“I glad I’m not marrying him,” she said. “Because I think I would have strangled him.”
Richard went quiet. He simply held her, his thumb gently rubbing her nape in a soothing, rhythmic motion. Then: “You’re not marrying him.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I told you on the train, I will not trade one prison cell for another.”
“You deserve better than him, Anne. You deserve better than any man here.”
Somewhere in the room, a candle sputtered. A loose window knocked gently in the breeze, and rain tapped rhythmically against the glass.
Ever so slowly, Anne turned her head and pressed her lips against Richard’s throat. He loosed a shuddering breath. Anne slid her skirts up to her knees, urging him between her thighs. She wanted him closer.
“What if I don’t want better?” she whispered against his skin. “What if I just want you?”
He made some soft noise that spoke of need and desire. There was power in this, she realized. Power in intimacy. Perhaps one of the few moments of dominance women wielded over men, that she could make him tremble at her touch.
“I’d call myself the luckiest bastard in England, truth be told.”
That made her smile. “Good. I’ve never asked for anything in my life except with you. With you, I always know what I want.” She pressed her forehead to his. “Elope with me. Be my husband.”
Richard’s grin was slow, dazzling. Her heart fluttered at the sight of it. “Anne. You’re stealing my line.”
“You’re the one who taught me to make demands. Ask for what I want. Be b— What are you doing?”
“Unbuttoning your dress. I’ve got to start over. I came here to praise the benefits of spring in Scotland, but now I’ve mucked it up and let you distract me. I’m going to make you forget you asked.”
“And why is that?” She couldn’t stop herself from laughing again.
His grin turned wicked. “So we can pretend I proposed first.”
Chapter 21
Richard wanted to be gentle with her.
He had no experience with virgins — not since he was one — but he ignored the need to take her hard and fast. That would come later, with time. They would have years ahead of them to learn different paces, their likes and dislikes.
Which parts of her body she liked to have nibbled.
Which she liked to have kissed.
Yes, the years would be good to them.
“Are you sure?” Richard whispered.
He wanted to give her the opportunity to say no. Every opportunity. He wanted her to know that if nothing else, she could trust him with this, that he would respect her wishes no matter what — here and in the future.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Oh, thank Christ.
Anne laughed as he all but dragged her into the cottage’s bedchamber. That laughter gentled into a soft groan as he brought his lips to hers.
Their kiss was soft, tentative. Exploring. Kissing was some magic. It emboldened her, transformed her. One moment tender, the next moment, hard and needy and insatiable. She grasped at his clothes as if demanding their absence, demanding his skin against hers — god, yes.
Richard unbuttoned her dress and it slid off her body to the floor. He began anew with her underthings, rewarding every new inch of skin with a kiss, light nips that left her writhing, left her hot and flushed all over. Every part of her was smooth like velvet, and she smelled of roses.
His teeth grazed her throat. She made some small, helpless noise of assent, need. Yes.
“All these freckles,” he said in wonder. She had beautiful patches of them along her shoulders, her arms, and even down her legs. “I love them.”
“Do you?” She blushed. “I know they’re not fashionable—”
“Fuck fashionable,” he murmured, running his hands down her curves. “I’m going to kiss every last one. You’ll never tear me away.”
“That would take a great deal of time, as there are so many.”
“Yes. It’s a hardship I’ll just have to endure. Starting now.” He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. “One. Two. Three, four, five. Six. Seven—”
Laughing, Anne pulled away. “Your clothes first. It’s my turn.”
Anne was not as gentle. She shoved his coat off, his waistcoat, and almost rendered his shirt apart in her haste. His soft laughter filled the room, stopping with a groan when she had her hands at his trousers. She tugged them down his hips and those, too, joined their pile of clothes.
She gazed at his naked body with a hunger that he’d never seen before. And he wanted her just as badly. Every part of her. He wanted to be feel her, touch her, worship her. He wanted to be inside her.
“Beautiful,” she said to him as she pressed kisses to his chest. “You’re so beautiful.”
“There you go, stealing my lines again.”
“Tell me honest vocabulary,” she said, setting her teeth to his throat. Brazen, she was. His hand tightened in her hair to let her know he appreciated it. “Plain speak. Filthy words.”
“Here I thought ladies enjoyed poetry.”
“Poetry later.”
“Poetry later, then,” He kissed a path across her shoulder. “For now I’ll talk about how I’m going to set you down in that bed and lick your cunny until you scream my name.”
“Yes,” she gasped.
Richard gently pushed her onto the bed and slid his way down her body. Then, just when he felt her tremble with need, he kissed her betwixt her thighs. She arched off the bed and said his name in a hoarse whisper. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard; it sounded like a litany, a benediction. This bed was their altar, this bedchamber their church, where he was on his knees in supplication.
Hallelujah, he thought, licking her with the flat of his tongue. Christ god, yes. This.
