Page 92 of How Not to Marry a Duke

He stepped forward to gently touch her arm. “It was your first time, Adeline, and you must not confuse it with love.”

“You are right, of course.” She nodded once. “You needn’t worry. Everything is progressing according to plan, and we can hurry now.”

He tried to keep up with her change of topic. “Hurry?”

“Edwin confronted me at the ball. Time is running out for him, and he’ll have to find another way to satisfy his debt. Our plan is working.”

“Is it?”

“Your godmother believes you to be enamored of me. When will you tell her the truth about us?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“I believe I should make plans to return to Chilham.”

That got his attention. “What? Why?”

“I’ve neglected the cottage and there is much to be done.”

She was leaving? How had most of the Season passed so quickly? Before he’d met Adeline, the weeks had seemed a torturous and endless round of frivolous entertainment devised by a bored aristocracy. Now he was uncertain he wanted it to end.

“There is a need for a village healer.”

He didn’t want to part from her, not yet. He rationalized his feelings. “Be careful, Adeline. Our arrangement isn’t at an end. Until Stan Slade marries another heiress or daughter of the aristocracy, you are still at risk.”

She bit her full bottom lip. His gaze lowered to her lush mouth. It was still swollen from his kisses.

“I understand,” she said. “Like I said, Edwin must find another solution to his financial problems soon.”

“Damn right, he will.” He recalled the black eye and broken arm of his acquaintance. The idea of the moneylender anywhere near Adeline was unsettling.

“Will you also return to the country?” she asked.

Her fingers fastened the buttons on the front of the borrowed gown. She smoothed the bodice, and his gaze followed her movements like a randy boy.

“I suppose I’ll return to Chilham. My work remains unfinished.”

At the moment, he’d follow her anywhere. He finally understood the fixation of poets pouring out heart and soul, describing the charms of a beloved. He wanted to snatch a pencil from his worktable and write a sonnet about the richness of her hair and the deep sapphire her eyes turned when she came apart beneath him.

Insanity.

He had a mechanical and scientific mind. He didn’t read poetry, let alone write it.

“We should start to be more mindful and not travel together. We wanted gossip, but we no longer require so much. It’s best if you wait at least a week before returning.”

He didn’t care about propriety. He didn’t want to be away from her, not yet. What he wanted was to join her on the sofa for another heated round of lovemaking.

She reached for her reticule. “Please thank your housekeeper for the dress. I shall return it straightway.”

He barely heard her. Dresses didn’t concern him. He wanted her to stay the night. Wanted to hold her as she slept and then wake her by kissing every inch of her silken skin. Bring her to orgasm by worshipping her flesh with his lips and tongue.

Fully dressed and clutching her reticle, she faced him. “Please ask Nelson to summon a hackney for me.”

Warwick shook his head, forcing the erotic images from his mind. He took her arm. “It’s late and we have cover of darkness. I shall escort you home.”

Chapter Seventeen

Adeline dumped shoes, stockings, shifts, and dresses into the trunk, not bothering to neatly organize each item. Her mind was just as disorderly. How could she think after her prior evening with the duke?