His hand was stroking her neck. It froze for a moment.

"Do you remember how you used to kiss me before we were married?" she asked.

"I must have been a beast, always pulling you into a corner."

"I loved it," Helene admitted.

"You never-"

"Ladies don't."

But Rees had clear memories of his wife refusing to kiss him with an open mouth, telling him he was disgusting to want such a thing. He hesitated.

Their newfound friendship was so fragile and (although he didn't really want to think such a thing) important to him. Something about his wife made him feel, well, whole. He didn't want to frighten her off. To disgust her.

So she came to him. The wife who hated kissing opened her mouth and timidly, sweetly, begged for entrance.

Rees had always known he was no gentleman. And he'd known for years that he had no control around his wife either. Nothing seemed to have changed.

He plunged into her mouth so violently that she toppled backwards into a bed of flowers and he came with her, his limbs tangling with hers, devouring her mouth.

All the while, some part of him was waiting for her to tear her mouth away, to push him away, to scream that he was depraved, disgusting...

But the only thing that happened was that slender arms wound around his neck and a slender body tucked itself into the hard curves of his body with such melting softness that he could barely stop himself from groaning with the pure delight of it.

Finally, he was the one who lifted his mouth from hers. "Helene," he said hoarsely. "You did say every day, didn't you?"

She opened her eyes, dazed. "Yes." Her voice was a whisper of sound.

Perhaps he was crushing all the air from her lungs.

Of course he didn't move. Every inch of Rees's body was aware that he was cushioned between her thighs, his hardness pressing into her softness.

But: "Am I too heavy for you?"

Her face was rosy, but her eyes had that clear honesty he loved. "I used to hate it when you lay on me," she said and stopped.

He propped himself on his elbows and dropped kisses on her high, arching eyebrows, on the edge of her eyes, on the delicate curve of her cheekbone. "Do you dislike it now?" he asked, carefully controlling his voice. His heart was pounding in his ribs, and it wasn't all a matter of desire either.

She had her eyes closed again. "No," she whispered, and to Rees's ears the little sound echoed around the glade with as much force as a shout.

Deliberately he thrust forward into the soft embrace of her thighs. A surge of blood went through his body so fiercely that he almost groaned out loud but caught himself. He didn't want to seem like an animal, grunting at his pleasure. "What about that, Helene?" he whispered, his lips slipping down to her slender neck. "How did that feel?"

Her hands were running feverishly through his hair and now one slipped to his shoulder. There was silence between them for a moment. Rees dimly heard the call of a bird in the distance.

She wasn't protesting. Cautiously he put a hand on her chest. She'd always hated his even looking at her breasts: he remembered that clearly enough. But last night she'd allowed him to caress them.

They gave in his hand with a movement that sent fire roaring through his blood. She had no corset on. Perhaps no chemise. His hands began to shake.

"Rees," Helene said, and there was an ache in her voice that startled them both. "Are you certain that you've seen no one in this forest?"

"Never, in five years of walking here," he said, looking down at her. Her face was flushed and her eyes were alive, glowing. "You can't be suggesting?"

Helene looked up at him and grinned. Esme had given her lots of instructions about little breathy moans, and cries of "Yes! Yes!" Esme had said nothing about smiles, or the laugh that seemed to be coming from deep in her stomach. "I don't feel like myself here," she admitted. "I feel-wicked."

His eyes were so dark that they sparkled like coal. "I like what you're doing," she said, tracing his eyebrow with one finger. "That-"

"Thrusting?" he said.

Her cheeks turned even pinker. "What a word!"

"Mmmm." Rees started unbuttoning the little porcelain buttons that ran up her jacket. He straightened, putting his weight on his knees. She lay under him like a slender nymph, the little twists of hair flying away from her forehead. "I like your hair," he said, to distract himself from unbuttoning.

"I thought you would hate it," she said, and there was an uncertainty in her voice that made him lean down and put a hard kiss on her lips.

"You look beautiful." Reverently he pulled the jacket open. She was wearing one of the muslin blouses that were so popular now, made of celestial blue muslin so thin that he could see the curve of her breast. He closed his eyes for a second, and then brought his hand to her breast.

She was watching him. "Do I look acceptable?" she whispered, holding herself perfectly still.

"Acceptable?" he said, and the word tore from his throat with a guttural groan. "God, Helene, when have I..."

He seemed to lose track of the sentence, so Helene allowed him to help her out of the sleeves of her jacket. He didn't look at all as if he might laugh now. He was leaning over her almost as if-as if-and then his mouth closed over her nipple, covered by muslin as it was.

For a moment Helene was shocked into motionlessness. He was suckling her-actually suckling her, even though she was wearing a shirt. The shock of it sang through her veins like a trumpet.

"Rees!" she cried, and the sound floated away to the bird songs.

He jerked her shirt up, with such hunger that Helene swallowed another cry. Shutting her eyes against the sun, she felt as if liquid sunshine ran through her veins, as if her heart's blood thundered from the exquisite feeling of his mouth on her breast. She clutched his shoulders as hard as she could so that he couldn't move, couldn't leave, couldn't stop... But he left only to move his head to her left breast, and then his hand took up a tormenting rhythm, rubbing over her nipple hard and harder until she was twisting in his hands, her nails biting into his shoulders. Those hands could pick up any instrument, and coax an intoxicating melody from it, and it seemed she was no different.

So she didn't protest, not at all, not when he unbuttoned her skirt and there she was, naked in a forest glade. Not when his hand burned a trail down her stomach to her legs, and she-wanton that she felt-let him slip those fingers between her legs. The very touch of him made her shudder.

"Helene," he said. He'd taken his hand away, and the absence was almost painful.

She blinked at him. "Yes?" She had to clear her throat. "Yes?"

"I'd like to make love to you. Would that be all right?"

