ANNIE BURROWS - Regency Surrender - Rebellious Debutantes - Lord Havelock's List / Portrait of a Scandal

Even though he’d only chosen her with his head, not his heart, he had chosen her. There must be dozens of poor, plain, penniless orphans in London, yet he hadn’t looked any further once he’d met her.

And, yes, maybe that was only because he was in such a hurry to get married, but...

With a moan that was half distress, half desperation, she curled her fingers into the luxuriant softness of his hair and kissed him back for all she was worth.

They were married now. Did it really matter how it had come about? No. It was what they made of their future that mattered.

Her response brought a feral growl of appreciation from his throat. And then, for a few moments, it was as though he had been let off some invisible leash. His hands were all over her while his body strained against hers in a way that thrilled her to the soles of her boots.

His excitement called to something buried deep in the heart of her. Something wild and wanton that came roaring to life and swept aside her every inhibition. Her hands were every bit as greedy as his, seeking and stroking and learning. She couldn’t get close enough to him. She wanted to wrap herself round him. Press every single inch of her against every marvellously thrilling inch of him.

Until, quite without warning, he reared back.

‘This is going too fast,’ he panted, frowning.

‘What do you mean?’ It all felt perfectly wonderful to her.

‘This is your first time,’ he gritted out between clenched teeth. ‘I should be taking it far more slowly. Making it good for you.’

Well, she couldn’t argue with that. After all the horrible things she’d read on that list, the dreadful afternoon she’d spent sitting alone, cold and brutally wounded, the least he could do was make this part of their marriage good.

He’d closed his eyes on a grimace. When he opened them again, only a few seconds later, he’d calmed down considerably.

‘I didn’t even pause to get our shoes off.’ He sighed, with a shake of his head.

He sat up, scooted down the bed and rapidly unlaced her rather worn leather half-boots. Aunt Pargetter had wanted to get her some dainty footwear to go with her wedding finery, but there hadn’t been time. And she’d thought her own comfortable boots would stand her in better stead, considering the coldness of the season. Only now did she wish she’d taken them off herself, during the hours he’d been away seeing his lawyers.

He didn’t say anything about the patched soles, or the worn-down heels, but his frown did deepen once his fingers encountered her stockinged feet.

‘Your feet are like ice! Well, that won’t do.’ Taking her left foot between both hands, he first chafed it, then raised it to his mouth to plant a hot kiss on the sole. The action sent her skirts slithering up her legs.

His hot eyes followed their movement. Swiftly followed by his hands.

‘I need to get these stockings off,’ he said, as though warning her of his intent.

She shivered with pleasure when he deftly undid her garter, then slid one stocking down.

‘Cold?’

She shook her head. Far from it. It felt as though a bolt of lightning streaked from the heat of his hands against her bared skin, right to her very core. She subsided into the pillows again, luxuriating in the sensations he evoked whilst removing her other stocking—with slow deliberation.

Her eyes half-closed, she watched with growing interest as he got up, shrugged off his jacket, undid his shirt and yanked it impatiently off over his head.

He had, without doubt, the most impressive masculine torso she’d ever seen. And she had seen many. Sailors often worked in just their ragged breeches, when loading and unloading ships during the hottest months of the year.

But she’d always averted her gaze and hurried past. She’d never been even remotely tempted to pause and drink her fill of any single one of them. She hadn’t struggled to keep her hands neatly placed at her sides, rather than reaching out and running her fingers over each clearly delineated muscle. Or thought about letting her tongue follow in the wake of her fingers. Or got a mad urge to lick her way up that strong column of a masculine throat to the stubbled texture of his chin.

Not that she was bold enough to do any such thing. Besides, he’d just said he was going to make it good for her. And part of her, the part that was still smarting over the things she’d read on the list, wanted him to exert himself to make it up to her. Not that he would be aware he was doing any such thing, but still, she would know.

Anyway, he inadvertently helped her to resist the temptation by sitting down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, which gave her eyes an entirely new view to appreciate. His back. The broad shoulders, the ridges of muscle down either side of his spine, which disappeared into the narrow waistband of his breeches.

She was a little disappointed when he drew the line at removing them. Although perhaps it was only fair. After all, she was still in her gown. Not that it took him long to take it off her once he set to it. My, but he certainly knew his way round lacings, and corsets.

Her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen by the time he lay down beside her and put his arm about her shoulders. The dexterity he’d just displayed with her clothing convinced her that he truly could make this experience good for her.

Even though he wasn’t all that proficient at flirting and charming his way into a woman’s bed, it didn’t mean he hadn’t had encounters of an...earthy nature, with willing women.

Willing? Oh, what an inadequate word. If any of them had guessed what kind of body he concealed beneath his casually comfortable clothing, plenty of them would have ripped them off just to get their greedy hands on it.

Just as she wanted to get her own hands on it.

She was so glad he didn’t wear the kind of clothing that showed his stunning physique to better advantage. If he’d needed a couple of valets to peel a tightly fitted coat from those bulging biceps, she would have missed the enthralling spectacle of him gradually revealing more and more of his masculinity for her eyes alone.

He wouldn’t have been able to just take her to bed because he felt it was time, either. She liked that they could be spontaneous about this, rather than having to involve servants.

She reached for him as he ran his fingers through her hair—hair that had come out of its fastenings during their first bout of kissing on this bed.

As she ran her hands down his back, glorying in the fact that there were no longer any clothes to impede her exploration, it occurred to her that a ‘modest’ woman wouldn’t be doing this. Wouldn’t have clawed her way under his waistcoat and writhed up against him like some kind of snake when he’d tumbled her on to the bed earlier, either. Nor would a ‘modest’ woman let her husband strip her naked at four in the afternoon—even if daylight was fading—and be glad of the way firelight bathed the room in a warm glow, so she could feast her eyes on her new husband’s magnificent masculine nakedness.

But then, nor would a man who truly wanted a modest wife be looking at her like that—as if he wanted to devour her.

Which was pretty much what he did next, tasting and nibbling her all over as though she was some rare delicacy. He didn’t leave an inch of her unexplored. And everywhere he put his mouth, he left behind such glorious feelings she didn’t know how to describe them.

She bit down on her lower lip when he finally stroked her legs apart and began trailing kisses up the inside of her thighs.

Her aunt Pargetter had warned her, during a private little talk the night before, that the things her husband might wish to do to her, once in the marriage bed, might seem strange and perhaps a little frightening at first. She had advised her against resisting, or protesting, because nine times out of ten he would have more of an idea what would end up making it lovely.