The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(68)

“You needn’t be so serious.” A pout entered her voice. “I was only teasing. I have no intention of taking other lovers.”

“Good. Because I won’t allow it.”

“Come to think of it, isn’t the pot calling the kettle black?” she said with a huff. “After all, you’ve had plenty of lovers.”

“That was in the past.”

There was a pause. “How long ago in the past?”

Damn, she’d caught him off guard. His jealousy had distracted him from the fact that her hand had crept slyly and directly onto the lid of Pandora’s Box.

Apprehension prickled his nape, but he said dismissively, “It’s been two years.”

“Who was she?”

Christ. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. To bring into their bed a figure that ought to have disappeared from both their lives long ago. He couldn’t allow the beauty blossoming between him and Primrose to be tainted by his weakness—by his sheer stupidity. Perhaps later he’d tell her; there was no reason to do so now. Not when they were just finding their balance in what had been a tempestuous journey.

“I don’t discuss my past lovers,” he said. “You’ll have to take my word for it that what you and I have are different.”

“How is it different?” she persisted. “How am I different from all your other lovers?”

You’re different because… I love you. Goddamnit.

Aye, he was in love with Primrose. There was no denying it. As a girl, she’d had a piece of his heart; as a woman, she’d owned the whole bloody thing from the moment their paths had crossed again at the masquerade.

He loved Primrose—and he also understood her. She wasn’t ready to hear those words from him. She was skittish about their affair as it was. Besides, experience had taught him that love didn’t necessarily change anything. He couldn’t help loving Primrose, but he also knew better than to expect anything in return.

“You’re different because you’re you.” He traced the contours of her face, framing its delicate strength. “Unique, captivating—and a saucy little baggage. You need a man like me to take you on.”

“I’m not a baggage,” she retorted. “And I don’t need any man.”

“Don’t you?” In an easy motion, he rolled onto his back, hoisting her on top so that she straddled him, her knees bracketing his hips. He felt her shiver, the moist kiss of her cunny against his abdomen, and his erection reared against her bottom. “Could have fooled me.”

“Wretch.” She sighed it.

“You’re right, however. It’s not any man you need—it’s me.”

Gripping his prick with one hand, he ran the engorged head along her dewy slit.

“You’re mine, Primrose. Say it,” he instructed.

“I’m yours,” she said breathlessly.

Triumph blazed through him. “Bloody right, you are.”

He hauled her higher, positioning her sex over his mouth. He ate her until she climaxed, her sleek thighs shaking around his face, her lips chanting his name. Only then did he don another sheath and bring them both to ecstasy once more, laying his claim on her the surest way he knew how.





Chapter Twenty-Eight


By the next day, Papa’s siblings had arrived in London, and the family convened at the Kent residence. Rosie received squishy kisses and hugs from her aunts’ offspring—an adorable and ever expanding lot—before the children toddled off with their nannies. The adults took advantage of the momentary peace to have tea in the drawing room.

Papa’s siblings were actually half-siblings, their mama having married Papa’s widowed father. While they were technically Rosie’s aunts and uncle, they felt more like siblings to her due to their closeness in age. Emma, the eldest sister, was only eight years older than Rosie. She and the rest of the family—Thea, Harry, Violet, and Polly—were now crowded around the refreshment-laden coffee table, listening as Rosie gave an abridged version of her adventures.

“We’re so sorry we didn’t make it here sooner,” Thea, the Marchioness of Tremont said. The gentlest of the Kents, she was an angel with golden brown hair and soft hazel eyes. “We couldn’t travel until Freddy was feeling better.”

Frederick, Thea’s beloved stepson, was a robust adolescent who suffered from occasional bouts of a chronic ailment.

With concern, Rosie said, “He’s fully recovered, I hope?”

“Despite Thea’s fretting, Freddy just had a head cold.” This came from Thea’s husband, who stood behind her chair. Tremont was a stoic fellow whose cool grey eyes warmed whenever they were upon his lady. “Right now, he’s out in the garden with Edward.”

Being the same age, Freddy and Rosie’s brother were best cronies and usually up to some kind of mischief.

“Harry brought them a new toy. They’re experimenting,” Tremont added wryly.

A loud bang came from the back of the house, followed by gleeful shouts.

“Thunder ’n turf, what did you give them, Harry?” Violet, a lithe brunette, exclaimed from the settee that she shared with her husband, Viscount Carlisle. At the explosive sound, Carlisle, a strapping sportsman, had thrown a protective arm around her.