by Mary Campisi
He doubted the accuracy of the statement. Surely Mr. Munrove removed his cravat and jacket when he engaged in relations with a woman. If the night Douglas met the man were any indication, the redhead and the blonde draping his shoulders had both seen him without the aforementioned garments. Douglas would bet the deed to Lingionine on it, but since he could not share that observation with Madeline, he simply nodded and rendered a brief, “Indeed.”
“There is no need for awkwardness. Some men have no talent for coordinating their wardrobe, even if one is provided for them.”
Her pointed gaze meant he should have availed himself to the peacock-satin jackets and the like hanging in her brother’s closet. Ethan had spent the better part of three years attempting to coax Douglas into such plumage with no success. Magenta, teal, and green were meant for women’s frocks, not men’s jackets. Douglas raised both hands and admitted, “Guilty. Unlike most other species who boast the male’s brilliant colors, I prefer the female to outshine her mate.”
Madeline clapped her hands and laughed. “That is absolutely precious.” She cast him a sly glance and asked, “Do you think it possible for the female to outshine her mate in other areas as well?”
Douglas grinned and leaned forward to brush a plump curl from her shoulder. “Oh, indeed I do. Unlike the author of The Model Wife, I find a woman’s brain and wit quite intriguing.”
Her eyes widened. “You do?”
He nodded, his gaze scanning her face, settling on her lips. He had tasted those lips. “Rather tantalizing actually.” He wanted to taste those lips again.
“Oh.” She let out a wisp of breath. “I see.”
Was that a sigh of desire? He damned sure hoped so. He inched closer. “Yes,” he said, cupping her chin between his fingers, “I believe you do.” His lips brushed hers, once, twice, three times. Another sigh. Oh, that was indeed desire. “Open for me,” he murmured against her lips. “Let me taste you.”
She sighed once more and her lips parted. Douglas dove into her sweetness, tasting desire as their tongues mated. The woman was utterly delicious. He wanted more, thrusting deep into her mouth until she moaned and arched toward him. He eased her onto her back and buried his hands in her hair. He would not touch her body until she touched him, he would — she sucked his tongue and he almost exploded. Slow down. Think. More sucking, then stroking of her tongue on his and he could not think, could only feel and the feeling shot straight to his groin. She squirmed and moaned, or was that a sigh, and then she wrapped her arms around his waist and dragged him on top of her. Right between her legs. Oh good God, all intelligent thought was lost.
Douglas wished her gown were thinner, her undergarments absent, his breeches open. He damned well wished he were deep inside her, pumping and pounding every last sigh from her delicious body.
“Simon,” she murmured against his lips. “Oh, Simon.”
Douglas, damn it, Douglas. He dove into her mouth again and again, stripping moans from her until she wriggled against him and the moans became his. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He moved his hips with a promise of what was to come. She trailed her hands along his buttocks and pulled him closer.
To hell with his earlier vow, he needed flesh. Anything. He would settle for an ankle or a toe. Even fingers. But a thigh would be so much better. He lifted the hem of her gown and eased a hand up her leg. Such sweet perfection. When the sigh came, as he knew it would, he slid a hand inside her pantaloons and cupped her buttocks. Round and soft and made for his touch. She jerked against him and opened her legs wider. Oh, yes, she wanted him and she would have him too. He broke the kiss and brushed his lips along the top of her bodice. How many times had he envisioned her naked breasts, wondered at the size and shade of her nipples? Far too many. He inched the fabric down to expose more flesh.
“Simon?” The library door opened and Gregory’s young voice jabbed Douglas’s groin. “Simon?”
Horror spread over Madeline’s face as she yanked her bodice in place and sunk into the sofa. Douglas lifted a finger to signal silence and stood. “Gregory?” He moved toward the boy as he spoke, “Seems I fell asleep and forgot about our chess match. Sorry about that, sport.”
Gregory laughed and pointed to Douglas’s head. “Your hair is sticking out all over the place and your shirt—” he snickered “—is in a tumble.”
Because he had almost taken a tumble. With Madeline. Douglas ran a hand through his hair and stuffed his shirt in his breeches. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Don’t let Maddie see you looking like that or there’ll be hell to pay. She’ll force herself on you and make you do her bidding.”
Douglas coughed and cleared his throat. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“Wonder where she is. You haven’t seen her, have you?”
I haven’t seen near enough of her, but I intend to…soon. Douglas glanced at the sofa and said, “No, I haven’t.”
Chapter 10
He was but a room away. Thirty paces or less.
Madeline tossed the book she had been attempting to read on the coverlet and stared at the door. Was he asleep? Of course, he was. Simon Schilling was a man of action, not a man of introspection, despite how neatly he cut his pancakes. He would not be analyzing what had happened in the library this evening or worse, wishing it had not been interrupted. Those depraved longings belonged to Madeline and for that, she had spent the better part of the early morning hours berating herself — when she was not remembering the delicious sensations soaring through her. A brush of lips. A stroke of tongue. A trailing of fingers.
