silver reticule on top of a chest of drawers.
As she unwound the silk shawl from about her shoulders, still grappling with the unexpected turn of events, he asked, “How did you get here? You didn’t walk?”
“Of course not.” Neatly folding the scarf, Mary laid it alongside her reticule and tried to calm her galloping heart. Her voice, at least, remained steady and assured. “I had my coachman drive me. He waited until Pemberly let me into the house, then left.”
“Your coachman?”
Ryder’s incredulous question came from just behind her; her heart skipped as her greedy senses reached for his heat, for the solidity and sheer maleness of his body. Whirling, she fixed her eyes on his. “Yes.” Anticipating his next question, she added, “John dotes on Henrietta and me. He’ll do anything we wish, and keep his mouth shut afterward.”
Ryder studied her for an instant, then, lips firming, shook his head. “I’m still having trouble accepting this.” When she opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “No—wait. Just answer me this. Have you truly thought this through?”
“Of course I have.” She let irascibility color her tone. “It’s not the sort of thing one does on a whim.”
He arched his brows. “I suppose not, at least not in your case. Still—”
Slapping her palms to his chest, she stretched up and pressed her lips to his. She kissed him—took advantage of his parted lips to send her tongue on a flirtatious foray—and thrilled when he responded, when his arms closed around her and he bent his head and took possession of her mouth. . . .
For long moments, she let her wits spin, let her senses glory, but then she gathered her will and drew back—pulled back from the kiss just enough to state, “No more arguing.” Her palm to his cheek, she briefly met his eyes, then fitted her lips to his again.
But after the briefest of exchanges, he drew back. “Why? Because you might lose?”
“No—because we’re wasting time!” Clasping his nape, she hauled his head down, and kissed him again—even more blatantly, ever more flagrantly.
Still he held against her, against himself . . .
She remembered and stepped into him, plastered her body against his—and felt him shudder.
Felt his resistance fall—not dropped, but with deliberate intent set aside.
She inwardly exulted; he was hers.
Then his hands closed about her waist and he took control of the kiss, and there was nothing uncertain in the acts. With irresistible expertise, he filched the reins and took unfettered charge—and she ceded and followed, eager to her soul.
Ryder gave up all pretense of not doing as she wished, of not seizing with unbecoming alacrity all she so innocently offered.
That she was innocent—an innocent who had never taken a man to her bed—was, somewhat shockingly, an unexpected thrill, spurring anticipation and setting an unfamiliar edge to his hunger, yet simultaneously the knowledge was a restraint, a restraining awareness that sang in his brain.
Slow. Thorough, yes, but slow.
This wasn’t about a single night, not just one time; whatever came of this engagement, whatever interest accrued from his performance tonight, would color their enjoyment of each other going forward.
Tonight had to be right.
The pressure might have made a less experienced man falter, but he knew he could and would meet her challenge. Indeed, he hungered for the chance—the very chance she’d just flung at his feet.
Her mouth was all honeyed delight, sweet and tempting; her lips were pliant and demanding, an intriguing contradiction. For untold minutes he savored, not just the pleasures of the kiss but the unabashedly intimate promise of the slender and soft, vibrant and vital, undeniably female body in his arms.
He could have spent longer simply relishing the prospects, but he knew her—she wasn’t going to wait on his cues. If he wanted to remain in the driver’s seat, he would have to actively drive. Reluctantly drawing his awareness from the kiss, from the nearly overwhelming temptation of her mouth, from the subtle spur of the increasingly assertive caress of her lips and tongue, he freed enough wit to take stock, to assess the possibilities.
The bed stood beside them, the gold silk coverlet neat and straight, the mound of pillows at its head undisturbed. Inviting. Soft light spilled from four lamps, one on each bedside table, and two on the tallboys on either side of the room. The curtains were drawn; the fire had been burning earlier but was now mere glowing coals, the room nicely warm but not overheated.
Without further thought, he eased one hand