“No it’s not. It feels lovely. Here, I’ll show you—” She pounced for the tin of balm and coated her fingertips with the stuff. The rich scent of clove oil spiced the air. “Just hold still—”

“The devil I will.” His voice had thickened with amusement, and he reached for her wrist.

Fleet as a ferret, Beatrix twisted to evade him. Rolling once, twice, she dove for the belt of his robe. “You put it all over me,” she accused, giggling. “Coward. Now it’s your turn.”

“Not a chance.” He grabbed her, grappled with her, and she thrilled to the sound of his husky laugh.

Somehow managing to clamber over him, she gasped at the feel of his aroused flesh. She wrestled with him until he flipped her over with ease, pinning her wrists. The robe had become loosened during their tussle, their na**d flesh rubbing together.

Sparkling silver eyes stared into blue. Already breathless with laughter, Beatrix became positively lightheaded as she saw the way he was looking at her. Lowering his head, he kissed and licked at her smile as if he could taste it.

Christopher let go of her wrists and rolled to his side, exposing his front to her.

Beatrix gave him a questioning glance. Her fingers waggled slightly. “You want me to . . . to touch you with this?”

He was silent, his gaze daring her.

Shy but curious, she reached down and grasped him cautiously. They both jumped a little at the feel of it, coolness and heat, the frictionless glide of oil and silk and intimidating hardness. “Like this?” she whispered, stroking gently.

An indrawn breath hissed through his teeth, and his lashes half lowered. He made no move to stop her.

She drew the pad of her thumb over the smooth, dark head in a sleek circle. Curling her fingers around the heavy, stiffening shaft, she slid them down, marveling at the feel of him. He let her fondle and explore him at will, while his skin turned fever colored, and his chest rose and fell ever more rapidly. Mesmerized by the power of him barely contained beneath her hands, she spread her fingertips and trailed them down his h*ps and the front of his thighs. She stroked the rock-hard muscles of his legs, scratched lightly through the scattering of glinting hairs, then glided back to his groin. Delicately she cupped the weight of him below, played with him, gripping both hands around the rigid length.

A guttural sound came from his chest. He shoved the sleeves of the robe off his arms, pushed the garment aside, and clutched her hips. Her heart pounded as she saw the tautness of his features, the primitive intent of his gaze. She was brought over his lap, his shaft opening her, pressing into the stinging softness. A whimper broke from her lips as he pushed her fully down, compelling her to straddle him, to take all of him. He reached a new place inside her, and it felt sore but at the same time so unaccountably good that her flesh throbbed tightly in response.

Christopher went still, his searing gaze fixed on her.

In a matter of seconds the balm had done its work, the cooling spices relieving her heated flesh while simultaneously awakening intimate nerves. She moved restlessly. Grasping her hips, Christopher pushed her back down and thrust upward.

“Christopher . . .” She was unable to stop herself from squirming and lifting again. With every helpless movement she made, he pulled her h*ps back to his. His thighs braced behind her, and one of his hands went to the place where they were joined. He watched her, played with her, his fingers sliding across her with flirting strokes while his body never relented its deep, provocative grinding.

“Truce,” she managed to say. “I can’t bear any more.”

“But you will.” Reaching up to her, he drew her down and kissed her.

“Please. Finish it.”

“Not yet.” He trailed his hands down her back. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “So sensitive. I could make love to you forever.”

“Christopher—”

“Let me bring you to pleasure one more time.”

“No, I’m exhausted.” She took his lower lip between her teeth in a gentle nip. “Finish it now,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll make you.”

“How?”

Beatrix considered him, the arrogantly handsome features, the glitter of challenge in his eyes. Lowering herself over him, her body gently rocked by his ceaseless thrusts, she put her mouth near his ear.

“I love you,” she whispered, catching his rhythm, riding it. “I love you.”

Nothing more was needed. His breath stopped on a groan, and he drove into her and held, his powerful body trembling with the force of his release. Sliding his arms around her, he poured the years of anguished longing into her. And she continued to murmur to him, promising love, safety, new dreams to replace the broken ones.

Promising forever.

Chapter Twenty-two

After the London season had ended, the peerage continued their social amusements in the country. Invitations were sent for balls, dinners, and dances; gamekeepers prepared grouse to be released for shooting; guns were freshly oiled and cleaned for wildfowling; riding courses were trimmed and repaired; and wine and delicacies were brought from the ports of Bristol and London.

The most sought-after invitation in Hampshire was the mid-September soiree to be held at Ramsay House, to announce Beatrix’s betrothal to Christopher Phelan. Usually any event the Hathaways hosted was well attended, but this was different. Everyone they had invited had accepted immediately, followed by a flood of letters and inquiries from people asking for invitations. Demanding them, in some instances.