Why did it have to be Simon Schilling creating these sensations deep in her belly? Was it because he was the only one she had ever let close enough? If so, why had she done it? This made no sense. What was it about the man that weakened her defenses, for surely her defenses had been weakened as she thrashed about on the library sofa, moaning and sighing. Excessively. In fact, she had been the one to lure him in with her silly banter and smiles. Why? Why? Why? He was but a simple man who lacked complex thought and superior intelligence. Wasn’t he? Had she somehow miscalculated his abilities?
Could a man of impaired logic determine the exact lengths of board to cut for a fence repair? Or rig a new method of feeding Matilda utilizing a contraption of weights and pulleys? Or coax Gregory into the chicken coop when the boy had sworn he would sooner die than smell the stink of it again? Simon had done all of these. But worse, he had found a way into her thoughts like a tiny worm burrowing deep in the center of an apple. She must stop these thoughts at once, even if she had to chop the entire apple into tiny bits to remove the worm.
Madeline was still analyzing her worm and apple theory, when a light tapping came from the door separating her room and Simon’s.
“Madeline?”
The worm spoke! She jumped out of bed and grabbed her wrapper. She should not open the door, nothing good ever came of opening bedroom doors to men who were not one’s husband. Still, a crack might not justify. She inched the door open and peeked at a slice of Simon Schilling. His hair stood on end, his shirt had come untucked and was halfway unbuttoned. Good heavens, the man had an impressive chest—a chest which had pressed against hers hours earlier. She must not think of that. Her gaze skittered to his face. “Simon, what is it? You look positively in pain.”
“I can’t sleep.”
The dark shadows under his eyes attested to that statement. “Did you try warm milk?”
His brows pinched together. “I do not care for warm milk.”
“A cup of tea then. With honey.” Her mother had claimed tea and honey cured most ailments, even those that could not be readily identified. Suggesting curatives for Simon’s unknown ailment helped her ignore the fact that they were both in varying states of undress with two beds but a leap away.
His jaw twitched. “Tea and honey will not solve my problem.”
“Oh.” She opened the door a tad wider. “Are you in pain?”
His eyes
narrowed on her. “Very much so.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “Mrs. Fowler is quite good at diagnosing conditions and treating them. I could wake her.”
“The cook?”
“Of course. There’s only one Mrs. Fowler in residence. She does know how to do more than stuff a bird and make gravy. She is actually quite adept at doctoring and—”
“No thank you.”
Madeline yanked the door open and said, “Blast you, Simon, I cannot help if you refuse to tell me the problem.”
His gaze settled on an area suspiciously close to her belly. “I am too much the gentleman to say.”
Why, the beast! This was all a ruse to continue what had begun in the library. “Gentleman indeed. You would not know the makings of a gentleman if you were immersed in a roomful of them.” She grabbed the door and closed it in his face. “Good night, Mr. Schilling.”
She waited for one of the clever comments he held in ready supply. When none came she pressed her cheek against the door and listened. Why had he not moved? More importantly, why had she not? Oh, bother, why had she not—
“I cannot stop thinking of you.”
Madeline sprung away from the door, her heart skittering in her chest. “What did you say?”
Silence. And then, “Of course you would make me repeat it. I said I cannot stop thinking of you.”
She jerked the door open, all reservations of unmarried couples and beds in close proximity dissolving under her need to hear more. Simon stood three paces from her, jaw clamped shut as though he regretted his words and was determined no more would escape. “Simon? I am quite taken by surprise.”
“As am I,” he said, through lips that barely moved.
Indeed, he was not happy. A sudden giddiness overcame Madeline, making her weightless and…well, happy. What on earth could he mean by that grudging admission? “Could you expand on that statement?”
He glared at her. “Is it not obvious? I have lain in that bed for two hours and have not enjoyed one moment of sleep. You, Madeline, are the culprit.”
Her stomach flip-flopped. She should not permit him to speak this way, with his chest half bare and his bed within a lunge’s distance. She should step back and close the door on him. For good. That would show him she was not the least interested in his little double meanings and overly personal banter. He would know without doubt she had no interest in a repeat of what had transpired in the library. To do anything less, would indicate the opposite. “I shall attempt to be even more uncivil to you than usual. That should toss me from your thoughts and your good graces.”
“I said nothing of good graces. I merely said I could not stop thinking of you.”
She smiled. “And that has caused you great pain.”
His eyes glittered. “The most grievous.”
Her smile spread. “I should not like to see you in pain.” Good heavens, why had her voice shifted with such coquettishness just now?
He sighed and massaged his right temple. “‘Tis a headache, driven by my failure to determine the reason I could not banish you from my thoughts tonight.”
“I gave you a headache?”
He eyed her. “I would wager I am not the first person to lay such claim. You are, however, the first woman to invade my thoughts so thoroughly. It is as though you reside in my brain.”
“Like a worm burrowing to the very center of an apple?” she ventured.
“Exactly. Not a welcome thought.”
He had the very same problem as she! Two worms fighting their way to the core. “What will you do?” Her breath hitched as she imagined the possibilities, all of them involving his tongue and his mouth. “To banish me from your thoughts?”
Simon shrugged. “This has never happened before. ‘Tis most unsettling.”
Never before? Surely he misspoke. She cleared her throat and said, “No other woman has captivated your mind in such a manner?”
