But she lay down naked on the towel beside him, covered her eyes with one arm, and raised one leg to set her foot flat on the ground, an inviting pose that was undoubtedly unconscious. He turned his head and then raised himself on one elbow for a better look. All the mistresses he had ever had and all the casual amours had been voluptuously built—it was one criterion by which he had chosen them. Generous curves and full, heavy breasts aroused him sexually—and of course mistresses were for sex.

Lauren Edgeworth was slender and long-limbed. When she lay on her back her breasts appeared even smaller than usual, though they were nicely shaped and rose-tipped. Her abdomen was flat. Her legs were slim and shapely. He felt a pleasurable tightening in his groin and realized with rueful humor that if she removed her arm from her eyes she would surely understand her danger in a moment.

She was without a doubt one of the loveliest women he had ever set eyes upon. But he had known that even as far back as Lady Mannering’s ball—no, farther back. In Hyde Park, despite the fact that he had had only one functioning eye, he had noticed and appreciated her extraordinary beauty.

But she was more than beautiful. She was . . . sexy. Was there such a word? If there was not, there should be. Without any of the obvious allure of a courtesan, her body nevertheless invited a man to sex. Yet there was nothing erotic about either her body itself or her character. What was it?

Was he the privileged witness to long-repressed womanhood blossoming forth into glorious femininity? Was he the instrument through which it was happening? Did he have that honor? He knew for a certainty that she had never done anything remotely resembling this ever before. Even if he had been in any doubt of that fact—though he had not—he had encountered the proof of it last night. She had been a virgin.

His eyes moved down her slim, quite unvoluptuous, sexy body. He desired her every bit as much as he had ever desired a woman. Perhaps more. But she would not marry him. She did not want to. He must not . . . He had already endangered her once last night. He must not trap her into losing the freedom she clearly prized. He must not be that selfish, that undisciplined.

She moved her arm away from her eyes and turned her head to smile up at him.

“Kit,” she said, her lovely eyes warm and dreamy, “ this is what I meant at Vauxhall. Just this, though I did not even know it myself at the time. This—the sunlight on my face. I have never allowed it there before—it might ruin my complexion. The sounds of water and birds and insects—thousands of them chirping and droning away. Sometimes I forget that the world is alive. Sometimes I think there are only humans here and maybe horses and cows and sheep. And the smell of water and grass and flowers. The flowers, Kit. They are weeds—daisies and clover and buttercups. But they are more lovely than anything else in the universe. And . . . and myself a part of it all. I have always been a spectator of life, you know, never a participant. Never. But now I am. Today I am, and I am awed and deliriously happy. This is the adventure I asked for, the adventure I am having. I will be forever grateful to you.”

He swallowed. He felt absurdly close to tears. He fought his arousal and hoped she had not noticed. She had spoken the simple truth. He could tell that just by looking into her eyes and seeing her as part of her surroundings. She was a part of it all, one with the sunshine and water, with the grass and flowers, with the birds and the chirping insects. Like a wood nymph or a water nymph. Like a sprite or a goddess.

He knew beyond all doubt that this was one of life’s precious moments and that it would remain with him for the rest of his life. It was one treasure that his memory would hoard for future comfort. He must do nothing to spoil it.

“Kit.” She reached up a hand and touched his cheek with light, cool fingertips. “Do what you did to me last night. I want it again. Just one more time, here among the flowers, under the summer sun. It would be lovely here, would it not? If you want to, that is. Perhaps you do not.”

He leaned over her and set his lips to hers. She tasted of cool lake water and warm summertime. She tasted of innocence and awakened womanhood. She tasted of the enchanted land beyond the treetops. He ought to remind her of reality—of the fact that women were frequently impregnated during the act of sex. That pregnant women must marry their seducers even if they loved elsewhere, even if they craved freedom.

But that enchanted land beckoned him too. Indeed, he was already immersed in it, in flower-dappled grass and clover fragrance and warm summer sunshine and bee-song. This was what she had meant. This was what she had yearned for. Just this fleeting, magic moment—to be grasped or to be lost forever. He raised his head an inch or two above hers and she smiled dreamily at him. He smiled back.

