Page 33 of His Scandalous Lessons
Richard shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers. “Poetry now. Mind you, I’m terrible at poetry.”
“Richard,” she whispered with a smile.
“You’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m honored to be your first.”
She did not speak. Words were such inadequate things; they were never enough, always a pale approximation of a feeling. Like trying to describe color to the blind. So she kissed him, and dragged his body down to hers until they fit together like that painting of Cupid and Psyche.
Like in that painting, he worshipped her with his body.
Richard slowly pushed inside her. Anne gasped against his mouth, then flinched when he seated himself to the hilt. He almost raised his head to apologize — he’d hurt her, damn this, damn him, damn it — but she brought her legs around his hips and held him there.
“Stay,” she breathed.
Stay. He would have stayed there forever if she had asked it of him. He contented himself with small kisses down the line of her neck, the tender spot near her pulse. Her hips began to move, urging him to do the same.
He pulled out slowly and slid inside her again, his rhythm quickening with her breathing. “You feel so damn good.”
She was whispering against his skin, small words, encouragements. Prayers, again. He had not known intimacy to be a religious experience, but this was not sins of the flesh; it was a connection of the souls through movement of their bodies, their words, their touches. He revered her, every part of her, and she humbled him.
He wanted to worship her body every night. More.
Her heels dug into his thighs and he knew she was as close as he was. He slid his hand down their bodies and pressed his fingers to the spot where they were joined, where he knew she liked most.
“Richard,” she gasped, crying out as she came.
He came with her, pressing his forehead to her throat. His orgasm left him sated, more relaxed than he’d felt in ages. He lay against Anne as their breathing came down, until they were both gently panting.
“Marry me,” he whispered. “Pretend I asked first.”
She laughed. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
* * *
Richard wokethe next morning after a particularly heavy sleep. He’d had Anne three times during the night, and slept more soundly than he had in years. He smiled, intending to have her again before breakfast, but when he slid his arm to the other side of the bed, he found it empty.
“Anne?”
The sheets beside him were cold. She had been gone a while.
“Anne?”
She must have returned to her room before the sun rose. Smart girl. They would raise enough gossip after they eloped.
Richard pulled on his clothes and made his way back to the house. It was surprisingly quiet for such a large estate, but Caroline’s servants were well-trained; they prided themselves at being neither seen nor heard. And as for the guests? Well, they rarely rose before noon, except for Granby and Anne.
And he’d kept Anne very, very busy.
With a grin, he strode to Caroline’s study and gave the door a soft rap. He had to let the duchess know he and Anne would be leaving at the first available opportunity.
“Come.” Her voice was muffled behind the heavy oak door.
Richard entered the duchess’s study. It was the duke’s before hers, and still had a masculine design that had not changed — all except for the vase of flowers Caroline kept on the edge of the desk. Tulips. No matter what time of year, it was always tulips. Richard often wondered why.
When he saw Caroline’s blonde brows pressed into a frown, he felt a twinge of alarm. “What’s the matter?”
She tapped a stack of papers on her desk, neatly folded and marked with his name in penmanship he had come to recognize. “Anne left you these, and this note.”
Richard tore the note out of her hand and read.
