Page 107 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

“It must be a favorite.”

“Shush, the others will hear and become jealous.”

She laughed lightly and walked to one that looked the most cherished and old. Lamplight reflected off the polished mahogany frame. Its large hide was stained from years—perhaps decades—of use. “This is the one.”

A brief smile lit his eyes. “Are you certain?” he asked, already clearing a stack of books from a stool and dragging it toward the end of the bed. “Sit, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

She did as requested and hiked her chemise over her knees to make space for the drum between her legs.

“Experiment with it,” Jonathan said. “Strike it with your palm and try rolling your thumb or tap it with the tips of your fingers to hear the different tones.”

With him standing over her watching, a rush of heat swept over her. She was a novice, and he was a master. What if she embarrassed herself, or worse, disappointed him?

She wet her lips.

“You needn’t be shy, love. Would you like me to show you?”

“Or stand where I cannot see you. I feel awkward with you looking on.”

Shrugging, he snagged a ladder-back chair, placed it behind her, and sat. His knees nestled against her thighs; his arms circled her waist. She was pressed against his chest, and her heart created its own rhythm, drumming hard.

When he nuzzled her ear, he murmured, “Now you can only feel me.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Much better.”

Tentatively, she dropped the heel of her hand on the drum, the deep tone tapping into memories of watching Jonathan play for Semkari. How mesmerizing he’d been; raw and sensual. She took a deep breath and struck it harder. The vibrations traveled through her. She could feel it in her lower stomach.

“Keep going.” He grazed the back of her arm with his fingers, sliding slowly toward her wrist. “Try a thumb roll, like this.”

When he flicked her hand, the sound was different. Exciting, stirring her curiosity. She struck it again, using different parts of her hand on various places on the drum. The sounds were unrelated, no pattern like when Jonathan had played, but it was textured and interesting.

Jonathan swept aside locks of hair that had slipped from her hair pins and pressed his lips gently to her neck. Her breath quickened.

“I love you so much,” he said. “I don’t deserve you, but somehow you are mine.”

She stopped playing and closed her eyes. Her hand rested against the soft drum skin. How could she put into words how full her heart was now—how complete she felt? Laying the drum on the floor, she turned toward him to caress his cheek. A light stubble scratched her hand. She was free to touch him, and she loved the sensation.

“I’m pleased to be yours. There is nowhere I would rather be than here with you.”

“I need you closer.”

When he pulled her onto his lap, she slid her hands to the back of his neck, slipping her fingers into his hair as their lips met. The sweet taste of honey lingered in his kiss. His hands tightened on her waist, a gentle pressure that kept her secure. As he angled his head, teasing her upper lip with the tip of his tongue, she inhaled deeply, her pulse soaring.

One of her hands slid down to his chest, skin against bare skin. His was searing hot, and she drew back. “Are you feverish?”

“No,” he said, his voice husky. “You do this to me.”

“Oh?” She smiled, recalling some of the drawings she’d stumbled across in a Roman history book from the Wedmore House library. “Are you aroused?”

He chuckled. “Do you want to find out?”

Before she could answer, he stood with her in his arms and carried her to the bed. As he reached to unfasten the front fall of his trousers, she lifted to her elbows. Her eyes widened when she caught her first view of him.

“Heavens,” she whispered. “I thought it was an exaggeration.”

He ripped the shirt over his head and scrunched his brow.

“In the, erm. The, uh—” She waved her hand. She couldn’t remember now.