Page 74 of The Good Girl's Guide to Rakes
“Truly?” She gaped at him. “A satire about a seemingly respectable young woman, no doubt. I’m sure you found many things that rhymed withdull.”
He scowled. “Nothing of the sort.”
“Well, go on,” she said when he remained frustratingly silent. “Let’s hear it.”
After clearing his throat, he began,
“She prowls amongst timid hothouse flowers,
The blooms surrounding her wilting, ashen,
And soft. They think her tamed yet still cower
Rightly fearful of her hidden passion.
Trembling, adoring, my lone sacrifice
Beats in my hand. To die is paradise.”
She stared at him so long a blush spread across his face and down his chest.
“Our afternoon at the horticultural exhibition,” she breathed. When he nodded, she cupped his face with her hands. “I’ve been given gems and gowns and every sort of luxury anyone could want, but never have I been given anything like that. Thank you, Kieran.”
He smiled against her lips when she kissed him. “Whatever you want, love, you’ll have it from me.”
Every word of his was sincere. She knew he believed that. But what she truly wanted, he would never, could never, give her.
Chapter 17
The most difficult thing Kieran had ever done in the course of his twenty-seven years was help Celeste dress, put on the remainder of his own garments, and then take her back to their usual meeting point. What he needed, what he desired, was to bring her back to his rooms and make love to her all night in his bed. Instead, after hours of wakefulness he’d fallen asleep at dawn, alone, his arms aching with emptiness.
As he woke later in the day, he turned onto his stomach and stretched out in search of her, but encountered more of that emptiness beside him. He smoothed his hand over the other pillow, picturing her there, chestnut hair spread around her, eyes sleepy but sultry with desire as she reached for him.
Jesus God, how was he supposed to go on, knowing how good it was between them? She’d been so trusting, so open, so beautifully receptive and eager. It had been a privilege to pleasure her, a privilege he’d never again know.
His biggest risk last night had been revealing the fact that he was a poet. He’d been afraid of her response, yet it had felt right to show her this important, hidden part of himself. And his fear had been unjustified. The joy in her face and the praise she’d given him would keep him warm on the darkest days.
Already, new verses to her gathered in his mind. How would he describe the many colors in her eyes? What words would do them justice?
Hell—he was composing sonnets to a woman who was promised to another.
He rolled onto his back and, groaning, covered his face with his hands.
“Are you sick?” Finn asked, entering his bedchamber. He was half-dressed in breeches, a shirt, and a long black dressing gown.
“Only sick of you not bothering to knock,” Kieran answered, peering between his fingers. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to get up and come for a ride with me.” His brother threw a boot at him, but fortunately, Kieran caught it before it hit him in the face.
Sitting up, Kieran scrubbed his palm over the stubble along his chin. “Much as I hate to say it, we ought to go to Rotten Row.”
“Impossible to get decent speed there,” Finn countered. He glanced at the clock on the mantel, which read quarter to five in the evening. “Especially at this hour.”
“We’re not going for speed.” Kieran pulled a discarded shirt off the floor and slipped it on before rising. “We’re going to be seen. Given that I needto continue to amend my tarnished reputation—something whichyouneed to do as well, dear brother—a sedate and decorous turn on horseback in Rotten Row’s most fashionable hour seems a likely way of maintaining the process.”
The damned thing was he didn’twantto maintain the process. He’d no interest in meeting potential brides, and the thought of courting any woman who wasn’t Celeste made his gut churn. Yet she was meant for the damned Earl of Montford.
Last night, as he’d held her in the aftermath of their sex, he’d been on the verge of suggesting thathemight court her instead of sodding Montford. After all, he was an earl’s son. Granted, an earl’s third son without a title of his own, but surely his pedigree counted for something.
