“Yes,” she murmured, her blush deepening as she looked up at him. “Tonight.”
“You know,” he teased, “you really should see a physician about whatever is in your eye.”
She swatted his arm, but her smile assured him she enjoyed his teasing.
“This afternoon,” she said, suddenly back to being the businesslike Susan, “we’ll go to St. John’s Parish church in Preston and make the arrangements.”
“I suppose that’s where Cromptons traditionally get wed, is it?”
“Yes, and try not to laugh at Canon Parr, he tends to be rather pompous. I wouldn’t be surprised if he interviews us with the billycock still on his head.”
“Billycock?” Griff asked.
“You Manchester people probably call it a bowler.”
The image of a parson who sported a bowler hat sobered Griff. “I hope he doesn’t ask about my church attendance. I’ve been somewhat derelict in that duty.”
“He might, but don’t worry. Gabriel is his largest benefactor.”
He chuckled. “Knowing Lady Susan the Crusader as I do, I’m sure she’ll rush to my defense if the parson decides to be stubborn.”
“You know me well,” she replied with a shrug.
*
After they’d enjoyedluncheon with Rebecca, Griff assisted Susan to climb aboard his carriage in order for Frederick to drive them to Preston. “Alone at last,” he quipped, drawing her closer as they set off.
Susan was a lifelong believer in the natural order of things; the dictates of so-called proper behavior often went against nature. One had only to consider the requirement some ladies deemedde rigueur—corsets that made it difficult to breathe. Or the belief wealthy men had the right to own other men and treat them like animals. It therefore felt right to snuggle into Griff and put her hand on his chest. “You always give off such heat,” she told him.
“That’s your doing,” he replied, tilting up her chin.
His kiss bombarded her senses—the warmth of his lips, the taste of the wine they’d sipped at luncheon, the subtle aroma of his cologne, the hunger of his growl as his tongue mated with hers.
“Emma always talks about the Six Mile Kiss,” she said breathlessly when they finally broke apart. “I never understood what she meant.”
“Let’s see,” Griff replied, tracing a fingertip along her lower lip. “Six miles to Preston, right?”
“Of course,” she exclaimed. “We’ll have to prolong the next kiss if we want it to last six miles.”
Shaking his head, he brushed the backs of his fingers over her nipple. “You can’t expect a man to kiss you for six miles and keep his hands to himself.”
Susan’s overactive brain immediately set about solving the looming problem of how Griff might get his clever mouth on her nether lips while seated in the confined space of a moving carriage.
In the event, it was his expert fingers that danced up her skirts and brought her to ecstasy while she suckled his tongue. The compulsion to cry out her euphoria was powerful but his tongue was insistent it be as far inside her mouth as possible.
Soaring on clouds of bliss, she gradually floated to earth in his arms. “That was indescribable,” she whispered, laying her hand on his maleness. “But what about your pleasure?”
He covered her hand with his own. “We’re just coming into Preston, but there’s always tonight, remember?”
The unflappable Susan Crompton wondered what it was about the sound of his deep voice promising sexual delights that made her giddy with anticipation.
As she righted her clothing and prepared to alight outside St. John’s she hoped the perceptive Canon Parr wouldn’t guess what they’d been up to.
“At least now I understand the Six Mile Kiss,” she told Griff as they walked through the well-tended graveyard to the main door of the church.
“It’s six miles back too,” he reminded her.
She inhaled deeply, trying desperately to get her mind off sexual congress before she faced the parson.