Read Online Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) by Maggie Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maggie Robinson
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top teeth. Something dark yet delicious, like Portugal Cake. There had been no plums at breakfast—and she couldn’t bake anyway, she thought stupidly. The man tasted sweet and smelled better, and she lifted her head the better to rise toward him.
She would have to stand on a box if they did this often standing up—he was much too tall for her. Anne needed to take a breath to fill her suddenly constricted lungs—she felt light-headed. Instead of using the perfectly good nostrils God gave her somehow her lips parted for air, and that was all Major Ripton-Jones needed.
She had inadvertently invited him in, but he was still polite, his tongue hesitant, respectful. Anne had never been kissed like this by any of the men she’d used to toss her honor away. Major Ripton-Jones would not want to kiss her if he knew about them. Even if she never spoke of her father, her reputation was ruined—she’d eloped, committed theft and mischief, done everything she could possibly think of to shake herself loose from the paternal bondage. If she somehow helped the major prove his innocence, he’d still be a laughingstock for marrying her. How could she help him improve his standing in the community if people learned she was Imaculata Egremont? Everyone thought the worst of her, and rightfully so.
All the more reason for her to leave him once they were married. People would understand he’d been tricked. He’d have his money and she’d have her freedom.
And memories of his kisses. She might not sleep with him, but impulsively decided to let him kiss her all he wanted.
It was very—pleasant. He dipped in, exploring, his breath hitching, his tongue hot and sweet. Plums again. How foolish. She could do nothing but meet his tongue with the tip of hers, and then it was he whose hand trembled against her shoulder.
His tongue was masterful, expertly curling hers up in exquisite capture. Anne didn’t want to escape. She stood on tiptoe as he deepened contact, pressed harder, thoroughly consuming her lick by lick. Blood roared in her ears and she felt the green hat tip as he moved up to tangle in her hair. His thumb traced her cheekbone as his fingers held her still.
Not that she’d ever run away. Couldn’t. Her booted toes were rooted to the floor, her legs quite useless, her heart skipping. She clung to his untied neckcloth as he covered her mouth, nibbling, sweeping hot muscle to soft skin. Something clenched within her, dark and impatient.
Anne knew where kissing led, why her insides were twisting in unfamiliar desire. This kiss wouldn’t do at all. It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
The neckcloth jerked in her hand and she pushed Gareth away.
“Too much l-luck,” she stammered.
His looked down at her, the knowledge of his conquest plain on his smiling face. “One can never have too much luck, Annie.”
“Be quiet and let me do up your tie.”
Her hands shook. She had no idea what she was doing, having untied a neckcloth or two in her time rather than tied one. Gareth’s would not resemble any of the useless foppish men she’d found and played with to make her father angry. His clothing was too severe, his buttons brass instead of gold or silver, his hair not clipped a la Brutus. Anne stifled the urge to brush it behind his ears, then wondered how ridiculous she looked in her crooked hat and own untidy hair.
His fingertips on her scalp—she shivered as she recalled each warm point of contact. He’d cradled her head so gently she could have stayed in his grip forever.
She stepped back, wobbling a little from removing herself from his orbit. He was a drunkard, she reminded herself. Weak. “That will have to do.”
“My turn.” Pulling the strings from the bonnet, he tucked her errant curls back under her hairpins, then set the hat back. “You’ll have to fasten it again yourself. Bowknots are the very devil.”
How difficult the simplest things must be for him. “Thank you.”
He looked her over
She would have to stand on a box if they did this often standing up—he was much too tall for her. Anne needed to take a breath to fill her suddenly constricted lungs—she felt light-headed. Instead of using the perfectly good nostrils God gave her somehow her lips parted for air, and that was all Major Ripton-Jones needed.
She had inadvertently invited him in, but he was still polite, his tongue hesitant, respectful. Anne had never been kissed like this by any of the men she’d used to toss her honor away. Major Ripton-Jones would not want to kiss her if he knew about them. Even if she never spoke of her father, her reputation was ruined—she’d eloped, committed theft and mischief, done everything she could possibly think of to shake herself loose from the paternal bondage. If she somehow helped the major prove his innocence, he’d still be a laughingstock for marrying her. How could she help him improve his standing in the community if people learned she was Imaculata Egremont? Everyone thought the worst of her, and rightfully so.
All the more reason for her to leave him once they were married. People would understand he’d been tricked. He’d have his money and she’d have her freedom.
And memories of his kisses. She might not sleep with him, but impulsively decided to let him kiss her all he wanted.
It was very—pleasant. He dipped in, exploring, his breath hitching, his tongue hot and sweet. Plums again. How foolish. She could do nothing but meet his tongue with the tip of hers, and then it was he whose hand trembled against her shoulder.
His tongue was masterful, expertly curling hers up in exquisite capture. Anne didn’t want to escape. She stood on tiptoe as he deepened contact, pressed harder, thoroughly consuming her lick by lick. Blood roared in her ears and she felt the green hat tip as he moved up to tangle in her hair. His thumb traced her cheekbone as his fingers held her still.
Not that she’d ever run away. Couldn’t. Her booted toes were rooted to the floor, her legs quite useless, her heart skipping. She clung to his untied neckcloth as he covered her mouth, nibbling, sweeping hot muscle to soft skin. Something clenched within her, dark and impatient.
Anne knew where kissing led, why her insides were twisting in unfamiliar desire. This kiss wouldn’t do at all. It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
The neckcloth jerked in her hand and she pushed Gareth away.
“Too much l-luck,” she stammered.
His looked down at her, the knowledge of his conquest plain on his smiling face. “One can never have too much luck, Annie.”
“Be quiet and let me do up your tie.”
Her hands shook. She had no idea what she was doing, having untied a neckcloth or two in her time rather than tied one. Gareth’s would not resemble any of the useless foppish men she’d found and played with to make her father angry. His clothing was too severe, his buttons brass instead of gold or silver, his hair not clipped a la Brutus. Anne stifled the urge to brush it behind his ears, then wondered how ridiculous she looked in her crooked hat and own untidy hair.
His fingertips on her scalp—she shivered as she recalled each warm point of contact. He’d cradled her head so gently she could have stayed in his grip forever.
She stepped back, wobbling a little from removing herself from his orbit. He was a drunkard, she reminded herself. Weak. “That will have to do.”
“My turn.” Pulling the strings from the bonnet, he tucked her errant curls back under her hairpins, then set the hat back. “You’ll have to fasten it again yourself. Bowknots are the very devil.”
How difficult the simplest things must be for him. “Thank you.”
He looked her over
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