an heiress — which he knew only because the Earl of Montgomery had foisted her off on Richard in an attempt to be rid of her. That girl is the bane of my existence, Montgomery had said. What I need now is a drink and a quick shag, so if you know of an interested lady, send her my way, won’t you?
Montgomery might have been a friend, but he was a more of a scoundrel than Richard. He’d have to warn Anne to stay away from the bastard.
Anne.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of the way she tast
ed on his tongue. Her cries as she came. Last night he’d gone to bed so damn hard, it was painful. He’d palmed his cock, imagining what it would have been like to fuck Anne in that gazebo. To plunge inside her again and again and again.
He’d barely lasted a minute.
“What do you think of Her Grace’s estate?”
The girl’s voice drew Richard out of his perverse fantasies. What had Montgomery said her name was? Miss Cecil? She was lovely; he ought to have been more interested. He wasn’t.
Still, he had a role to play. The role of the rogue was an exhausting one, but he had made his bed and—
No, that was a terrible saying. He’d just stopped thinking of beds.
“It’s extraordinary,” he said, lowering his eyes to hers. “I’m enjoying myself quite a bit.”
Miss Cecil’s eyes widened imperceptibly, and he cursed at himself. That charm was meant for seductresses, not virgins. It was careless of him to bring out such a look only to shut up a debutante.
“Yes,” Miss Cecil murmured, clearing her throat. “Well, I—”
A flash of green on the stairwell caught his attention. Bloody hell, what did Caro do to her?
Anne was a vision in that dress. It perfectly offset her red curls, which were deliberately and stylishly tousled. He knew the effect was intended to have men think immediately of a bedchamber.
Richard imagined his hands tangled in her hair as drove into her with a rough sound. In his fantasy, her breathing grew harsh when he spoke in those honest words he’d just taught her. Cunny, cunt, quim, pussy.
Richard bit back a groan. She is not for you.
If Richard’s quick assessment of the other gentlemen was accurate, they were all imagining fantasies of their own. He did not like it.
When Anne's eyes flickered to his, she gave him a secret smile before Caroline began taking her around the ballroom.
“She seems quite lovely,” the girl in his arms said quietly.
Richard’s attention snapped to Miss Cecil. She stared back at him knowingly. Too damn knowingly. Perhaps he had misjudged her after all.
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