“What’s that?”
“We might never have another chance.” Her blue eyes met his. “I don’t want to spend my whole life wondering what might have been.”
She inched closer, her hair hanging loose and heavy about her shoulders.
He closed his eyes, but eyelids were feeble, ineffective shields against such beauty. He could feel her loveliness as a soft, tempting heat. He trailed his fingers down the slope of her arm, worrying the adorable knob of her elbow before skimming down to lace his fingers with hers. Weaving their hands into a tight, inseverable knot.
“Eliza.” A lump formed in his throat. “We shouldn’t. I can’t make you any promises, and I won’t allow you to make me any, either. This isn’t what you want. Not your first time.”
“My first time is bound to be awkward, no matter when it occurs. Didn’t you just say so?” She pulled back and met his gaze. “Either you’ll have an opportunity someday to make it right. Or you won’t. And in that event, it’s just as well if I remember it being unpleasant. I won’t mourn you so much.” She swept her fingers through his hair. “It’s all very logical, see.”
He was sure it wasn’t logical at all, but damned if he could think when she touched him that way. She still smelled of honeysuckle.
“Think of your sister,” he said, moving closer on the chaise.
“I am thinking of Georgie. I’m thinking of what my sweet, patient, dutiful sister would do in a similar situation. If she’d been given one night with William before he left, I think… No, I’m certain she would have seduced him, too.”
He smiled despite himself, finding it goddamn adorable how she reveled in the idea of seducing him. Eliza Cade, dragging him into sin.
Little could she know it, but she was the nearest thing in his life to redemption. The tension of desiring her all these years, and struggling against it…for Harry, it had meant more than a few evenings’ amusement here and there. Whatever it was between them, it reminded him that he needn’t live down to expectations. That he didn’t need a quarterly allowance to purchase a few shreds of decency.
She made him better. And he knew he made her better, too.
If she could ever love him, it didn’t matter what anyone said. Harry would know he’d lived truly and well.
“Eliza, I…” The nearness was too much. Her dressing gown gaped at the throat, exposing that pristine, virginal white shift with its miles of tiny buttons. He had to touch her. With a trembling hand, he reached inside her dressing gown and cupped her breast through the gauzy lawn.
She sucked in her breath, startled.
He cursed himself.
Brilliant, Harry. No kiss. No preamble. Just reach straight for the tit.
He’d bedded his share of women—not quite so many as gossip would indicate, but enough. But when it came to this business of actual love, he might as well be a fumbling virgin.
He skimmed his hand around and beneath her breast, to plump and knead her feminine flesh. He found the tightening bud of her nipple and worked it round and round. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he thrilled to the sweet rasp of her ragged breath.
She reached for the button at the top of her shift.
“Let me,” he whispered.
One by one, he loosed the tiny buttons. For every one he slipped from its grasping buttonhole, he pressed his lips to the skin revealed. He worked his way down her neck and breastbone, teasing them both, until he was at last able to part the edges of her chemise, spreading the panels like curtains to reveal an inspiring view of her breasts.
His mouth dried as he stared at them, taking in every taut, plump, pink, creamy detail. So lovely.
“Harry?” she whispered.
“You’re perfect,” he said, skimming a hand over the tight bud of her nipple. “Absolutely perfect.”
He dipped his head, lavishing kisses over her breasts and circling her nipples with his tongue. He worked faster, hungry for her. Her fingers twined in his hair, clutching tight. They both moaned.
He laid her back against the chaise, unknotting the sash of her dressing gown. Leaving the robe as a dark velvet blanket beneath them, he pulled the unbuttoned chemise down her arms, then worked it over her hips.
Once he had her bared, he took the candleholder in one hand and held it above her, bathing the lush curves of her reclined body in warm, flickering light.
“It’s not enough time,” he said, hoarse with lust. “One night? A few hours? It’s not enough time to do everything.”
She giggled. “Everything? I hope we needn’t feel pressed to do everything tonight.”
“We must try,” he said solemnly. “We must try our utmost.”