Page 78 of The Runaway Duchess

The tension was going to make her split, make her shudder into pieces. Her back arched and her head went hard into the moss, which prickled the backs of her arms and her spine.

She was saying his name, saying words she’d never dreamed of uttering. She wanted him deep inside her, wanted his cock.

He gripped her hips, lifted her so he could fit more of her in his dark, hot, stroking mouth, and suddenly, she broke, releasing a guttural moan, pulses of pleasure rolling down her legs and cresting up into her belly, nothing like those delicate flickers she’d felt in the past, surface ripples that left her depths placid.

She was a whirlpool of pleasure. All of her was caught in the funnel of sensation. Now, at last, he settled over her and she felt the jolt of his weight, the delicious impact of his hot, hard chest. When she scrabbled at his breeches, he didn’t bat her hand away, but let her push them down, helping her bare him.

In this, he differed, too, from George. He was thicker and longer, and she felt the dense, ironlike muscles in his thighs bruising her flesh as he rocked against her. Yes. She wanted this force, this urgency. She lifted her head and mashed her lips to his, tasting herself, and it was like everything, earthy and rich, sweet and sour.

His arm came under her, and she was clasped to his chest as he sank inside her, each slow inch reactivating the surges of pleasure.

With George, she’d tried not to move lest she do the wrong thing. She’d lain in his arms like a doll.

Now she gave herself over to the sweet wildness, digging her fingers into Neal’s glorious backside, feeling the muscles flex and pushing with them, driving him deeper, angling her hips to create just the friction she needed. She was panting beneath him, sweat sliding between her breasts, moisture pumping between her thighs. And then she opened her eyes. His face was right there, jaw rigid, and those glittering eyes saw her, saw everything as she exploded, openmouthed, in his arms. He began to move quickly then, stroke harder, fingers threading hers, until shuddering, he jerked away and spent himself in the moss.

Later, after they’d dozed in the sun, limbs intertwined, she was the one who suggested they stay, stay all night, and he the one who laughed with surprise. They had no shelter, no dinner, no water. So ran his protests. But who needed shelter? She’d already ruined her complexion and glutted all the insects with her blood, and the woods were warm and nature’s settee made a lovely bed if they only rolled his coat into a pillow. Though she hadn’t ever caught a fish in the Min River, she did have a hook and a line in her dress pocket, and surely Laura Odgers, during her woodland tours, hadn’t neglected the freshwater brooks and springs. So she insisted, and that was how they found themselves—hours later, after swimming and fishing, after dining on Cornish trout and pleasing each other more and even better—curled by a dying fire, her front to his back, in the mild summer night.

She turned her head, cheek pressing his shoulder blade, and looked up at the stars through the leaves—one wish fulfilled, so many out of reach.

Chapter Fourteen

Varnham Nurseries consisted of thirty-seven acres, ten for ornamental trees and seven more for tree stock. Neal toured Lavinia around the remaining twenty acres, avoiding the botanic gardens, open to the public and always crowded in June, walking her through the hothouses and conservatories.

He was talking too much. She didn’t really want to know about the boilers and ventilation systems, or about Varnham’s patent superphosphate. But she kept asking questions, looking with interest, not only at the blue lobelia and scarlet geraniums, but at the glaziers installing new panes of glass and the garden boys laughing with one another as they sieved soil into pots.

In the third sweltering stove house of orchids, though, she began to fan herself vigorously and he had to hustle her out into the cooler, dryer air.

“That’s enough orchids for one day,” he said, leading her down the path toward the orange walk.

“There are more orchids?” She sounded almost scandalized.

He laughed and took her arm. It felt bizarrely comfortable, strolling with her on these grounds. It had felt bizarrely comfortable earlier in the day when they’d taken a cab from the train station to his town house in the center of Truro, surprising his housekeeper, Mrs. Lampshire, who’d looked at Lavinia, polished her spectacles furiously on her apron, then looked again.

Just passing through for the night on the way to Plymouth, he’d explained, ignoring the tray in the hall piled with calling cards, refusing to think about the letters waiting on the desk in his study.

Mrs. Lampshire brought them tea and saffron buns with raised brows and a rigid step, but when Lavinia seized a bun with delight and inquired about the recipe, her demeanor changed in an instant. Before he could blink, they were all in the kitchen and Mrs. Lampshire was halving, toasting, and buttering the buns, the proper enjoyment of which, she claimed, was requisite to proper baking.

Clear butter had spilled over Lavinia’s lip and she’d chased it with her tongue, and he’d chewed his own bun through a grin that hurt his cheeks, unable to tear his eyes from her.

If she hadn’t asked to see the nursery, he might have proposed they take a turn in his own small garden, where the hornbeam hedge provided just enough privacy.

“More orchids,” he confirmed, heart tripping as her hip bumped his thigh. “There’s more everything. We trial more varieties of plants than they do anywhere else in Europe, excepting Kew.”

Was he bragging? If he was, it wasn’t on his own behalf. He couldn’t take credit for Varnham’s century of success. Nonetheless, he liked her wide eyes, her slightly dazzled smile.

“I hadn’t quite realized,” she murmured. “When you said you went about planting trees, I formed a different picture.”

The path wound by the toolshed and the potting and packing houses, and he waved at the trainee gardeners trooping out with wicker baskets, the straw and mats protecting the delicate plants for shipment.

“That first year I planted plenty of trees. I weeded too. I mulched. I loaded coal with the stokers. Cleaned pumps. Treated blight. Propagated shrubs with the head gardener. I packed orders with the trainees.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to come on hiring and firing, making decisions about the future of the business, without understanding how it all works from the ground up. Some of the permanent staff are the sons and grandsons of Varnham employees. They weren’t going to trust me so easily. Nor were our clients, for that matter.”

“Because you’re not a Varnham.” She pulled away and stopped, facing him.

Why, she really was curious. About the nursery. About his role in it. He nodded slowly.

“That’s right. Richard Varnham founded the nursery in 1790 and ever since, the proprietorship has passed father to son.” Tightness in his throat made the words emerge like gravel. “I represent an unwelcome change.”

Unwelcome to him above all.