Later that evening a maid brought Winnifred a clean nightdress and helped to plait her hair. Shortly after her departure, Asher rapped on her door for a final kiss goodnight and to bid her sweet dreams.
And that was all. He’d even proved his intentions were perfectly innocent by leaving her room. Her intentions, on the other hand, hadn’t been quite as pure.
She’d followed him into the corridor, dragged him back to her room—though with little resistance from her captive—and then kissed him senseless against the door.
This morning, Winnifred awakened to the press of his lips on her bare shoulder, the apricot light of approaching dawn sifting in through the open window. She smiled and rolled sleepily onto her back, thinking that their night together had been nothing like traveling in a crowded coach. At least, not one she’d ever hired.
Asher stole around her waist and drew her flush against the heat and hardness of him. While he nuzzled her neck, his hand drifted upward to cup her breast.
“The servants will be awake soon,” she said with a giggle.
He pressed a kiss to her nose, to the place where he’d professed—last night by lamplight—to having a favorite freckle. His lips brushed hers before browsing his way down to the exposed nipple he spurred to a ripe peak. “All the more reason to make haste.”
She arched back on a gasp as he drew her flesh into his mouth, the gentle suction sending a quickening straight to her womb. “Haven’t you had enough of me?”
“Not possible. I need to hear you say my name once more before I start my day.”
“Asher,” she offered, pretending that she misunderstood. The truth was, she hadn’t had enough of him either.
He shook his head, his eyes meltingly dark with sinful promise. “You have to say it properly.”
“We barely slept at all and I’m”—she hesitated, blushing even after all their shared intimacies—“a little sore.”
“I know,” he crooned, trailing kisses over the soft rise of her middle, scandalously dipping his tongue into the hollow of her navel. “And I’m aiming to make amends straightaway. You see, there’s really only one way to soothe such tender flesh. Now, just close your eyes and rest a bit, while I feast on you.”
He slipped smoothly beneath the coverlet like a dark seal in water, and she felt the rasp of his morning whiskers against her inner thigh as he nudged her legs apart. She wanted him to touch her again. Her body was already taut with eager tension, like a spear of whalebone nearly bent to breaking. But what she felt over her sex was not his hand or his fingers.
It was his mouth.
She gasped, her knees jolting upward, her hands in his hair, tugging him. “You can’t.”
“Mmm . . .” he murmured against her with a slow lick. He wasn’t budging. In fact, he splayed his hands over her bottom, cinching her higher as if she were a wedge of ripe fruit.
She was wide open to him as his tongue fanned out over her, bathing the entire length of her sex. Then he nipped her gently and narrowed his focus to the willing throb, circling with clear intent. And her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him there—yes, there—and he chuckled knowingly against her. The wicked man.
Winnifred never knew anything could feel like this. The warmth of his mouth. The deep, searching kiss. The slow, languid lick . . . a swirl . . . a flick . . .
Oh. Her hips hitched, a spiral of sensation rippling over her in the quickening of approaching cataclysm. And then it broke over her, her back bowing off the mattress, neck arching on his name. And she no longer cared about the servants, or the clock ticking, or even if the world were about to end. She just needed this.
She just needed him. Always.
* * *
Before the servants could catch them together, Asher slipped back into his chamber. He tried to sleep, but his thoughts were too restless, still too uncertain. The only things stopping him from marrying Winn were his father and hers. And the only way to escape his own was to be completely free of her dowry.
He needed to ensure that Waldenfield would rescind it.
Dressing for the day, Asher went downstairs to write a letter. The open windows he passed carried in a cool, damp breeze of early morning and dew. From far off, he could hear the plod of horse hooves and the jangle of rigging, likely a farmer bringing milk to the abbey at this hour. And down the hall, he could hear the swish of a broom and the soft murmur of servants’ voices as they began their duties.
Otherwise, all was quiet and he was glad to have a few moments more to gather his thoughts. But when he crossed the threshold of the paneled study, he stopped short.
Myrtle was waiting for him.
In the soft glow of the sunrise sifting in through the window, the older woman sitting behind the desk didn’t appear menacing. Yet, there was shrewd certainty in her gaze and in the hand resting on the cane across the blotter.
“I thought I’d find you in need of ink and paper, Lord Holt. The early morning hours often bring clarity that is easier to spill onto a page, rather than speak face-to-face.”
Understanding her meaning, he straightened. “I’m not here to write a letter to Winn and then leave her behind. I would not do that to her. She holds my heart and every last shred of my soul.”
Myrtle sniffed, unconvinced. “A genuine love is proved by honorable actions.”
Her matter-of-fact statement reminded him of Mr. Champion, and Asher wondered if she, too, had experienced a love that had not been reciprocated.
“I have every intention of marrying your niece,” he assured, his words punctuated by the distant rapping of the door knocker.
“Then why is there marked hesitation in your gaze that I did not see last night after the two of you came in from the rain, hmm?”
He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with having this conversation when he’d just left Winn’s bed. Before everything was settled between them. “It has to do with her dowry.”
In that instant, Myrtle’s eyes flashed and she stood, her hand gripping the hilt of the cane.
“You misunderstand my meaning,” Asher continued with haste. “The reason I came downstairs this morning is to ensure that she has absolutely no dowry to speak of. She must be fully free from the burden of her fortune. The letter I plan to write is to your brother, Lord Walden—”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind and he whirled around with a start.
And there stood Lord Waldenfield in the flesh.