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346 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 2011



His forefinger touched down on her breastbone and traced a leisurely path between the ribs, into the hollow of her navel, and on down, just to the patch of light-colored curls. “Turn over,” he said, his voice already gone thick.
Her eyes flew open. “I did not authorize anything out of the ordinary,” she said, the words shrill with alarm.
“I only want to look. I promise we’ll fornicate face-to-face like Christians.” He couldn’t quite mask his laughter. “But let me finish looking.”
Her words hung in the air like a chill mist, and a sudden awful slackening came in the flow of blood to his pertinent regions. Could he really put himself somewhere so inhospitable?
"You’re not a bad man, Mirkwood. I do think you have promise. But while I find I can be cordial with a man who lives for pleasure, and even come to feel a certain regard for him, I cannot, in the end, truly admire such a man. And I don’t care to give myself up to a man I don’t admire. Pardon my frankness."
She felt his pleasure as surely as though his skin was shuddering against hers. He was all but a virgin in this, the experience of being taken seriously. Perhaps no woman--no one at all--had ever gazed at him with quiet faith and encouraged him to believe in his own abilities.
“I don’t believe you’re listening.” Her voice dropped a good dozen degrees in warmth.
“Not to the words.” He bent his head to brush his lips over the thin, blue-veined skin. “But you’re rather lovely when you speak so. All ardent and crusading.”
“Also, I suppose I was afraid of appearing ridiculous.” A few at a time, she got the words out, her voice awkward even to her own ears. “I have not been in the habit of doing such things. I feared this would be obvious to you, and you would find me ridiculous as a result.”
One couldn’t think much of whatever planning process had resulted in human reproductive design. Men with their parts dangling like stockings on a washday line. Women with their pleasure put away from the main event.
No lust was so gratifying to a man as the lust that blossomed only after esteem had taken root. He might have gone his whole life without finding this out, if he'd never been exiled to Sussex.The setting is Regency England, about 1815, in a rural neighborhood near Brighton by the Sea, in Sussex County. (The author did not capture the pastoral setting -- she's not particularly descriptive or vivid, but it's fine.)
To a stunned and star-struck Martha, he'd never looked so powerful. So capable. So suffused with grace and might.Theo finally got the passion he wanted from Martha. And wow! Once Martha knew Theo's heart, she gave herself totally to him, like a wild woman (the scene in the chair!). These guys burned up the sheets. ツ
"Untie me."What Martha loved best was that Theo valued her opinion, and sincerely cared about his people. One night, while brainstorming how to improve the local economy, Martha muses:
"No," she said, and bent to kiss him again.
He scrabbled at the knots. He'd free himself.
"No. This was your idea. You've no one to blame but yourself." She gazed down at him like a governess out of someone's perverse boyhood fantasies.
Good God. She was enjoying this..."You want me," he whispered.
"Yes," she said.
Serious, conscientious, and seeking her opinion: he could have had anything he wanted of her in that moment.What the playboy loved best about the puritan was that she believed him capable of ANYTHING and supported EVERY idea he had. Late at night, Theo tentatively broaches the idea of gaining investors for his dairy scheme. Martha, being detail oriented, readily endorses his preliminary idea and offers several strategic tips. Theo -- no dummy -- realizes her worth:
He could go through life forging one nebulous idea after the next, and know that she would hammer each one into practical shape.I thought it perfect, this relationship that began so badly. They complemented each other. Martha's prudent attention to detail only magnified Theo's natural aptitude for visionary leadership. Theo's gift for gab brought VISITORS into Martha's lonely life -- so now Theo totally walks on water in her eyes ツ. He showed her that she was respected, admired, and surrounded by allies.
His chest met her back—gently—and he draped an arm over her rib cage to keep her there. His knee pushed—slowly—between her knees. His hand grasped her thigh, lifting it up and back to rest atop his leg. His cock brushed against her, lingering on the threshold of where she opened to him, and—quiet as snowfall—slipped in.
"What are you doing?" Awake and alert in an instant. "You did this already, last night."
He cursed softly. "Can't you just sleep through it?"
"Sleep through it? Are you mad?"
Oh, for God’s sake. He was a disgrace to whoredom. To stud-animaldom as well. What bull ever felt a moment of concern for whether the cow actually desired him? Quickly he moved into position. Put a hand down to brace himself. Filled his lungs again. And with one mighty push, he was in. Mere mechanics would take care of the rest. Enough times in and out would get him there. Her tight grip on him—had he ever been so exquisitely sheathed?—might get him there even sooner.
She ought to touch him, though. Her right arm lay slack on the mattress; her left bent to keep that fist at her shoulder. “Can you put your hands on me?” he said in a hoarse whisper. Hark at him, asking politely when the occasion called for command.
‘If one believed, as the Bible and the Greek myths had it, that man had been created first and woman after, then one must conclude there had been some dramatic improvement in the process following that amateurish first attempt.
Where she was molded, he was rough-hewn. Where her form curved with logic and precision, not to mention breeding parts tucked neatly away, he looked rangy, haphazard, his male parts an ill-placed afterthought. Like the last leftover bits of clay scraped together, rolled into primitive forms and stuck onto the middle of him, the stones in their rough red sack and that improbable appendage dangling to the fore.’