“Willingham, will my presence in your bed not be indication enough?”

“Yes, but what if I want to try something and you don’t like it? I need to be able to ask if you are enjoying yourself, at the very least.”

“Very well,” she said impatiently. “I revise the term. No questions about anything other than whatever sordid act it is that you are trying to convince me to engage in.”

“Well, now you’ve made me sound like a deviant,” he objected.

She threw her hands into the air. “What else am I to assume? A man of your reputation suddenly expressing some great concern that I shan’t enjoy whatever it is that you want to do… It does rather raise questions, Willingham.”

“As does your insistence that I not ask you any. What the devil is this all about?”

“It is none of your concern.” She made rather a production out of smoothing her skirts around her. “I just don’t wish you to ask me about my… past experiences, shall we say.”

He frowned. This conversation was growing more puzzling by the moment. “Did your husband do something…” He trailed off, not certain how to phrase the question; delicacy had never been his strong suit. “Was your marriage bed an unpleasant one?”

“No,” Diana said quickly, and her expression softened as she looked at him. Somehow, he felt certain she wasn’t lying, and something within him loosened. “I just don’t wish to speak of the past. So you may ask any questions necessary to ensure my consent, and to receive the critique you’re so desperate for.”

“?‘Desperate’ might be an overstatement,” he objected with what dignity he could muster.

She ignored him. “Do we have an agreement?”

“Would you like me to have it drawn up by my solicitor and signed before witnesses?”

“I do not think that will be necessary,” she said, refusing to rise to his bait. “A mere handshake will suffice, I think.” She held out her ungloved hand to him and, after arching an eyebrow at her, he reached out and shook it firmly. Then, as his hand was still clasped within her own, she pulled him forward and kissed him.

Eight

Diana had always felt that when there was a daunting task at hand, there was nothing gained by delaying it. While she would not precisely classify bedding the Marquess of Willingham as daunting, she was feeling a decided pang of nerves over the entire thing, and did not see any point in postponing the inevitable.

Which was how she found herself on her settee, his hand still clutching her own, being kissed by said marquess quite urgently.

She wasn’t even certain when the kiss had changed hands—when it had ceased to be her kissing him, but rather the reverse—but she could not complain about this outcome. The only coherent thought she could manage at the moment was that whatever complaints his ex-paramour could have had with him, they could not possibly have been with his kisses.

After a moment’s hesitation, during which, as usual, she was forced to do all of the work herself, he took control, freeing his hand from her grip so that he might slide it around her waist, pulling her closer, eliminating the slight space between them on the settee. His other hand reached up to cradle her cheek, the gesture unexpectedly tender. His mouth, however, was anything but, moving over hers with an expertise that she knew came from years of practice with scores of women.

But she didn’t want to think about them—and she didn’t want him to, either. She wanted him to only think of her, and of the fire that was slowly building between them.

She felt his kiss… everywhere.

In her heart, which was pounding so hard that it felt as though she were at risk of it beating out of her chest entirely. In her head, which suddenly felt fuzzy, all of her senses overpowered by the smell of him surrounding her and the taste of him on her tongue. And in the pit of her stomach, where heat seemed to grow and spread throughout her body, turning her limbs heavy and her movements languid.

She slid her hand into the short hair at the nape of his neck, keeping him close, while her other hand rested on his chest, underneath his banyan, gratified to feel his heart pounding in rhythm with her own.

She felt his tongue at her lips and parted them with a sigh as his hand at her waist began a steady journey north, stopping just below her breasts as though silently asking permission. Without breaking the kiss, she reached down and picked up the hand in question, placing it on her breast. He needed no further encouragement—somehow, despite no time seeming to elapse at all, his hand had slipped beneath the fabric of her gown, the warmth of his palm on her sensitive skin causing her to gasp aloud.

He broke the kiss with a shudder, resting his forehead against her own, his eyes shut, as his breath fell unevenly on her neck.

“Why—” she gasped, then paused to catch her breath. “Why,” she tried again, “did you stop?”

He opened his eyes without moving his head; he was so close to her that all she could see was the brilliant blue of his gaze, consuming her entire field of vision. His eyes were the blue of the sky on the first perfectly crisp autumn day.

It was likely for the best that he had broken the kiss. If this was what happened to her mind after a few minutes spent kissing, she was beginning to have grave concerns about the effect of this experiment upon her mental faculties.