It was love.
She swayed as the revelation swept over her. She burned when he caught her in his arms and held her close. Above all, she laughed inside at the irony of loving one for whom so much must be sacrificed to keep that love alive.
A love she did not even know if he shared.
“Eden?” he asked. “Are you well?”
How gentle was his voice. She shook her head and smiled and touched his cheek.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I am well.” She gave a little gasp as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bower of leaves and blossoms. He laid her down upon the petals. The way he looked at her, with such a potent combination of lust and tenderness, left her limbs heavy and her mouth dry with anticipation.
In a few moments, she would know what it was to be loved by a man any one of her class would consider far beneath her—perhaps one not entirely human. He would be bold and strong and possess her without subtlety, and that was what she wanted: to feel him moving inside her as if he could pierce the last barriers that lay between them.
This was her choice. Letting go was more than surrender to this man she wanted so desperately; it was a release of her past, of the empty excitement she’d sought in London to quiet her aching, barren heart.
Her heart was barren no longer, but it ached—oh, how it ached, with a pain even a lifetime might not erase.
Once she had experienced the perfect joining of lust and love—innocent lust awakened by a man she had tried to forget. This very day she had faced the possibility of marriage with a respectable man who loved her.
But the marquess was not here. He could not exist in the same breath, in the same world as Hartley Shaw. If he courted her for another century, he could not awaken this need. Or this love.
All she would think of now was the need.
Hartley seemed to know when words were unnecessary and unwelcome. The haze of her bemusement gave way to something hotter and more urgent as he stood over her and swept her body with his scorching gaze.
She lifted her arms to draw him down, but he was already beside her. “Eden,” he said, making her feel the paradise of her name. He pulled the pins from her hair and spread it out in a fan about her head. She reveled in the wanton freedom of it.
Then he kissed her. Not as before, lightly, but with force enough to match her inner fire. All gentleness was gone, replaced by hungers as primitive as they were overpowering. His mouth told her how much he desired her, but not in words.
She parted her lips. His tongue stroked over hers. Her body pulsed with a shock of pleasure, as if he had already stripped her naked and possessed her completely.
She might as well have been naked. His hands began to play over her, molding her gown to her body, seeking flesh beneath stays and chemise. Her bodice was fashionably low cut, and he wasted no time in sampling what lay bared to his caresses. He kissed the pulse points of her neck and under her jaw, allowing his tongue to linger at the hollow of her throat.
Each caress was expert, finding nerves in her body that she had forgotten existed. No, this was no servant’s skill. She set that thought aside, for he was working his way down the swell of her breasts with exquisite deliberation.
She wore only the least confining of stays, but the idea of taking the time to remove it was agony. Her nipples were already hard, aching for the touch of his mouth. She entertained the barbarous image of Hartley using his strong hands to tear gown and stays and chemise away like so much tissue, and felt no horror at her own licentious imaginings.
But he did not rend or tear. He gazed at her as if will alone could dispose of her clothing. Her stays suddenly loosened. A deep breath would send her breasts spilling free and into his eager hands.