Slowly, slowly he inched her nightgown all the way above her breasts. She didn’t seem to notice until he replaced one of the hands that was caressing her breast with his mouth—well, she noticed that. And he stayed there, learning her secrets, tasting her sweetness. Savoring her. Every startled gasp made laughter and desire double in his chest.

“Lovely Philippa,” he murmured, sometime later, “is this tiddle-taddling?” And just to make sure she knew what he was talking about, he leaned down and gave her other breast a kiss, the kind that claimed, that was a little rough and a little wild.

“No!” she gasped and then, “Oh, Wick, that feels wonderful.”

Her hands reached out, rather blindly, toward him. “Does it feel the same for you?”

Once they had established to both their satisfaction that yes, it did feel just as good for him, Wick was flat on his back with Philippa lying along his side, one of her legs entwined with his.

“Philippa,” he said, dimly hearing the hoarseness in his voice. “May I remove your nightgown now?”

She looked at him, her eyes shining. “If I kiss you here, Wick, your whole body jerks in response. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Quite,” he managed, and whipped her billowing nightgown over her head. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, awestruck.

Philippa followed Wick’s gaze down her body. The moonlight had turned her limbs to alabaster; she tried to imagine herself as he saw her. But she would rather look at him.

“Just one thing,” she said trying to gather her thoughts. “What I said before . . .”

But his hands were at her waist and his mouth closed over her breast and she lost the sentence, the words, the thought altogether.

“Yes?” he asked.

All the secret parts of her were throbbing, which was such an odd sensation that . . . still, she needed to make the point. “It’s just one of Rodney’s daft perversions,” she said, tugging his shoulders. “He called it diddling, but I know you won’t do such a thing.”

Wick moved so his body was poised above hers and God save her, the only thing she wanted was that large body to rest on top of hers. She finally understood why women played the strumpet: it was because they caught a glimpse of a man like this one.

“Wick,” she whispered, throwing the last of any remaining maidenly caution to the winds, “come to me . . . please?”

“I thought it was tiddling that you didn’t like,” Wick said, his eyes glinting with an unholy mixture of laughter and lust. “Now I find you don’t like diddling either?”

Philippa rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

A strong hand suddenly laid a scorching path up her leg, easing them apart, skating onto the inner flesh of her thigh. Philippa gasped. “That’s exactly where Rodney . . . you mustn’t!”

“I won’t,” Wick said tenderly, dropping another kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I’ll never do something so ham-handed that Rodney partook in it . . . not unless you beg me to, of course.”

And with that, he took her mouth in such a devouring kiss that at first Philippa hardly noticed the hand stroking her legs apart, dancing close to her most secret—but notice she did. She tore her mouth away, and said, “Wick, no.”

“I would never,” he said, his eyes innocent. “On the Continent, we disdain diddling. We do this instead.” And without pausing for a response, he pulled open her legs with strong hands, slid down, and before she could even conceive of such a thing, put his mouth—there.

Philippa didn’t even think of refusing. In fact, she couldn’t think at all. Her capacity for rational thought did not reemerge until after she found herself shaking from head to foot, trying to fathom how a scorching wave had burst over her head and dragged her down into its fiery depths.

Wick was there, grinning down at her . . . nudging her.

Her eyes widened. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he said, husky and sweet. “Take me, Philippa. Because I’m the one who loves you, and because you love me. Make me yours.”

She knew instinctively that this kind of ownership had nothing to do with ha’pennies, or even kisses. And when he was deep inside her, hers weren’t the only eyes shining with errant tears.

“You’re mine,” she whispered.

Wick cradled her face in his. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” she whispered back, rather surprised. “It did with Rodney, and there’s so much more of you. But it feels . . .” She wiggled a little. “It feels good.”

“Ah,” he said, with such a wealth of satisfaction in his voice that she started to smile, but then he drew back, slowly, and just as slowly, thrust forward, and the smile flew from her mind, along with everything but the wild pleasure, the ravishing feeling that had her arching to meet him, crying out with each stroke.

He kept coming, and coming . . . like the tide washing up on the shore, only not so gentle, then it felt as if the ocean came to her, as if a flood of pure pleasure swept from her toes to the ends of her fingers.

Dimly, she heard his groan, then her own cry.

It was a night of discovery.

She woke in the dim light of dawn to find that Jonas had slept through the night for the very first time. Wick was bent over her. She reached up, only to realize that he was, once again, dressed in his livery.

“I must go,” he murmured, brushing strands of hair from her face. “And you must return to being Miss Philippa Damson rather than my favorite nursemaid.”

She smiled at him drowsily, but she was waking up, and his words coalesced into something ominous. “What do you mean?”

“I expect your father will arrive this morning to take you home.”

Philippa sat up, her heart suddenly pounding. “I shan’t go.”

“You must. Jonas is much better, and young ladies can’t serve in the nursery forever. You are no servant, Philippa.”

“I don’t want—” She stopped. “If you are a servant, I want to be a servant.”

“You mustn’t say such a thing.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“You must.” He said it gently, but she heard the stark truth of it in his voice. “There is no place for you here, in the castle. You might come as a visitor, but if I am in livery.” He hesitated. “I would rather you did not.”

And there it was.

She swung her legs from the bed and stood up, feeling the chill of his words spread through her body. “Please, Wick, don’t—don’t say this.”

He ran his fingers through her hair and pulled her close. “I will try to come for you,” he said, low and fierce. “I will try, Philippa. But I could never make you a servant or a beggar at my side. Wait for me—”

“Forever,” she said.

“One week. If I don’t come for you before one week has passed, I could not manage it. But know this, Philippa.” He looked down into her face, as unyielding as the greatest emperor who ever lived. “If I do not come for you, it is not for want of desire for you, nor for want of love for you, nor for want of trying. I would do anything to be worthy of you.”

Her breath caught on a sob. “Oh, Wick . . .”