This had to be stopped right now.

The other, less familiar, formerly unsuspected part of herself that had been born at Vauxhall—or perhaps much earlier than that, in the park—stayed present in his arms and recognized that she was a woman, that he had need of her, that she had warmth and femininity and humanity to offer him in his need. And the freedom to give all if she chose. Choices again. Until recently—ah, until now—choices had never been difficult. She had always known, by the rigid code of gentility, what was right. She had never known the code of the heart. Honor or love? They were opposed, as they had been for him. But this time it was love that could—and should—triumph.

She chose love, though she did not perhaps use that word to herself since her thoughts were not verbal ones.

This, she thought quite clearly— this was what she had meant at Vauxhall. She knew it with a sudden blinding intuition. This was what she had meant. This coming alive to the woman who had been locked away all her life inside the lady who was Lauren Edgeworth.

His mouth was against her throat, on her shoulders, at her breasts. His hands were moving urgently against the flimsy fabric of her evening gown, pushing it off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her breasts. She did not flinch even though there were both firelight and candlelight to make her feel doubly exposed. She was a woman and he needed her. She would give, then. She needed too—she needed to be a woman. She shivered with mingled fright and excitement as his mouth closed warmly over one breast and suckled her, his tongue flicking over her nipple and suffusing her from head to toe in raw desire. She cupped a hand with infinite gentleness over the back of his head and set a cheek against his soft fair hair.

He moved his head to set his forehead against her shoulder.

“Stop me,” he said, his voice both rough and husky. “For God’s sake, Lauren, stop me.”

“No.” She lifted his head with both hands and looked into his face, her fingers gently stroking through his hair. “This is what I choose, Kit. What I freely choose. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” She could not bear it now if he did. “This is not just for you. It is for me too.” She feathered light kisses over his face as she spoke, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth.

He was holding her again then, just as close, and kissing her just as deeply as before except that the frenzied urgency had gone, to be replaced by hot passion mingled with what felt very like tenderness. As if she had become for him not just a woman, but Lauren too. Her naked breasts pressed against his coat.

She was giver and gift. He was gift and giver.

It was upon one of the velvet benches that he laid her down after another minute or two. It was quite wide enough to make a narrow bed, she realized. She reached up her arms for him, but he was raising her gown to her waist, removing her silk slippers, her stockings and her undergarments, unbuttoning the front flap of his breeches. His eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, roamed over her. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks flushed. He looked beautiful beyond belief.

Lauren Edgeworth, that disciplined lady, stood apart again for a moment and informed her other self that she was simply not thinking, that she would forever regret what would happen unless she put a stop to it now. But the point was that she was thinking. This was not mindless passion. It was not even passion, in fact. It was something more primal, more deeply emotional than that. It was something she knew with absolute certainty she would never regret.

He knelt beside the bench, kissing her face with light, feathering kisses. With his hands he fondled her, doing exquisite things with her breasts, holding them, stroking them, rolling the hardened, tender nipples between thumbs and forefingers. And then with one hand he fondled her there, his fingers nimbly probing her naked flesh, parting folds, stroking, lightly scratching, pulsing, finding the most intimate part of her and sliding inward.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

She knew what happened between a man and a woman. Aunt Clara had explained it to her before her planned wedding to Neville. She had sometimes tried to imagine it, though more often she had tried not to. It must be embarrassing, utterly distasteful, she had always thought. She had imagined it as a purely carnal thing, totally stripped of emotion or even of any tactile sensation apart from the humiliating penetration of her body that must occur.

She had never suspected that there would be this ache, this yearning, this eagerness to be penetrated, to be joined. This need—emotional as well as physical—to give and to be gifted. Was this passion? If so, it was not mindless at all.

“Lauren.” His mouth was warm over hers. “It is not too late to stop me.”

“Don’t stop.” She did not open her eyes. “Kit . . .”