Last night had been for him. He had poured out all his deepest pain to her, telling her Syd’s story and his, and then he had reached out to her for physical comfort, which she had given generously, warmly, unstintingly, gifting him with her very self. This afternoon would be for her.

He loved her slowly with his hands and with his mouth, using all the expertise learned over the years with other women, but adapting it all just for her. She was not a woman of wild passion—not yet, at least. She was a woman who needed tenderness and gentleness. He gave her both as his hands and mouth roamed her body, feathering, stroking, lightly scratching and pinching, licking, sucking, gently biting—choosing the erotic spots that would give her most pleasure. Her hands roamed his shoulders, his back, his chest—gently, inexpertly. He was accustomed to women who knew unerringly how to heighten and satisfy his passion. Lauren knew not a single one of their many tricks. But her very inexpertness brought him to full-blown, almost painful arousal.

He loved her with almost desperate tenderness. He kissed her mouth with soft, deep kisses, licking warmly inside while the fingers of one of his hands explored the moist heat between her legs, parting folds, seeking, penetrating, feeling her muscles close about him. With his thumb he found the secret part of her womanhood and stroked her there until she whispered a surprised exhalation into his mouth and shuddered into a spasm of pleasure.

“Do you want me inside?” he murmured to her.

“Yes.” She circled him with her arms. “Oh, yes. Do it to me—like last night.”

“Not quite like last night.” The long grass and nodding flowers might give the appearance of a soft carpet, but they would make a hard mattress for a woman in the act of love. “Come.” He lifted her over him and parted her legs to straddle his own. “Kneel up on the grass. Trust me.”

“Yes.” She kneeled astride him and braced herself with her hands on either side of his head. She looked down at him and smiled, her eyes heavy with desire.

He raised his knees and set his feet flat. He positioned her carefully, nestling himself against her opening before bracing his hands over her hips and guiding her down onto him. He watched her eyes close as she first frowned and then relaxed. Her muscles tightened about him as he held deep in her for a few moments to allow her time to adjust. She was hot and wet and exquisitely feminine. He drew a few steadying breaths. He was unaccustomed to having to impose control on himself after making his mount. It was the point at which, after long minutes of vigorous foreplay, he usually gave himself up to a frenzied climax.

Except last night. But then last night had not really been about sex at all.

Neither was this afternoon. This was not sex—not as he knew sex, anyway. This was . . . what was it? A warm, intimate, tender sharing of—of what?

He raised her a little with his hands and began to pump slowly, smoothly, in and out of her. She held still, though her inner muscles picked up his rhythm, responded inexpertly at first, and then matched it. The sensation was delicious and painful both at once. He wanted to prolong the pleasure indefinitely. He wanted to give in and explode into her right now.

Most of all, he wanted to give her all the pleasure twenty-six years of living had denied her. He wanted this to be for her. Not for himself but for Lauren. He wanted to see her totally, utterly happy.

He stroked her with smooth, deep strokes for many minutes, not attempting to hasten the ending, as he might easily have done by touching her again in that small, secret place. He could see from her closed eyes and parted lips and look of concentration that all her attention was focused in the passage that he worked, and that she was greatly enjoying the sensations. Perhaps that was all she would experience, but he would not shatter it until he could sense that she was ready.

Then she frowned again and her eyes clenched more tightly shut and she drew her lower lip between her teeth. She lost rhythm and tightened hard about him. She opened her mouth and gasped.

“Relax now,” he told her. “Relax those muscles and let yourself go.” He tightened his hands over her hips and worked her with harder, faster thrusts. “Let it all come. Trust me.”

But there was no need for instruction, no need for him to coach her to climax. She cried out and shattered about him and collapsed her weight onto him. He wrapped both arms protectively about her. She was still pulsing and trembling.

“Let it all go,” he murmured against her ear. “Let it all come.”

He had never had to concern himself with feminine orgasms. He was usually too intent upon his own.