When the Earl Met His Match (Wedded by Scandal 4)

Phoebe chuckled, the sound rich and throaty. “Well, if you are most certain, my lord.”

Then she lifted her hand to her chin, untied the bonnet, and removed it from her head. After carelessly dropping it onto the blanket, she attacked her hair, which had been caught in an updo of waves and curls, and withdrew several pins.

It perplexed him how his heart raced. A riotous tumble of hair came down her shoulders to spread over the mound of her belly. Her cheeks were rounder and flushed becomingly, and she smiled. An escaping curl tumbled over her forehead, and she pursed her lips and blew at it.

The silliness of that action pulled a smile from him. Befuddlingly, he was…enchanted.

“I have been wanting to do that. I am very much obliged to you, my lord.”

A rumble sounded in the distance, and she glanced up at the thick canopy above their heads. “I do hope it does not rain today! I daresay the favorite part of my day is coming here. I feel I do not wish to return to the castle but to lie here under this thick canopy of trees and stare at the sky, and then maybe sleep!”

She wrinkled her nose, and humor lit in her expressive eyes. His lady often remarked with some amusement how much she loved to sleep now when before she had enjoyed waking up at the crack of dawn so as not to miss the day passing by.

He tapped her legs, and she lowered her gaze to his.

Her eyes darkened with anticipation for the kisses that inevitably came every time they saw each other. He bit the inside of his lips, not liking how quickly his body responded to her sensuality or how she made his heart quiver. Liar. You like it.

Bloody hell. He did like it.

“Our lesson is over.” He was moving before he finished signing, up to her side, thrusting his hands through her hair that shimmered over his fingers like waterfall.

“Yes,” she murmured, a wicked smile playing about her lips. “My absolute favorite part of our day.”

That hint of carnality stole the breath from his lungs. Then she leaned in, and their mouths met. Though he emitted no sound, Hugh swore hunger vibrated deep inside his chest and rose into his throat. This…yes…he looked forward to this every day as well. Kissing her, tasting her, becoming obsessed by her, yet never taking it further than their endless kissing.

The flavor of her mouth was sweet—oranges, gingerbread, and ratafia—yet also something elusive, sublime. The control he’d held on his passions these few weeks cracked, and he gathered her into his arms so that she was almost sitting in his lap. And not once did their mouths part.

He felt as if someone had broken something apart inside of him and placed it back haphazardly. Hugh couldn’t quite grasp a hold of the perplexing sensations worming through him. He kissed her deeply, their tongues sliding with carnal intent against each other. Then with soft kisses and even softer bites and nibbles against her lush mouth. At times he was rough, then he was gentle. But the only thing Hugh was certain of was kissing was no longer enough. He daresay his wife agreed, for she twisted, and her large belly bumped into his stomach as she thrust her fingers through his hair as their passion flamed bright and wicked.

He allowed his hand to curve up and settle over one of her breasts. She froze into expectant stillness; even their mouths had stopped moving, though they did not break their kiss. Hugh opened his eyes to see hers wide open and staring at him. They drew apart, and he did not break his gaze, holding her regard with his.

Her chest rose and fell, her breathing a bit fractured. And suddenly he knew no one had ever touched her breast before. He’d already sensed her inexperience when they had their first kiss, but this now confirmed her first time had not been a wildly passionate encounter but the first blush of passion, which had been fumbling and possibly awkward.

Thank Christ.

He did not feel an ounce of regret for that selfish desire. He had never felt like this before, and he suspected it was the same for her. Whatever this was, he was damned glad they would explore it together, and he wanted to be the one to leave her breathless and trembling after he had ridden her for the night. Gently he outlined the shape of her breast before pressing his palm flat against that soft décolletage. He could feel her heartbeat.

Her stomach rippled, and he dropped his hand as if fire had singed him. “What was that?”

With a gasp, she pressed her hand to her belly. “I have never felt it so strong before.”

“It?”

“I…the baby moves, all the time.”

“It does?”

She nodded and tried to sign along the words even as she spoke them, a method they used to ensure the words and signs matched. “The first time it happened, I was so scared I burst into tears. It was Sarah who assured me it was normal, and I am not at death’s door. And then Dr. Edwards informed me that it is quite the norm and my agitation over the matter was needless.”

He lowered his gaze to her belly, a feeling of alarm tripping through him when it seemed as if her dress itself moved. He arched a brow, amazed, when her belly undulated for several moments. “What do you think it is doing?”

“Dancing, maybe?”

He sent her a scowl, and she smiled, the loveliness of it rendering his mouth dry.

“Would you…would you like to feel?” she asked with such shyness he could only stare at her, just stare. Then he nodded.

Her throat worked on a swallow, then she took one of his hands in hers and rested it atop her high belly. The flesh underneath his palm shifted and rippled, and a sense of awe filled his heart.