"Here," he encouraged. Rising, he took her by the hand and pulled her to a stand.
"What … ?" Her question died on a broken whisper as he positioned her once more between his legs. Oh, God in heaven. The hard wall of his chest. The oaken strength of his thighs. Her pulse raced, pounding loudly in her ears.
"I fear I'm not much of an instructor if I provide you with but one lesson and leave you on your way to skip stones."
His teasing words startled a laugh from her. "It's not your fault. I'm a rubbish stu-" Then, he brought her closer still, killing all mirth. Her lashes fluttered wildly. "Student," she finished weakly.
"Remember," he breathed against her ear, stirring a loose curl. "Hold the stone between your thumb and forefinger with your thumb on top," he guided her arm back. "Draw your arm like … "
Philippa angled herself in his arms and cast her gaze up.
A charged heat blazed between them and he swiftly covered her mouth with his.
When she'd been confined to bed during her many pregnancies, she'd stared out the window at the changing landscapes. The dull monotony of her never-changing days had been those volatile summer storms that had shaken the foundation of her husband's sprawling manor house. As Miles pulled her into his arms, drew her close, and angled his mouth over hers again and again, as though he sought to brand the taste of her on his lips, this moment was remarkably like those powerful storms.
Her lashes fluttered wildly again and she snaked her arms about his neck, pressing herself close, wanting to lose herself in the feel of his embrace. Miles parted her lips and boldly tangled her tongue in an age-old dance. Parrying, she met that forbidden rhythm. Heat pooled in her belly and she tightened her hold on Miles, scrabbling her fingers down his back. Never in all her miserable years of marriage had she felt this passion coursing through her, scorching every corner of her being. And now that she knew, she wanted this rapturous bliss to go on forever. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the hard thrust of his arousal against her belly. "Miles," she moaned, crying out, when he pulled away. Wanting more of him, she gripped his neck, drawing him back, but with firm, steady movements, he set her away. The distant thundering of hooves cut across the thick haze of desire blanketing her senses.
And horror unfurled in waves, blotting out the warmth of his embrace. Oh, God. Of course, there were freedoms permitted her as a widow, but she did not wish to be one of those wicked, wanton widows, attracting lascivious attentions and gossip.
In one quick movement, Miles positioned himself between her and the rider. Tall, dark, and in possession of irreverent eyes that matched his hardened grin, the man flicked a dismissive gaze over the marquess. If it weren't for the cynical glint in his brown irises, he might be otherwise handsome. But his suggestive stare stripped away anything redeeming in the man. His sharp focus remained fixed on Philippa. "Guilford," the man called out as he slowed his black mount to a walk.
Unbidden, she stepped closer to Miles, finding a solace in his strong, reassuring presence.
"Montfort," the marquess said with a tightness that belied the affable, charming man he'd been in their previous exchanges.
The man tipped his hat. "A very good morning, I'd say, isn't it?" A sardonic grin pulled at his lips.
Tension poured off Miles' frame. "Indeed."
The other man made no move to leave. Instead, he urged his mount closer. "The perfect time to … seek out time alone in the park." He turned his attention to Philippa. "And it is Lady Winston, is it not?"
Miles' muscles tightened and the black fabric of his coat bunched under his bicep.
Not allowing the rake with his jaded eyes to cow her, Philippa stepped out from behind Miles and tipped her chin up. "My lord," she said with the icy regal tones that Lady Jersey would be hard-pressed to not admire.
He passed cold, appreciative eyes over her once more, before bowing his head. "I will allow you both your … pleasures." With another icy smile, Lord Montfort nudged his horse onward.
"Philippa," Miles said quietly, a thread of apology in that one-word utterance.
She shook her head. "Do not," she said softly. His was the first kiss she'd ever known that had reached inside her and set her afire. She'd not have that ruined with regret. No doubt, all of London would be abuzz with the shameful widow. Philippa mustered a smile. "I am a widow." Even having been married, Society would never separate her name from her familial connection. Nor would she wish them to. Not when those same individuals had seen her own husband as a man of worth and honor.
Miles scowled and opened his mouth but whatever words he intended were killed by the appearance of Philippa's maid over by the clearing.
"My maid is here," she said needlessly.
He hesitated; a muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, hinting at the barely suppressed volatility.
"Will I see you again?" she ventured with a still unfamiliar boldness that sent her toes curling. "That is … I come here in the morning and I was wondering if, by chance, you also happened to be … " You are rambling. Stop rambling, Philippa. "That is, if I do happen to see you, then … "
Miles reached a hand out and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. "Yes," he confirmed with that husky warm promise that sent delicious shivers through her. Then, he dropped his arm and with long, purposeful strides, returned to his mount.
A short while later, he rode off and left.
With the marquess now gone, the perils of being seen so, slammed into her and Philippa's shoulders drooped.
This was bad. This was very bad, indeed.
Chapter 10
Seated at his desk, a brandy clasped between his hands, Miles stared down into the contents of his glass … as he'd been sitting for the better part of an hour.
He'd never been a rogue. Nor had he aspired to the reputation. And yet, he'd kissed Philippa in the middle of Hyde Park without fear or worry of passersby. In doing so, he'd subjected the lady to possible whispers and attentions. He gripped the glass hard as Lord Montfort's cynical eyes slid into his mind.
The man had observed him and Philippa and assumed what any lord or lady passing by would have-that they were lovers. The ton would assume their embrace was nothing more than an exchange between a widow and a bachelor, nearing his thirtieth year. As such, they would be free to carry on that relationship and though there would be whispers, there would also be a casual acceptance of an affair between them.
He took a swallow of his drink and leaned back in his chair. Yet, the truth of it was, he didn't merely want an empty entanglement with the lady. He liked her. He enjoyed being with her and her willingness to speak about topics that moved beyond the weather and the enjoyment of a ball, as so many other women of his acquaintance were inclined to do.
He'd known her but two days and, somehow, from their first meeting, she'd clung to his thoughts and refused to shake free.
And now, having been discovered by Montfort, he, as a gentleman wished to do right by her. Philippa, with her unjaded eyes and honest words, was undeserving of Society's condemnation. But in one rash moment, fueled by his hunger for her, he'd demonstrated to the Montforts of the world that the lady was amenable to a dishonorable suit.
Miles cursed and swiped a hand over his face. No, the rakes and scoundrels would not take the time to peel back the layers to see who Philippa truly was. They wouldn't see a mother who actually took time to be with her children, when most ladies foisted their babes off on nursemaids and saw them but a handful of times. Instead, Montfort and all those black scoundrels would be content with nothing more than the image he and she had presented that morn.
Footsteps sounded outside his office door and he straightened.
His mother pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Miles," she said without preamble and drew the door shut behind her.
He tamped down a curse. The last thing he cared for in this moment was a discussion or debate about Miss Sybil Cunning. She stalked over with the determined stride of a military general and sat in the leather chair at the foot of his desk. "You are drinking," she observed, needlessly.
He lifted his glass in salute.
"It is early," she snapped.
Miles rolled his shoulders. "Given my nearly thirty years, I expect I am well past lectures on expected behaviors." Nor had he given her reason to question his judgment or actions.