Page 112 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

He held her firmly against him. “Hurt me? Rubbish. I can’t feel anything.” His voice deepened. “Not in my legs, anyway.”

She set her hands on his shoulders, her cheeks heating. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he retorted. And then, dipping her back in his arms, he captured her laughing mouth in a kiss.

She clung to his neck. Her laugh turned into a sigh. Her heart was racing. “Oh,” she murmured.

“Quite,” he growled. And he kissed her again.

Her lips softened and parted, yielding eagerly to his. She curved her fingers around the column of his neck. His skin was hot as a furnace. She was beginning to feel the same heat, simmering within her, a blazing fire roaring into flame.

They’d never been this close. They had kissed, yes. And held hands. But he’d never held her. Not like this. It was more thrilling than she could have imagined.

“Is this meant to reassure me?” she asked against his mouth.

“I’m not sure what it was meant to do when I began,” he said, voice gone husky. “The moment you came into my arms, my brain turned to porridge.”

“That’s not very flattering.”

“Do you want to be flattered?”

“What if I did?”

“I would tell you that I can’t sleep for thinking of you. That I go mad waiting for you to arrive each day. That if you’re a minute late—”

“Seriously,” she objected.

“Seriously,” he returned. “I do want to marry you. I never stopped. I just…”

“What?”

His lips quirked in a wry smile. “I don’t want to repulse you before I’ve had a chance to enjoy you awhile. Rather selfishly, I’d prefer to have this—” another kiss, “and this—” and another, “before you must see me as an invalid in need of your nursing.”

Her fingers twined in the hair at his nape. She gave a sharp tug.

“Ouch!” He winced, laughing. “What the devil was that for?”

“I am not your nurse,” she said. “I shall never be your nurse.” She gave another sharp tug of his hair, scolding him. “I want you to trust me. To trust that I won’t think less of you for any reason.”

“Not until you witness me—”

“Never,” she swore to him. “Not so long as you continue to treat me kindly.”

“Kindly?”

“Yes. It’s that which I value. Your kindness.”

“Hmm.” He glowered at her. She suspected it was only partially in jest.

She stroked his hair to soothe his offended dignity. “I never knew I could sit on your lap.”

“You never asked.”

“As if it would occur to me!”

Again, he bent his head to hers. “As always, Miss Hobhouse, you exhibit a startling lack of imagination.”

She smiled up at him, in imminent expectation of another kiss. He was a heartbeat away from claiming one when there was a harsh rap at the front door.