"Yes, yes of course," Helene whispered hurriedly, wishing that he hadn't asked her. "Did you speak to Darby?"

His eyes seemed oddly unfocused. "What? Why would I speak to Darby?"

Helene could feel waves of sobriety cooling her body. "You had a question about a lady's-" she stopped.

His face cleared. "No need," he told her, dropping a kiss on her lips. It felt so good that he lingered, hungrily, but his hands dropped between her legs. "See, Helene? See?" His fingers sank into her warmth.

She gasped. Instinctively her legs opened a bit and he slipped deeper. "You're ready," he whispered. "We didn't need any of those methods for ladies, whatever they are."

"Oh," Helene managed.

And then he was there instead of his fingers. Helene looked up at Rees. His face was dark with passion, jaw tight, and despite herself, despite the trembling pleasure she felt, she braced herself. There was no getting around the fact that bedding was something her body didn't do well.

Rees felt that rigidity as if her body was an extension of his own, and even though he hadn't entered her yet. "It will be all right," he said, swooping down for a kiss. But he wasn't sure, any more than she was. Would it be painful? By the end of the time they lived together, he was absolutely convinced that there was something about her body that prevented her from enjoying bedding. He'd heard of such things before.

She had her eyes closed tight. "It's been lovely so far," she said. "Go ahead, Rees. You enjoy this part."

He didn't move.

"Go ahead!" she commanded him, as fiercely as he told her to drink Cook's remedy, that very morning.

And so he did, cautiously, slowly, holding himself to an agonizingly slow pace.

Her eyes popped open. "It didn't hurt!" she said, obviously pleased.

"That's good," he said between clenched teeth. "Do you mind if I-"

"Oh, go ahead," she said, with a wiggle that nearly undid him. "It doesn't hurt a bit."

So Rees did. There was something missing though. He was flying, plunging into her tight warmth again and again, his vision black, not thinking of anything, except- Except he wished that she found more pleasure from it. Helene lay under him with a little smile, and the very sight of her skin gleaming in the sun coming through the branches made him feel maddened, crazed. He slid hands under her hips and pulled her up.

Her eyes opened very wide and her mouth slightly parted. He searched her face, trying to see whether she found any satisfaction in what he was doing, but the roar of raw pleasure in his own ears racked his body, driving him forward. His vision went dim and he poured everything he had into her with a groan that burst from his lungs and echoed around the empty wood.

Two minutes later, Rees was lying on his back in the flowers, trying to force air into his gulping lungs, trying to stop shaking.

Helene was eating some chicken with her fingers, and chattering about how it wasn't bad, not at all, and if it had been like this, years ago...

Rees put his arm over his eyes. Foolish of him, to want anything else. To feel there was something wanting there. Stupid. Emotional. He had his release, and that was all that mattered. Wasn't it?

Chapter Twenty-five.

The Hunt Is On.

Ambrogina Camden, the Duchess of Girton, was sitting in the garden of her townhouse, attempting to look regal. This wasn't an overly difficult proposition: Gina had a dignity and grace that made her a natural duchess. She was sitting bolt upright, her head carefully poised atop her spine, her pale red hair pulled back into a gleaming mass, the better to frame her beautiful facial bones. "How much longer?" she demanded of the man who had been scrawling sketch after sketch in black charcoal for the last two hours.

"Hush," the man said. And then, "Don't move, Gina, for God's sake!"

Gina quietly ground her teeth (duchesses do not show outside signs of irritation, even under extreme provocation) and straightened her spine again. If only Max's nursemaid would bring him down into the garden to play, he would certainly toddle over on seeing his mama and she could pick him up and end this tedious business of sitting for her own sculpture.

"One more moment," said the man, "this one is rather good. Lovely, in fact." There was a tone of ripe satisfaction in his voice. "I think I've got it, darling. What do you think?"

Gina hopped up and went around the man's shoulder to look. "No!" she said, on a rising shriek. "You promised, Cam! You promised!"

The Duke of Girton grinned at his wife. "What? You don't like the shell?"

"The shell?" Gina squealed. "Who cares about the shell? You've done me without a stitch of clothing!" She tried to snatch the piece of foolscap from him but he held it out of her reach.

"It will look lovely on the front lawn at Girton House," he said, his eyes sparkling. "I can't think of a better use for that pink marble that was delivered last week." With his free hand he caught his wife tightly to him.

"I won't let you," she promised, trying once more to grab the sheet of paper.

"It doesn't matter if you rip up this sketch," he said, lowering his other arm so she was trapped in the circle of his arms, and bending to kiss her neck. "I know your body, Gina... I could take a piece of clay from the riverbank and mold it in the dark, and people would call it exquisite." His mouth hovered at the corner of hers.

"You're naught but a rogue, to even think of sculpting your own wife without clothing." He smelled so lovely, and she had got up quite early to visit Max in the nursery, and her husband did have the most beautiful eyes, and his hands... "We're in public!" she scolded him.

"I could sculpt the curve of your bottom were I blinded," her husband said into her ear, sounding rather drunken. "Let's go upstairs."

"I couldn't," Gina said, enjoying herself immensely. "Max might come outside at any moment."

"He's in the nursery being bullied into eating far more rusks than he wishes for nuncheon." Cam had dropped the offending sketch to the ground and his hands were roaming freely. His mouth burned a trail across her cheek... Gina turned to meet his lips.

"Yes," she whispered, opening her mouth to him, to the charcoal and chalk, the wild man whom she married. His tongue slid slowly across her lips, came to her with a sudden passion that made Gina fold into his arms in helpless surrender.

"Your Grace," came a pompous voice.

Gina tried to tear her mouth from Cam's but he wouldn't let her, finishing his kiss, fingering there without regard for the liveried butler standing at a polite distance.