The Viscount Who Loved Me (Bridgertons, #2)(78)

“You—you do?”

He nodded. “I believe I was trying to determine what pleases you, as all good husbands should do.”

She said nothing, but her breathing quickened.

He smiled against her skin. “What, for example, about this?” He flattened his hand so that he was no longer cupping her, instead just letting his palm graze lightly over her nipple.

“Anthony!” she choked out.

“Good,” he said, moving to her neck, nudging her chin up so that she was more open to him. “I’m glad we’re back to Anthony. ‘My lord’ is so formal, don’t you think? Far too formal for this.”

And then he did what he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. He lowered his head to her breast and took her into his mouth, tasting, suckling, teasing, reveling in each gasp he heard spill forth from her lips, each spasm of desire he felt shivering across her body.

He loved that she reacted this way, thrilled that he did this to her. “So good,” he murmured, his breath hot and moist against her skin. “You taste so damn good.”

“Anthony,” she said, her voice hoarse, “Are you sure—”

He put a finger to her lips without even lifting his face to look at her. “I have no idea what you’re asking, but whatever it is”—he moved his attention to her other breast—“I’m sure.”

She made a soft little moaning sound, the sort that came from the very bottom of one’s throat. Her body arched under his ministrations, and with renewed fervor, he teased her nipple, grazing it gently between her teeth.

“Oh, my—oh, Anthony!”

He ran his tongue around the aureole. She was perfect, simply perfect. He loved the sound of her voice, hoarse and broken with desire, and his body tingled at the thought of their wedding night, of her cries of passion and need. She’d be an inferno beneath him, and he relished the prospect of making her explode.

He pulled away so that he could see her face. She was flushed and her eyes were dazed and dilated. Her hair was starting to come undone from that hideous cap.

“This,” he said, plucking it from her head, “has got to go.”

“My lord!”

“Promise me you’ll never wear it again.”

She twisted in her seat—on his lap, actually, which did little to help the rather urgent state of his groin—to look over the edge of the chair. “I’ll do no such thing,” she retorted. “I quite like that cap.”

“You can’t possibly,” he said in all seriousness.

“I can and—Newton!”

Anthony followed her line of vision and broke out into loud laughter, shaking the both of them in their seats. Newton was happily munching away on Kate’s cap. “Good dog!” he said on a laugh.

“I would make you buy me another,” Kate muttered, yanking her dress back up, “except that you’ve already spent a fortune on me this week.”

This amused him. “I have?” he inquired mildly.

She nodded. “I’ve been shopping with your mother.”

“Ah. Good. I’m sure she didn’t let you pick out anything like that.” He motioned toward the now mangled cap in Newton’s mouth.

When he looked back at her, her mouth was twisted into a fetchingly disgruntled line. He couldn’t help but smile. She was so easy to read. His mother hadn’t let her buy such an unattractive cap, and it was killing her that she couldn’t offer a retort to his last statement.

He sighed rather contentedly. Life with Kate wasn’t going to be dull.

But it was getting late, and he should probably be going. Kate had said her mother wasn’t expected for at least an hour, but Anthony knew better than to trust the female sense of time. Kate could be wrong, or her mother could have changed her mind, or any number of things might have happened, and even though he and Kate were due to be married in just two days, it didn’t seem particularly prudent to get caught in the drawing room in such a compromising position.

With great reluctance—sitting in the chair with Kate and doing nothing but hold her was surprisingly satisfying—he stood, lifting her in his arms as he did so, and then set her back in the chair.

“This has been a delightful interlude,” he murmured, leaning down to drop a kiss on her forehead. “But I fear your mother’s early return. I shall see you Saturday morning?”

She blinked. “Saturday?”

“A superstition of my mother’s,” he said with a sheepish smile. “She thinks it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see one another the day before the wedding.”

“Oh.” She rose to her feet, self-consciously smoothing her dress and hair. “And do you believe it as well?”

“Not at all,” he said with a snort.

She nodded. “It’s very sweet of you to indulge your mother, then.”

Anthony paused for a moment, well aware that most men of his reputation did not want to appear tied to apron strings. But this was Kate, and he knew that she valued devotion to family as much as he did, so he finally said, “There is little I would not do to keep my mother content.”

She smiled shyly. “It is one of the things I like best about you.”

He made some sort of gesture designed to change the subject, but she interrupted with, “No, it’s true. You’re far more caring a person than you’d like people to believe.”