Page 65 of The Lady Knows Best

He wasn’t. They were at the far end of the house, only his empty chambers above them, and it was well after midnight, the servants surely sound asleep. But to oblige her, he went to the library door and shut it, then twisted the key in the lock with a snick. “And if anyone did hear, and asks about it tomorrow,” he said, turning back to her, “I intend to blame your sister’s cat.”

Even in the dimness, he saw her lips curve in a smile. “Poor Eileen. And for once, she’s innocent.”

Innocent . . .

She had propped herself up, with one hand behind her for balance, the other splayed beside her hip. The dressing gown was a puddle of silk on the floor above her dangling feet, while her nightgown was hitched up beneath her, giving him a view of her shapely calves. He watched her breasts rise and fall with each unsteady, ragged breath.

Such an unstudied pose. Innocent, yes . . . yet unmistakably beckoning him back to the shadowy corner.

As he prowled toward her, he tugged the hems of his shirt from his breeches, then paused a foot or so from her to pull the garment off over his head and toss it to join the forgotten chess pieces.

The candlelight caught the flare of her eyes, and she sat up a little straighter, freeing both of her hands to reach for him, just as he’d hoped. With a whisper-light touch, she explored his chest and arms, tracing the curves and hollows of his musculature, well defined by an active life. She leaned forward to nuzzle the triangle of hair over his breastbone, to press her curious lips to one of his flat nipples.

He’d never imagined he would find being tortured into madness so enjoyable.

Before she pushed him entirely over the precipice, he dropped to his knees and took each of her cold feet between his hands in turn, chaffing warmth into her toes before kissing her instep. Then he skated his hands upward, over her ankles, her calves, pushing the hem of her nightgown higher, until her knees were bare. Urging them gently apart, he pressed his lips to the little hollow inside each of them.

Then he looked up, seeking her shadowed eyes. Did she know, could she guess, what he wanted?

Kisses, he’d offered her. And kisses he longed to give her . . . everywhere.

Just a little rakishness, as he’d promised.

For all it involved lips and tongue, to call what he had in mind kissing was, he supposed, a bit of a stretch—more the letter of the law than the spirit. If her barrister brother ever got wind of what happened tonight, Miles might swing.

But he’d die with a smile on his face and Daphne on his lips.

If she were willing . . .

He slid one hand higher, the nightgown bunching around his wrist. The movement hidden by the fabric, he brushed a thumb over the soft skin of her thigh. “May I kiss you here too?”

Her eyes widened and her chest lifted on a silent intake of breath. She didn’t speak or, for a long moment, move. But at last, she parted her legs a few inches more.

The breath that he’d kept pinned in his chest rushed from him in a sigh of relief and gratitude. Inching the nightgown higher, he praised her with soft kisses against the delicate skin of her inner thighs, drawing in her womanly scent, sweeter than any rose garden.

Still beneath the shielding cotton, he grazed his knuckle across her private curls, feeling her body stiffen in anticipation. He pressed his thumb lightly to her hidden bud. She jolted at the sensation—and spread her legs wider yet.

Sliding his hands around her hips, he eased her body forward, closer to the edge of the table, and worked his shoulders beneath her thighs, so that she was utterly open to him when he shoved her nightgown to her waist.

He was shaking when he lowered his mouth to her mound, trying to restrain his hunger. Light kisses, then firmer, letting her grow acclimated to the idea, the sensation, but at last, he gave in and traced a fingertip along her seam, reveling in the discovery of her slickness, and followed the movement with his tongue. Ah, but she was sweet, so sweet . . . and all his. He set about devouring her.

As he skillfully ratcheted up her need, her legs trembled against his shoulders, and the fingers of one hand speared into his hair, tugging lightly. Perhaps playfulness, perhaps passion. But still, he lifted his head. He would not risk the possibility that it might have been a gesture of uncertainty, an attempt—however feeble—to urge him to stop. Daphne had shown him the most extraordinary gesture of trust tonight. And by God, he meant to honor it.

She was looking down at him, watching through hooded eyes. Though her expression was unreadable in the dimness, he locked onto her gaze. He wanted to plead with her to let him continue. But he waited as she worked to bring her labored breathing under control.

“Tell me what you want, Daphne,” he whispered after a moment, wondering whether she even knew.

She blinked, twice, as if in disbelief, though whether at his words or his actions, he couldn’t decide. Then her fingertips flexed against his skull, urging him back to his task.

He did not hesitate to comply. With tongue and lips, he drove her to a shattering peak, relishing her muffled cry and the feel of the pulsing tremors of her climax as they radiated from her core. When at last she sagged against the table, spent, he rose, surveying the scene of his triumph, her damp flesh glistening in the candlelight, clothes and chess pieces scattered at his feet.

She pushed herself upright again, the movement lowering her nightgown to mid-thigh. “I never . . . knew.” She reached out a trembling hand, as if to snag him by the waistband and draw him closer, but he stepped nimbly from her grasp. Confusion, perhaps even hurt, wrinkled her brow. “Oughtn’t I to—?”

“First of all,” he said, catching her outstretched hand and bringing her fingertips to his lips, “I do not ever wish to hear you speak of ought or must when it comes to lovemaking. Understood?” She gave a wide-eyed nod. “And second, one touch from you and I would surely disgrace myself and ruin my rakish reputation,” he teased.

“Would that be so very bad?” A naughty smile curved her lips. “Surely even a rake can be ruined.”

“I can think of nothing I’d like better than to be ruined by you,” he said, and meant it. “But not tonight. How long before your sister notices your absence, or Lady Stalbridge—?”