Page 122 of The Marriage Method

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Nell’s eyes fell closed as Miles took her in his arms and kissed her. His mouth was a searing brand—hot and fierce. It sparked an answering heat within her, melting her from the inside out. As she listed against him, half-parted lips yielding eagerly to his, she had the vague thought that this was why some ladies swooned. Not because of maidenly shock at the intimacy of such a kiss, but because the pure pleasure of it made one’s limbs turn to treacle.

It was overwhelming in the best way. He was overwhelming. Strong and warm, and powerful in his restraint. He wanted her; that was evident. But he didn’t lose control. Despite the tautness of his muscles and the thrilling smolder in his eyes, he was, as ever, a gentleman of method.

She felt him reach to the back of her dinner dress, searching for the fastenings. “They’re in the front,” she murmured against his lips.

Miles exhaled an unsteady laugh. It was the only sign he was in any way affected by their embrace. That and the heavy beating of his heart. It thudded hard against Nell’s breast as he held her, giving her an exhilarating sense of her own power.

She drew back just enough for him to access the tiny buttons that ran down her tight-fitting bodice. He made quick work of them, despite her bosom rising and falling rapidly beneath his fingers. It was impossible to remain calm. Her pulse had already been racing before he’d begun, and what equanimity she had remaining was rapidly stripped away by the kisses and caresses he bestowed on her as he divested her of first her dinner dress, then her corset, crinoline, petticoats, and stockings.

Were Nell in a more coherent frame of mind, she’d have been impressed with the ease with which he removed her garments. It was doubtless owing to his childhood in the Rookery. He was as deft as any pickpocket. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of him in nothing but her thin muslin chemise and drawers.

A rush of anxiety went through her then. A moment of soul-quaking doubt.

Miles gave her no opportunity to indulge it. Rather than dispensing with the last of her clothing, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He set her down on the soft mattress. She’d scarcely time to catch her breath before he came down over her. He was careful of her injuries, mindful of her right shoulder and her left hip, even as he bore her down into the feather pillows. His mouth captured hers again with a scorching intensity.

Nell’s doubts scattered. So did the remainder of her inhibitions. She slid her left arm around his neck, kissing him back. A full day away from the Courant, and he still smelled like newspaper print. It was mingled with the scent of fresh linen, polished leather, and the lemon verbena of his shaving soap. A familiar fragrance, and one that had lately become as dear to her as the deep pitch of his voice and the wry curve of his smile.

Her fingers curled tight in his hair. Her own hair was tumbling wildly about her bare shoulders. He’d tugged it free from its remaining pins at some point. Nell didn’t know when. She was in no fit state to take an inventory of everywhere he’d touched her.

And she wondered—was this all there would be tonight? Just kisses?

Hot, gorgeous kisses. Each dissolving into the other, the next one beginning before the last had properly come to an end.

But no.

Eventually, inevitably, Miles pulled back to look at her. His face was flushed, his gaze dark with passion. His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. “Now that I’ve rid you of most of your armor.”

“What about your armor?” Nell asked breathlessly.

A serious expression came over him. “You’ve already taken it from me.”

“Not all of it.” She tugged at his waistcoat.

Miles wordlessly conceded her point. His waistcoat was disposed of over the side of the bed. His boots were next. And then his shirt. He pulled it off over his head, consigning it to the same fate.

Nell stared at his naked torso. Heat suffused her midsection. His broad shoulders, strong arms, and well-muscled chest were as hard as chiseled stone, every plane and groove defined as clearly as a classical sculpture.

This was the body of a man used to exertion. A man for whom physical strength was as much a weapon as the steel-nibbed pen he wielded.

A frequently used weapon, by the looks of it.

Along with a handful of bruises from his recent altercation with Silas, several old scars marked Miles’s skin. Were they from his early years in the Rookery? Or were they another souvenir of the time he’d spent as a foreign correspondent?

Miles’s color heightened under her unflinching regard. He returned to her without removing his trousers, still half-dressed just as she was. Accessible, but not entirely exposed. It was a deliberate choice. As if to illustrate to her that they hadn’t yet gone too far. That this could still stop at any time. He gathered her into his arms.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said.

She nestled against him. “Have I given you the impression that I want to?”

His lips grazed over her cheek and her temple. “You had three glasses of wine at dinner. Some might argue that I’m taking advantage.”

“You can drink three glasses as well,” Nell suggested. “It would put us on an equal footing.”

Miles searched her gaze. Whatever he saw there seemed to settle his doubts. A solemn resolve entered his eyes. “No,” he said. “For this, I want to have all my wits about me.”

Nell managed a faint smile, even as a flood of warmth crept into her face. She wanted this, and she wanted it with him. It didn’t mean she wasn’t apprehensive about what was going to happen next.