She hoped she would be able to validate by actually doing something that would warrant the gossip.
“What are you doing?” he said, trying to return her back to the safety of his lap.
As though his lap, or anywhere near him, was safe. It was most definitely not.
At least, she hoped it wasn’t. If he would only believe her. Believe in her, and trust her. How could she make him see?
“You’re going to ruin your gown, and people will—oh,” he said, nodding his head in understanding.
“People will what?” she asked. He might understand, but she most definitely did not. She swung her legs around so she could sit on them, probably looking like a little yellow mushroom on the grass.
His expression was puzzled. “You don’t know?” He stood in one graceful motion. She wished she could glower at him for being so athletic, but she didn’t dare. Because she had broken his trust.
“I don’t.”
He shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. “Then I won’t tell you.”
“Fine. Don’t.” Whatever it was he thought “people will” do, it wasn’t as important as what he would do. Which was dependent on what she was about to do.
She got onto her knees and shuffled closer to him, feeling her gown dragging in the dirt and the grass and no doubt a few ant colonies.
She didn’t care.
He stared down at her, openmouthed. “What are you doing now?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips.
She had to say, she liked the view from down here. Him standing straight and tall in front of her, his strong, masculine hands on his even more masculine hips. The long length of his legs directly in front of her, his shirt sticking to his chest in a few spots because of how warm it was.
That made her warm, too.
She didn’t reply to his question, instead reaching one hand up and taking his fingers in hers. “Archibald Salisbury,” she began, trying to keep her voice from wobbling, “would you do me the very great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
More silence. How did men ever do this, when the object of their affections just stood there gaping at them? It was a good thing men were men, and so confident, or else there would be many fewer marriages.
At last he spoke. “No.”
Had she—“No?” she repeated, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
He lowered himself back onto the ground, a warm, genuine smile on his face. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him.
“No.” He placed his palm on her ankle, nudging the fabric of her gown aside. Now his expression was less friendly and more feral. He slid his hand up her leg onto her calf. She felt her breath hitch. “I won’t have you thinking you can just say a few words and I’ll forgive you.” His hand was on her knee now. “You’ll have to prove it to me.”
“And—and how will I do that?” She sounded breathless, and his hand was only on her knee.
Another few inches, and his warm palm was on her thigh, at the tops of her stockings. He hooked his fingers between the fabric and her skin and rubbed his fingers together.
“You’ll just have to trust me.” Left unspoken was that she hadn’t trusted him to love her. That he wasn’t certain he trusted her.
Hopefully this would go a long way to convincing him.
“So you’re—ah,” she said as his hand slid up to cup her there, underneath her skirts. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she watched as he licked his lips.
And felt it as though he had licked her there.
Did people do that? Specifically, did he do that?
Oh my goodness. She had never thought of the possibility before, but she really hoped he had, and did, and was about to. Because it seemed as though it would be heaven to have his mouth there, kissing her there, making her fall apart as he had with his fingers.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her expression. One corner of his mouth lifted in a sly grin, and he slid one finger inside, moving his body closer to hers as he did.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice rough with desire. At least, she presumed it was desire. Unless he’d caught a cold in the last five minutes.
She swallowed. Now was not the time for prevarication. She had to tell him what she wanted so he would trust her. So this would be more than just this.
Even though this was fairly spectacular. But it wouldn’t last her a lifetime.
“I was wondering,” she began, and her voice sounded . . . odd. Squeaky, but in an entirely different way.
“What?”
“I was wondering if you, if people, if it was possible—?” and then she stopped, because how could she possibly ask what she was thinking? What if he was appalled, what if people never did do these things?
Only she thought that they probably did. She might not have a lot of experience in things, but she definitely had imagination. An imagination that had been sparked when he put his fingers there, and made her feel that.
“What?” he asked again, sliding another finger in.
“How am I expected to speak in coherent sentences when you are doing that?” she blurted out, then caught his startled expression and began to laugh.
“My fault, Duchess.” He smiled slyly. “Perhaps you can ask me your question again, that one about accepting your hand at another moment?”
“Oh,” she said, not in a squeak so much as a sigh.
“Oh,” he repeated, lowering his mouth to cover hers.
Letter
Dear Archie,
Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
Genevieve
Chapter 30
He didn’t just kiss her; he devoured her, his lips moving on hers, his fingers—three of them now, she thought—stroking her down there, his other hand caressing her breast. She was now lying on the grass, a tiny part of her mind knowing that her yellow gown was about to be grass-stained, but not caring in the least.
Because he was here, and he was kissing her, and she wanted to practice this, as often as he would let her. Why had she spent so much time pretending to meet people and be proper and show disdain?
This was the practice she wanted. Him and her and them.
He broke the kiss, withdrawing his fingers as he leaned back on his heels to look at her, his chest heaving. She had done that to him. They had done that together.
“You should be naked.”
The blunt words shocked her, but not as much as they likely should. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she got back onto her knees, pulling the material of her gown up and over her head.
Unfortunately—or really fortunately, given the circumstances—Clarkson wasn’t there to undo the buttons, so Genevieve’s head got stuck, and she was in darkness. Knowing her lower half was exposed to his gaze, and yet not able to remove her gown.
“I don’t want to be a lady anymore, if this is what I have to go through,” she muttered as she wriggled.
