SHE DID NOT push him away. She met his kisses, and Luc filled his hands with her as he had fantasized.

The reality of her was sweeter. It made him insane for more. Her breasts were small in his hands and he wanted to suck on them until she moaned and came for him. But she was motionless, barely touching him, her eyes closed and shoulders stiff. He pressed his hand along her spine and cinched his arm low around her waist, trapping her to him, making her straddle his thigh. She arched her back, tightening the fabric of her gown across her breasts.

“Unbind your hair.” The words were too abrupt, like a command he might give his men aboard ship.

Miraculously, she obeyed. Reaching up to remove the pins, she separated the thick cords of copper from the binding. But she watched him through lowered cinnamon lashes. When all of her hair fell down her back, he slipped his hand beneath the magnificent mass and speared his fingers into it. It was heavy, like water and silk and molten copper, and warm. Strands of it stirred in the night breeze, fluttering across her raspberry lips. He wanted to see it clothe her, sliding over her naked body—nothing but her hair and his hands.

“You did not purchase a new gown?”

“I did not.”

“You are obligated to. It was our agreement.” He turned her around so her back was to him and still she did not protest. Swiping the hair aside, swiftly he unfastened the gown’s hooks at her nape then the tapes that crossed beneath her breasts.

“Will you undress me here,” she said, “in the open where anyone might see?”

“All are abed, including the moon.” He bent to her neck to taste the satin of her skin, and she sighed. “Only I will see.”

“I am not beautiful,” she whispered. “Not round and voluptuous. You will be disappointed.”

“You are not beautiful,” he lied, because at thirty he knew the folly of trying to convince a woman of what she refused to believe about herself. He peeled off the bodice and drew the sleeves down her arms. “You are too lean. A woman should have more flesh.” Flattening his palms over her abdomen, he hooked his thumbs around her hips and drew her tight against him. Soft and round, she cushioned his erection. “Much more.”

“You have no regard for my vanity.” She arched her neck and his fingertips dipped. She caught her breath. “You haven’t since the first.”

“Vanity is not the worst of your faults, duchess.” He kissed her neck, breathing in her scent of lavender and roses. “It is pride.”

“As though I held a monopoly on pride here. I should not have concerned myself over owing a debt to you. You are no gentleman, after all.”

“And you have a sharp tongue, which no man can like.” He turned her to face him and lost his words. The petticoat barely covered the stays and her chemise was thin, the mere scrap of fabric he’d seen through in the stable. The heavy ring hung in the shallow gully between her breasts, strands of bright copper silk tangling with the plain ribbon. Her skin was like cream, the curve of her hips exquisite.

“My sharp tongue is irrelevant at present,” she said. “We were not speaking of my character faults, but my lack of beauty.”

“I want you. Now.” He could think of nothing else.

Her quick breaths pressed her breasts against the stays. “Yes,” she whispered.

He flung his sword, pistol, and coat to the ground and went to his knees before her and put his hands under her skirts. Her legs were glorious, and she wore stockings of a noisomely practical kind he wanted to tear off. He slid his hands up her calves to her thighs and she said nothing, did nothing, moved not at all. But he could feel her trembling.

He needed her beneath him. Seeking with his palms, he cupped her buttocks. Her hand clenched on his shoulder.

He drew her to the ground.

She let him kiss her lips, the arch of her throat, the swell of her breasts, and she let him drag the petticoat and shift down so that the stays no longer contained her breasts. Her nipples were taut, and dusky like her lips against the pale of her skin in the dark. Beauty. Pure beauty. He stroked a fingertip across one peak. Her trembling was fierce but she did not speak and her eyes closed. Bending to her breast, he circled his tongue around her arousal—soft as rose petals, her skin, her breaths. He passed his tongue across the peak, tasting her, and her lips flew apart on a silent gasp of pleasure.

He was undone.

He sucked on her, his cock pushing at his breeches. Her breaths quickened, and he bit. She arched beneath him, her palms pressing into the ground.

A groan of frustration broke from him. She was his fantasy, naked and unbound for him, lying on her back, finally acquiescing. But she was stiff and silent beneath the whoosh of the pounding surf.

He didn’t want her acquiescence. He wanted her fire.

“Open your eyes, duchess.” His voice was too harsh. It had been too long since he’d had a woman, and too long wanting this woman. He could not wait. “Speak.”

“I feel,” she whispered upon a jagged breath. “Is that not enough for you?”

He pushed up her skirts, tore at the fall of his breeches, and thrust deep into her.

Heat. Tightness. Wet.

“Oh, God.” He was dying. His cock surged forward. He would come now. Blessed quick release. Too long without. So hot and tight. She was beauty and angel and seductress, and she was saving him.

But she was gasping, clutching the cloak beneath her, her throat working.

Ice slithered down Luc’s spine, lodging in his balls. He grabbed her chin, surrounded her face with his hand, willing her eyes to open.

“You are a virgin,” he said like gravel.

“I—” She tried to pull her face away but he held her firm. “I told you I was not what you believed.”

“Open your eyes.” His body shook with restraint. He was in agony. “Open your eyes.”

She obeyed. “Don’t . . .”

He heaved in air and braced his arms to remove himself.

“Don’t go.” She grabbed his sleeve. “Do it.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered, and thrust into her. He could not do otherwise. He pulled out and thrust in again, deeper, groaning from the sheer relief of it, the power and pleasure of taking her. He worked his way into her, slowly at first, pushing against her resistance, and then because he was not able to continue slowly, he went faster.

She was immobile beneath him, her wrist slung over her eyes, her lips closed.

“Now,” he groaned. “Duchess, I beg of you.” He grabbed her hips and pulled her to him and she cried aloud. He forced himself into her again and her lips opened upon a moan. Her hand clutched his arm, and her hips jerked against his. She sought him now, moving in rhythm with each thrust, her beautiful lips parted.

Words came from his mouth, prayers, curses. The ecstasy on her face now drove him and his urgent need to fill her. Her fingers gripped him hard and her eyes snapped open, astonishment in the cornflowers. Then she was gasping again, throwing back her head and calling her pleasure.

Chapter 9

The Vows

Arabella laid her wrist over her eyes and shut out the stars, witnesses to her ruination.

Men had been groping and pawing at her for years. She had fought off amorous upper servants and employers, twice at the cost of her positions. But she’d had no idea what those men really wanted, no idea of the pleasure that could be had in the act, and no idea that she could feel such sensations or that with his touch a man could wind himself around her heart and make her want to sing and laugh and scream and beg for more all at once. And give him everything.