“No.”
Well then.
“I have enjoyed many women’s company but when the night ended, I bade them good-bye and removed them from my thoughts.”
“You could do that?”
“Of course.”
“And they never minded—being removed?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh. And were these good-byes final or did they imply future meetings?” Visions of Simon slipping out of a beautiful woman’s bed skittered through her brain. How many women had he cast aside?
Simon rubbed his other temple. “Are you asking if these were impromptu trysts or if I had a relationship with them?”
Heat swirled through her, exploding along her neck and cheeks. “I am sure I do not care.”
“You would not have asked if you did not care.”
Drat, of course he was right. “You are an arrogant man.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not intended as a compliment.”
“I know.” His lips twitched. “You look very beautiful.”
Madeline tightened the belt on her wrapper. “Even though brunettes with blue eyes are passé this season?” she asked, quoting his remarks from their first meeting.
He cleared his throat. “I lied.”
More heat rushed to her cheeks. She wished he had not said that. He was too near … his gaze too knowing…his voice too soft…
“I enjoyed our time in the library.”
She gasped.
“The Model Wife is proving quite an entertainment,” he went on, oblivious to her discomfort. “We shall have great discussions on the merits of the book as well as its many faults. I do look forward to continuing our time there.”
Time in the library? Sitting side by side or on top of one another? Reading or kissing? Or touching? Or —
“Madeline?” He brushed a hand over her cheek. “If you would like to continue your exploration, I am available.”
“Exploration?” She could barely say the word let alone permit the implications of it to rush through her head.
“Yes. Of me. A man. I would permit you to poke and prod at your leisure with the promise I would not touch you lest you requested it.”
She met his gaze. Surely he could not be serious. Men and women did not engage in agreements such as this. Did they? Oh, but to run her hand along his bare belly, squeeze the muscles in his arms, follow the lines of his back. How very...tempting. “Why would you do this?”
His next words burned their way along her thighs, straight to her woman’s heat. “For the chance to touch you again.”
* * *
He was a fool. An imbecile. The worst form of idiot.
Less than twenty minutes past he had led Madeline to his bed where she had plopped him on his belly and begun her exploration. Two sighs and a gasp later she removed his shirt, claiming the material too cumbersome for a true exploration. He would have liked to tell her shedding his breeches would further her cause, but thought better of it. Madeline had taken a few steps toward trusting him and he would not risk losing that trust even if it meant the death of him.
“How did you get this scar?” She traced the mark on the right side of his waist and made him wish he had twenty scars.
“Fencing.” Ethan had not understood the rules of the sport when Douglas began to teach him, therefore the gash.
Her tracing stilled. “Where would you have had the opportunity to fence?”
Douglas switched his role and Ethan’s. “In America, the classes are not so harshly defined. I worked for a tobacco farmer and spent much time with his son.”
“Oh.”
The delicious touching began again, long strokes up and down his bare back. The throbbing in his head had departed the moment Madeline climbed onto the bed, but it had moved to another area—namely his breeches. Why was he torturing himself so? It was a true test of his word and he vowed to keep it. He wanted Madeline to enjoy his body and prayed she would grow curious enough and aroused enough to ask for his touch—at which time he would eagerly comply.
&n
bsp; But it was not just about the touching. Madeline had challenged his defenses and worked her way into his head. He must study her in various settings, pose questions and dissect her answers. No one had ever toppled his logic, but damn it, this woman had and he would determine why and how to correct it. All problems had answers, even this one, and with careful analysis, he would find it.
His analysis of the moment split apart when she touched his thigh.
“You are strong, Simon.” Her hair brushed his back as she leaned over him. “Well-formed,” she added, and squeezed his calf, “with such large muscles.”
“Thank you.” He managed to extract the words from his soggy brain.
She planted a soft kiss on his left shoulder blade and whispered, “I believe the pleasure is indeed mine.”
Oh, but those lips hurled him into an oblivion where he cared only about the next touch. And what touches they were, as she kissed her way to his neck, sucked the sensitive flesh beneath his earlobe, and drove him to rasp, “Madeline. Please.”
“Mmmm.” Her breasts pressed against his back as she leaned in to plant tiny kisses along the side of his face. “This is good, isn’t it? Who would have thought exploration could prove so interesting?”
Interesting?
“And stimulating,” she added on a long sigh as she sifted her hand through his hair.
Oh, yes, stimulate me, sweet Madeline. Douglas closed his eyes to block out the hint of nightgown, the slender hand, the dark curls. A man could only tolerate so much stimulation before he reacted in a carnal way.
“Simon?”
“Hmmm?” He would pay no attention to the breathiness in her voice that spoke of desire and need. He would pretend it was the wind blowing over his aroused body.
“Would you roll over? I think I would like to continue my exploration.”
The wind spoke, beckoning him to roll over and by so doing, expose the product of his desire. If he did as she asked, it would not stop there. He would pull her on top of him and conduct a bit of exploration himself. Eventually, with the proper amount of persuasion in the form of a kiss and touch, she would succumb. They would make love and she would hate him by morning. “I can’t,” he lied. “This blasted headache has come back and threatens to explode.”