Her fingers found his hair, and she held him against her as he pleasured her. He listened to the crescendo of her noises, as they rose like the waves of an oncoming tide, and when she climaxed, it was with a cry of something like surprise.
Then, soft laughter.
“What?” he asked her, smiling.
“Again,” she said, opening her eyes. They were still glazed with pleasure.
His smile was slow as he climbed over her. “Again and again,” he promised her, settling between her open thighs to position himself at her entrance. “I’m going to bury my cock so deep inside you. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” she whispered, trying to draw him closer. Her legs gripped his hips. “Please.”
Suddenly, he found himself serious as he gazed down at her. It was her first time. She had to know . . .
No, he needed to be sure. He did not wish to betray her trust.
“Anne. The first time isn’t always—”
She cupped his cheek. “I know. That’s why I’m glad it’s with you.”
Richard shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers. “Poetry now. Mind you, I’m terrible at poetry.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You’re the most exquisite woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered, kissing her softly. “We’re going to do this again in the light, tomorrow and the day after. I’m going to marry you, give you my name, and spend the rest of my life showing you how a husband ought to treat a wife. It will always be like this.” He stroked a thumb across her cheek. “Yes?”
She did not speak. Words were such inadequate things; they were never enough, always a pale approximation of a feeling. Like trying to describe color to the blind. So she kissed him, and dragged his body down to hers until they fit together like that painting of Cupid and Psyche.
And like in that painting, he worshipped her with his body.
Richard slowly pushed inside her. Anne gasped against his mouth, then flinched when he seated himself to the hilt. He almost raised his head to apologize — he’d hurt her — but she brought her legs around his hips and held him there.
�
��Stay,” she breathed.
Stay. He would have stayed there forever if she had asked it of him. He contented himself with small kisses down the line of her neck, the tender spot near her pulse. Her hips began to move, urging him to do the same.
He pulled out slowly and slid inside her again, his rhythm quickening with her breathing. “You feel so damn good.”
She was whispering against his skin, small words, encouragements. Prayers. He had not known intimacy to be a religious experience, but this was not sins of the flesh; it was a connection of the souls through movement of their bodies, their words, their touches. He cherished her, every part of her, and she humbled him.
He wanted to worship her body every night.
More.
The pressure between them built. He thrust faster. Deeper. Harder. Her hand found his arse and she gripped it in silent encouragement. Hallelujah, yes, praise her.
Her heels dug into his thighs and he knew she was as close as he was. He slid his hand down their bodies and pressed his fingers to the spot where they were joined, where he knew she liked most.
“Richard,” she gasped, crying out as she came.
He came with her, pressing his forehead to her throat. His orgasm left him sated, more relaxed than he’d felt in ages. He lay against Anne as their breathing came down, until they were both gently panting.
“Marry me,” he whispered. “Pretend I asked first.”
She laughed. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
“Good. Now, about those freckles . . .”
Richard woke the next morning after a particularly heavy sleep. He’d had Anne three times during the night, and slept more soundly than he had in years. He smiled, intending to have her again before breakfast, but when he slid his arm to the other side of the bed, he found it empty.
“Anne?”
The sheets beside him were cold. She had been gone a while.
She must have returned to her room before the sun rose. Smart girl. They would raise enough gossip after they eloped.
Richard pulled on his clothes and made his way back to the house. It was surprisingly quiet for such a large estate, but Caroline’s servants were well-trained; they prided themselves at being neither seen nor heard. And as for the guests? Well, they rarely rose before noon, except for Granby and Anne.
And he’d kept Anne very, very busy.
With a grin, he strode to Caroline’s study and gave the door a soft rap. He had to let the duchess know he and Anne would be leaving at the first available opportunity.
“Come.” Her voice was muffled behind the heavy oak door.
Richard entered the duchess’s study. It was the duke’s before hers, and still had a masculine design that had not changed — all except for the vase of flowers Caroline kept on the edge of the desk. Tulips. No matter what time of year, it was always tulips. Richard often wondered why.
When he saw Caroline’s blonde brows pressed into a frown, he felt a twinge of alarm. “What’s the matter?”
She tapped a stack of papers on her desk, neatly folded and marked with his name in penmanship he had come to recognize. “Anne left you these, and this note after breaking things off with Granby.”
Richard tore the note out of her hand and read.
Dear Richard,
I know how alarmed you must be right now, and for that I’m sorry. I had to leave Ravenhill in some haste.
My father sent a cable this morning. He sends notes for when he requires my attention with regards to a person he finds of immediate interest. Richard, the cable was about you. I cannot be selfish and put my happiness and needs first, not when he intends to harm you. You are more important to me than that.
I beg your forgiveness, and have left you with the remaining information on his allies, as promised. I will help you the way you helped me.
Yours,
Anne
Richard shut his eyes and crumpled the letter. “Fuck.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “You let her leave?”
