Page 37 of Miss Dauntless
Still, she would not meet his gaze, though she nodded. She did nod.
A gentleman never argued with a lady, much less with his intended when she had—without a word—made a brilliant suggestion.
Matilda had been intimate with two men, one of them very young, the other very experienced. Given a chance to reflect on the matter, she hadn’t been much impressed by the passion of the first or by the supposed expertise of the second. Intimacies with Joseph had been furtive, inept, and quick.
Intimacies with Harry had been equally quick, because Harry had known precisely what he wanted and how to get it for himself in the least amount of time.
Was that not also a form of ineptitude?
Matilda had become widowed withoutat allmourning the absence of a lover in her life. Intimacy with men had proved to be an awkward business, undignified, and drudgery more than half the time. She had usually pretended that her husband had acquitted himself well, though she’d wondered the whole time whatacquitting himself wellwould even mean.
She’d longed to ask Harry for some affection, a hug, an arm around her waist, a friendly buss, all the while knowing exactly where that would lead. She’d longed to linger in a sleepy embrace, but had made no protest when Harry had rolled over, muttered, “G’night, Tilly,” and promptly begun snoring.
Tilly. Matilda hated that nickname and had told Harry so, which meant he had addressed her by it almost exclusively. His other nickname for her had been Miss Dauntless, even after she’d become Mrs. Harry Merridew.
Tremont would never display a man’s authority over his wife simply because he could. Never twist her honesty into a weapon he’d wield against her.
He might also never get around to kissing her, so gravely was his lordship considering her.
“Tremont?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Thinking is not kissing.”
His smile was sweet and devilish. “This is kissing.” He pressed his lips to her cheek, then lingered near so that Matilda caught the scent of his shaving soap. A hint of jasmine wafting over grassy summer meadows. A joyful, light scent in contrast to his prodigious capacity for rumination.
His kisses started out in the same sunny, pleasant manner, lingering at her brow, her other cheek, and finally settling lightly on her mouth.
This was… Matilda searched for words, for labels with which to sort and catalog her first courting kisses from Marcus, Lord Tremont.
Sweet, mannerly, and… She was about to add uninspiring when Tremont slipped a hand to her nape and brushed his thumb over the base of her neck. He was, in the subtlest possible way, urging her closer. He did it again, and Matilda’s sorting and cataloging drifted into silence.
She wrapped an arm around Tremont’s waist, closed her eyes, and sank against him. He was lean, muscular, and warm. The soft texture of his wool coat contrasted with the unyielding plane of his chest, just as the easy tempo of his kisses contrasted with Matilda’s rising awareness that Tremont would be neither hurried nor selfish in his loving.
He rested his cheek against her temple and kept up that slow, gentle caress to her nape.
This, oh, ye heavenly choruses, she had longed forthis. To be held and cherished while desire stirred from long-dead embers. A worry Matilda hadn’t dared acknowledge finally found some ease.
“I fretted,” she said over the soft roar of the fire. “Was I to know only fumbling, to be one man’s youthful rebellion and another’s quick marital reward at the end of the day? Pleasure for them and a lifetime of motherhood and its worries and burdens for me? I told myself I was relieved to be done with it.”
“You weren’t relieved. You were furious.”
Tremont kissed her lips before she could reply to that startlingly accurate observation. He neither thrust his tongue into her mouth, nor grabbed her hair, nor mashed his breedingorgans against her, but instead pressed a progression of soft, exploring touches to her mouth.
He was apparently making a study of kissing her. Fair play demanded that Matilda reciprocate.
She traced his brows with her fingertips, brushed her thumb over his ear. He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan, so she did it again. His jaw was not quite smooth, and he needed a trim where his hair curled over the back of his collar.
Soft hair, thick, springy, clean. Harry had been going thin on top, and Joseph had used pomade.
Somewhere between caressing Tremont’s chest and kissing him back, Matilda stopped comparing him to that pair of dolts and began to savor Tremont’s version of intimacies. He was thorough and relaxed. Knew what he was about, did Lord Tremont, and while Matilda sensed confidence in him, she would not have said he was controlling the encounter.
She hauled him nearer and took a taste of him. He waited, lip to lip, and she repeated the invitation. Only then did the kiss deepen. Only then did Tremont gather her close enough that the fit of their bodies revealed the effect their kisses had on him.
We could lock the door.Matilda wasn’t willing to give up the luscious kissing to say the words aloud. Tremont in the midst of his amatory investigations was a prodigiously compelling experience. He caressed her back, slow sweeps of his hand touching all the places Matilda could not touch herself. He held her with a combination of security and caring that filled a well of unacknowledged need in Matilda’s heart.
He joined his mouth to hers, at times playfully, at times boldly, but all the while somehow respectfully. Matilda could pull him down atop her on the couch, but she would not be tossed there without warning and told to hike up her skirts for a bit of frolic while the baby fussed in the next room.
