And Then She Fell

by Stephanie Laurens

  Tipping her head, she looked down at him, then her already well-kissed, luscious lips curved. “I’ve waited for years, although I never truly knew what I was waiting for. What I was searching for.” She glanced down; he thought she looked at her pendant, a curious many-faceted pink crystal, then she raised her head and, smiling, met his eyes. “But now it seems I simply know. Here.” Briefly, she touched her fingers between her breasts. “In here, I know. I didn’t think it could happen like that—that such a certainty of knowing would simply come to be—but it has, and so I know.”

  She held his gaze steadily. He couldn’t have dragged his gaze from hers had the bed been in flames. He waited, everything he was hanging on her next words; when they came . . . his heart stood still.

  “I know,” she said, her gaze wide and open and locked with his, “that for me . . . it’s you. What I’ve been waiting for is you.”

  My hero is you.

  Henrietta heard the words and felt their truth, absolute, immutable, irrefutable. The words and the knowledge behind them, the knowledge that was now an intrinsic part of her, pushed her to say, in a voice so sultry she barely recognized it as her own, “So . . . this, you and me, here and now—tell me how. Or, better yet, show me.”

  His chest swelled as he dragged in a breath, then his grip about her waist tightened and he eased her back, down his body. Then he half sat and kissed her, touched and caressed her; his fingers tracing through the slickness at the apex of her thighs, stroking, then probing, he readied her, then he lay back again and, as she’d demanded, showed her how.

  Held her while she positioned his erection at her entrance, then he simply steadied her and let her ease down at her own pace—let her discover the indescribable sensation of his flesh, hot and iron-hard, parting hers, then pressing in, forging steadily fraction by fraction into her body . . .

  She closed her eyes, savoring each second, each scintillating heartbeat of sensation.

  He was large.

  He felt larger.

  Quite unbelievably huge.

  Eyes closing tighter, her heart thundering heavily, with desire a scalding whip urging her on, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and eased down a fraction more, caught her breath—had it stolen—by the mind-numbing impression of him stretching her, impaling her. . . .

  His hands urged her up a touch, and she rose a fraction, then eased down again, a smidgen further this time, but . . .

  She wanted more, wanted him. All of him.

  Desperately.

  And he wanted her in the same way; she could feel the fraught tension thrumming through his body.

  Opening her eyes, she caught his, panted, her voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper, “I can’t—not like this. Just . . . do it, and take me. Make love to me.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice.

  Stifling a groan—he’d known trying it the first time that way hadn’t been a good idea, but she’d wanted to try, and who was he to argue, and he hadn’t wanted to deny her even that—James lifted her, rolled, and had her beneath him, thighs widespread, his hips wedged between with the throbbing head of his erection poised at her entrance, in a blink.

  Braced above her, he looked down into her mesmerizing eyes, hazed with passion, with desperate desire. Despite the scalding heat of her beckoning sheath, he clung to sanity enough to grate, “Trust me. This will hurt at first, but—”

  “I know!” She glared and wriggled beneath him, enough to press her slick heat over the head of his erection. “Just do—”

  He thrust in and filled her, and it was the most glorious sensation he’d ever experienced. Her maidenhead ruptured and she didn’t even flinch; instead, the honeyed walls of her heated sheath clamped tight around his rigid member, the ultimate velvet vise. Lids involuntarily falling, he tipped his head back, caught his breath on a shocked hitch, and hung on to the fleeting moment as hard as he could.

  But primitive instinct wouldn’t be denied, not for long; finally forced to obey its dictates, he flexed his spine, withdrew almost to the point of losing her clinging heat, then thrust in again.

  Deeper, harder.

  She gasped, shuddered, clung.

  Then reached up with one hand, dragged his head down, found his lips with hers, kissed him voraciously, and flagrantly, brazenly, commandingly urged him on.

  He surrendered—to her, to the whip of her passions and the lash of his—and withdrew again, thrust deep again, in an escalating crescendo repeating the age-old dance of retreat and possession, again, and again, until she caught the rhythm and they were riding freely.

