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The hut was pitch-dark, of course. For a moment she felt a pulse of guilt. Sebastian was probably not used to putting in a full day’s labor as a gardener. He needed his sleep. But she hadn’t come this far to leave without buttered toast. She walked up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. Of course, he was asleep. She knocked again. Still no answer.

Was he in the village? But the pub had closed its doors hours before. What could he be doing? She narrowed her eyes. Perhaps he had found some slattern who was broadening his education. Without further ado, she pushed open the door and walked in.

It was rather alarming to realize how relieved she felt to see a large mound of body under the blankets in the corner. Moonlight streamed in the open door over her shoulder, and Fool for Love

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she could see a patch of his tousled white-blond hair over the rough blanket, and his copy of The Odyssey splay-backed next to the bed.

She walked forward, not bothering to tiptoe. “Sebastian,”

she said. “Oh, Sebastian.”

The blankets rustled, but he slumped back into sleep. So she touched his shoulder. “Sebastian! Wake up, I’m hungry!”

“Mumph,” was all he said.

She rocked his shoulder. Really, this was worse than waking up a child. “Sebastian, wake up!”

Finally, he sat up, blinking in the moonlight. He was sleeping without a nightshirt, and the moonlight picked out a chest of perfectly defined muscles. She froze, staring at him.

For his part, he blinked at her and then reached out one arm and pulled her to him. “Oh, good,” he said sleepily. And with no further ado, he hoisted her, great stomach and all, up on the bed, leaned over her, and his tongue slid into her mouth before she even took a breath.

Her unbuttoned boots fell off. One plopped to the floor. She wound an arm around his neck.

Of course she didn’t want buttered toast. She wanted him, the smoky male taste of him, that broad chest pressing against her breasts, the callused hands moving over her body as if they couldn’t get enough. He kissed her until she writhed against him, until her body was drenched with desire, every nerve singing with a wish to be closer to him. Then he pulled back and looked down at her. He looked serious, of course. For a moment she thought he was going to say something about propriety, or impropriety, but this was the Sebastian of the garden, not the marquess.

“I need to remove your pelisse,” he said. “I am going to hold you, Esme.” His gaze was fierce, and she felt a lick of 238 Eloisa

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fire in her legs. “I am going to kiss you. All of you.” He had her pelisse off in a moment.

She was wearing one of the lovely nightgowns that Helene brought her from London, a generous fall of the palest pink silk. He didn’t seem to notice, just began pulling it up, as if to take it over her head.

Esme promptly returned to her senses. “What are you doing?” she demanded. There was no way in heaven that she would allow Sebastian to see her body in its current condition. She held the silk tightly at her hip level to make certain that he couldn’t unclothe her cumbersome body. He stopped pulling. “I have to see you, Esme.” His voice was hoarse. “I have to . . .” His voice died away. He was looking down at her breasts, sharply outlined by the silk. Esme felt a pulse of embarrassment. Pregnancy made her nipples stand out like little rocks, rather than blending into her skin the way they used to.

And her breasts looked sloppy. Not gracefully curved like the breasts that she used to exhibit in low-necked ball gowns. Then, even a glimpse of her pale pink nipples was guaranteed to drive a man into a frenzy. But now her nipples were dark red and swollen, and stuck out from cowlike breasts. She would never be able to contain them in the flimsy bodices she was accustomed to wearing.

Esme swallowed. What on earth was she doing in the gardener’s hut? Had she lost her mind? This was so embarrassing. She started to hoist herself upright, but he stopped her with one of those powerful hands.

“Sebastian,” she said as firmly as possible, “I’m very sorry, but you have misinterpreted my visit.”

“Hush.”

Esme was not a woman who liked to be silenced. She started to struggle. But he had smoothed the silk against her breast again, and now he lowered his mouth, without even paying heed to her obvious wish to rise from the bed. Fool for Love

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Despite herself, Esme shivered. His mouth closed on her nipple, sucked, and she let out a startled squeak. He raised his head and grinned at her, smoothed the silk across her nipple again. It was wet now, a dark blotch showing against the faint pink shimmer. The wet made a bolt of heat shoot down her legs. He rubbed a thumb, lazily, across her breast, still looking into her eyes.

She opened her mouth, but couldn’t remember what to say.

“Esme?” he asked gently. “Was there something?”

He was rubbing wet fabric back and forth over her breast, making her feel as if steam must be rising from her skin. Before she could formulate a response, he bent his head again and sucked her nipple back into his mouth. The sensation was exquisite. He was suckling her, and the sense of his mouth, and the rough suction, combined with the wet sliding silk against her nipple drove her mad. She cried out, hoarse with pleasure, and pressed up against him.

“I want to kiss you without the nightgown, Esme,” he said, and she dimly noticed that his voice was husky. She didn’t want to think, so she willed herself not to notice that her nightgown was inching up, past those legs that used to be slim and now were sturdy and mottled in various places, past her great stomach, with the silvery white marks that had appeared a few weeks ago.