Page 65 of The Language of Love

She’d stopped in the shade of an immense tree. “This looks lovely—right here, I think.”

“As my lady commands.”

She laughed, “I’m being bossy, aren’t I?”

“Terribly.” He dropped to his haunches and unbuckled the leather strap that held the blanket to the wicker basket. “Where, exactly, would you like it?” He stood and unfurled the blanket with a snap.

She assumed an exaggerated pose of consideration and pointed to a spot with all the dignity of a queen. “Right there.”

Grinning, he went to spread out the blanket.

“No, wait. There.” She pointed to a spot that was only a few inches away from the first, and then she gave a happy, adorable laugh. “I am only playing. Anywhere here is fine.”

“Tyrant,” he muttered, making her laugh again. “As I am your servant, I will lay out our feast, too.” He dropped to his knees on the edge of the blanket and opened the basket.

“I’ll help.” She lowered herself beside him, bringing a whiff of her clean, soapy scent with her—and a slight hint of another fragrance, one he easily recognized: bergamot. The smell of his favorite botanical mixed with her feminine scent sent his blood surging. He’d already been half-hard sitting beside her in the curricle. The feel of her slender body against his gave him an erection so quickly it was embarrassing.

No doubt that was his body’s way of telling him it had been far too long since he’d had a woman. Not that he hadn’t had ample opportunities these past few weeks. The fine ladies of the ton didn’t want to dance with an earl’s poor friend, but more than a few lusty widows had looked at his oversized body and rough-hewn features with a hungry gleam in their eyes. He knew what they wanted: a bit of rough trade, a touch of danger; a proper fucking from a man who worked for a living.

And Henry could have given it to them, too, but he’d simply not felt the desire.

At least not for other women.

But he ached so badly for Annis that it was driving him to distraction.

Being alone with her sent erotic thoughts thundering through his brain, not to mention the rest of his body. But she wasn’t like his usual women—experienced widows and bored Company wives—who engaged in sexual encounters without a care.

Annis was an innocent—a virgin—nothing at all like the lovers he was accustomed to bedding.

Unfortunately, that fact didn’t matter to his body, which urged Henry to grab her and kiss her into next week—and do other, far less innocent things.

But he wasn’t an animal; he could control his impulses, even though such control meant he’d been fisting himself raw several times a night to keep a clear head during these afternoons.

“Henry?”

“Hmm?” He turned and found her staring up at him, mere inches away.

Her eyes were like the shifting blue depths of the ocean, her skin as porcelain. This close to her, he could see the pale thickets of lashes that fringed her eyes.

“Yes?” he said.

She licked her lips, the nervous but sensual gesture chipping away at his already tenuous self-control. “You went so still,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“I smell bergamot.” His voice was raspy with lust and Henry hoped to God that she wouldn’t recognize it.

“Y-yes, I hope you don’t mind, but I put some of the tea in little cloth bags in my cupboard, like sachets.”

“Why would I mind?”

“Well, it was for tea, not to be used in drawers with my un—er, with my garments.”

He wanted to tease her and get her to say the word she’d clumsily avoided—undergarments—but she was already blushing so wildly he restrained his mischievous impulse.

Instead, he said, “It was a gift, Annis, to be used any way you liked.”

“I did make myself a pot of tea with a few precious spoonsful.”

“Did you like it?”