Page 62 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

He forgot to think about the past. Or the future.

He simply followed that path.

The sunlight picked out the threads of gold in her brown hair, along with a scattering of most unladylike freckles across the bridge of her pert nose. Her dark eyes glittered. She was so perfectly, breathtakingly lovely to him, so bright and shining. No wonder his greedy soul had been drawn to her from the first.

With the unhurried smoothness of a practiced thief, he raised his hand to cup her cheek, brushing his thumb over her velvety skin. She nestled easily into his palm.

“Amanda.” Would her ear catch that breathless note, incredulity at his own good fortune? “I swear when I brought you here, I had no intentions—well, no real expectation of…” He let his gaze wander to the bed behind her.

“Oh?” Her brows rose, then settled again, giving her warm regard a seductive cast. “I did.”

She released the bedpost and laid her palm on his chest, slipping between his coat and waistcoat, sliding upward to his shoulder, curling her fingers around his neck. Then she lifted herself onto her toes and brought her mouth to his, the touch impossibly soft, more the suggestion of a kiss than a kiss itself.

He held himself still, savoring those little brushes of strawberry sweetness as she traced his lips with hers. Just this once, he would not waste the present moment in looking ahead to future dangers. No longer a starving, scrounging boy, but a wealthy man settling in to a feast, secure in the knowledge that the banquet would not be swept away before he’d had his fill.

When her other hand came to grip his waist, tugging him even closer, he wrapped his arms around her and returned her kiss with one of his own. A leisurely exploration of every dip and curve. A sweep of just the tip of his tongue across the seam of her lips, no deeper. Every tempting, teasing trick his mouth knew—without leaving hers, at least—until she gave up what he sought: that little groan of pleasure, of surrender, that made him instantly, achingly hard.

He rewarded her with a string of nibbled kisses along her jaw, a whisper in her sensitive ear. “So which is it to be today, my lady? The gentleman, or the rogue?”

He’d made his peace with what she wanted from him—or told himself he had.

But her answer stole his breath.

“You.” Her throat rippled beneath his lips as she swallowed and said it again. “You.”

Smiling to himself, he lifted his mouth to her temple, pressed it with a kiss. You. So simple.

So impossible.

Or was it? After all, the Countess of Kingston had seen through his every disguise.

His fingers rose to the fastenings of her gown as he murmured against her hair. “I want to see every inch of you, too, Amanda.”

“Yes.” She nudged his coat over his shoulders, until he had to pause and shed it. “But first you must tell me whether any of your assignments have ever involved you playing lady’s maid. Under the circumstances, it would seem I chose poorly when I dressed this morning. Are you prepared to be the one to do up everything you undo?”

“I’ll manage.” He laid his spectacles on the bedside table, then tossed his coat onto a nearby chair, sending up a little cloud of dust. “Turn around.”

Dress, petticoat, stays, shift—he made quick work of every layer, pausing to admire, first with his eyes and then with his touch, every bit of skin he revealed. Her slender arms, the sharp jut of her shoulder blades, the dip of her waist, the curve of her backside, and finally, the damp hollow at the joining of her thighs. When he slipped a fingertip into her wetness, she moaned and set her legs ever so slightly apart. “Yes,” she hissed, leaning forward to grip the coarse covering of the bed in her fists, inviting him to plunder her.

“Not yet,” he murmured against her shoulder, keeping his touch light and teasing. “You must undress me first.”

When he slid his fingers from her sheath, she whimpered in protest but turned to face him nonetheless. The sun fell across her small, high breasts, and their rosy-brown tips made his mouth water. But she was intent on unbuttoning his waistcoat and unknotting his cravat, a charming notch of concentration in her brow.

Once she’d tugged his shirt free, he stepped back enough to strip it off over his head and sent it to join his coat. “Shall I help you with the boots, too?” he offered, lovely as it would be to watch her straddle his thigh, bend over, and pull them off, one by one.

And then it was down to his breeches. No disguising his arousal tenting the light wool. Her hand went eagerly to the buttons of his fall, then paused.

“I’ve never…” She was watching her fingertip circle one button. He wished he could see her eyes. “At least, not by daylight.”

He waited a moment for her to say more, his mind hurriedly filling in the missing words with increasingly alarming possibilities.

I’ve never seen a naked man. At least, not by daylight.

I’ve never touched a man. At least, not by daylight.

I’ve never lain with a man. At least, not by daylight.

Before he could reassure her, stay her hand, offer to take his pleasure only in hers, she had slipped that first button free, then the next, and the next. “Can we…can we move just a little closer to the window, so I can see properly?”