Page 40 of A Foolish Flirtation

“I’ve always found it sufficiently roomy,” she answered. “Though I suppose I never had a man in it before.” She cleared her throat as his thigh came to rest against her own.

“Haven’t you, Ballentine?” he asked quietly, but something about his tone made her turn her head and look at him. When she did not speak, he added, “After all, ten years is a long time to be engaged to someone. I won’t judge if you—”

“I haven’t. We didn’t,” she interrupted him, facing forward again. “Humphrey was not—” Keen, she thought. Humphrey was not keen. He had never asked to touch her hair, let alone climb into her bed. She had never really admitted this to herself, let alone anyone else. “Well,” she continued lightly. “I suppose he was not such a villain as all that.” Jeremy’s expression hardened but he did not reply. “I was starting to wonder if I had misheard you,” she said, suddenly desiring a change of subject. “And that I would not see you until morning after all.”

“What?” He looked stunned.

“Well, we have a long journey ahead of us. You said it would take four days in a carriage at least. I would not have been surprised if—”

“Emmeline,” he said heavily, “wild horses could not drag me from your bed tonight.”

Emmie stared at him. “Oh,” she said, but suddenly it was Lord Atherton’s words about her embodying Jeremy’s every physical ideal that echoed in her brain. He could not possibly have been telling the truth, could he?

Jeremy turned fully toward her, his movements slow and careful as the mattress shifted. “Do you remember that night at the Har—?”

Oh God no. Not Lady Hawford’s ball again! “I don’t want to remember!” she blurted. “Not tonight. I would much rather we made some new memories between us.” Seeing his surprised expression, she decided to be reckless and press her advantage.

8

Jeremy was not really sure what was happening. One minute, he had been treading oh so carefully in an attempt not to startle his surprisingly virginal bride. The next, she had knocked him flat on his back, pounced on top of him, and was kissing him with an abandonment that quite took his breath away. His hands crept up to graze first her hips and then clasp tightly the slight dip of her waist.

My God, he thought. This was the Emmeline Ballentine he remembered, the one who wanted him wholeheartedly and could not hide the fact. Thank God. Thank God he had not lost her. He had been so afraid that eager girl was gone.

Their connection was still there, that was all that mattered. She still wanted him and he—oh God, he was still absolutely desperate for her. He groaned against her mouth, then made a noise of protest when she tore her lips from his. She rolled off him and lay on her side, panting and trying to catch her breath. “My God, who taught you how to kiss like that?” he had to ask, shifting forward so their bodies touched.

It was stupid to feel both scorchingly jealous and wildly appreciative at the same time. But there was not a single chance in hell it had been that cold fish Stockton. Had there been some other man with the good sense to corner her over the last ten years? If so, he wanted to kill him and shake his hand at the same time.

She gave him a funny look. “I thought we agreed not to—to mention that night,” she said. He opened his mouth to point out he had agreed to nothing, she had simply bowled him over. Then the realization hit him. Was she saying that he was the one who had tutored her in the art of kissing, and him alone?

He reached out to her, catching her chin and gently turning her face toward him. “Me?” he asked with sudden urgency. “Just me, and no one else?” When she remained silent, he urged, “Tell me.” Emmeline pressed her pretty lips together. She would not meet his gaze but when he did not release her, she finally relented and gave a short nod of assent.

A fire blazed in his chest. “Emmeline,” he whispered, feeling profoundly shaken. Pulling her back into his arms, he lowered his head and kissed her, sealing his lips to hers gently and sweetly, giving her all the care and solicitude his kisses had lacked during that stormy embrace neither of them had forgotten.

For all that they were tender, they left him no less affected than the kisses that came before, and he was sure she must be only too aware of the fact. After all, he was entirely naked, and her nightgown was worn and thin. Through its cotton, he could feel the glorious press of her rounded thighs so she could be in no ignorance of his hard, eager cock or the brazen way it pressed into her soft belly.

His hands skimmed her back before sliding around to her front, where he paused to check she made no objection before lightly cupping her full breasts. He groaned and simultaneously Emmeline let out a breathy sigh. “Can I undo this?” he asked, his fingers already settling on the uppermost button.

“Yes.” Her answer was mercifully swift, and he made short work of the six mother-of-pearl buttons, slipping his hand inside the bodice and running his palm over the plump swell of her breasts.

“Oh, Emmeline,” he said hoarsely, kissing her again as he made out their shape. She made a noise in her throat, part surprise, part something else. “Do you like that?” he asked, pulling back to feast his eyes on her in the candlelight.

“Yes,” she murmured, half opening her eyes. “Do not stop.”

He felt the smile curve his lips as he kneaded her generous breasts. Her face was flushed, and her glorious hair spread across the pillow. He would have liked to stroke the tumbled tresses if he could bear to remove his hands from her bosom.

He could not, however. So instead, he traced their peaks until his fingertips found her hardened nipples. These were just as delectable as the rest of her. She was gorgeous, he thought dazedly, like the most splendid Renaissance painting he had ever seen.

And the wonder of it was, she was still half-dressed in her dowdy nightgown. It was all wrong. She should be wearing sumptuous silk draperies, not practical cotton. He tugged down the neckline until her breasts jutted out, freed from the bodice but framed by the frilled fabric and ribbon, as though presented to him as an offering.

Emmeline gave a muffled squeak, glancing down. “Should I just take it off?” she asked, struggling up onto her elbows.

“No,” he said huskily. “I like seeing them like this.”

Her face was a picture. “Wh-what?”

“They look almost gift-wrapped for me,” he mused, running his fingertip over her deep pink nipples. “Like a present.” Emmeline’s face flamed, and she looked as though she was struggling to find words. “Has anyone ever told you your breasts are magnificent, Ballentine?”

“Of course not!” She sounded scandalized, her breath coming short and fast, making her chest heave.