Page 651 of From Rakes to Riches

But he did not need her encouragement. “Yes,” he agreed, and she could feel his voice vibrate through her as his kisses grew more assured and intimate still.

When his hand joined his mouth, Penelope gasped and laughed all at the same time. She had never felt so vulnerable and so absolutely adored all at the same time. She closed her eyes and gave in to the sexual languor—she was afloat, buoyed along on a current of soft, infinitely pleasant sensation that stretched endlessly into the darkness.

Their flight in the night, the cozy confines of the room, the bitter cold of the night—all was forgotten. Time ceased to exert its authority upon her. She belonged to no one but herself.

And Beech. Sure, clever, heroic Beech.

Seducing her with solace. Lulling her with love.

And then with a precise touch, he kissed herthere.

Want blossomed within her like a weed, wild and tenacious, and she tangled her hands into his hair, pushing and pulling, encouraging him to press his lips—God, his beautiful clever lips—against that most sensitive place.

She felt herself grow so giddy under his unrelentingly gentle attention, that she let go of him, and dug her fingers into the linens covering the bed, grasping for purchase to keep from being carried off by the rising sensual tide. She was floating onthe crest, her weightless body riding the rhythm of the waves until, with one elegant touch she tumbled over the top, and everything was light and heat and bliss within.

And she could only gasp his name, and let herself go down, pulled into the sweet wash of warmth.

After some time—she had no idea when—she came back to herself enough to discover Beech lying beside her with such a look of amused confusion—smiling and scowling all at once—that she couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.

As for herself, she could barely think at all, and frankly, didn’t want to. “Good Lord, Beech. You really are a bloody hero.”

11

“Pease Porridge Sweet.” Marcus kissed her temple and let his gaze wander over the sublime lines of her beauty—her wide, plush lips, her gloriously arching brows—gathering his scattered thoughts to plot his careful course. “I wonder if I may ask pertinent question—just how ruined are you?”

Penelope blinked against the dim glow of the firelight and immediately started putting her clothing to rights. “Ruined is ruined.”

“I’m going to have to disagree, Pease.” He reached for her, stilling her hands by tucking her up against his chest. “Fact is, you are missing some telling attributes of a ruined woman.”

Her lovely heart-shaped face flamed with fresh color. “Am I? Shows what you know about ruination.”

“Yes, it does,” he affirmed gently. “Forgive my crude curiosity, but just how much did my brother importune you?”

She drew in a long breath. “Trust you to ask the dire direct questions, Beech.”

“My dear Pease, I don’t ask to censure. Far from it.”

She gave him no ready answer, but he was a man who had learned the virtues of quiet patience.

He let the reassuring weight of the silence settle upon her for a long moment before he mused, “You see, I begin to think the term—ruined—is applied far too loosely to any young lady who might step her toe out of line and displease others who think to control her fate.”

“Beech, don’t make me out to be a saint. I am no innocent miss.”

“No, how could you be?” he agreed philosophically. “Anyone our age who could live in this world and remain a complete innocent would be either remarkably stupid, or remarkably callous. You strike me as neither of those things.”

“Beech.” Her voice was nothing but a whispered plea—for quiet or continuation, he could not tell.

So, he stayed his course. “I am a man of experience and observation, Pease—a man of facts. And I should very much like to be apprised of the true facts of the situation, which only you possess.”

He drew his fingers across her temples, as if he could see the truth writ large there. “Now, I collect you’ve kissed before. You are—if I may be allowed to compliment you—an extraordinarily enthusiastic kisser. But that may be my own enjoyment clouding my judgment of experience.”

“You were rather enthusiastic yourself,” she countered.

“I am delighted you think so.” He began to brush his fingers absently along the sweet sweep of her jaw—an intimate, soothing gesture. “And we shall return to that pleasing activity just as soon as you satisfy my curiosity. And my sense of justice.”

“Justice?” Her tone edged back toward bleak. “In the court of social judgment, justice is hard to come by. Rumor is evidence, verdicts are swift, and appeals are nonexistent.”

“Too damn true.” He hated that she was clearly bearing the cost of his late brother’s sins. “The world is an astonishingly dangerous and deceptive place, isn’t it, sweet Pease? Full of traps and pitfalls for the unwary. You seem properly wary, and yet…”

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