Page 87 of Rules for a Wicked Wager

The most beautiful word in the English language.

He kissed her. First her hand, then her wrist. A moment later, she tumbled into his arms, her face pressed to his, her laughter filling his soul.

Yes.

Then she gasped against his neck, her breath hot but short with distress. He pulled back to look at her face, seeing her widened eyes while her hands clutched at his shoulders.

“Mari?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassment pinkening her cheeks. “I must get out of my stays. They’re too tight.”

He grinned. Well, if it was a matter of her health, then of course he must oblige.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was amazing how everything in life could align in an instant. Her wants, her husband, her entire future lay before her now—a glorious picture of a home and children, with happy workers in a peaceful country. And in the center of it all was this man working steadily to maintain the noble civilization that was every man’s birthright. She saw it as clearly as daylight, and it fit her like a dream come true.

In fact, the only thing that did not fit was this dress and her blasted stays. And while a certain degree of breathlessness added to the excitement of being wayward, this was too much. The last thing she wanted was to faint just when she’d finally gotten the answers she sought.

So she leaned back. This was a working woman’s dress with the buttons in front. She started to reach for them, but he blocked her hands.

“Let me,” he said.

She did, and the sight of his large fingers deftly releasing her buttons had her heart beating triply fast. He was undressing her. And she wanted him to.

The buttons went farther down, lost in the folds of the dress. Rather than search for them, he brushed aside the fabric and bracketed her waist with his two hands.

“Good God, that’s whalebone. No wonder you can’t breathe.”

Of course, it was whalebone. That was what a proper woman wore. And it apparently made it very easy for him to lift her up and set her on her feet before him. She wasn’t a tiny woman, and so the thrill of him doing such a thing made her belly quiver with delight.

“Turn around,” he said as he gently guided her.

Her dress pooled as she moved. Then she felt his fingers on her back, tugging at the ties that cut off her breath. And then…a miracle…they began to loosen.

She took a breath and then another. Air. Thank heaven. She was lightheaded from the sudden freedom.

“Do you want it loose or off?”

“Off.” She wanted to be completely, totally, irrevocably free. And now that she was an engaged woman, she could cease the strict restraint of every aspect of her life. She could breathe in so many ways. And maybe even wear patterned clothing.

The ties fell apart, and she pushed the hated thing down before kicking it away.

She wore only her shift now, fine muslin that fell to her knees. And he was behind her, his hands on her hips, his fingers gripping her slightly as she filled her lungs with air and leaned back against him. He braced her on her sides, warming her back and bottom, and pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck.

“You smell like English ale,” he said.

She twisted slightly. “What?”

He tightened his hold so she couldn’t pull away. “I like ale.” Then she felt the scrape of his teeth across her skin and the wetness of his tongue. “But you taste sweeter.” Another slow nip. “And spicier.”

She wanted to say something clever. Some sort of worldly response to his seduction, but she had no words. Just the shivering delight of having his body around hers. His lips at her neck and his hands sliding around her hips to her belly.

“What should I do?” she whispered.

“You will marry me.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered it nonetheless. “Yes.”