Page 51 of Yielding to Love

“Miss Harrington, wake up!” He spoke aloud, remembering that Old Harry had screamed in the night, and they hadn’t heard him upstairs. Miss Harrington blinked, and gave the merest shake of her head. She was awake.

He shuddered. Then said a quick prayer that he was dreaming.

She put her index finger on his cheek. Light as mist. And ran it down his jaw line. Then down his neck to the coverlet. She sighed shakily before repeating the caress on his other side. He clenched his coverlet so tightly his fingers hurt. Yet he didn’t say anything. He didn’t catch hold of her hand to stop her when she did it again. Rather, he loosened his grip on the coverlet and allowed her to tuck it down as she caressed him to his collarbone. Then slowly across his chest from shoulder to shoulder. His breathing grew ragged. This game of hers was unbearably pleasureful. If a dream, he never wanted to wake.

She leaned over, her face drawing closer to his, as though she meant to kiss him. He turned his head away and heard her sharp intake of breath. Hurt. It was not his intention to hurt her. But he was terrified.

“Camellia, I want this. I do. But we can’t.”

Rather than answer him in any rational way, she slid down onto the bed beside him. He swore under his breath. But he didn’t protest when she pushed the coverlet down to his hips. She stroked his chest. His ribs. She seemed more curious than impassioned. But if she explored any farther, he would not hold himself accountable…

She lifted the edge of the coverlet and slipped in beside him. He felt her warmth through the thin fabric of her chemise. Her fingers trailed over his belly. To his hipbone.

“Don’t,” he said. Damn. It was too late for don’t. In another moment, he would grab her.

They both held still. Not breaking the spell. Then she draped her arm across his chest. And her leg across his. Skin on skin. How far would she dare take this? How far would he? She shimmied against him, so he shifted and put his hands on her hips to slide her onto him. He gathered her chemise, pulling it up until it bunched about her waist. Abruptly, she raised up to sit across his thighs, straddling him. He held his breath. Then she touched his prick, tentatively, as if awaiting permission. “Go on,” he whispered. She stroked him. Made him groan. A stuttering groan. He had never wanted a woman so badly. Her. He wanted her.

She stopped, then ran her thumbnail lightly from his breastbone to his waist and below.

A tease. She was killing him. He caught her hand and returned it to his prick. “Keep doing that.”

“Major—”

“Crispin!” he growled. “If you’re going to…to do this…call me Crispin.”

She whispered, “Crispin.”

He groaned again, guttural. “Keep doing that. You needn’t be so gentle.” She shifted her weight and changed her grip. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

She smiled. He saw it. A sly little smile. Triumphant. He thought…triumphant. But the smile turned into a studious frown. She wiggled down his legs and bent down. He shut his eyes tight and willed her to do what he thought she intended. Even so, when she licked his tip, he shouted. No words. An animal sound. She bolted upright. Startled.

Something like a laugh slipped from his mouth. He wriggled to sit up, then wrapped his arms around her, and rolled her beneath him.

Harrington’s sister. His conscience stabbed him. He was going to tup Harrington’s sister.

“Camellia, are you sure you want this?” Say yes.

“Yes.”

“You know what we are doing. And that it is wrong. You know that, Camellia.”

“Yes, Crispin.”

“Good.” God. This wasn’t just wrong; it would be the worst thing he’d ever done.

*

Camellia lay in her own bed fuming, eyes stinging and eyelashes wet. Marianne was wrong. The stupid School of Venus was wrong. It was hardly “the most sovereign pleasure we poor mortals enjoy.” She’d done what the book said to do. Not everything, naturally, or they would have been there all night, but enough that Crispin obviously enjoyed himself. But he didn’t “tickle” her the way the book said he would. Lud. He hadn’t even kissed her! Wasn’t it strange that there had been no kisses?

After, he was angry. Maybe not at her. Maybe more at himself—which he shouldn’t have been since she had seduced him. But after he’d…done what The School of Venus had described, he rolled away, putting his back to her, leaving her to slip out of the room. And she had to slip out. She had to clean herself the way Marianne said.

Still. She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She regretted nothing. In fact, she was proud that she’d been brave enough to follow through. Now she knew. No better chance would ever present itself. According to Neville, the major was experienced in intimate matters. And he was committed to the army. She wouldn’t be trapped into a marriage just because she’d given herself. She trusted he wouldn’t say anything to anyone, and neither would she.

So there was nothing to regret.