Page 647 of From Rakes to Riches

Penelope felt heat blossom under her skin from the top of her forehead all the way down to the edge of her bodice. And lower. “Be serious, Beech.”

His eyes softened at the corners. “I know what is right and true and valuable in this world, my dear Pease Porridge,” he said in that low, sure, captainly way of his. “And I know my duty.”

Duty. It was as if the heel of his large leather sea boot had stepped directly upon her heart, so sharp and painful was her disappointment.

It was as it had been before with Caius—Beech would marry her because he felt heoughtto. Not because he wanted to.

“Beech.” Penelope could not entirely swallow down the bitter brew of her dismay. “I thank you for your candor, but I am quite firmly decided against being anyone’s duty.”

“Ah.” Her words seemed to strike him with force—his head tipped back—before he leaned closer. So close she could see the glint of his grey-green eyes, alert and seeking, regarding her with an intent that was as thrilling as it was unnerving. “Had you rather be my compulsion?”

Something darker and too needy for caution stirred within—a volatile mixture of pride and unadulterated want. “Lord, yes.”

Their lips seemed to meet with an elemental force, gravitating together as if both ends of the Earth had simultaneously tipped them into each other’s arms.

Yet once met, the second touch of his lips was less urgent, far more tentative. He slid his hand along the line of her jaw carefully, in the way a man raised a too-full glass to his lips—slowly so as not to spill.

As if this were more than a mere tasting of flesh. As if he were offering his trust—his very self.

“Beech,” she said, because there was nothing else she could think to say, nothing that would communicate the riotous mixture of want and apology that made her feel hot and needy and unworthy all at the same time.

But his lips were smooth and taut above the soft brush of his beard, and he tasted of brandy—just wicked enough to entice.

She wanted to drink him in, gulp him down, until she was intoxicated by the possibilities he promised.

She fisted her hands in his lapels, pulling him closer. Holding on to him the way a drowning woman clings to a lifeline.

He met her desperation with a merciful lack of reserve—slanting his mouth across hers and kissing her more deeply, searching with his lips and tongue, pushing his hand into the twisted arrangement of her hair, scattering the pins to the upholstery.

His thumb fanned along her cheek, and he kissed her with heat and abandon, drawing her out, thawing the chill of the winter night. Warming her in a way that nothing else ever had.

Everything else faded, until there was nothing but the longing for the feel of his mouth on hers, and the pleasure so strong and sharp it nearly took her breath away.

Oh, Lord, how she loved kissing. Loved the give and take. Loved the sensual abandon. This was her true ruination—this hoydenish, hungry neediness. This unbecoming, unladylike affinity for passion. How she loved it.

And how she loved how he kissed.

The firm texture of his whiskers rubbed against her skin as he arched her head back to kiss down the curve of her throat. His teeth slid down her neck to worry and nip at the hollow at the base of her throat.

And all she wanted was for him to go lower. “Lord, Beech. Please.”

“Devil take me, Penelope,” he breathed against her skin.

The devil had clearly already taken them both. Because she did not care that they were in a freezing carriage, eloping to only Beech knew where. She did not care that she had abandoned everything she held dear—what was left of her good name and every last shred of her tattered reputation—to go away with him.

Because sometime in the past hour, she had fallen heart over head in love with Marcus Beecham, and she no longer cared anything for her name or reputation. She cared for him.

And so, she would give him the love and affection he so clearly needed, and so clearly deserved. She would give him her love until she had no more to give.

Or until he came to his senses.

Whichever came first.

9

The carriage began to slow. “Warwick Court, Your Grace,” John Ramsey called from the box.

Marcus was obliged to stop kissing his duchess-to-be and attend to the practicalities of his elopement. “You’ll want to bring that fur, Pease—it’s snowing something fierce.”

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