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“I thought the mask was discretion enough,” he grumbled, though he knew she was right.
Her reputation preceded itself. Part of the beauty in her disguise was that no one in polite society would believe the Widow of Ice would be the hostess at a scandalous gathering dedicated to pleasure.
“I hope for it to be so,” she allowed, her tone wistful, “but there is the possibility some may recognize me, if not now, then if our paths should cross in London. I want to be certain that I leave here without having so much as a whisper of scandal attached to my good name.”
“How is dancing with me scandalous?” he teased, caressing her other shoulder.
He knew what she meant, of course, but part of him was a bit insulted she didn’t want to simply throw caution to the wind and save every dance for him after all that had happened between them.
She rubbed her cheek against him like a cat seeking a pet. “Not just one dance, but all of them. Therein lies the potential for scandal. I cannot have whispers going about that I… That you and I… Well.”
“That we are lovers?” he finished for her.
She buried her face in his chest in response.
God, his Phee was adorable. Such a dichotomy, the innocent and the fiery wanton all in one. Mere hours before, she’d taken his cock down her throat, and yet she was still too shy to say they were lovers aloud, despite the fact that they were currently nude and wrapped around each other.
“Can you not say it, love?” he asked quietly, stroking her silken hair.
“Lovers,” she said, the word muffled against him.
He grinned down at her. “Brava, darling. I shall have you shouting it from the rooftop before we are finished here.”
She lifted her head and looked at him again, a pretty pink flush coloring her cheekbones. “Ha! I don’t imagine I shall be climbing to the roof of Wingfield Hall any time soon. I’m not nearly adventurous or daring enough for such a thing.”
“But you are adventurous. And daring, too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here with me.” He knew how hard she had worked to resist him and how difficult her surrender had been.
“Or foolish,” she countered.
He cupped her cheek. “If you’re a fool, then I am too, and happy to be one. Let us be fools together. The wise man knows he’s a fool after all. Did not Shakespeare say something like that?”
“I believe you are thinking of what Touchstone says in As You Like It. ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’”
He chuckled; he’d never had a particular talent for memorization or literature. “Near enough, wasn’t it?”
“Quite.” She blew out a breath, the hot air ghosting over his bare skin. “Oh, do stop smiling, if you please.”
He didn’t for the simple reason that he couldn’t—not when she was still in his arms, in his bed. She made him so damned happy, it was terrifying, but he was smiling anyway because, idiot that he was, he was also wise enough to know it wouldn’t last.
“Why?” he asked her.
“Because I cannot resist your dimples.”
He deepened his grin. “I shall have to remember that.”
An ample weapon at his disposal. His dimples had always stood him in good stead. That Phee was not immune to them pleased him immensely.
“I am too tired for more lovemaking,” she protested.
Apollo schooled his countenance into a look of complete innocence. “I never even suggested we ought to.”
“But when you look at me that way, it makes me…” Her words trailed off, and she ducked her head, hiding her face against him again.
“It makes you what, Phee?” He smoothed a hand back down her spine, thinking what a glorious thing it was, the freedom to touch her whenever he wanted.
“Umhmmeak,” she muttered into his chest.
He bit his lip to stifle his laugh. “I’m afraid I couldn’t decipher whatever language it was that you just spoke, love. Care to try again, in English this time?”
