Elsmore enfolded her hand in both of his and kissed her fingers. “I rejoice that I have the honor to be the object of your foolishness.”

The gesture was both courtly and intimate, and Ellie’s last hope of reversing course sank beneath a tide of anticipation. Elsmore would not bungle these intimacies. If she permitted herself one spectacular lapse of judgment, he’d make the experience more than worth the regrets.

“I’m not chaste,” Ellie said. “You needn’t worry that my feminine sensibilities are overly delicate.”

“I’m not chaste either,” Elsmore replied. “Feel free to indulge your every fantasy and whim with me.”

That would take far more than the few days they had. “You also aren’t in any great hurry, apparently.”

Another kiss, this one to her wrist. “Does one swill the finest vintage like cheap ale?”

Clearly not, if one was the Duke of Elsmore. Whatever parts of his business education had been neglected, he knew how to thoroughly please a lover. He brought to life in Ellie the long dormant glory of being a female in contemplation of intimate congress with a man she desired.

His lips wandering from her wrist to her elbow conjured heat and longing. When he shifted to kneel over her on the sofa, she relaxed into the pleasurable posture of a woman who need only enjoy being kissed, caressed, and cherished.

She endured tenderness upon tenderness. Elsmore’s thumb brushing the inside of her elbow, his fingers teasing the pins from her hair, his heat and scent enveloping her in warmth and a promise of pleasures to come.

He gently removed her spectacles, which Ellie allowed, a much greater gesture of trust than he knew.

Long-held tension unraveled as Elsmore wrapped her in an embrace, her face pressed to his chest, her jaw cradled against his palm. The moment was ineffably sweet. Whatever else came after—passion, pleasure, repletion—Ellie would recall those few instants of peace and closeness.

“You won’t regret this?” Elsmore asked, sitting back.

I will regret so much, but never this. “No more than you will.”

He rose and when Ellie would have taken his hand, he instead scooped her against his chest. A reflexive inclination to protest slipped away on a sigh, for to be carried in Elsmore’s arms was lovely. The bedroom was as well heated as the sitting room, meaning several degrees above chilly. Elsmore was a toasty male brick and Ellie curled into his warmth.

He deposited her in the reading chair by the hearth and knelt to remove her slippers.

“I haven’t a sheath with me,” he said. “I want your promise, Eleanora, that if our passion has consequences, you will notify me.”