His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(99)
Pleasure, to be kissed by a man who wasn’t in a hurry, half-drunk, or pleased with himself for appropriating liberties from a woman taken unaware by his boldness.
Pleasure, to kiss Lord Colin back. To do more than stand still, enduring the fumblings of a misguided fortune hunter who hoped a display of his bumbling charms would result in a lifetime of security.
Pleasure, to feel lovely bodily stirrings as the sun rose, the birds sang, and the morning reverberated with the potential of a new, wonderful day.
And beneath those delightful, if predictable pleasures, yet more joy, unique to Anwen.
Lord Colin had bluntly pronounced her slight stature an advantage in the saddle—how marvelous!—and what a novel perspective. He’d listened to her maundering on about the boys at the orphanage. Listened and discussed the problem rather than pontificating about not troubling her pretty head, and he’d offered solutions.
He’d taken care that this kiss be private, and thus unhurried.
Anwen liked the unhurried part exceedingly. Lord Colin held her not as if she were frail and fragile, but as if she were too precious to let go. His arms were secure about her, and he’d tucked in close enough that she could revel in his contours—broad chest, flat belly, and hard, hard thighs, such as an accomplished equestrian would have.
Soft lips, though. Gentle, entreating, teasing…
Anwen teased him back, getting a taste of peppermint for her boldness, and then a taste of him.
“Great day in the morning,” he whispered, right at her ear. “I won’t be able to sit my horse if you do that again with your tongue.”
She did it again, and again, until the kiss involved his leg insinuated among the folds and froths of her riding habit, her fingers toying with the hair at his nape, and her heart, beating faster than it had at the conclusion of their race.
“Ye must cease, wee Anwen,” Lord Colin said, resting his cheek against her temple. “We must cease, or I’ll have to cast myself into yonder water for the sake of my sanity.”
“I’m a good swimmer,” Anwen said, peering up at him. “I’d fish you out.” She contemplated dragging a sopping Lord Colin from the Serpentine, his clothes plastered to his body.…
He kissed her check. “Such a look you’re giving me. If ye’d slap me, I’d take it as a mercy.”
“I’d rather kiss you again.” And again and again and again. Anwen’s enthusiasm for that undertaking roared through her like a wild fire, bringing light, heat, and energy to every corner of her being.
“You are a bonfire in disguise,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “An ambush of a woman, and you have all of polite society thinking you’re the quiet one.” He studied her, his hair sticking up on one side. “Am I the only man who knows better, Anwen?”
She smoothed his hair down, delighting in its texture. Red hair had a mind of its own, and by the dawn’s light, his hair was very red.
“No, you are not the only one who knows better,” she replied, which had him looking off across the water, his gaze determined.
“I’m no’ the dallyin’ kind,” he said, taking Anwen’s hand and kissing it. “I was a soldier, and I’m fond of the ladies, but this is…you mustn’t toy with me.”
Everlasting celestial trumpets. “You think I could toy with you?”
“When you smile like that, you could break hearts, Miss Anwen Windham. A man wouldn’t see it coming, but then you’d swan off in a cloud of grace and dignity, and too late, he’d realize what he’d missed. He wouldn’t want to admit how foolish he’d been, but in his heart, he’d know: I should ne’er have let her get away. I should have done anything to stay by her side.”
I am a bonfire in disguise. “You are not the only one who knows my secret. I know better now too, Colin.” She went up on her toes and kissed him. “It’s our secret.”
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And read on for an excerpt from His Grace for the Win, a novella by Grace Burrowes in
The Duke’s Bridle Path
* * *
On some stone tablet Moses had probably left up on Mount Sinai—stone tablets were deuced heavy—the hand of God had written, “Thou shallt not hug a duke, nor shall dukes indulge in any spontaneous hugging either.”
The consequence for this trespass was so well understood that nobody—not dear Ada, not Lord Ramsdale in his cups, not Philippe’s mistresses, back when he’d had bothered to keep mistresses—had dared transgress on Philippe’s person once the title had befallen him.
Harriet Talbot dared. She alone failed to heed that stone tablet, ever, and thus with her, Philippe was free to pretend the rules didn’t apply to him.
She was a fierce hugger, wrapping him in a long, tight embrace that conveyed welcome, reproach for his absence, protectiveness, and—as a postscript noted by Philippe’s unruly male nature—a surprising abundance of curves.
Harriet was unselfconscious about those curves, which was to be expected when she and Philippe had known each other for more than twenty years.
“You do not approve of Lord Dudley,” Philippe said. “Did he insult one of your horses?”