by Meara Platt
How handsome he looked, she thought. But she wanted the brilliance of his hair, the thick softness of it caressing her fingers. She plucked his fashionable Wellington hat from his head, laying it upon the bench at their side.
“My beloved husband,” she said with great contentment as her fingers trailed over his scalp, relishing the sensation of those thick, red locks. “Mere days ago, touching you like this was something I could only manage in dreams. And now you are here. And you are mine.”
He grinned roguishly back at her. “I have always been yours, Hannah love. Just as you have always been mine.”
“Yes,” she agreed, unable to refrain from kissing him then. She had been dying for his lips ever since she had kissed him last.
His tongue slid into her mouth, and she sucked on it, then bit his lower lip as he had done to her before. She was ravenous for him. Desperate, in fact.
“My dear Lady Haven,” he said, feigning alarm. “I do believe you are attempting to enjoy our wedding night prematurely. How shocking. One cannot make love in a carriage.”
His words sent a wicked surge of heat straight to her core. Her longing for him, like her love, would never die. She tugged lightly on his hair, feeling bold. “Are you certain one cannot make love in a carriage, Lord Haven? The last two months have left me so desperately lonely, so in need.”
As she said the words, she teased them both by straddling his muscled thighs. Her gown rode up around her, and beneath them she was bare aside from her petticoats, chemise, and stockings. It was true that the winter was so frigid, the Thames had frozen over. But she was not cold now. Not with so many layers and her husband to keep her warm.
“Perhaps you might persuade me, my lady,” Graham said then, his knowing hands gliding beneath her skirts.
He traced her seam, where she was aching for him, then stroked her pearl, his eyes locked upon hers, his breath a sweet curtain over her lips.
“Have I persuaded you yet, my lord?” she asked in a voice she scarcely recognized as her own as he sank a finger inside her.
“So wet, Lady Haven,” he said, humming his approval when she clenched on him, bringing him deeper. “Yes indeed, my darling, I do believe you have convinced me that nothing is impossible. In so many more ways than one.”
She kissed him swiftly. “Then make love to me, Lord Haven.”
He made another growl low in his throat, and then his mouth was back on hers. He withdrew his finger. There was a brief pause as he undid the fall of his breeches. And then, his thick, rigid cock was where she wanted him most, glancing over her slick folds, probing her entrance.
“Take me,” he ordered her. “All of me.”
Instinct guiding her, she sank down on him, hard. He impaled her in one thrust, so deep it stole her breath. The rightness of it washed over her, along with bliss. And gratitude. So much gratitude. With the carriage rocking around them, they began a rhythm, his hands on her waist to steady her as she controlled the rhythm and pace.
She was on the edge. The knowledge Graham was hers forever and she was his had brought her shockingly near to spending already. His fingers found her pearl again as they kissed and she rode him. A moan left her, and he swallowed it up, kissing her harder.
One more thrust, and she was coming apart. Losing control. Gasping for breath, she collapsed against him, her lips still pressed to his.
“I love you, Graham,” she said as she tightened on him, loving the feeling of his body inside hers, so demanding and rigid, filling her as only he could.
The spiral of pleasure was intense as it took her, and she surrendered herself to it. To him. As she shuddered and collapsed against him, he surged inside her, releasing his seed in a hot torrent.
“And I love you,” he whispered back in the aftermath of their passion.
They held each other tightly, bodies entwined as one, as their carriage lumbered through London, taking them home.
Epilogue
Epilogue
* * *
His wife looked weary but radiant. More beautiful than he had ever seen her. And what a bloody relief, at long last.
Graham had spent the last few hours in torment, pacing the floors, damn near tearing his hair out with every sound that had emerged from his wife’s lying in chamber. Thankfully, his brothers-in-law had been there to offer him support, along with a bracing glass of the finest smuggled Scots whisky a man could procure.
The result was that as he finally was allowed entrance to Hannah’s chamber and his gaze settled upon the beautiful sight of Hannah holding their babe in her arms, he was no longer feeling murderous. Indeed, he was feeling thankful. And relieved. And in love.
So damned in love.
With his wife and the precious, swaddled babe in her arms.
“You have a daughter,” Hannah proclaimed.
He saw a red face, eyes screwed tightly closed, a shock of brilliant orange-red hair, short as the fuzz on a peach. A tiny, precious nose that was a replica of his wife’s. A chin that was stubborn like his. Golden eyebrows. Sweet little ears. Rounded cheeks.
He had to sit.
Thankfully, there was a chair behind his arse. Else, he would have fallen to a heap on the floor, so overwhelmed was he by the current of emotion flowing through him. He stared at Hannah, at the babe. By God, he was more in love now than he had been a minute ago. A breath ago.
“You are well?” he asked her. “The birthing, was it…”
“I am well,” she said, saving him. Her smile was soft as she glanced down at the bundle in her arms. “I would endure it all over again, a hundred times, just to have her.”
Bloody hell, she was far stronger than he could ever hope to be. Her resilience continually astounded him. Everything about her did, actually. He was so damned lucky she was his wife. He would wait the years it had taken for them to come back together all over again, just to call her his. Just to sit here in this moment and fall in love with her all over again as he watched her cradling their daughter.
He cleared his throat. “I have no wish for a hundred children, my darling. Perhaps three. Four at most, I should think.”
Hannah smiled at him, running her finger lightly against the babe’s cheek. “She will most certainly need siblings. But first, she needs a name. What do you think, my love?”
“She needs a special name,” he agreed, “for she is the one who finally brought us together, just as we should have been, after so very long.”
“Yes she did,” Hannah agreed. “What do you think of Gertrude? It is close in meaning to Gervase, in remembrance of your brother.”
He stared down at the quiet, cherubic face, then glanced back to his wife, love rushing through him anew. “It is a perfect name for her, my love. Thank you.”
Her smile went straight to his heart. “I hoped you would approve. It seems right.”
Yes, it did. He stood then, going to Hannah, settling himself alongside her in the bed. He slid his arm around her, then kissed his daughter’s soft crown before lifting his head. He was lost, once more, in his beautiful wife’s eyes. “You were brave and strong and wonderful. Far stronger than I could ever hope to be.”
She cupped his cheek. “You are my strength. Now and always.”
He turned his head, kissed her palm. “And you are mine, for eternity. I love you both so much, my heart is bursting with it.”
“Mine too,” she told him. “I love you, Graham.”
He had never known such happiness as he knew now, in this moment, with Hannah and their daughter within the circle of his arms. “And I love you.”
Gertrude began to cry, the plaintive wail of a newborn infant lost in the strange new world into which she had been suddenly thrust.
He stroked his daughter’s head softly, seeing so much of himself in her, feeling his heart swell in his chest. “I love you too, little one. Never fear. I love you, too.”
Hannah laid her head on his shoulder, and a deep and abiding peace settled over him. At long last, they had
found their happiness.
Together.
* * *
– The End –
About Scarlett Scott
USA Today and Amazon bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and Regency romance with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, adorable identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.
* * *
A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything, but especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. Catch up with her on her website http://www.scarlettscottauthor.com/. Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.
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