“That was very adept,” she whispered.
He kissed her hair. “From sleeping in tent hammocks. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up with your arse on the ground.”
A breath of laughter warmed his chest.
For a while, they just lay there and a contentment such as he’d never felt surged through him like roots settling into rich earth.
He’d arrived on foot via St James’s Park behind and then hefted over the garden wall with some notion to climb the trellis to Verity’s window, not an easy feat considering the thorns on the roses, but then he’d seen the soft light glowing from the conservatory and knew where she was…
Prising open an ajar window, he’d found Verity fast asleep upon the chaise but her slumber had not seemed peaceful, hands fitfully clasping her dress, eyelids flitting.
So he had kissed away her distress and…
Indolently, she now raised her head and pressed her chin to his chest. “Would I like a hammock? Perhaps between two trees?”
Her lips gleamed red, hair black as night, and haloed in the candlelight with the lush jungle of the conservatory plants behind her, she appeared like some incarnation of Flora, theGreek goddess of flowers. Even though it had not been long since pleasure had crested, he felt stirrings once more.
Tamping them down, he focused on the question.
“Yes. They rock from side to side.”
“Hmm.” Her voice was husky and her breasts shifted against his chest. “Can two fit in them?”
He cleared his throat again. “Likely. Although a bit of a close fit.”
“Hmm.” One of her fingers trailed his chest before wandering to his lip and he now noticed a blob of red paint on her middle finger. Why he found that so erotic, and always had done, he’d no idea. She leaned up further, breasts grazing his chest. “We’d be tight as oysters.”
Miles narrowed his eyes as her hand now headed lower. “Are you teasing me, Miss Seymour?”
A sultry smile lit her features. “Well, I hardly had a moment to explore.”
“Forgive me if I was too rush–” Her hand stroked over his abdomen. “Rushed,” he managed to rasp.
“I wanted you so,” she whispered. “Here. Amongst the verdant plants and the scent of nature. And now I never wish this moment to end.”
Neither did Miles as her hand softly brushed over his manhood.
“Verity, you must be in slight discomfort and I don’t want to…” Her stroke became bolder and whatever it was he didn’t want to do, he couldn’t quite recall anymore.
“I feel fit as a fiddle.” She kissed him. “In fact, I feel like a flower that only blooms at night. Rather odd but special. My skin tingles and I feel so free. As though I could do anything.”
Miles cupped her cheeks, drew her down towards him. “My Amaranth. You can do anything you want with me.”
And so she did.
30
SEASONS WILL SHIFT
The London weather had not improved: rain lashed the carriage window, the evening iron-grey sky oppressive with cloud.
Miles stretched out his booted feet.
It had been a wretched day at the office of his London man of affairs. Miles had not really known what he’d been looking for but there’d been no indication of anyone who might bear enough of a grudge to wish his demise, despite reviewing every document that he’d signed since becoming earl.
It had left him no wiser than before and he scowled.
At dawn, after that night with Verity in the conservatory, his boots had dragged like a soldier rising for the midnight watch. He’d told her of all the incidents and Webb, and although he’d endeavoured to downplay the threat, Verity’s concern was acute. As was his.
