And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,107

opening them, and as he had before with her bodice, she reached inside and let her fingers curl around his rock-hard manhood.

Where it had been straining against his breeches, now it pulsed to life in her grasp. He rolled off her and they lay face-to-face so she had room for her explorations and the leisure to tease him.

Henry tried to breathe as hot sensations of desire shot through him.

Her touch, at first tentative, became stronger, running up and down his length, her mouth coming to join again with his as her touch became more hurried, her tongue teasing at his.

Now it was Henry’s turn to groan, for with each stroke, he grew harder, his body tightened. Her fingers toyed with a glossy bead that had formed on the head, and she used it to torture him as she slid her hand back and forth, his length now slick.

“I want you, Daphne,” he gasped. “I want to be inside of you. I need to be inside you.”

He reached down and began to tease her back to life, until she was once again panting with need, then he rolled her on her back and shifted himself until he was right at her cleft.

“I want you as well,” she whispered.

“Who do you want, Daphne?” he asked as he began to enter her, slowly, opening her and then moving out.

Her mouth opened. “You, Lord Henry. I want you. And only you.”

And then he entered her, breaching her virgin’s barrier and filling her.

She gasped, her eyes fluttering open wide at this invasion.

“It is only like that once,” he told her. “Now remember how it was when I touched you, when I kissed you.” Then he began to stroke her, slowly, until her once soft mews of pleasure became more urgent cries.

As she reached her peak for the second time, Henry’s own climax shot through him emptying him into an abyss of pleasure.

They spent the remainder of the day in each other’s arms, making love again, and eventually, hand in hand, they wandered from their blanket haven and explored the meadows beyond, gamboling through the waist-high grasses and wildflowers like children.

As they strolled back to the tree, Daphne said, “Tell me about this house of yours. This Stowting Mote.”

He grinned at her, reaching over and brushing an errant strand of her hair away from her face. “It has a moat.”

“A moat? Truly?”

“Indeed. The water surrounds the entire house, and you can fish from any window.”

She laughed at him. “Now you are teasing.”

“I’m not. The house is truly surrounded by a moat—it is centuries old, with the last real renovations done about the time Old Bess was queen. But the gardens are good, and it has a lovely orchard that spreads up along a wide lawn in the front.”

“It sounds romantic,” she told him.

“Hardly,” he admitted. “The moat needs to be drained and cleaned, and I imagine once I start mucking around, I’ll find all sorts of places that need shoring up.”

“Whyever did you buy such a place?”

Lord Henry shrugged and glanced off in the direction of the lovely house in the distance. “Stowting Mote has always been a family home. A unique one, granted. Families have lived there for generations, and then come and gone. And yet the house still stands. I suppose I just wanted to be part of that, that legacy of generations, to belong to that history.”

She nudged him. “You are an incurable romantic, Lord Henry Seldon.”

He dropped her hand and struck a horrified pose. “Insults will land you in the moat, Miss Dale.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Then I expect you will fish me out.”

“I might.”

“Wretched, awful man,” she taunted him back as they resumed their walk to the spot under the tree.

They gathered up the blanket and the remains of the basket and strolled down the hillside toward their carriage. About the time they got to the rock wall, the sound of hooves echoed down the long lane.

Their postilion, their driver and fresh horses came round the bend.

“So soon?” Daphne mused, rather saddened that their perfect afternoon was ending. She knew all too soon that she and Lord Henry would have to have a coming to the truth, a full confession of sorts. She only hoped he would forgive her as much as she was willing to look past his stubborn pride.

He had been right earlier: they were alike. Too much so.

“I thought you were in a hell-fire hurry to get to the border?” Henry posed. For he was