Chapter 11
After five seconds, Dani acknowledged that he wasn’t going to return the kiss. She inched away, eyes averted, cheeks on fire,
and lowered herself onto the cold sand, staring up at the sky.
Of course she would get it wrong, it was all too new. She’d misread the intimacy of the moment. She was overwhelmed by the
news of her alleged royalty (for God’s sake). She was wet, and he was wet, they’d leaned against each—
“Danielle,” he whispered, sitting up.
“Forgive me,” she said flatly. “I—”
He cut her off with a kiss. One moment he was speaking to the sand, the next he leaned over her, hands braced on either side
of her shoulders, his mouth on hers. It was the gentlest, softest kiss, slow and sensual—but fleeting. She’d scarcely kissed
him back before he pulled away.
Dani sucked in a slow breath.
He stared down at her, an anguished look on his face. “Danielle,” he repeated.
Before she could answer, he lowered himself again, notched their lips, and gave her a second slow, soft kiss.
Dani managed to return the kiss before he pulled away again.
Her lashes fluttered open. He was above her, his expression languid, his eyes half-lidded.
He breathed heavily in and out. What once felt like a small rejection now felt like a seduction.
Seduce me, please. The thought whooshed through her mind like wind. She wanted to turn her face into it; she wanted it to sweep her away.
Later she would grapple with the lies of her past. The words France and princess were rapidly dissolving into faint little echoes; she could barely hear them in the back of her head. She preferred this—she
needed it. He had her full attention and he finally, thankfully, wasn’t saying a single word. She was warm, and breathless,
and she could feel the heavy, solid heft of him melting against her. A slow, delicious burn began to flicker in her very center.
Her mind went to it and hovered there, pushing back all other thoughts. Later she would be a princess, or not be a princess,
or once a princess but no more. Later, the people she loved most in her life would answer for their lies. Now she was on a
sandy beach with the man who’d found the courage to explain it, and he was touching her in a way that explained something
else entirely; something universal but also so, so personal. Something all her own.
His third kiss came and did not end. He fitted his lips against her at an angle; he swiped her with his tongue—a request.
She parted, and their tongues met. The first two kisses had been a prelude, a sample. Now they feasted.
In the library, their kiss had felt like rolling down a hill. Here he descended with practiced intent. He tested the steepness;
he sought out the most scenic path; they were on a slow, meandering walk down a winding trail.
And oh, how Dani wanted to descend—by whatever route.
She wanted the exhilaration and the beauty and to not be alone on the path.
Now she could simply feel him, and taste him—and so what if it was rash and reckless?
What did it matter if her dress was ruined, or her hat was never found, or (honestly) if she was ruined?
Everything she believed had been turned upside down.
Her future might mean Eastwell Park, or France, or . . .
Her brain couldn’t fathom her future—and at the moment she didn’t want to. She wanted to feel, and she wanted that feeling
to be real and solid and unchanging. She wanted to be safe.
He deepened the kiss; more lashing with his tongue—harder, longer. He left the sand beside her and lowered himself on top
of her. The delicious weight of him pressed her deeper into the little beach, it warmed her, it stoked the burn inside her.
He broke the kiss only to breathe. While he sucked in air, he scraped the emerging growth of his beard against her neck. She
loved the roughness, the smell and taste of him, the scratchy, hard contrast to her skin. She moaned and tipped back her head
to give him access.
“M’étoile,” he whispered into her ear, nuzzling his way back to her mouth.
With every kiss, their bodies became more entwined, tangling and sliding like the softly waving grass at the water’s edge.
Her fingers were in his hair, his hand cupped the back of her head.
He’d slid one leg across her skirts, and the weight of it pinned her down.
The other leg pressed against her hip. She felt his hardness against her thigh.
The burn at her center was white-hot now, demanding, seeking.
He slid his left leg higher, pressing exactly the perfect spot, and she thought she must glow with the pleasure of it.
When he pressed again, she gasped and opened her eyes—seeing only a blur of green reeds and white sky.
He answered with a moan, kissing her harder, rolling directly on top of her.
When he pressed down, he matched the hardest part of him to her burning center.
Dani cried out, lifting her hips. He answered with a thrust, breathing hard into her ear.
