Page 118 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

“So you thought to wait until our wedding night.”

“Too late to cry off. We are well and truly married.” She licked chocolate from her thumb without the smallest appearance of shame. “A masterful stroke, if I say so myself.”

I took the glass out of her hand and set it aside. “Oh, you will be stroked, my dear. Deeply.”

“Vigorously as well, I hope.” She batted her lashes at me. “Claire was very instructive.”

“Deeply. Vigorously. Masterfully.”

“I believe we are overdressed for the occasion.”

“Well, that can be easily remedied.” Taking her by the hand, I led her to our bedchamber and our bed. “I can snuff out some of the candles if you wish.” Alice had requested we make love in the dark, every time, without exception, in the short time we’d had. She’d been too shy to allow me the full view of her body.

Rosalynd’s outraged gaze found me. “And miss seeing you in the buff? Not likely.”

“Very well.” The difference could not be more clear. Rosalynd did not have a shy bone in her body.

She shrugged off her peignoir. Her nightgown, seemingly made of gossamer butterfly wings, revealed every inch of her glorious figure. The high, proud breasts, the slender waist, the thatch between her legs with its hint of copper, the same shade as her hair. When she shrugged her shoulders to slip out of it, I stopped her.

“That, my darling,” I said, “will be my privilege.”

“Whatever you say, my lord and master.” Her lips quirked at the end.

I would never master this woman however long I lived.

She turned to the bed and stopped. A difficulty had presented itself. The mattress stood level with her hip. “Should I take a running start?”

It cost me not to laugh, but somehow I managed it. “That will not be necessary.” I put one arm around her back and the other beneath her, lifted her, and set her down on the counterpane.

She propped her head on one hand and gazed at me with enormous expectation. “Your turn.”

I pulled my shirt over my head in one motion.

“Very nice. But nothing I have not seen before.” She gestured at my trousers with the air of a woman at a private viewing. “Proceed.”

I moved to obey.

“Slowly.”

Holding her gaze, I unfastened the buttons one at a time. With each one she made some small sound—a sigh, a hum in the back of her throat, once something close to a purr. By the fourth I was close to losing control. By the sixth, I was barely hanging on.

“Splendid, Your Grace,” she said, when only my drawers remained.

I kicked the trousers across the room with more haste than dignity, put one knee on the bed, and took her into my arms.

I kissed her lush mouth. The soft skin under her jaw. The line of her throat, and the freckles scattered across the tops of her breasts. Something I had been contemplating in ballrooms for months while standing with my hands behind my back like a monk.

The witch then slipped both hands inside my drawers and squeezed my buttocks. Predictably, matters below stairs took a decidedly enthusiastic turn. I’d intended to move slowly, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that was going to happen now.

I stripped the gossamer thing from her body and tossed it over the bed. Then I slowly—very slowly—kissed my way up her legs until⁠—

“Warwick.” Barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”

“Worshiping you.”

She gasped. “You are a wicked, wicked man.”

I raised my head. “Shall I stop?”