“Until you begged for more.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Promise?”
Michael pushed both hands into her hair and pulled her closer. “You little minx. What would you know about being spanked?”
The red flushed down her neck. “I hear the servants talking. I’m not a complete innocent.”
He slowly shook his head. “Oh, but I know you are, my beauty.”
“You can change that.”
He watched her a moment—the lovely red blush of her skin, the glistening in her eyes, the pout of those glorious lips—and whatever hesitation he had dissolved away, like a cool stream washing away the grime of a long, hot ride. He knew then he wanted to spend a lifetime removing her innocence, proving to her what a pleasure being in his bed could be. “I will.”
Then he scooped her up, holding her tight against his chest. Clara squeaked as her eyes flew wide. She pushed against him. “Michael! I am too—”
“If you say heavy, you will regret it.”
For she was not. She felt warm and comfortable in his arms, and she relented, resting her head on his shoulder. He walked the few steps to the bed and lay her gently down on the mattress, which was surprisingly soft and silent. The bed itself, low but with a sturdy if raw wooden frame, had a bare headboard, rare for a home of this status.
When Clara saw his look of surprise, she poked his shoulder. “Do not be a snob.”
Michael straightened and removed his coat. “My father has warned us about the rise of the unifying merchant guilds. I did not realize it would involve mattresses.”
Clara pushed up, bracing on her elbows. “Everyone deserves a little comfort.”
“I suppose.” As he untied his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, she reached out and ran her hand down the flat of his stomach and the fall of his breeches. Michael growled and caught her hand. “Not yet, my darling. Patience.”
“I am not a patient person.”
He grinned. “Then that is one more thing I have to teach you.”
Something in her seemed to change then, as her face grew solemn, and her body seemed to tense. Michael dropped his cravat, waistcoat, and shirt to the floor, watching her face. “Is something wrong?”
Clara chewed her lower lip for a moment, looking toward the lamp. She shook her head, an almost reluctant movement.
Michael sat on the bed next to her. “Do you wish me to stop?”
Another slow shake of the head. He waited. Whatever had stalled her ardor, he would wait for it. He watched her for any slight sign that her thoughts would emerge. Still focused on the lamp, her eyes narrowed, then gleamed with moisture, which she wiped away with one hand. She swallowed, then chewed her lip again. When she spoke there was a tone of disappointment in her words. “Must we always change to be happy? To find our place?”
Oh, my sweet innocent!“Not always. But most of what we go through in life changes us in some fashion. I am not the man I was four years ago. Or even six months ago.”
She looked at him. “How so?”
He studied her face. “You know about my—”
“Yes.”
Of course she did. A humiliation of that level did not escape the awareness of theton.“I was innocent. Naïve. Arrogant, as well. I did not believe anyone could be so deceptive, especially someone I loved.” He shrugged. “I am still arrogant at times—”
“You are an aristocrat—”
“But I am not that man anymore. Sometimes change means growth. Something better. Do you believe all aristocrats are arrogant?”
“In my experience, yes. It comes with the status, I think.”
“Or because we know no different?”
Clara sat a bit straighter and tentatively touched his chest. Her fingers trembled at the contact, and he put his hand over hers, holding it against his skin. “My love...”
