At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

“It will suffice until my nightdress is dry.” She lowered her gaze, embarrassment evident in the rigid way she held herself.

Seeing his shirt covering her curves did something to his insides. His stomach roiled with excitement, with the thought that he possessed her now. The chivalrous part of his nature forced him to find a robe, and he held it open for her and watched her relax as the sumptuous velvet settled around her shoulders.

When she turned back to face him, she lowered her lids in the demure way he found beguiling. “I didn’t mean to put you to so much trouble.”

“Trust me. It is no trouble at all.”

Their eyes met, and the world shifted.

Their gazes drifted over each other’s faces like the soft strokes of a caress. He wanted her. He wanted her now. But it was too soon, and he knew nothing of her true intentions. A kiss did not mean they should marry. But if it led to more … Oh, he’d bedded women without giving it a second thought. But he wanted to make love to this woman—and that changed everything.

“You must think me rather foolish, and a little naive,” she said with a hint of frustration.

“How so?”

“Because I—I lack the skills to please you.” She waved her hand back and forth between them. “Because when it comes to intimacy, I am at a loss what to do.”

Did she not know that her smile warmed his heart? That the sound of her voice soothed his soul? He liked that she was honest about her feelings, liked that everything she did was genuine.

“My mother died when I was five,” she continued. “I’ve never spoken to anyone about … well, about relations between a man and a woman.”

The air in his lungs dissipated. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he would guide her, coach her, tutor her in the physical act. But he suspected she would be his mentor when it came to expressing feelings, to sharing something meaningful.

“Then come. Let us take a drink. Let us sit together, and I shall read to you.”

The brightest smile lit her face. “Read to me? You would do that?”

“Of course. If you’re happy to listen to poetry.” He gestured to the small leather-bound book on the side table. “I’d rather not tackle the cobwebs in the library.”

Eyes wide with delight, she said, “Poetry is perfect.”

“We should lie on the bed. You must keep warm, and the damn tub is hogging the fire.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Very well.”

Miles moved to the bed and pulled back the sheets. Miss Lovell slipped into his bed, and he drew them back over her. He found an extra blanket in the chest and draped that over her, too.

He poured them both a drink, drained his glass without pause. Miss Lovell sipped hers, her body shivering as the liquid fire trickled down her throat.

Grabbing the book of poems from the table, Miles climbed up next to her. He settled back against the mahogany headboard, gathered her to his chest and read from Mason’s The English Garden.

The first line—To thee, divine simplicity—perfectly summarised the beauty at his side.

As he read, she shuffled closer. Idly, her hand came to rest on top of the sheets. When her hand slipped around his waist, and she put her head on his chest, he could no longer concentrate. The words nymph and angel were repeated in the text to remind him of the beguiling contradiction in his bed.

Miles cast her a sidelong glance, expecting to see drooping lids, but found bright blue moon eyes staring up at him expectantly. Desire took hold and refused to relinquish its grip. Placing the book on his lap, he took hold of her chin and kissed her sweetly.

“There are things we should discuss before we proceed any further.” He kissed one corner of her mouth, kissed her nose, kissed the place between her brows that Dariell called the all-seeing eye.

“You need not concern yourself with the propriety of it all,” she said gently. “I am an heiress and have no need to worry about my reputation, no need to make demands on you.”

Many questions filled his head. What had really happened at Dunnam Park to give her the courage to come to his home? If she had no intention of demanding marriage, what did she want? They were important. Not important enough to quell the hot lust burning through his veins. Not important enough to deny him the only thing he wanted.

“You want nothing from me, then?”

“I did not say that.” Eager fingers slid up over his chest and covered his heart. “I want to feel your lips on mine, desperate and needy. I want to feel you, Greystone, every inch of you.”

He drank in her words as if they were a rich and rare claret. Too little left a man wanting, too much and he might just lose his mind.