“What spell is this?” he gasped, speaking between kisses.
“I . . . I . . .” she tried. Poetry and platitudes failed her. She could only move her body against him, absorb the pleasure
that rocked through her, and rise up to press again.
And she could kiss—or rather she could be kissed. She was not in control, and she loved it. He demanded and she followed. Her mind smoldered and fizzed, feeling and not thinking. She reveled in the senselessness of it. Her body was on fire—and she reveled in that, too.
His left hand moved southward, roving down, and the tingling sensation felt like the tail of a shooting star. His fingers
found the bare skin above her décolletage and he flattened his hand, tapping his thumb on her collarbone, teasing the neckline
of her gown with his pinkie. She bowed up, urging him on. He slid his hand lower, grazing the tops of her breasts. The sensation
elicited a newer, brighter burn. Her nipples tightened into hard points; her core melted to liquid pleasure.
Her fingers had been buried in his hair, but now she moved both hands to his biceps and squeezed, willing him to touch more of her—to touch all of her.
He complied, pushing his fingers deeper into her bodice, grazing her breasts.
The contact ricocheted pleasure to every nerve in her body.
She gasped and made small noises of pleasure through their kisses; he chuckled and slid his hand outside her bodice to rove lower.
He traced her shape and settled his open palm on her hip.
It felt broad and possessive and she loved it.
Next he slid the same hand beneath her and cupped her bottom and she loved this even more.
Gently, he lifted her, grinding her against his hardness.
Dani gasped in pleasure. He swallowed it with a kiss.
She had the errant thought that they might never stop. And so what if they didn’t? Her final academic tutor had been a progressive
woman schoolmaster from London, and she’d explained the sexual act to Dani in clinical terms. Dani knew where things were
meant to fit together, but not necessarily how. Now the scientific diagram came into living, breathing focus. Her body had
gone soft and glowy, and she felt his corresponding parts grow hard and urgent. There was a sort of magnetism . . . an inevitability . . .
a consciousness of how this could all come to a delicious end. She was just about to break the kiss and ask him if they might
seek out dry land—maybe higher on the island, maybe return to the boat—when the distinct sound of prolonged giggling broke through the haze of her yearning.
Dani blinked, turned her head, and tried very hard to listen over the sound of their heavy breaths. He kissed her neck and
she turned her head the other way. She squinted, trying to bring the world into focus. Maybe she’d misheard. Maybe it’d been
a birdcall or a splash or—
Then she saw them. On the distant shore. Three little boys with pails and fishing poles, pointing and—yes—laughing.
“Oh dear,” Dani breathed, turning her head the other way.
“Are you laughing at me?” he teased.
“No, Captain. It’s not me.” He kissed her ear, and she began lightly to kick.
“What?” he whispered.
“Wait. Captain—stop. Look.”
“Why are you kick—? Ouch!”
“On the shore. Look, look, look. We are . . .” A deep breath. “. . . not alone.”
The captain froze. He turned his head. She heard muffled profanity and he dropped his forehead against hers with eyes closed.
He tried to catch his breath. Dani giggled.
After a long, labored moment, he whispered, “This is why I wanted a chaperone. This would not have happened if Fernsby and
Miss Bloom had been here. I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing for which to be sorry,” she said.
“I’m sprawled atop you, soaking wet, on the edge of a bog.”
“It’s not a bog.”
“A marsh.”
“It’s not a marsh.”
“A swamp, then.”
“We are at Beckley Pond,” she told him. “I’d wager no spot is more secluded in all of Ivy Hill. Those are Old Man Beckley’s
great-grandsons. Seclusion is no match for little boys, I’m afraid.”
“Unmatched, are they?” He rose up, balancing himself on his elbows. “Lucky buggers; their discovery will make them rich.”
“Rich?”
“Well, I can hardly threaten them. They’ll have to be bribed.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips, made a noise of regret—sort
of a half growl—and vaulted up. The cold set in immediately, and Dani shivered. The white sky was too bright. The beach beneath
her felt less romantic and more like wet sand. Worst of all, everything about which she’d stopped thinking came rushing back.
Miriam and Whittle and their lies of omission, the betrothal, her alleged Frenchness, which said nothing of her alleged royalty.
Her shivers turned to quakes.