She felt like an ancient explorer, Marco Polo or Vasco da Gama, about to set sail. Unsure of the mysteries and dangers that lay ahead, but certain they were out there, just over the horizon. Tonight, Benedict was her uncharted territory. And she couldn’t wait to uncover his secrets.

She put down her glass. “All right then, Mr. Wylde. Show me what I’ve been missing.”

Chapter 30.

Georgie sucked in a breath as he advanced until only a few inches separated them.

“To start with, I should remind you that I am not like other men in the ton,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows at that understatement. He was like no man she’d ever met.

He reached up to her hair, found one of the pins that was keeping it coiled up on top of her head, and tugged it out. “What happened this afternoon was ample demonstration. I’m not one of your courtly lovers, all talk and no action.”

He tugged another pin, and the weight of her hair uncoiled lopsidedly then fell down her neck. He was so close, she could feel the heat rising from his body, smell the addictive scent of his skin. Two more pins, and the whole lot untwisted. He drew the shining mass over her shoulder, and she shivered as his fingers smoothed its length, tracing to the very end where it finished just above the peak of her breast.

“Allow me to demonstrate the difference between courtly love and real life.”

“There’s no need,” she croaked.

“Oh, I insist.” He ran his fingers down her arm, caught her hand, and raised it to his lips. “A courtly lover might kiss your hand, for example. Like this. Suitably reverent and correct.” He trailed one finger over her collarbone and down the center of her chest. Her ribcage expanded as she took a deep breath, and he paused teasingly at the edge of her bodice, just above the shadowed valley of her breasts. “A courtly lover would say your skin is like petals, or silk, or cream.”

He traced a maddening pattern back and forth, light as a feather. “A true and proper knight would probably faint if he imagined doing this.” His finger dipped beneath the lace edge of her dress. “He’d liken your nipples to berries, or cherries, or some other such nonsense.”

Her breasts felt full, aching for his touch. “You wouldn’t say that?” she croaked.

“No.” He withdrew his finger and stroked his hand down the side of her breast, over her ribs and back up. She gasped as he cupped her in one large, capable hand. The warmth of him spread through her dress and saturated her skin. Her nipple hardened under his palm. His eyes bored into hers.

“I’d just say that you have skin I want to lick. To bite. I’d just admit that I’m hungry for you. I want to eat you up.”