Page 269 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

At that, her fingers fluttered over his, as though emboldening them—him—to commence.

“Ah. An inexperienced virgin, then?”And how could you ask thus? To a near stranger!’Twas quite easily done, given their proximity. Their ease with one another. Her encouraging dance over his hand, the unmistakable tilt of her pelvis.

Brier allowed his longest finger to travel. Back and forth, just a fraction. And then, with no verbal protest forthcoming—not that he expected any—up and down.Down, delving deeper toward her cleft and the warmth beckoning his touch secreted within.

“Quite the inexperienced virgin,” she said lightly, “and me—at my ripe age.”

“Right, because you are such a trot,” he said in utter disbelief, as though anyone could consider the prime female inhabiting his bed an oldster. “Soveryancient.”

“And your feeble self? A whoremonger?” She snickered at the last word, as though even saying it surprised her.

“Aye. One of the greatest whoremongers of our time. I, who remained a virgin myself until I met my dear Alice, who remained faithful to her during our marriage, and—”to her memory ever since.

But that wasn’t the truth. Not any longer.

Not given his imaginings of the last forty-eight hours. Had it truly been that brief of a time? For it seemed as though he had hungered for the woman in his arms now—for Lucinda—for an eternity.

It wasn’t tarrying angst for his departed beloved that had kept him from bringing another to his bed. It was practicals. And interest. Here in London, he didn’t exactly move in the sort of circles where widows hopped freely from one bedchamber to another. The women who frequented his establishment, with intent to peruse and purchase, were the respectable sort. And the others who liked to barge and bang in,notthe sort he had any interest in joining for a bang.

“Mr. Chapman.Brier.” She sighed the last, releasing his gently probing fingers and brought her arm up, curving her hand over the side of his face and around to his nape, where she gripped skin and scalp in a secure hold. “Never tell me, dear sir. Have you remained pure since becoming a widower?”

He barked an uncomfortable laugh. “When you put it thus, I sound an imbecile.”

Her legs widened, encouraging farther journeys south, her upper foot finding his lower, pant-covered leg and starting to graze (making him wish he’d not portrayed such a gentleman in leaving them on overnight). “Not an imbecile. Never that. A decent man.”

He’d found her button, that tiny nub his Alice had liked, had slicked and squealed when he caressed. And then he let her memory, the one he’d clung tight to in his grief and subsequent years, settle comfortably, calmly, in a portion of his heart that would always belong to her, even as that same portion—and all the rest—opened wide to allow for new memories. New love. For Lucinda.

Gathering her closer, he feathered his finger over that small area and the flesh around it, content, oh so content, at the feeling of a receptive, surprisingly enthusiastic woman in his arms once more.

“A decent man, you suppose? A manfamished, more like.” He could not help but growl as her fingertips started scratching gently through his hair. He nuzzled the lightly scented space behind her ear. “Famished for you, Luce, not for a memory, lest you wonder.”

“I hadn’t. But it’s comforting to hear. Especially—” She gasped, arching into his touch. “When you persist in…doing such brazen things.”

“Persist?” Her gliding flesh, the thrust of her loins against his hand—their joint and breathy eagerness—guided his longest finger past silken flesh until entering. “If my persistent touch is repellent, it could always retreat.”

Her inner walls clutched tight. “Retreat and I will have Sharpe’s sword at your throat. Clay’s specimens on your dinner plate.”

Chuckling, groaning, loving every moment they spent together, Brier coaxed a satisfyingly loud release from the now (somewhat) experienced virgin in his arms.

He rolled her over to face him and kissed her like a man possessed. Which he was.

* * *

“Greetings, London bro!”

“Yo-ho! Brier! Where are you, sleepyhead?”

“Be like him…stay open…midnight…hoping… business.”

The unmistakable sounds of scrambling and laughter nudged his awareness, but the warm, replete bundle in his arms commanded his muzzy attention.

Until the next voice shouted, “Yo, Brier Edgar Isaac! We may be days late, thanks to the ice and dire state of the roadways, but we’re here, you ingrate! Show yourself.”

His warm bundle turned to cold stone the same instant Brier’s slumberous mind made sense of the interruption. His arms tightened around Luce, as though to contain the private moment. “Blazes! That’s Thorne. Didn’t know he was back in England.”

“Rouse from bed and join us!” the feminine voice of his youngest sister prodded. “We brought Christmas dinner to you.”

“Half frozen by now,” one of his brothers muttered.

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