“I really . . .” she began, loving the gleam in his eyes. But she wasn’t sure what she meant. Did she love him? Was it an insult to say that she liked him? She did like him. She was beginning to think that he never considered himself, which was a problem. But it was like saying that hot cocoa was too dark: he was good, through and through.

“I want you,” she breathed.

Gowan’s eyes lit like a flame, and then he rolled her onto her back, running his hands down her body, studying her so intently that she couldn’t see past his thick lashes.

“Do I look all right?” she whispered.

“I was thinking that you look like that cello you love so much. You see the curves here, and here?” His hands shaped the slopes of her breast, the inward tuck of her waist, the generous swell of her hips.

“I never thought of that,” Edie said, feeling more pleased about her body than she usually did.

“You make love to that cello,” he said, “but I make love to you.”

She was still smiling at that when his fingers dipped between her legs and she realized that she’d grown wetter and more swollen since she’d touched herself there. It felt different when he touched her. Her fingers had been soft and tentative and coaxing. But there was nothing tentative about the way he rubbed her. His touch was a demand, on the very edge of painful, as if she was about to be scalded.

Edie twisted up against his hand, her body turning into a flame. “That feels so good,” she gasped, and then arched again, chasing the twirling sensation that turned her limbs liquid.

“This will feel even better,” Gowan said, his voice thick. He lowered himself on top of her.

It didn’t.

By the time Gowan had pushed all the way inside, Edie was rigid with shock. It hurt like the devil. Maybe worse than yesterday, because she felt raw inside, as if . . .

She didn’t know what. She buried her face in his shoulder and sucked in a great breath as he drew back out and then a moan when he thrust back in . . .

“That’s it, Edie,” he said, low and fierce. “Let it come.”

By the time she realized that he had taken her gasp for pleasure, it was too late. He was braced over her, thrusting into her over and over.

“You can do it, Edie,” he whispered. “I can go all night if it will make the difference.”

Edie hadn’t realized this was a competition, though that wasn’t the right word because there was no one to compete with. Still, she was clearly supposed to have an explosion of pleasure, the petit mort. And that was about as likely to happen as the inn falling down around their ears.

Still, Edie gave it a try. She hated the idea of disappointing Gowan. She tried bending her knees. She tried arching her back. She figured out that if she slid down a little it took off some of the pressure, but the truth of the matter was that her husband didn’t fit inside her.

Her body had lost every pulse of that sweet heat she’d felt before. In fact, she was on the edge of tears, which wasn’t good. Gowan’s breath was growing harsher. A drop of sweat fell on her arm, and she flinched.

He was caressing her breast, and every once in a while he would kiss her again, but all she felt was a frantic need to buck him off. Anything to stop the pain and the awful sense of being suffocated. When he moved faster, a cry actually escaped her lips. “That’s it,” Gowan breathed, giving her a kiss that made her feel as if he was congratulating a dunce who had just sounded out her first word.

She could not do this much longer. In fact, not another minute.

If this was a competition, she was willing to lose. Gowan could be the winner. She had to get him off, out of her, now. There was a ferocity in his eyes that promised he would go on all night until he pleasured her.

Edie would rather die.

Layla said their joining would be noisy and loud, which it certainly wasn’t on her part, unless she planned to start screaming.

“Oh!” she cried, but the word didn’t come out right. She sounded dismayed, like a matron finding a vase of flowers broken on the floor.

She hadn’t hit the right tone. “Ohhh,” she said, a little louder. She had never felt so ridiculous in her life. Gowan had lowered his face and was kissing her neck, so she couldn’t tell whether he believed her. His hand was still curved around her breast. His thumb rubbed across her nipple, which should have felt good, except that nothing felt good.

His heart was hammering in a way that proved he was experiencing pleasure, even if she wasn’t. That made her feel a little better. She arched up against him, because that did seem to take the pressure off and made it hurt less. Then she threw back her neck, exactly as Layla had, and let go.

She would have said that she had absolutely no acting ability. But apparently she was good enough.

Gowan muttered something that sounded like a thankful curse, took a deep breath, and began going even faster. After what felt like a century, she felt tremors hit his body. A groan erupted from his lips and then a tangle of incoherent words.

She liked that part.

It was wonderful to have such a self-controlled, powerful man shatter in her arms. His face contorted as he let go, every bit of civilization stripped from his face. She was the only woman in the world who had seen that.

The others saw only the duke, whereas she got to see a primitive man who lost himself in her body. He was still there, actually, inside her. Thinking about his face made her inner parts clench around him suddenly. The pain burned away for the moment and she felt a delicious sense of fullness.

Gowan was braced on his forearms. “God, that feels good, Edie. Just give me a moment,” he gasped, panting.

As his words sank in, Edie panicked. Her inner parts had been pummeled enough. She pushed at him gently, and he rolled off and to the side. Sure enough, his tool was still ready to go.

When she peered gingerly down at herself, she didn’t seem to have bled any more, which had to be a miracle.

Gowan reached over and pulled her against his sweaty body. “I don’t have to ask if it was good for you. You’re so tight and hot . . .”

“It still hurts a little,” she whispered.

He bathed her so gently that she almost started crying again.

She hated lying. And the petit mort that never happened was such a huge lie. But it was only a matter of time, she told herself. Tomorrow was another day. It would be better. Gowan was gently patting her with cool water, giving her that restless, twitchy feeling again.

“That’s enough,” she said, sitting up in case he took the fact her hips were moving under his touch as encouragement.

He gave her a kiss. “Would it be all right with you if I slept here?”

She could feel a silly blush rising in her cheeks. “All right.”

It was hard not to feel resentful the next morning. Gowan’s eyes glowed when he told her that the night had been better than his wildest imaginings. Edie hated the fact she’d lied to him. Hated it.

She took a deep breath, about to confess, when there was a scratch on the door. Gowan called, “Come in,” and in bustled Mary, followed, to her horror, by Gowan’s valet. And on their heels were maids carrying breakfast trays.

The chance was gone. She nibbled toast while Trundle laid out Gowan’s dressing gown, and Mary began preparing Edie’s toilet. When Gowan finished eating, he got out of bed and went to his room, where he could listen to some sort of report about paddock fencing while he dressed.