Page 49 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Anne was still gaping at the clumps of moss hanging from the edges of the gate when Michael grabbed her hand and pulled her through. He broke into a run.
“Michael,” Anne protested, tripping over her skirts, “I can’t run in this.”
He scooped her up in his arms midstride and continued at his desired pace.
Her house truly was just around the corner, so he didn’t have to carry her far. At the top of the front steps Anne motioned for him to set her down and held a finger to her lips. Perhaps they could slip inside without being noticed.
They had no such luck. Her footman, Hugh, emerged from the shadows. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open.
Anne squared her shoulders. A widow could take as many lovers as she wished, and society would not so much as blink. She had faithfully mourned her husband for a year, and she and Michael were getting married. She had nothing of which to be ashamed. “Hugh, I know you will recall my mentioning that my friend, Lord Morsley, was back in England.”
“Of course, m’lady,” Hugh replied.
“You may be the first to congratulate us. Lord Morsley has proposed, and I have accepted.”
A genuine smile came over Hugh’s face. “Congratulations, m’lady. M’lord,” he said, bowing.
“Thank you. We did not stay for supper at the Sunderland ball. If you would be so kind as to have someone make us up a tray and leave it in the hall outside my room.”
“At once, m’lady,” Hugh replied, retreating.
Anne tugged Michael’s hand, leading him up the stairs toward her rooms. It was only once they had entered her sitting room that she noticed he was laughing.
“What?” she asked, confused.
“‘Have someone make us up a tray. Leave it in the hall outside my room,’” he said, mimicking her voice. “If the world could see the spotless Lady Anne Astley right now—”
She smacked him on the shoulder. “Well, they can’t. Although I suppose they might as well. Everyone is bound to notice that we’ve both disappeared. But I’ll not concern myself with idle gossip. We’re to be married, after all.”
“Yes. Yes, we are.”
“Besides, I’m not Lady Anne Astley anymore. I haven’t been for years. I’m Anne—”
“You’re going to be Anne Cranfield, is who you’re going to be. The Countess of Morsley. And then someday, the Marchioness of Redditch.”
“Hopefully not for a good long while, as I am excessively fond of the current Lord Redditch. Anne Cranfield, Lady Morsley, will do just fine for me.”
He closed his eyes and made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His smile when he opened his eyes was a trifle unsteady. “I do like the sound of that.”
Then he pulled her into his arms and started kissing her. But he was doing more than just kissing her this time—a rush of cool air on her back announced that he had unfastened her gown.
Michael proceeded to use his big, strong, warm hands to strip Anne down to her shift and stockings, tossing everything in a heap on the carpet. She gave him a shy smile as she began unbuttoning his coat.
In short order, Michael’s garments joined hers in the pile on the floor. Anne felt her mouth go dry as he peeled off his shirt and his torso came into view. His arms were as thick as her legs and bulging with muscles. His chest seemed to go on forever, it was so broad, and it was covered with a liberal dusting of black hair. His stomach was covered with ridges of muscle. Anne lifted her hand, wondering if it was as hard as it looked.
She froze when she realized what she was doing and glanced up guiltily. Before she could withdraw her hand, Michael grabbed it and pressed her palm against his chest.
“Yes,” he said.
“Y-yes?” she squeaked. His chest certainly was as hard as it looked, and his skin was surprisingly smooth, almost satiny beneath her fingers…
He scooped her up in his arms. “Yes to you touching me,” he said as he carried her through the doorway that led to her bedchamber and set her upon the bed. “Believe me, I’m going to be touching you.” He kicked off his shoes and sat beside her. “You also have my permission to continue ogling me.”
She pretended to bristle but couldn’t conceal her smile. “I don’t know that ogling is the term that applies.”
“Ogling,” he insisted, peeling off one of her stockings. “It felt wonderful. Have you ever been ogled before?”
“I couldn’t say.”
