Free Mr. Cavendish, I Presume by Julia Quinn Page A

of her, unclothed and doing things she probably didn’t even know were possible.
    He pushed her away, at once reluctant and determined. He sucked in his breath, then shuddered an exhalation, not that it seemed to do anything to calm the rapid tattoo of his heart. The words I’m sorry hung on his tongue, and honestly, he meant to say them, because that was what a gentleman did, but when he looked up and saw her, lips parted and wet, eyes wide and dazed and somehow greener than before, his mouth formed words with absolutely no direction from his brain, and he said, “That was . . . surprising.”
    She blinked.
    “Pleasantly so,” he added, somewhat relieved that he sounded more composed than he actually felt.
    “I’ve never been kissed,” she said.
    He smiled, somewhat amused. “I kissed you last night.”
    “Not like that,” she whispered, almost as if she were saying it to herself.

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    His body, which had begun to calm, started to fire up again.
    “Well,” she said, still looking rather stunned herself,
    “I suppose you have to marry me now.”
    At any other moment, from any other woman . . .
    hell, after any other kiss, he would have descended into instant irritation. But something about Amelia’s tone, and everything about her face, which still carried a rather fetchingly dubious expression, brought about the exact opposite reaction, and he laughed.
    “What’s so funny?” she demanded. But didn’t demand, really, because she was still too befuddled to manage anything shrill.
    “I have no idea,” he said quite honestly. “Here, turn around, I’ll do you up.”
    Her hand flew to the back of her neck, and from her gasp he wondered if she’d even realized he had undone two of her buttons. She tried to refasten them herself, and he rather enjoyed watching the attempt, but after about ten seconds of frantic fumbling, he took pity on her and gently brushed her fingers aside.
    “Allow me,” he murmured.
    As if she had any other choice.
    His hands worked slowly, even though every rational corner of his brain knew that a quick frock closure was in order. But he was mesmerized by that small patch of skin, peachy smooth and his alone. Faint blond tendrils slid down her nape, and when his breath touched her, her skin seemed to shiver.
    He leaned down. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her.

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    And she moaned again.
    “We had better return,” he said roughly, stepping back. Then he realized he’d never done the last button of her frock. He swore under his breath, because it couldn’t possibly be a good idea to touch her again, but he couldn’t very well send her back to the house like that, so back to the buttons he went, moving with considerably more diligence this time.
    “There you are,” he muttered.
    She turned, eyeing him warily. It made him feel like a despoiler of innocents.
    And oddly, he didn’t mind. He held out his arm.
    “Shall I escort you back?”
    She nodded, and he had the strangest, most intense need in that moment—
    To know what she was thinking.
    Funny, that. He’d never cared to know what anyone had thought before.
    But he didn’t ask. Because he didn’t do such things.
    And really, what was the need? They’d marry eventually, so it didn’t matter what either of them thought, did it?
    Amelia hadn’t thought it was possible for a blush of embarrassment to stain one’s cheeks for a full hour, but clearly it was, because when the dowager intercepted her in the hall, at least sixty minutes after she had rejoined Grace and Elizabeth in the drawing room, the dowager took one look at her face and her own face went nearly purple with fury.

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    Now she was stuck, standing like a tree in the hall, forced to remain motionless as the dowager snapped away at her, her voice rising to an astonishing cre-scendo on, “Damn damn freckles!”
    Amelia flinched. The dowager had berated her for her freckles before (not