Anne emerged from the ladies’ retiring room and almost plowed into Michael, who stood rooted three feet outside the door like a fir tree, tall and unmovable.
She laughed as she pressed a hand to her chest. “Michael, I was just coming to find you.”
He said nothing as he took her hand and placed it on his arm. He bowed deeply to Ceci, who had followed just behind Anne, then turned and began striding toward the ballroom.
Anne almost had to jog to keep up. Gracious, why was she so nervous? This was Michael. She had danced with him dozens of times over the years. Hundreds, if you counted the dancing lessons they’d shared growing up!
He glanced down at her then, and his green eyes were filled with such longing that Anne tripped over her own foot. Longing—that couldn’t possibly be right. What had they put in the punch, that caused her to believe the man who had made it inescapably clear he saw her as nothing more than a friend might be longing for her?
They reached the ballroom. Instead of leading her to the top of the set, he proceeded across the floor at a rapid clip. “Um, Michael.” She squeezed his arm. “Should we not head over there?”
“I thought we might talk,” he said, his deep voice causing gooseflesh to break out on the back of her neck. “If you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind. That actually sounds lovely.” After the strain of the last hour, having to question Lord Gladstone, then being overheard by Lord Scudamore, she could use a reprieve.
She’d had quite enough excitement for one evening.
Michael led her out the French doors and straight down into the garden. The night was cool, pleasantly so, after the crush of the ballroom. The moon was full, and it cast the gardens in the most gorgeous light. Moonlight suited Michael beautifully tonight, with his glossy black hair and spotless white linen. Even in the moonlight, she could make out the green of his eyes, so intense was the color.
He led her all the way to the back corner of the garden, over to a secluded stone bench. They sat down, and Michael took her hand in his. He closed his eyes.
Anne tipped her head back, enjoying the soft night sounds of the garden. She caught a whiff of jasmine on the breeze and closed her eyes to breathe in the sweet smell. Delicious. She was still tense following her conversation with Lord Scudamore, and she forced her shoulders to unknot and lower. It was a gorgeous summer night, and here she was, with her favorite person in the whole world. She should enjoy it.
“So,” she said, “what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” She opened her eyes and turned to face Michael on the bench.
Except, Michael was no longer beside her on the bench. He was still holding her hand, but while she’d been enjoying the night air, he had moved.
He was now directly in front of her.
Kneeling.
Her heart began to race like a runaway carriage.
“Anne,” he began, pressing her hand. He lifted his eyes to hers, and they were intense, and sincere, and she felt color rising in her cheeks.
He squeezed her hand again. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Yes?” she whispered.
He swallowed. “Will you marry me?”
She felt her mouth fall open. She… she hadn’t been imagining things after all. Michael wanted her. He—he wanted to marry her!
But then she remembered their conversation from earlier that evening.
“Oh! That is very kind of you, Michael. But… you do not want to marry me.”
He blinked at her a few times. “I assure you that I do.”
“It was what I said earlier, wasn’t it? About how I might have to settle for a fortune hunter.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything about it. I should have known it would make you feel sorry for me, but you don’t have to—”
“Feel sorry for you? I don’t feel sorry for you—”
“Oh, Michael, you are the dearest friend to ask me. But I could never allow you to throw away the chance of finding future happiness with someone you could truly love just to help me out of my predicament.”
He was back to blinking at her again. “Have you any other objection,” he began slowly, “other than this absurd belief that I do not truly wish to marry you?”
“Of course not. There isn’t one thing about you that is objectionable. But my feelings are not absurd. You’re the son of a marquess, and you’re kind, and intelligent, and honorable, and… and...” Anne felt herself blush still deeper as she made a sweeping gesture. “Just look at you!”
His expression turned a touch smug. “You find me handsome, then?”
“Of course I do. As does every other woman in that ballroom. But that’s not important. The point is, you’re a wonderful man. Every single thing about you is wonderful. Why would you want to marry the likes of me?”
He didn’t answer but posed a question of his own. “So, what you’re saying is that you would marry me, if you believed it was what I truly wanted?”
It was her turn to blink at him. “Well—er—yes.”
His eyes were very intense. “Then let me prove it to you.” He slid onto the bench and his big, strong hands moved up to frame her face.
He pressed his forehead against hers. His voice was a ragged whisper. “May I?”
Her whole body fluttered with anticipation. She wasn’t sure she could speak, but nodded as she mouthed a silent, “Yes.”
And the next thing she knew...
Michael Cranfield was kissing her.
The groan he gave in the instant his lips contacted hers rumbled through his body before passing into hers. He kissed her as gently as if she were spun glass, the softness of his lips a tantalizing contrast to the scrape of his jaw when it brushed hers.
He broke contact and his green eyes drifted open, dazed. His fingertips traced the edges of her face as if she were the most precious treasure on the face of this earth, and Anne realized that his hands were shaking.
“God, Anne,” he moaned before his lips descended on hers again. This time his kiss was not gentle, which wasn’t to say it was rough. It was more… intent. He immediately delved into her mouth with his tongue, and Anne was so startled she parted her lips with a squeak.
Michael groaned again, not seeming to notice her discomfiture, but Anne felt a trace of panic. Her husband had never kissed her this way. Lord Wynters hadn’t been much for kisses in general, preferring to get straight to the business at hand, and she felt embarrassed, to be a widow and not really know how to kiss him back.