  Then wildly.

  Then desperately urgently.

  And ultimately beyond thought in a pounding rhythm that rocked and razed and compulsively drove them both. Clinging, gasping, utterly in thrall, they raced for the peak, the thunder in their veins escalating, the thudding of their hearts a single beat that swept them on, whipped them higher.

  Until they broke through the clouds and ecstasy beckoned, as hot as the sun and more brilliant than the stars.

  And fingers compulsively twining, clutching tight, together they raced for it, harder, more powerfully, until as one they reached for the glory.

  Found it—and completion found them.

  Shattered them.

  She cried out and convulsed around him, fingers sinking deep as her sheath contracted powerfully and drew him irresistibly on, pulling him with her into a wild, surging cataclysm of sensation; on a groan, he surrendered and went with her.

  Into the full flush of ecstasy’s possession.

  That elemental tide of pure sensation wrecked them, wracked them, wrung them out, then, like flotsam, flung them high and far, out and into the void.

  To where glory rolled in and filled them, healed them, sealed them, fused and remade them.

  Then, with a gentle hand, set them floating free, bliss-filled, on a golden sea.

  Hours later, or so it seemed, James regained sufficient muscle control to lift and roll off Henrietta. With a heartfelt—gloriously sated—groan, he slumped alongside her.

  Somewhat to his surprise, she stirred, stretched like a cat, then turned and curled against him. He lifted his arm and she snuggled closer, nestling her head into the hollow below his shoulder.

  With an inward sigh of impossible contentment, he settled his arm around her. And, to his amazement, knowing she was awake, found words on his tongue, waiting to be spoken. He examined those words, their implication, but then inwardly shrugged, opened his lips, and let them out. “You’ll have to marry me now.”

  He squinted down at her face and saw her smile.

  “Yes, I suppose I will.” She was toying with the pink crystal pendant, a smile of feminine mystery laced with sensual appreciation flirting about her lips.

  He wasn’t so sure about the mystery, but that acknowledgment of pleasure warmed him. And her ready acceptance of his statement only underscored what he’d already divined; she might be intelligent, but she was refreshingly without guile.

  When he said nothing more, she glanced up at him, read his expression, then widened her eyes. “Was that your proposal?”

  “No . . .” He studied her expression, then more warily said, “I haven’t done this before. Shouldn’t I wait to gain your father’s approval before I formally ask you?”

  Her smile grew intent. “Not in my family.”

  “Ah.” Summoning the full force of his charm, he smiled back. “In that case.” He caught the hand she’d spread on his chest, raised it to his lips, and, trapping her gaze, reverently kissed the backs of her fingers, then asked, “Will you marry me, Henrietta Cynster, and make me the happiest of mortal men?”

  The quality of the smile that washed over her face was, to him, heaven and paradise rolled into one.

  Then she pushed up in his arms, stretched up as if to kiss him, but just before their lips met, she whispered, “Yes, I will. With all my heart, and with all that is in me, I will marry you, James Glossup.”


  Then she pressed her lips to his and sealed their pact.

  Later, much later when they finally settled to sleep, James lay slumped on his back, with his wife-to-be a warm weight in his arms, and turned his mind to the next phase in his grandaunt-induced quest. He’d found his bride and secured her hand—now all he needed to do was keep it.

  All he needed to do was discover who was trying to kill her, expose them, stop them, and all would be well.

  Eyes closing, he sighed and relaxed.

  Tomorrow.

  Tomorrow he would buckle on his armor and sally forth and slay her dragons, but, for tonight, all was well.

  Chapter Nine

  Along with the rest of Lady Ellsmere’s houseguests, James and Henrietta quit Ellsmere Grange after a leisurely breakfast the next morning. No lurking danger had surfaced to disturb their sated slumber, yet James remained alert and on edge, although he made an effort to rein in any overly protective impulses.

  Especially as Lord Ellsmere gave every indication of having already forgotten their previous evening’s conversation.

