“I have wondered what heaven it would be to kiss your breast,” he said low, smiling lopsidedly as his hand glided up to cup the mound of her breast. Mrs. Becket drew a quick breath, and her eyes fluttered closed.
Darien’s smile deepened. “And I’ve wondered at the heat of our bare skin as we lay together,” he murmured, dipping to kiss her neck. “Or even how my hands might feel on your bare bottom in the throes of lovemaking,” he said against her skin as he squeezed her hips.
She gave a throaty laugh before she pushed him away. Darien instantly stood back. He grinned at her. Her eyes were sparkling with amusement, and she did not seem the least bit intimidated by his bold gesture.
“I have certainly not wondered about it,” she said pertly but with a coy smile. “Are you determined to make your point by ravishing me in a church cemetery?”
“Don’t tempt me, madam.” And he meant it, as he took in her face, her full lips, the way her nose upturned just so, and her eyes, always glittering with something deep within. There were times, like now, that he looked upon her and thought he’d perish if he didn’t have her.
But he laughed, stroked her arm. “Don’t deny it, Mrs. Becket. You’ve wondered what it must be like to feel my body against yours. . . .” He leaned forward, so that his lips were against her ear. “Or in yours.”
“I haven’t,” she said unconvincingly.
“You have,” he insisted, his gaze dropping to her lips again. “And I further believe you have thought often about the kiss we shared, and perhaps wondered if it was real, or if your memory had played a trick on you and made it into something so spectacular that your heart took wings.”
She gave him a saucy toss of her head. “You must be speaking of your own heart.”
“Perhaps I am,” he said, slipping his hand beneath her chin and turning her face so that he could graze her lips with a kiss. “My heart did indeed take flight that night. But I am quite certain mine was not the only one, Mrs. Becket. I felt your heart beating just as rapidly against mine.”
“You are trying to seduce me!”
“No, madam, I am trying to love you.”
Her lips curved with a soft sigh. “Are you not fearful of being seen?” she whispered, her gaze dipping to his lips.
“I am only fearful of never kissing you again.” He touched his lips to hers.
He felt her body stiffen with t
he first glance of his lips, and he moved closer, angling his mouth across hers, kissing her softly, just feeling the flesh of her mouth against his. But then he felt her rise up like a mist, so slowly and gently that it was almost imperceptible, until her body was touching his.
Darien slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her into him, away from the obelisk, and kissed her like a woman then, not some maiden to be gentled, but a woman who had known the touch of a man and had gone without it for two years now.
Mrs. Becket opened her mouth beneath his and drew his breath into her; he heard the clatter of the basket as it fell to the ground and hit a grave marker as her hands went around his neck. Her body felt firm and supple and alive against him; she was perfect in his arms.
And then suddenly she forced her hand up between them and pushed hard against his chest, forcing him to let go. She stepped back, bumping up against the obelisk, blinking up at him.
Darien refused to let go and merely smiled.
So did Mrs. Becket. “That was a terribly wicked thing to do,” she whispered.
“Yes, it certainly was. I’m a heel, a roué. A rotten bounder. But I adore you.”
Her smile deepened with pleasure, and she playfully shoved him away. Darien let go, stepped backward. She slid down the obelisk and reached for her basket, carelessly tossing the flowers into it before rising again. “I must insist you not behave in such an objectionable manner again.”
“Of course not,” he said, bowing his acquiescence.
She smiled, righted the bonnet which had slid off the back of her head, and put the basket on her arm. “And now, I will take my leave of you, sir, for you cannot be trusted with my good virtue.”
“You are quite right. I most certainly cannot.”
With an impertinent smile, she began walking.
Darien watched her for a moment, the smooth swing of her hips, and suddenly called out, “Kate!” He stopped her with the use of her Christian name, the first time he had ever uttered the name aloud, except to whisper it on those occasions when he longed for her the most.
She did not turn round but slowly glanced over her shoulder. “My lord?”
“Do you care for picnics?”