He had removed his coat and waistcoat. His shirt felt warm and silky against her naked breasts. So did his breeches against her inner thighs as he pushed between them and spread them wide. His weight bore her down into the velvet cushions of the bench. It made her feel more defenseless, on the verge of alarm. Open and vulnerable. And pulsing with a heightened need that was almost unbearable.

She felt him then, pressed against the place where his finger had been just moments before. But much thicker, harder . . . She breathed in slowly as he came inside her, slowly, stretching her, filling her with a terrifying sort of exultation. There was no going back now, no stopping him. It was too late, and she was glad it was too late. She gripped his shoulders and concentrated upon not showing either fear or pain. There was pain. There was no more room. He was going to hurt her—but she had been told it would hurt. Then something tore inside her, something that for a moment threatened unbearable pain and then was gone, just as the barrier of her virginity was gone. He pushed deep.

“Lauren,” he murmured against her ear. “Sweet. So very sweet. Have I hurt you?”

“No.” Her voice sounded shockingly normal.

She should lie still and relaxed, Aunt Clara had advised, until her husband had finished. Her husband.

Finished? Had he finished now?

He drew out of her and she felt a pang of regret. This was all? Once in a lifetime and it was over already, to be relived only in dreams for the rest of her life? Over so soon? But at the moment she expected him to withdraw altogether he pushed back inward. There was soreness. There was also an exquisite silken feeling and the knowledge that there were to be a few moments longer. She wanted to beg him to do it again, but even at such a moment she knew a lady’s reluctance to appear gauche or to make foolish demands.

He did it again. And again. She lay still, holding his shoulders as if they were the only anchor of her existence, quietly absorbing all the forbidden delights of her shocking fall from virtue.

She was glad. What reward had virtue ever brought her? Virtue was its own reward, she had always believed. But it was not. Virtue was no reward at all.

Did he know how good it made her feel, this repeated thrust and withdrawal, which had become smooth and rhythmic? Did he know? Was that why he did it? To delight her? But she could hear his labored breathing, and she could feel his increased body heat, and she knew that of course he did it because it delighted him. She delighted him.

She delighted him. She, Lauren Edgeworth. She smiled and focused all her thoughts, all her feelings, downward. She would drink this cup of pleasure to the very dregs. The memory would last her a lifetime.

His hands slid beneath her before she was more than halfway down the cup, holding her buttocks firm, tilting her upward, and his thrusts became harder, faster, deeper. A sharp ache of pure pleasure came swirling upward through her belly to focus in her breasts, but before it could be repeated, far too soon, it seemed—how greedy she was!—he strained deep into her and she felt a warm liquid gush.

Ah. He was finished.

And she was not.

Did women ever finish? Did they ever begin? Was there only the delight and the reaching for something beyond one’s grasp? But the delight was enough. She was not sorry. She would never be sorry. She would not allow her conscience to scold her later tonight, tomorrow, for the rest of her life. She was glad this had happened. It had been one of the loveliest experiences of her life. No—it was the loveliest.

She thought he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes. She ran her fingers through his hair and turned her head to gaze into the fire, which was sending crackling sparks up the chimney as the logs burned down. She listened to the cozy sound of rain against the window.

“Mmm,” he said after a while, and he lifted his head to look down at her. “I do not have to say I am sorry, do I, Lauren? I did not force—”

She set the fingers of one hand over his mouth. “You know you did not,” she said. “I will not be on your conscience, Kit.”

He smiled—a sleepy, warm smile. “I will say thank you instead, then,” he said. “Thank you, Lauren, for such a precious gift. Was it very painful? I have heard it is so the first time.”

“It was not very,” she assured him.

He lifted himself off her then and stood up to adjust his clothing, his back to her. He held his handkerchief out to her without turning.

“Use this,” he said.

She had been wondering how she would manage. There was blood, she discovered. But even now, though her hand shook as she cleansed herself, she could not bring herself to a full realization of the enormity of what she had done. That came only after she had put herself to rights and was sitting on the edge of the bench, all neat and respectable again, the soiled handkerchief balled in one hand.