Chapter 12
Buxton was kissing her.
A sigh erupted from Muriel, and no wonder, because he was an expert at kissing, which led her to imagine all sorts of things that made her cheeks heat. Her pulse fluttered madly as she struggled to mold herself more fully to him.
“Drop the damn brush,” he whispered. “You keep stabbing me in the ear.”
A soft whimper came from her as the brush fell from her fingers, sending a streak of paint along Buxton’s neck and ruining his coat. Not that it mattered. Paint had smeared over her bosom, which was now pressed firmly against his chest.
Oh, but his mouth.
Her fingers slid through that head of magnificent auburn hair, tugging on the silken strands, probably spreading paint through them.
I don’t think he’ll mind.
A groan left Buxton, masculine and full of want…for her, which was a rather heady sensation. He moved slightly, until his weight rested atop Muriel. A firm, hard length pressed through the fabric of her skirts.
Oh. Well, I suppose he truly isn’t pretending.
Muriel tilted her hips up, pushing against him, eager to ease the sudden, insistent ache between her thighs. This was passion. The sort that painting and Arcimboldo could not possibly give her. Neither compared to the Duke of Buxton.
A big hand cupped her cheek, smearing a bit of paint down her cheek before his lips followed. A palm cupped her breast, caressing the small globe until his fingers dipped inside her neckline.
“Oh,” she moaned as he rolled the nipple of one breast between his fingers.
“Oh, indeed,” he agreed. “You are not a vase, my lovely Miss Bell. Not to me.” He brought the tip to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the small peak until Muriel whimpered and pushed her hips more fully against his.
The heat of his mouth on her breast sent bolts of sensation to pulse between her thighs, even as his hand slid beneath her skirts, gliding along her stockings.
Buxton’s hand explored her slowly, unmindful of the paint or the greenhouse.
She gasped as his finger slid gently over her slit, touching Muriel carefully but with great skill.
A cry came from her at the press of his finger. Her hips pushed up, wanting more of the sensation coursing through her.
He pressed a kiss to her breast. Then his mouth, lazily trailing down to her stomach. When his head disappeared beneath her skirts, Muriel sat up on her elbows. “Buxton?”
“Lay back, sweetheart. I promise you’ll enjoy this. I can think no other way to properly assure you of my regard.” Buxton took hold of Muriel’s leg, flinging it over his shoulder a second before his mouth—
“Oh, Buxton,” she breathed as his tongue found that small bit of flesh, the one that was so sensitive, Muriel sometimes had to avoid touching it.
Another finger joined the first, stroking a spot inside that had her seeing stars before her eyes.
Her hands fell to his shoulders, her lower body caught up in the most blissful feeling imaginable.
The fingers curled inside her, just as his mouth fell on that sensitive peak hidden in her folds. The combination—
Muriel’s back arched as pleasure struck, sharp and fierce.
Blinding and furious. Her knees of their own accord pressed together, trapping Buxton between them.
His name came from her lips in a low moan as each wave crested over her.
Her head rolled to the side and the brush stuck to her cheek.
Her eyes caught on one plump tomato, not truly seeing the plant, or even the greenhouse as her breathing slowly came back to normal.
Buxton crawled back up her prone form, nipping at her bottom lip. “Have I convinced you of my devotion, Miss Bell?”
“I—believe so, Your Grace.” Muriel’s heart was beating so loudly…with pleasure. Happiness. The promise of love. The seed had been planted, now it need only bloom.
No. That wasn’t her heart. Nor Buxton’s.
The pounding became louder.
“Buxton,” she whispered.
The catlike eyes regarded her with satisfaction and searing heat. “If you’ve decided now is the time to discuss radish versus carrot as my nose—” The words halted as he cocked his head.
A fist was now pounding on the glass of the greenhouse.
Muriel’s cheeks flamed. Thank goodness they were partially hidden beneath an orange tree. “Get up. This instant.”
A lazy smile pulled at his lips. “I suppose I could have done this better. I hadn’t intended on compromising you.” Buxton leaned over and rubbed his nose against hers. “But I suppose there’s no help for it. Sorry about that.”
He didn’t appear at all apologetic.
The pounding on the greenhouse glass became more pronounced.
“I’ll be a scandal,” Muriel stuttered. “The talk of London.”
“Possibly, but more importantly, you’ll be a duchess. Mine, if you’ll have me. You may even paint me as a parsnip if it pleases you.”
“Florence,” she whispered.
“I think that goes without saying.” He rolled over and helped Muriel to her feet as the pounding became more pronounced.
“I feel rather like an animal at the zoo with the patrons trying to gain my attention. We were hidden behind the orange tree. We can say you…tripped. I helped you up. We are both covered in paint and—” His gaze drifted to her bosom. “Don’t turn around, Muriel Don’t—”
“Buxton?” She caught sight of those gathered outside the glass walls of the greenhouse. Well, they’d been hidden behind the orange tree. Perhaps no one would think anything improper had occurred. She looked down, smoothed her skirts, and froze.
The outline of Buxton’s fingers was displayed on her bosom. In vibrant red paint. The same shade as the tomatoes in the greenhouse and likely Muriel’s cheeks. Paint trailed beneath the neckline of her dress…one spot appeared to be a pair of…lips.
I, Miss Muriel Bell, have just been compromised before nearly every guest at Lord Savorton’s house party.
“I was hoping for a more romantic proposal, Your Grace. There is a great deal of paint everywhere. Do you suppose I could swoon and claim it to be the result of the fumes?”
Buxton took her hand in his, squeezing. “Courage, Miss Bell. And I promise to make it up to you.”