The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(48)

He was correct, of course, but he couldn’t know what was in her head, how vast was her imagination. What would he think if he knew how she spent a great many of her nights while sequestered at Margrave Park? She’d never know what he thought of it, because she would never tell him. Or any other living soul.

Thinking of her creative work, of her drawings and writings, her vivid thoughts, she wondered how it would be to actually engage in those activities. Sherbourne may not have remarried, but he had no doubt gone through a string of mistresses. He would know a great many things, could show her, lead her, and teach her. All that she imagined might be reality, if he was so inclined.

If he could be convinced into willingness.

She swept her eyes closed as his lips touched hers and slid one arm about his middle, the other round his neck, enjoying his height, his heat, his scent. He truly smelled wonderful, and tasted of tea and something indefinable, perhaps simply him –his unique flavor. He held her more tightly, kissed her more deeply, languidly stroking the interior of her mouth with his tongue, inviting her to reciprocate.

What began as desire and longing stretched out into full scale need, and her mind exploded with images and possibilities.

One kiss was not going to be enough.

He drew his lips away from hers and looked into her eyes. He seemed almost surprised. “You’ve not grown rusty, it would appear.”

“No, but I do grow restless. I really do not think one kiss is going to suffice.”

“You gave me your word.”

“Yes, but I beg you not hold me to it. I didn’t know how very good this would be. I only suspected.”

He kissed her again, more passionately, his arms beginning to move against her back, one hand dropping to cup her buttocks and press her ever closer to his very strong erection. Lucy trembled and wished to feel him inside of her, though she strongly suspected she could climax with only the movement of his fully clothed member against her core. It had been such a great, long, lonely time, and she had ever loved the physical side to her marriage. How wonderful it would be to lay with him, to feel his hard nakedness against her, within her.

But he was hesitant even to kiss her. How on earth might she convince him to lay with her?

When next he drew his lips away from hers, she whispered, “Do you suppose, just once, we could—”

“No, we could not. We absolutely . . . positively . . . could . . .” He was kissing her again, and their hands didn’t stay where they ought if this was to be only a kiss, even only a passionate kiss. His hand gently massaged and stroked her buttocks through the silk of her gown, and his other hand moved to her neckline, tugging until her breasts were released. Still plunging his tongue against hers, still holding her lower body tightly to him with one hand, he caressed her swollen bosom and paid particular attention to her nipples, rubbing them softly before gently rolling their peaks between his warm fingers.

Her hands were equally employed, one set of fingers exploring the definition of his buttocks, enormously intrigued by the rounded, tight perfection of him, while the other set of fingers stroked and investigated the feel of his stiff cock, straining against the fabric of the fall fronting his breeches.

Years of loneliness welled up within her, demanding relief. She’d thought pleasuring herself would always be enough, that she could hold the memory of Matthew’s hands upon her, his body within her, long enough to sustain her throughout the rest of her life.

She was mistaken. Until now, she’d not fully realized how very lonely she was, how much she missed a man’s touch, or how desperately she craved intimacy. That her desires were focused on a man twice her age bothered her not at all. He certainly didn’t seem twice her age. On the contrary, he was imminently desirable.

His mouth was hot, firm, seductive. His body against hers was hard and lithe, not in the least dissipated. She moved her arms beneath his coat, traveling further, beneath his waistcoat, tugging his shirt from his breeches that she could touch the warm skin of his back.

“Lady Bonderant, you really should not—”

“Lucy. You will call me Lucy, and I will not hear the words should not from you again. I’m a widow, a mother, a woman particularly mature for my age. If I shock you, Sherbourne, I don’t care. It’s very clear you desire me as much as I want you, so do stop protesting and let us enjoy one another.”

His gaze was less surprised than smoldering. “I can only think we’ll regret it. I’ll feel ridiculous.”

“Not before me, surely, and who else will know?”

He was silent and still for a moment, then murmured, “Who else, indeed? Are you quite certain this is what you want, Lucy?”