  James knew what he knew, and his first concern was to get Henrietta safely back under her parents’ roof. To his mind, and even more to his instincts, she was now his—his to protect, to keep safe. As he’d driven his curricle to the grange, he rolled sedately along behind the Cynsters’ carriage, much to his horses’ dissatisfaction; only by traveling behind the coach could he be sure of spotting any threat, even if that meant eating a certain amount of dust.

  Once they reached the cobbled streets of Mayfair, he turned off the direct route, tacking down several side streets to reach Upper Brook Street before the carriage; when it drew up before the Cynsters’ steps, he was standing on the pavement waiting to hand Henrietta down.

  When he opened the door, Henrietta was sitting poised on the seat, eager to give him her hand; as he assisted her to the pavement, eyes bright, expression alight, she said, “It’s only just eleven. Mama and Papa should still be at home.”

  Lips curving in an impossible-to-suppress response, he gave her his arm. “Let’s go in and see.”

  The butler, Hudson, on admitting them to the house, confirmed that Lady Louise was in the parlor with Miss Mary, while Lord Arthur was in his study.

  James exchanged a look with Henrietta, then drew a suddenly tight breath and said, “Please inquire if I might have a few minutes of Lord Arthur’s time.”

  Hudson glanced from James to Henrietta, then beamed. “At once, sir.”

  Hudson returned in less than a minute with the news that Lord Arthur was prepared to bestow as many minutes as James wished.

  Henrietta met his gaze. “I’ll be in the parlor with Mama.” She squeezed his arm, then released him.

  Feeling as she imagined a cat on a hot tin roof might feel, Henrietta watched James disappear in Hudson’s wake down the corridor to her father’s study. Then, dragging in a huge breath, she held it, paused for a moment to define what—how much—to reveal to her mother and sister, then she determinedly walked down the other corridor to the parlor the ladies of the family used for informal relaxation.

  Opening the parlor door, she saw her mother and Mary sitting on the window seat, flicking through a stack of ivory cards—doubtless deciding which of the various morning teas they would attend that day. Both had glanced up; the instant they set eyes on her both straightened, alert, their gazes locking on her face.

  Realizing she still wore her traveling cape and was clutching her reticule rather tightly, Henrietta went in, closed the door, then walked, carefully, almost tentatively, to stand before the window seat.

  Her mother’s eyes searched her face, then Louise reached out and took one of her hands. “What is it?”

  Henrietta dragged in a breath past the constriction that had suddenly cinched tight about her chest. “James . . . is asking Papa for my hand.”

  For an instant her mother and sister stared, then both shot to their feet and enveloped her in simultaneous scented hugs.

  “Excellent!” Releasing her, Mary all but bounced with delight.

  “My dear, dear girl! This is wonderful!” Louise drew back to look into Henrietta’s face. “I’m so glad for you both.”

  Henrietta smiled back, aware of the relief lurking behind her mother’s pleased and thoroughly satisfied expression; she knew Louise had started to worry that her activities vetting gentlemen for other young ladies would influence her view of gentlemen as a whole to the point that she wouldn’t accept any gentleman herself.

  Glowing with maternal benevolence, reassured and expectantly thrilled, her mother released her and stepped back to the window seat, waving Henrietta to join her. “Come, sit, and tell us all about it.”

  Henrietta obliged. Flanked by her mother and Mary, both eager to hear every last detail, she related an edited account of her and James’s association, repainting what her mother at least had taken to be a platonic friendship into something more closely resembling their reality. “So, you see, because of James’s grandaunt’s will, we’ll need to hold an engagement ball all but immediately, and we have to marry before the month is out.”

  “Well,” her mother said, “you always did like to be different. And getting engaged and marrying in three weeks is definitely something different for this family.” Her mother beamed at her, then at Mary. “So we’ll all need to dive in and work together to ensure we pull it off.”

  “I don’t want a big wedding,” Henrietta hurried to state. “We’ve had a surfeit of those—something nice and comfortable would better suit me—and James, I daresay, and our situation. Speaking for myself, I would prefer not to feel overwhelmed on my wedding day. I really don’t know how the others all coped.”

