A small squeak escaped her as Harry drew her close. He hooked an arm around her waist and ran his palms over the curve of her hips. “Ah, Anne,” He lowered his lips close to hers. Her lids fluttered and she leaned up, wanting— “sweet, beautiful, and treacherous Anne.”
But for those last two words, she could almost believe he still cared for her. Anne wanted to push him away, tell him to go to the devil. But she wanted him, more.
She would wed Mr. Ekstrom at her mother’s insistence, but before she did, she would know what it was to be well and truly loved. She longed to know the true madness that compelled women into the conservatory for Harry’s attention. And she would give herself to him so that for her first time, she knew magic and splendor and not responsibility or necessity. No other decision would truly be hers, but in this, she’d be mistress of her own fate.
Anne leaned up and kissed him. He froze, as though shocked by either her body’s nearness, or perhaps it was the boldness of her actions. Then, he groaned. His mouth closed over hers again and again. Harry gentled his hold about her waist. He parted her lips with his tongue. Their mouths met in a furious dance of longing and regret.
And she kissed him. Kissed him as she knew she never could again. Kissed him when she knew it was wrong as he belonged to another, however, she would never be able to give him completely up, at least not where her heart was concerned.
~*~
In his life, Harry had made love to some of the most inventive, sinfully beautiful creatures in England. He’d had French mistresses and eager widows. Not a single one of them had caused this fiery burn as Anne did. She roused a grand passion and desire. He wanted to set her away, burn her with the ferocity of her desire, a desire he roused and then leave so he might avail himself to a woman who desired nothing more than a quick tumble in the gardens. So then, mayhap he might forget what Anne made him feel, think, experience…
Harry trailed feverish kisses along the side of her cheek, down her throat, laving her neck. He nipped and sucked at the flesh marking her and uncaring that she’d return bearing his love bite.
Anne’s head fell back. “Harry,” she pleaded.
“You still want me. Don’t you, sweet?” he rasped. He worked the bodice of her gown lower, exposing her cream white breasts to the cool night air. The pink-tipped breasts puckered from the chill. He lowered his head and drew a nipple deep into his mouth. He stole a glance up at her.
Her mouth hung open and desperate gasping pants escaped her.
Harry lowered her to the ground. “Crawford can never give you this.” Desperate fury punctuated his words. He’d leave his impression with her, make her writhe with knowing all she’d given up when she’d chosen her damned duke. “He will make you his duchess, but he’ll never make your body sing like I can.” He reached for the hem of her ruffled skirts. Sweat beaded the top of his brow and he looked at her. Skin flushed, curls disheveled, breathless moans escaping her lips. God help him. “I cannot do this.” He didn’t recognize the garbled, agonized voice as his own.
She blinked up at him, dazed. “Harry?” A question hung in that one word, his name.
He rolled off her. Anne deserved more than being tumbled like a strumpet in Vauxhall Gardens. He stared at the twinkling stars overhead. They mocked him with their shimmering brightness. With a groan, Harry laid his forearm over his eyes. Who’d have imagined that he, Harry, 6th Earl of Stanhope was…honorable?
Goddamn it.
The soft whoosh of delicate skirts and the crinkle of muslin ruffles split the quiet. Lemon and berry, a sweet, enticing scent flooded his senses. Anne touched a hand to his chest. “Why did you…? Don’t you…?” Her unfinished question teemed with disappointment.
Perhaps if the words she’d uttered had been demanding and worldly he’d have shoved her back down and made hard and fast love to her as he ached to do. Only, the trace of innocence reminded him that even as he wanted her, he could not take her and certainly not in this manner like she was a common whore. If he did this thing, he’d hate himself forever. “I might be a bastard, Anne, but I’ll not take your virginity.” That honor and privilege would belong to Crawford. Bile climbed in his throat and he feared he’d cast up the accounts of his stomach.
She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. He lowered his arm and looked at her. “Even if I want you, too?” A desperate glimmer set the silver specks of her eyes aglow. She lowered her lips close to his. It took every last vestige of his control, but Harry turned away. Her kiss grazed his cheek.