But it turned out that didn’t matter, because Michael took charge, sweeping his tongue around the insides of her lips, then moving it to tangle with Anne’s. She found it surprisingly easy to follow his lead and, judging by the pleasurable rumbles rising from his chest, Michael didn’t find her attempts lacking.
Anne began to relax. She looped her arms around Michael’s neck and twined her fingers in his glossy black hair. This type of kissing was new to her, but… she found she quite liked it. It made her feel giddy, as if she’d had one glass of wine too many. A buzzing sensation began to build throughout her body, and her nipples in particular began to tingle. The image sprang into her mind of Michael putting those big, strong, warm hands on her breasts, an image her body apparently loved, because her nipples tightened almost painfully, longing for his touch.
Suddenly the kiss wasn’t enough, and Michael seemed to agree with her, because he scooped her up and placed her in his lap. Now their heads were at the same level and Anne had much better access to his beautiful, sculpted chest. Beneath her leg where it rested in his lap, she could feel a bulge that was as hard as steel, the same one she had felt that afternoon in the boat. Now it wasn’t just her nipples that longed for his touch—Anne felt an unfamiliar pulse start up between her legs, one that grew stronger with every passing beat. She squirmed in his lap, longing for… something.
Michael was kissing her in earnest, not only kissing her but running his hands over her body. He stroked up her arms and then down her back, pausing to tease her waist. He even caressed her bottom, pressing her ever closer against him. Anne found herself wishing he would touch her breasts with those big, warm hands…
By now his mouth was devouring hers and she was shaking so hard that she could not breathe, nor could she think. All she could do was cling to his shoulders, hanging on for dear life in this kiss that was as frustrating as it was magical.
Just when she thought she was going to crawl out of her skin, he pulled his head back. They were both panting, and Michael looked like he was struggling for control. He lifted his eyes to hers, then took hold of her hand and slowly drew it up to his chest where he placed it, palm side down, over the pounding of his heart.
“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice deep.
“Yes.”
He flexed his hips, pressing his arousal against her leg. “And do you feel that?”
This time her voice was a squeak. “Yes!”
“Good. And do you still not believe that I truly want you?”
“No,” she replied, breathing hard. “I believe you.”
He gave her one of his characteristic Michael Looks then, one she recognized as his Obstinate Face. Whenever she saw that expression, she knew that her choices were to give in or to prepare for a very long argument, because he would never give up until he got his way. “Then you’ll marry me?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Now see here, Anne—wait, you will?”
“Of course I will. So long as it’s what you truly want and, although I don’t pretend to understand why, it seems that it is. You’re exactly the type of man I’ve always hoped to marry.” She shook her head. “More than that, even. You, Michael Cranfield, are the very finest man I know.”
Anne knew she would never forget the smile that broke over his face when she said that. As many years as she’d known Michael, she had never seen him look happier than he did in that moment.
She didn’t have long to behold the expression, because the next thing she knew, he was kissing her again. This kiss was rather less successful than their first attempt, largely on account of the fact that neither of them could stop smiling. And then Michael threw his head back and laughed. He surged to his feet as he grabbed her around the waist and began spinning her around in a circle. She threw her arms around his neck, and their laughter echoed off the stone walls of the garden that surrounded them.
He eventually settled them both on the bench, her again on his lap. She rested her head against his.
“I’m so happy,” he murmured.
“I am, too.”
“I wish we could stay here forever, just like this.”
Anne wasn’t so sure. Her skin was tingling. Everywhere. And that spot between her legs was still throbbing. With Lord Wynters, the act of making love had never taken more than five minutes, even on her wedding night. Anne had never felt this way before, but she suspected she knew what was going on. After she became a married woman, it was almost as if she’d been initiated into a club, and the ladies around her didn’t filter their conversation in quite the same way they once had. They were just little comments and jokes made in passing, but they were enough for Anne to conclude that she was missing out on… something. And she was starting to suspect that things might be different with Michael.
So, as nice as this was, when she thought about sitting together on a bench for the rest of their lives?
She could suddenly think of someplace she would much rather be.
“I don’t,” she muttered, almost without thinking.
He sighed. “I suppose you’re right. No doubt our absence has already been noticed. We should probably head back inside.”
Anne bit her lip. She might as well be honest. They were to be married, after all. And judging by the still-present bulge in Michael’s trousers, he was feeling more or less the same way. “That’s actually not what I meant.”
Michael cocked his head. “Oh?”
“It’s just…” Anne swallowed. “I am a widow after all, and we’re to be married, and… um...”
Michael’s eyes were growing intense. “Yes?”
“And I see a gate behind us, and my house is actually just around the corner, and... and...” She ducked her head.
His eyes had turned glassy, his jaw slack. When he spoke, his voice was disbelieving. “Let me make sure I understand. Are you suggesting that we leave this ball right now, go back to your house, and… and make love?”
Oh, dear God, why had she suggested it? She wondered if she would fit beneath the bench. It seemed like a good enough spot to curl up in a ball and die of mortification. “I… er… yes?”
He stood so quickly Anne didn’t even have time to find her balance before he grabbed her hand and towed her toward the garden gate. “That,” he said over his shoulder, “is the best suggestion I have ever heard.”