  “Hmm.” Her mother tapped her chin with one fingertip. “Comfortable is as comfortable might be, at least in this family, but”—she nodded—“I’ll speak with the others and Honoria, and see how quiet we can make it.”

  Mary had been jigging, waiting to ask something. She opened her lips, but a sound at the door had them all looking that way.

  The door opened and Henrietta’s father preceded James into the room; one look at her father’s face told her that James’s suit had met with unqualified approval.

  Beaming jovially, her father met her mother’s eyes, then focused on Henrietta.

  She rose as he approached.

  Her father took her hand and patted it. “Well, my girl, I understand celebrations are in order. Glossup here tells me you and he wish to tie the knot, heh?”

  Henrietta’s smiling gaze shifted to James’s face; in her eyes, James saw nothing but unalloyed anticipation for, and confidence in, their joint future. In their shared life.

  “Indeed, Papa, we do.” Closing her hand over Arthur’s, Henrietta smiled at her father. “I’m so glad you approve.”

  “Approve? Of course! James here has told me everything I need to know.” Lord Arthur cast a paternally approving glance at James. “Very good job he did of it, too. No obfuscation and all aboveboard. I have no hesitation in bestowing your hand on him, my dear—none at all.” Lord Arthur tugged her closer. “Here—come and give your father a hug. This is a happy day for us all.”

  Henrietta laughed and obliged.

  “Indeed, this is a joyous event!” Louise pressed forward to hug James, then drew his head down to kiss his cheek before stepping back to meet his eyes. “Welcome to this family, James—and it’s simply a delight that we already know you so well. Simon will be thrilled.”

  James smiled back, pleased everything had gone so smoothly, so relatively easily; Lord Arthur had been encouraging and understanding. Being a friend of Simon’s and long known to the family had significantly eased his path. “Thank you, ma’am.” Placing a hand over his heart, he bowed. “I will do everything in my power to live up to yours and Lord Arthur’s expectations.”

  Louise beamed, patently pleased, and stepped back to allow Mary to hug him.

  Henrietta’s sister was jigging up and down, it
seemed with sheer exuberance. She planted a quick peck on his cheek—and insouciantly whispered, “Good job!”

  The door opened and Hudson swept in with a bottle of champagne and glasses. In an expansive mood, Lord Arthur handed around the glasses, then offered a toast, “To James and Henrietta!”

  They all duly sipped, then Lady Louise set down her glass and sank onto the window seat. She looked up at James and Henrietta, who had moved to stand beside him. “Henrietta has told me of your need to marry by the end of the month, which means your engagement will have to be announced and celebrated before that.”

  Lord Arthur humphed. “The wedding will have to be by special license, but there’ll be no difficulty there.”

  His wife quelled him with a look, one that, to James, suggested that the arranging of his and Henrietta’s betrothal and wedding was Lady Louise’s domain and she wasn’t about to brook any interference. “Naturally.” Her tone was faintly haughty. “However”—she looked back at James and Henrietta—“that means we have no time to waste in setting matters in train.” She focused on James. “I’m assuming you’ll be placing a notice in the Gazette forthwith?”

  He nodded. “I’ll go to their office from here. The notice will appear tomorrow morning.”

  Louise nodded. “Excellent. So”—she arched her brows—“when would you like your engagement ball to be held?”

  Henrietta glanced at James, met his eyes, then turned back to Louise. “How soon can we host such an event?”

  Without waiting to be asked, Mary rushed to the escritoire, retrieved an appointment book, and brought it to her mother.

  Receiving the book, Louise opened it and flicked through the pages, eventually pausing on one, fingertip tapping, then she looked up. “A week. Seven days from today. We don’t want your ball to clash with too many of the major events, but that evening will do admirably.” She looked at Arthur. “You may start spreading the word to the male half of the family and your friends. Meanwhile”—Louise rose—“I’ll speak with Honoria immediately, and all the others, too.” She met Henrietta’s eyes and smiled with anticipatory relish. “It’ll be a rush, but we’ll manage it.”