He pulled her into a kiss.
By necessity, he was firm at the outset, holding her tight and crushing his mouth to hers—because he’d taken her by surprise, and he knew her first instinct would be to squirm and escape. But he also knew beneath the instinct, her true desire was to be kissed this way. Expertly. Passionately. Without apology or excuse.
And then, once she’d warmed to it and softened in his arms…
Sweetly.
Reverently.
With all the affection and tenderness in his battered, lonely heart.
She sensed the change in him, and she responded by softening everywhere. She made a sigh of longing against his lips, nestling close and pliant in his arms.
When the swells of her breasts met his chest, a savage voice rose up within him. It shouted words like possess, claim, take, invade.
Mine.
In his youth, he might have heeded that voice. But this was where a man’s advanced age could work in his favor. He was wise enough now to know what he truly wanted from a woman, and what he didn’t. He desired Eliza Cade with every corpuscle in his lusting, aching body—she made him want to thrust and sweat and lick and suck and groan—but he didn’t want to conquer her.
And he’d be damned if he’d give her any reason to ever regret this kiss.
He forced himself to be careful.
So…very…careful.
He brushed his lips over hers again and again. Cherishing her sweetness. Burnishing that petal pink of her lips to a rose-red, passionate flush.
Eliza, Eliza.
She clung to him. It was hell to pull away.
“There,” he said, releasing her. “That’s done.”
March, 1812
“The ceremony will take place Wednesday. We’ve arranged for a license, and the groom is prepared to cover all expenses. The couple have expressed a wish to honeymoon here by the sea before journeying north to—”
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Eliza said, interrupting her father’s recitation of the letter. She was too impatient to get to the meaning of it all. “Philippa is getting married? In Brighton?”
Her father scanned the page. “Judging by the date this was posted, I believe she is already wed.”
“Oh, my.” Looking scandalized, Georgie pressed a hand to her mouth and crumpled into a nearby armchair. “What a surprise.”
Eliza didn’t suffer the same delicacy of spirit. “But this is wonderful! I didn’t know Brentley was traveling to Brighton. I’m surprised Margaret or Caro didn’t write me about it, but—”
“Brentley?” Her father cast aside the letter. “What has that wastrel to do with anything?”
Eliza frowned. She didn’t know what Papa could be mean by “that wastrel.” Surely he was confused. Perhaps the letter hadn’t named Brentley by his title.
“Lord Brentley of Suthermarsh, Papa. He and Philippa became friends in Norfolk, and that must be why he followed her to Brighton. I’m just thrilled for her, and you will be, too. This might seem sudden, but I assure you it isn’t. From their very first meeting, Philippa and Brentley made a perfect—”
Papa rapped the desk for silence. “Eliza, I don’t know what you’re on about. Your sister hasn’t married Lord Brentley, or Lord Anyone. She’s married Peter Everhart.”
What?
All the air left the room. Eliza was dizzied, struggling for breath. “B-b-but…”
Her father resumed reading aloud. “‘I regret the haste with which these arrangements must be made, and the shock to you and your family. But as your daughter is of age and Mr. Everhart gives his every assurance of supporting her, I can make no objection to their immediate marriage.’”
Philippa, married to Peter Everhart?
“But this can’t be,” Eliza said, dropping into the chair next to Georgie’s. Perhaps she was possessed of some delicate sensibilities after all.
Her sister reached for her hand and squeezed it. “I know you fancied him, Eliza. This must be difficult to take.”
“It’s not that.”
And it truly wasn’t. She hadn’t dreamed about golden-haired Peter Everhart for years. All her dreams had been invaded by a darker, more devious man. A roguish devil who fed her nectarines and waltzed her about empty rooms and kissed her in gardens at midnight. A scoundrel who’d once told her…
“Wait.” Eliza bolted straight in her chair. “We can’t let Philippa marry Peter Everhart. What about his…his condition?”
“What condition would that be?” Papa raised a bushy eyebrow.
Eliza bit her lip, not sure how to speak of such things to her own father. “You know. They say that at the Battle of Trafalgar, he was… Er, that he sustained some wound to his…” She waved vaguely at her lap.
“History was never your strong suit, Eliza. During the Battle of the Trafalgar, Peter Everhart would have been in fifth form at Eton. Sixth, perhaps.”