Page 54 of The Trouble With Dukes
That man didn’t express his gratitude with words, not if he was Hamish MacHugh. He instead pushed aside layers of linen and muslin, feasting his senses on shades of ivory, cream, and pink. Lovely, delectable, sweet, silky, luscious—lemony too—and wondrously pink.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, Meggie. I was trying to be respectful,” he said, switching from one breast to the other. “Trying to show you the restraint a proper gentleman—I was a fool.”
Megan tugged at her skirts. “My fool.”
“All yours, Meggie. You seem so confident and self-reliant. I never thought I was leaving you to doubt. I’m sorry. We’ll learn, though. We’ll get the knack—merciful winged cherubs, Meggie Windham.”
While Hamish had kissed and nibbled and licked and teased, Megan had rearranged their clothing, so nothing came between them. Not a kilt, not a chemise, not a sporran, and not much gentlemanly restraint either.
“Enough blather,” Megan said, fishing through all the petticoats and whatnot frothed around them, and wrapping a hand about the part of Hamish least inclined to any restraint whatsoever. Her touch was sure, possibly bordering on desperate.
He’d blundered, in other words. He’d tried to show the lady and the world that he’d never presume on her good will, and he’d left her uncertain of his regard. Hesitating now would only allow more doubt to plague her.
“You do it,” Hamish said. “Take your time, and takeme, however it pleases you to do so.”
She tormented him, learning his contours, feathering soft, sweet caresses over him in locations that had gone uncaressed for too long. Somewhere amid sighs, kisses, curious explorations, and silent oaths, Hamish concluded that a special license was a fine custom, though not as fine as handfasting.
Because from this day forward, he considered himself committed to Megan in every way that mattered.
“Now?” Megan asked, fitting them together.
God, yes. Now. “I am in your hands, Meggie. Do as ye please.”
She pleased to end one torment for Hamish in the interest of beginning another. One slow, cautious wiggle, push, retreat, glide, and advance after another, Megan Windhampleased. From the intensity of her focus, Hamish gathered that her previous experience had not been great, nor had it afforded her an opportunity to do more than endure Sir Fletcher’s pawing.
“This feels …,” Megan said, taking more of him. “I like how … this is intimate.”
She hadn’t been sure, in other words. She hadn’t been given any intimate confidence in herself.
“If you merely like it, then I’ve some convincing to do,” Hamish said, adding a minute thrust to the festivities.
Megan went still. “Do that again. Exactly like that.”
Hamish obliged, and before long, they’d established a glorious, urgent rhythm.
Megan kissed him and linked her hands at his nape. “This isn’t like—Oh, that’s lovely. More of that. Please, Hamish.”
More attention to her breasts, while counterpointing the movement of her hips, and refusing the screeching need tohurry. Megan’s breathing quickened to a soft pant, while Hamish closed his eyes, lest the sight of her in the grip of passion rout his self-discipline.
Closing his eyes didn’t help. That only made the weight and warmth of her more compelling, only made the pleasure well higher and faster.
And yet, as Megan keened softly against Hamish’s shoulder, and then went limp in the aftermath of her pleasure, he managed to hold off his own satisfaction. A man protected those who belonged to him, and that meant until vows had been spoken. Hamish might please his lady eight times a day, but his own gratification would have to wait until she’d taken not only his heart but also his name.
Chapter Twelve
The morning was fair, while Sir Fletcher’s mood was bloody awful. He’d snapped at Geneva for sticking her finger in the jam pot at breakfast, and then his lordship had snapped at Sir Fletcher, and the smirking from the harpies around the table had been unbearable.
“Let’s walk, shall we?” Sir Fletcher said, rising from the bench along the perimeter of Grosvenor Square. Puget fell in step beside him, suggesting the former captain understood when an order had been given.
“I told you I wanted the supper waltz,” Puget muttered. “Lady Pamela said all she could risk was the allemande. Your parents are negotiating on her behalf with some northern earl who seldom comes to Town but needs a nanny for his wards. I won’t have it, Pilkington.”
“Sir Fletcher, if you please. You shall have it, unless Pamela agrees to run off with you, and that she will not do.” The morning air became perfumed with true love’s frustration, about which Sir Fletcher did not care. “I need more money.”
“You just came into fifty damned pounds. How can you spend fifty pounds in a week?”
Sir Fletcher tipped his hat to the new Duchess of Quimbey, who was accompanied by an enormous dog. A footman led a second, equally sizable canine a few yards behind her.
“A single gentleman of good breeding has needs, Puget, especially during the season. Your papa’s an earl. Must I draw you pictures?”
