Page 50 of The Viscount's Code
“The truth, for the most part,” she said. “Which will mean that I am the only one she should have issue with – not you.”
“She will likely expect me to wed you based on the fact that we have been alone together for such a time,” he said. “As will your father. And about that, Hope—”
“I know,” she said, more abruptly than she intended to. Anthony had been nothing but honest with her, and there was no reason for her to get fanciful notions in her head. She had initiated their relations in the carriage, knowing full well what his intentions were. “This is all there will be between us.”
He reached across the table and took her hand in his, his warm fingers stroking the top of her hand. “I do not wish for you to be upset. But even if your father did approve of the two of us, I cannot give you a sullied name.”
“Well, it won’t be for long,” she said as brightly as she could, extracting her hand and then patting the top of his with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. “You will clear your family’s name soon. Not that I would expect anything even if you did,” she added hastily, and he smiled wanly at her, joy not quite reaching his eyes.
“Are you finished eating?”
“I am,” she said, having lost her appetite, even though, as before, it tasted as good as anything the cook at home would have made, although it was certainly lacking in presentation.
“Should we go upstairs, then?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Silently, she nodded.
“I do not expect anything, Hope,” he added quickly.
She softly replied, “I know,” for she actually did. But perhaps she had longings of her own.
He was the gentleman again, stepping outside while she readied for bed, even though she told him that was ridiculous, given what he’d seen, touched, and tasted of her. He was insistent that she have time to herself, however, which she appreciated.
And when she slid into the covers, she had a surprise for him – one that had her heart thumping, as she wondered if she was being far too forward, knowing how humiliated she would be if he rejected her.
Anthony was still dressed in his shirt and trousers when he got into bed, and Hope suddenly wondered if she had expected too much, lying there frozen beside him as her thoughts began to race once more. Could she slip out of bed and set everything to rights? Was he aware of what she had done? Would—
“Hope?”
“Yes,” she squeaked.
“Are you—are you wearing anything?”
“Umm…”
If she said yes, would he believe her lie? But that was ridiculous, for obviously he was only asking because he had already noticed. She took a breath. She never should have kissed him in the carriage, never should have begun this journey that had led to her fanciful notions. Damn those books. She blamed Cassandra for all of this, for if she had never started their stupid book club, then Hope never would have read any of those romantic books, and never would have thought—
Oh, goodness. Anthony’s lips were on her neck. His hand on her hip. And—yes. That was the hard length of him pressing against her bottom. Perhaps she hadn’t been so wrong in her imaginings after all.
“Hope,” he murmured.
“Yes?” she said, and goodness, why did her voice go so high when that yearning overwhelmed her again?
“Was this purposeful?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, rolling her over until he was hovering on top of her. “I seem to recall that you set the pace last time.”
She could only nod, as she had lost her voice from the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at her like he was about to devour her.
“My turn,” was all he said before he dipped his head and began to kiss her, his lips this time not as fast and furious as they had been in the carriage, but now slow and languid, which seemed to cause her bones to melt and her body to sink into the mattress below her.
She was at the mercy of his mouth, which had left her lips and was now traversing down her body, leaving a trail of fire as it ran over her shoulders, collarbones, and breasts. He spent some time with both of her nipples, leaving her arching up into him, ready for more.
“You are wearing far too many clothes,” she said as she wrapped her hand around his neck, holding him close against her.
“That is one problem I can solve,” he said gruffly, before sitting up and stripping in front of her, offering a fine view of sinewy, lean muscle, and a light dusting of hair over his chest that ran in a line down beneath his trousers — a line she followed with her finger, stopping at his waistband. Then with a deep breath for courage, she began to undo his fastenings, and he helped her slip off his trousers.
