Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(46)

He wanted to run a hand down her leg so badly that he was shaking all over. But . . . kisses were kisses. His sister-in-law had been kissed by any number of suitors; his brother Alaric had used that as an excuse to marry Willa by special license.

That, and Alaric had been madly in love.

“North.” Diana’s voice was little more than a breath of air that traveled as far as his ear and no more.

“Darling.” He kissed his way along her cheekbone and back to her mouth, and the conversation stopped.

By the time she spoke again, North was gritting his teeth because she was rocking against him, arching her back and—

This was no courtship kiss.

“We must stop,” Diana murmured.

“Mmmm.” He was propped over her now, elbows on either side of her head, in the right position to ravish her mouth. One of her slender knees was bent, and her dress had fallen back on her legs.

A gentleman wouldn’t put a hand on her ankle and run it up her calf.

Her arms were looped around his back, but one of her hands caught his before it could go higher.

“No.” The word sounded in his ear with dismaying strength of character.

He groaned. “May I say that your ankle is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever touched?”

Enjoying the compliment, Diana squinted down at where his golden-brown hand encircled her ankle. Her foot had strands of grass stuck to it—and freckles.

“My foot is freckled,” she cried, dumbfounded, sitting up. “Hell’s bells! Things just get worse and worse around here.”

North threw back his head and fairly bellowed. That was the first laugh that she had got from him, and she loved every joyful second of it.

“My room is dim, and I hadn’t seen,” she explained. “They must be from taking off my shoes and lying in the boat. It’s a good thing my mother isn’t here.”

“For many reasons. Just think of the freckles that would sprout if you took off all your clothing.” North managed a leer so exaggerated that she giggled.

“Freckles are anathema,” she told him, since he had clearly missed this crucial piece of information.

“Anathema,” he said thoughtfully. “A big word for a small spot.”

“They are a terrible blemish.”

“I like them. Smallpox scars would be worse.”

Diana was taken aback by that. “I’ve never seen any.”

“Queen Elizabeth covered up her scars with thick white paint, just the way you did your freckles when we first met. Your freckles should be proudly displayed,” he said, dropping kisses on her nose.

His lips moved to her cheeks, and she lay back again, loving the caress. North began peppering her cheekbones with kisses.

“You’re not still kissing freckles, are you?”

“Yes,” he said dreamily. “Like flecks of sweet sugar.”

“No,” Diana breathed. “That can’t be right.” He’d given her far more kisses than five. But with a sinking stomach, she realized that it could be. From the time she was a little girl, her mother’s abhorrence of freckles had resulted in bonnets that stifled any ray of sunlight.

But here? At the castle? She had formed a habit of escaping to the lake and the punt for an hour or so while the children napped. Lying on her back and allowing filtered sunlight to warm her face.

The tallow candles in her room meant that she’d spent little time looking at her face. The five freckles she used to have must have multiplied.

“They are beautiful,” North said soothingly, a large hand gently stroking her hip. She hadn’t realized she had gone rigid. Her mother wasn’t here. There was no chance that Mrs. Belgrave would sweep into any room where Diana might be and express disgust.

Children didn’t care about freckles.

North didn’t care either—though that was irrelevant.

“We should return to the castle,” she said. Her feet were freckled, her face was freckled . . . She peered down at her chest, what she could see of it.

“No freckles,” North said helpfully. “Perhaps I should examine it more closely.” He pulled aside the fichu tucked into her modest neckline.

“North!”

“Why did you ever . . .” His voice trailed off.

Diana stifled a grin. He was gazing at her bosom as if he was ravenous. North was a predator, a top-of-the-food-chain predator, and she probably ought to worry about that look.

“Are you licking your lips?” she inquired. Frankly, if she was going to fuss about indiscretions with North, she should have started two nights ago.

“Yes,” he said, and a puff of laughter escaped her mouth, because his finely chiseled jaw was practically hanging open. “Lavinia Gray flaunts her breasts, and every man in her vicinity appreciates it, Diana. Why didn’t you, when we were betrothed?”

She scowled. “Why were you looking at Lavinia’s breasts?”

He dropped a hard kiss on her mouth. “They were there, on display, and no man could overlook them. But yours are even more beautiful.”

“So they should have been on display?” she asked tartly. “Is that what you wanted your fiancée to do?”

“I have numerous sisters, and I’ve had two stepmothers,” he said with exaggerated alarm. “I wouldn’t dare make a suggestion about what a woman should wear.”