“Let her? Of course I let her. She’s not a prisoner, Richard.” Her gaze softened. “Are you going to read her papers or not?”
“Later. I need to go to London, find her, and put her on the first bloody train to Scotland so I can marry her.”
“I suggest you find another course of action, because short of kidnapping her, she is not going to come willingly. She cares too deeply for you.”
“More fool, her.” His laugh was dry. “And me.”
Caroline stood and came around the desk. “Listen to me, Richard. Ignore this foolish impulse to stampede into the prime minister’s home and throw his daughter over your shoulder like a barbarian. She’s not a sack of potatoes, and she’s told you what she needs to do.”
“What if I strangled her father instead?”
Caroline glared at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“I wasn’t until I read that fucking note.”
The duchess gripped his hands. “You’re not listening to me. You’re being a stupid, emotional man and that is never a good combination. Listen to me. Are you listening?”
Richard stared down at where she had his hands so tightly in a vise that he wondered if she were about to break his fingers. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” She gestured with her head to the stack of papers. “You will take that information she gave you. You will secure your votes. You will let her gather what else she can, and then — when you are calm — you will make further plans.” She released him. “Understood?”
Good god, she was actually terrifying when she put her mind to it. “I’m almost too afraid of what you’d do if I said no. I’ve never known you to be so fierce.”
Caroline smiled brilliantly. “Good. Now pack your things and go secure your votes.”
Chapter 22
Anne didn’t have much time.
She knew it wasn’t long before the duchess’s house party became the subject of gossip. If her father caught wind of it, he'd subject her to questioning. Guests saw her with Lord Granby, and though their extremely brief engagement was not announced, it would no doubt be rumored.
She had just entered the house and sent her luggage upstairs when her father’s butler, Bates, mentioned her father wished to speak with her. “Oh? When did he return from his trip?”
“Late yesterday evening, Miss,” Bates said.
Yesterday evening. Then he must have had the cable sent right when the telegraph office opened this morning. The Duchess of Hastings’s butler had discreetly knocked on the cottage door while she was still abed with Richard. He’d been so exhausted that he hadn’t heard Anne slip on her clothes and leave in haste.
The cable had given her a sickening sense of dread.
Come home. R. Grey requiring immediate attention. — SS
Immediate attention was her father’s very polite way of saying he intended to destroy a man.
Anne had seen so many people brought to ruin from her father’s information — good men, some of them. They had their whole families driven out of London in either shame or bankruptcy. When her father had it in his mind to break someone, he usually succeeded.
And she had helped him. She was partly responsible for so many people’s lives being upended, devastated. It was something she had to live with — her complicity. She would not do this again.
She would not let him do the same with Richard.
Anne came to the heavy door of her father’s study and scratched lightly on the surface.
“Don’t bother me unless you’re my daughter,” the prime minister called.
“It’s me,” Anne said.
“Then come.”
Stanton Sheffield was seated at his desk, surrounded by papers — letters from constituents, bills he needed to read through, events to attend. He didn’t look up when he said, “Shut the door.”
Anne did as he bade. “I trust your trip was successful.”
Stanton grunted, writing out something with a quick scratch of his pen. “We’ll see
if it yields fruit later. I’ve more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Richard Grey,” she said with a nod.
Her father’s lip curled in derision. “That bastard has flipped five votes in three days with the help of that repellant criminal bastard in Whitechapel.”
Thorne. He was talking about Thorne. It surprised Anne that he had never mentioned the other man before. In private, her father did not hold back his language or insults. Not his fists, either.
From the moment she had closed that door, Anne was witness to the real Stanton Sheffield. The version of himself that he had hidden from view all these years. Yes, this was the wolf in sheep’s clothing. The one who smiled just to bare his teeth.
But Anne had tolerated this for years. She knew how to retreat and hide herself away so he never suspected she was anything more than the role he had taught her so very well. Beauty, not brains, as Richard had said.
“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “Who are we speaking of?”
Stanton’s mouth thinned. “Nicholas Thorne, you fucking idiot.”
Behind her back, Anne’s fingers curled into her palms. She coiled her anger tight, never let it loose. “Your cable was about Mr. Grey.”
“And they’re working together. For god’s sake, do try and keep up.”
She dropped her head, as if embarrassed. Her fingers pressed into the skin of her palms. “I’m so sorry, papa. This Mr. Grey is a villain to flip your votes.”
Her voice was light, unconcerned, bordering on puzzled. Intended to give her father the impression that she was too distracted and simple-minded to understand his distress.
“He’s going to flip more,” he murmured. “I know it. It’s not enough to have the men from my party fall in line. The opposition is weak, and they’ll always look for the first opportunity to question their loyalties. They’re going to expect me to pay them off again.”
Anne made some sympathetic noise. “How awful.”
Stanton’s heavy fist came down hard onto the desk. Anne jumped. “Goddamn it. We need this fucking bill to fail.”
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