“It will prevent your being with child,” he told her. “Our child.” There was a little stab to his heart as he said it. He would give anything to have his baby growing inside Philippa, to watch her stomach round, to see her eyes in the face of a little boy or girl . . . But since he didn’t know if the obstacles to their marriage could be overcome, the French letter was necessary.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips, but still, she looked strained and uncertain. He lowered himself slowly until he lay on his side, and gently, very gently, leaned forward to touch his lips to hers. His hands tangled in all that gorgeous hair, drawing locks of it through his fingers like silk spun on Jove’s own looms.

He kissed her until she opened her mouth to him and turned toward him. He kept kissing her, not moving, letting her body inch toward his, letting her hands take the initiative, slipping from his neck to his shoulders, down his back.

Her touch made him shake with ferocious need, but he schooled himself. He remained still, telling himself that he must not frighten her. Philippa had already had one unpleasant experience; if he muffed this, she’d likely be put off for life.

He waited until her eyes flew open, and she said, “Wick.”

“Yes?” He couldn’t stop grinning.

“Don’t the gentlemen do more with the strumpets they buy?”

“What sort of thing would you like me to do?”

“You should know. And stop smiling at me like that.”

“I can’t help it,” he said, leaning forward and kissing her lips, her cheek, her feathery eyelashes. “I’ve never laughed in bed with a woman before.”

“That’s probably because you were more busy than you are now,” she remarked, and he nipped her earlobe, then felt the shudder that pulsed down her body.

“You look like a fairy, a sprite,” he said, running his hand down the long line of her leg. She seemed to have a fascination with his chest: she was tracing little patterns on it. “But you sound like a schoolmarm.” The last word was strangulated, as Philippa had leaned toward him and was tracing the same patterns with her tongue.

Slowly, slowly, he slid his hand under her nightgown, over her slender thigh, the tender curve of her waist.

“I just want to say one thing,” Philippa said, abandoning his chest, much to his regret.

“Mmmmm,” he said, his fingers gliding over skin as soft as daisy petals. His heart was thudding in a way he had never experienced before.

“No tiddle-taddling,” she said.