She’d inherited Mama’s nervous complaint, or perhaps . . .
Or perhaps she was falling in love.
Oh, no. Oh, Lord. That had to be it.
She was in love.
On instinct, she curled her fingers around the edges of the tree stump. As though if she didn’t hold tight, she might slip off. Or float away.
Piers returned her foot to the ground and leaned forward.
She clutched the stump for dear life.
Oh God oh God oh God.
He was so close. So close and so handsome.
Well, he’d always been handsome, but now . . . looking at him hurt. That small, perfect cleft in his chin reached inside her somehow, and squeezed. Her head spun. Her heart pounded so hard it would burst.
No one had warned her it would be like this. Love was supposed to feel good. Wasn’t it? Not terrifying.
Perhaps this wasn’t love after all, but malaria.
His hands encircled her waist. “Your ribs feel all of a piece.”
Did they? A small miracle, considering how her heart was battering them from the inside.
He felt her crown for lumps and pushed her hair back from her face. “No headache?”
“No.”
“Any trouble breathing?” he asked. “Do you feel faint or dizzy?”
“A little,” she answered, honestly.
And who could fault her? She’d fallen in a stream. She’d fallen for this man. Headfirst, both times, with no warning.
It was all too much.
“When we’re back at the manor, I’ll call for the local physici—”
Charlotte kissed him.
She couldn’t help it. She needed to touch him, desperately, and her hands weren’t going to cooperate. Her fingers were so fused to the stump at this point, they might have grown roots.
She pressed her lips to his, haltingly. Once, and then again. Silently begging him to kiss her back.
Please.
For a horrible moment, she doubted. Not him, never him. Only herself.
Then he banished all doubt—every cold, lonely question—claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss.
Yes. Yes.
Here was the Piers she craved. The one that danger brought forth from the diplomat. The man who was possessive, impatient, more than a bit wild.
And not to be denied.
They kissed openmouthed, with tongues and lips and teeth. Struggling not to vanquish each other, but the space between them.
Kissing wasn’t enough. Not this time. She wanted—no, needed—more.
She needed to touch him, hold him, be as close to him as two people could possibly be.
She worked her hands between them and pried at the stubborn, prudish buttons of her chemisette, then abandoned them for the equally maddening buttons of his waistcoat. They resisted her, too.
Frustrated, she finally tugged his shirt free from his breeches, then thrust her hands beneath it.
He sucked in his breath. The chill of her fingers against his abdomen seemed to shock him to awareness.
Undaunted, Charlotte stroked her hands over the tensed muscles of his torso. Caressing, soothing. Tempting him to touch her, too.
As his gaze wandered her face, a debate raged behind his cool, blue eyes. The proper gentleman inside him was putting up one last fight. She could sense him balanced on the razor-thin edge between duty and desire.
“I’m cold,” she whispered.
And that was all it took.
I’m cold.
Those two quiet, simple words were all Piers needed to hear.
To her, they were a plea. Perhaps an invitation.
To him, they were a call to action.
She was cold. His blood was on fire.
The rest was logic.
He would bare her. Hold her, skin to skin. Warm her in every way, with every part of him God had fashioned for the purpose.
Not merely because he wanted it—and bloody hell, he wanted it. But because she was his to care for, now and always.
And she was cold.
He went into ruthless action, dispatching every button that had dared disobey her chilled fingers. The skirt and petticoats gave way easily enough. He peeled the wet chemisette from her body, stripping her down to her shift and stays, then reached behind her to untie the laces of her corset with one swift tug.
She gasped as the air rushed into her lungs.
The sound inflamed him.
He counted in his mind as he slipped the corset laces from their eyelets.
One, two, three . . .
Her sweet, pink lip folded under her teeth.
Four, five . . .
Still not too late. Turn back. Tell me to stop.
Six.
That was it. Persephone was his.
He took her by the arms and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply, without any reserve. As he’d never kissed any woman, holding nothing of himself back. Not his desire, not his yearning . . .
Not his heart.
His heart?
Damn. He couldn’t grapple with that idea now. Not when his hands were full of Charlotte. Her tangled hair, her wet chemise, her chilled, trembling body beneath.
He lifted her off her feet, and she gave a startled laugh. The sound danced over his skin like a cascade of golden sparks, singeing and teasing him. Making him feel alive.
He made a bed of his coat for her, spreading it in a sunny patch of grass, and she reclined on her elbows, watching intently as he stripped off the unbuttoned waistcoat and moved to yank his shirt over his head.
“Wait,” she said. “Go more slowly. I’d like to watch.”
As she wished.
Gathering the hem in his crossed hands, he leisurely lifted the garment over his head and shook it down his arms.
He stood on his knees before her, torso bared to the full midday sun.
She stared at him, rapt. “I changed my mind. Be quick.”
It was his turn to laugh. He removed his boots and breeches as quickly as he could manage, joining her in the grass before the wide-eyed curiosity on her face could transform to alarm.
She was a virgin, and he was exceedingly . . . ready. Hard, aching, and primed by a week’s worth of frustrated lust. He wanted to make this good for her, but he didn’t know if he could.
“Charlotte.” He ran his hand from her breast to her hip. “I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I am aching to get inside you. I don’t wish to hurt you, but I suspect I will. I fear I must.”
“Goodness, don’t be so solemn.” She stroked his brow. “I know it will be a little painful. I’m not afraid. You don’t need to be afraid, either.”