Decimus and the Wary Widow by Emily Larkin

Author:Emily Larkin [Larkin, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780995143685
Publisher: Emily Larkin

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dex had taken his dinner at Old Burlington Street many times as Eloïse Fortrose’s guest, but dining as Blake’s guest felt different in a way that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He was the same person he always was, his hosts were the same people they always were, the house was the same house, so why did it feel different?

He finally decided that it was because he wasn’t there as a rake; he was there as a friend. A friend who was dressed casually in buckskins and top boots. A friend who’d spent the afternoon playing with building blocks, spitballs, and paper darts. A friend who’d been invited down to the kitchen and had spoiled his appetite for dinner by scoffing some freshly iced gingerbread biscuits.

Later that evening, it turned out that he was there as a rake as well. Dex accompanied Eloïse up the stairs to her boudoir and spent a very pleasurable few hours in her bed.

When she expressed the wish to ride St. George, Dex said, “Yes, as long as you hold my shoulders down.”

She did, and it was just as remarkable as it had been the first time. Being held down was highly arousing. Bafflingly arousing.

Not that Dex wasted any time wondering why he liked it. He had something far more important to think about. Namely, his feelings for Eloïse Fortrose.

Dex had never attached emotion to sex before. Now, sex and emotion were inextricably entwined. Every time he kissed Eloïse, his feelings for her grew more tender. When she straddled his hips and held his shoulders down, his foolish, frippery heart felt like singing, and when his climax finally burst from him, that same heart felt as if it, too, might burst, not with effort, but with emotion.

Despite the fact that Dex wasn’t a worrier, it was rather worrying.

When he went back to Clarges Street in the early hours of the morning, he had the disconcerting realization that the house on Old Burlington Street felt more like his home than the rooms he’d lived in for several years. Damn it, what was happening to him? Was he becoming a romantic?

He’d better bloody not be. He was only twenty-seven. Far too young to hang up his raking hat. The ton abounded with young widows he hadn’t yet played with.

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