The Study of Seduction (Sinful Suitors, #2)(64)

“Do you know which party you support?” He’d never once heard her mention politics.

“How many are there, again?” At his shocked look, she said, “I’m joking, you fool. Of course I know which party I support. Now tell me which it is.”

He had to think about that. But Warren was a Tory, and given her propensity to be contrary . . . “You support the Whigs.”

She poked him in the chest. “You just guessed, didn’t you?”

“I told you,” he said smugly. “I know you very well.”

“We’ll see about that.” She knit her brow in deep concentration, then brightened. “Here’s one you’ll never guess. What’s my favorite play?”

“That’s far too general a question to be fair. There’s hundreds to choose from. But just to show I’m a good sport, I’ll take a stab at it.” He pretended to be unsure. “Much Ado about Nothing?”

Her mouth fell open. “How could you possibly have known that?”

“You quoted it at dinner the first night of our marriage. And generally, if someone knows something well enough to quote it, it’s a favorite.” He leaned toward her gleefully. “What’s my favorite play?”

She scowled, recognizing the trap. “As you said, there’s hundreds.”

“Yet I knew yours. Come now, give an answer.”

She threw herself back on the blanket. “You’re a wicked man, Edwin Barlow.”

“Yes, I am. And I’m powerfully eager to see you wear breeches to dinner. What’s my favorite play, minx?”

“It has to be something dry and dull. A history play, perhaps. Richard III. No, wait, The Merchant of Venice. It has those mechanical boxes in it.”

He gave her a superior look. “Actually, it’s not Shakespeare.”

“What? Of course it’s Shakespeare. Who else is there?”

“It’s She Stoops to Conquer. Oliver Goldsmith.”

She sat up to gape at him. “No!”

“Yes. It makes me laugh. And yes, occasionally I do like to laugh. So you see, Miss I-Know-Everything-About-You, you don’t know everything about me.” He grinned at her. “And I have won.”

“That is the most . . . most . . .” she sputtered. “It’s not . . .”

“To quote my wife, ‘You simply can’t stand losing.’”

She glared at him. He chuckled. She looked so adorably put out at the idea that he’d won.

“Fine,” she said primly. “I shall wear breeches to dinner. But only if you tell me why it’s so dratted important. Why do men like to see women in breeches?”

He leaned over to whisper, “Because what we really like is to see women in their drawers. And it’s the closest we can get to that without bedding them.”

“Ohhh,” she said. “That makes sense.”

Though her cheeks pinkened, she didn’t flinch from his gaze or look panicked by his nearness. And when he lowered his head toward her and her eyes turned sultry, his breath caught in his throat.

It had been a week since he’d kissed her, a week since he’d touched her. And she was acting as if she might welcome a kiss.

There was only one way to find out.

The minute his mouth touched hers, she opened to him, welcoming the duel of tongues, meeting him stroke for stroke. She did want him. Finally.

But perhaps he should do another test before he allowed himself to believe she was ready for this. So he covered her breast with his hand.

She didn’t even shy away. If anything she pressed up into the caress, her hands sliding up to encircle his neck.

Thank God. She was his. At last. He’d been patient, and this was his reward. Aroused and inflamed, he wanted to throw caution to the winds, rip her clothes off her, and cover every inch of her with kisses and caresses.

Take care, man. You must be very gentle with her. Whatever you do, don’t frighten her off.

That was going to be damned difficult. Because he’d never desired a woman more than he desired his wife at this very moment. And he feared that the mere fact of his desiring her too much might send her running.





Seventeen


Clarissa liked this part, having Edwin touch her and kiss her and heat her up. She could endure the painful part just for this. She would, drat it. She refused to spend her marriage afraid of the very activity that marriage was created for.

She refused to be denied children just because of her fears.

She’d planned their picnic so that she could seduce Edwin somewhere she’d feel comfortable. Somewhere safe, outdoors, with plenty of light and air around her, but private, too, here in the woods. Somewhere she wouldn’t panic, because all she’d have to do was scream to bring someone running.

Somewhere utterly different from the place where she’d been deflowered.

As soon as the thought leapt into her mind, she thrust it out. The Vile Seducer was dead. He couldn’t hurt her ever again. And Edwin wouldn’t hurt her—not intentionally, anyway.

Edwin tugged her pelerine off, then took his time unfastening her redingote gown, which had far too many ties in the front. By the time he had her bosom bared, she was desperate to have his hands on her there.

His mouth on her, which he was putting there now. Oh, Lord. She could lie here all day while he teased her breasts, especially since he wasn’t on top of her, but propped up on his side next to her. “You do that . . . so well,” she murmured, burying her fingers in his luscious hair. “It’s heavenly.”