Free Love With the Perfect Scoundrel by Sophia Nash Page B

marriage, she’d never touched John’s bare body. She had always lain on her back, her arms at her sides, as she assumed other wives did.
    Grace’s one hand, resting over Michael Ranier’s heart, rose and fell ever so slightly with the regular, strong pumping beat below the thick layers of muscle. His hard flesh was devoid of the patches of hair her husband had had. Mr. Ranier’s breathing continued, even and slow, and she finally relaxed. Relaxed so much that she tentatively circled one fingertip on his chest and realized the difference in texture was that she’d encountered a flat male nipple. His skin was softer there, and yet such power rested below in the sinuous network of muscles and bone.
    A large brand of rigid flesh jerked against her hip and jarred her to her senses. Oh God, oh God, oh God…Oh, please let him fall back asleep .
    “Darling,” he rasped, his voice filled with gravel, “are you trying to take advantage of me?”
    “Pardon me?” She frantically tried to think of a plausible excuse.
    “Perhaps that’s why those other idiots rejected you. You’re too fast by half. By God, Countess, I’ve only known you a day or so, and here you are trying to seduce me…Brazen is what you are.”
    Dear Lord, he was laughing at her. “I’m nothing of the sort. You just pulled me into your arms, and—and I didn’t give you permission to enter this bed.”
    “You’re making it damned difficult to keep the chill off you, sweetheart.”
    “I’m perfectly capable of keeping myself warm.”
    “Is that so? I beg to differ. You moan in your sleep and wake me every hour on the hour. And each time I come to look in on you, the blankets are on the floor. I was getting tired of being roused from my bed.”
    “Don’t you ever wear a nightshirt?”
    He chuckled. “No.”
    She didn’t know what to do with her hands so she tried to lower the one that was trapped between them and he groaned.
    “Look,” he said, putting more space between them, “since it appears I won’t get another lick of sleep, perhaps now would be a good time for you tell me more about your Mr. Brown or…”
    “Or what?” she whispered.
    He lowered his lips, leaving a whisper of space between them. “Or tell me exactly what you plan to do to me.”
    She inhaled.
    “I find detailing every touch in advance always heightens the pleasure, don’t you?”
    She exhaled roughly and tried to pull away, which he would not allow. Grace prayed for rational thought. “Mr. Brown is—”
    “Good,” he cut in, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come to your senses. Continue.”
    “Mr. Brown is one of the most wonderful gentlemen in this world. He is witty, and kind, and—”
    “Rich and handsome?”
    She stifled nervous laughter at his assumptions. But if this thread of conversation could place a measure of decorum between them, she would grab it. “Not handsome in a conventional way, but I think that makes him even more interesting.”
    He snorted. “Stop. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to hear any more about Brown. He was a fool for leaving you defenseless and alone.”
    She could not think of a single retort.
    “I’m just pointing this out so you don’t travel another inch of road with this fellow without taking a brawny carriage driver who has more chivalry in his little finger than that gentleman fop has in his entire white-livered hide.”
    She smiled to herself. “All right.”
    “What, no argument? I hadn’t known you to be so biddable.”
    “I have my good points.”
    The bedcovers rustled again and she felt the warmth of his large hand brush past her shoulder to rest on her bandaged rib cage and then lower. His palm seemed to envelope her entire hip and she could barely breathe.
    “By the by, Countess, I must thank you.”
    “For what?” she whispered.
    “For mending every last article of my clothing. I’m not fond of darning and have put it off for months. You did me a great favor, and I must say you are a fine