“Just a moment, I didn’t expect you—well, never mind, I should have,” he said, and she felt him move around to her back, undoing the buttons as swiftly as Clarkson would have.
And then a moment later she was free, and unclothed out in the open.
Well. So that had happened.
He held her gown and met her gaze, an appreciative smile on his face. And yes, she was naked, but she didn’t feel naked. Or at least badly naked. If such a thing existed?
“And now it’s your turn,” she said, casting an appraising look up and down his body. She hadn’t seen any more than his face, his throat, and his forearms yet, for goodness’ sake. And she the privileged aristocrat who was supposed to have everyone do what she wanted.
He wasn’t naked yet, and she wanted it.
“As you command, Duchess,” he said, smirking. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he removed his jacket, tossing it onto the grass. His shirt was next, and he pulled it up and over his head, revealing his chest.
“Hold on,” she commanded, putting her hand out. “I want to look first before
you’re all done.” She twirled her finger. “Turn around so I can see all of you.”
He grinned and began to turn, slowly, so she could see each and every part of his upper body. The firm curve of his biceps, the definition of the muscles on his chest, the intriguing indents lower down leading into his trousers.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“You’re gorgeous,” she replied. There was no need to be coy about it; he wanted honesty and trustworthiness, didn’t he? “And now the rest, please.”
“Didn’t I remind you not to say please?” he teased, his fingers going to the placket of his trousers.
“You did. Trousers!” she commanded, trying to keep herself stern and unsmiling, and failing utterly.
“Much better,” he said as his trousers dropped down to the ground.
He stood in his smallclothes, his male thing sticking out in a gravity-defying way. That was impressive in and of itself.
And then the smallclothes were gone, too, and she was staring at him, at all of him, all that smooth, hard skin curved and bunched in intriguing ways.
Much different than how she looked, for certain.
And then he had lowered himself onto the ground again, onto her, so her back was pressed into the grass and the earth and probably those darn ants again, and she couldn’t care, even though she knew she would likely get sunburned—it wasn’t often, which is to say never, that she was exposed so thoroughly to the sun.
And then what would Clarkson say?
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked, his tone low and rumbling.
“Yes,” she admitted, because she wanted to be honest. “But I don’t care.” She placed her fingers on his side and smoothed her palm down his warm, bare skin, running her hand over the curves of his arse and then, daringly, slipped her fingers between their bodies to find that part of him that was so . . . insistent.
“Ahh,” he said, nearly gasping as she encircled, or tried to encircle, him with her hand.
“Are you uncomfortable?” she asked.
He opened his eyes, which it seemed he’d shut when she touched him, and smiled. “Yes. But only in the most comfortable way.”
He shifted off her then, reaching behind himself to grab his jacket. “Lie on this,” he commanded, spreading it out on the ground.
“There’s no need,” she began.
“Oh, there is, Duchess,” he interrupted. “Because I don’t want your lovely back to get scratched by the grass and the twigs that are on the ground when I thrust into you as far as I can go.” He accompanied his words with a demonstration of what he meant, thrusting himself into her hand, his male part all hot and hard and demanding.
“Oh,” she said, not even squeaking now. Just . . . breathless.
“Do you want me to do that, Duchess? You can command me, if you wish. If you paid attention to our lessons you should know how to quite well by now.” He lowered his mouth to her ear and licked her lobe, making her shiver all over. “Just tell me to make love to you, Duchess.” He spoke in a whisper, but the specificity of his words made her feel as though he’d shouted them from the rooftops.
From the rooftops while entirely naked.
Now was not the moment to laugh, and yet she was.
He laughed along with her, but his laugh was one of pure joy, not a laugh she thought she’d ever heard from him before.
“Make love to me,” she said in her most authoritative voice. Which would be impressive if she weren’t naked outside lying on a steward’s coat while said steward was preparing to ravish her. At her invitation.
“Your command is my wish,” Archie replied, clamping his hand on her side. He ran it back down to there, right where she longed for him to be, nudging her thighs aside so his fingers could gain entrance again.
“Oh.” She sighed, wriggling into his hand.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his fingers caressing her, causing her to feel that uncomfortable comfortable feeling, too.
“Actually,” she said, trying to sound conversational rather than breathless—a fruitless task—“I was wondering if people ever kissed . . .” and she stopped speaking, instead closing her eyes tight in embarrassment.
Because apparently she wasn’t embarrassed to be stark naked outside with a gentleman who was not her husband, but she was embarrassed to say things.
“Kiss . . . there?” he asked, a smile evident in his voice. “Duchess, you shock me,” he continued, even as he began to move so he could put his mouth where she most wanted it.
Amazed she had even thought of it.
And then, when he did kiss her there, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Preferably at their first meeting, when she was all awkward and resentful and he was dismissive and controlling.
Well, perhaps not exactly at their first meeting. But shortly thereafter.
He licked and kissed her there, making her breath go faster and faster as she writhed on the ground—no, his jacket. But still.
And then, just then, she exploded, feeling as though she was a part of a million stars falling from the sky.
He looked up at her then, his mouth moist from her, his lips curled into a self-satisfied smile.
“Now I’ll ask you, Duchess. Would you do the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
“No,” she replied, a sly grin on her face.
Archie had had sex before, of course. But it had never felt like this—so intense, so passionate, so—fun. She was fun. It was a delight to feel how she came apart in his mouth, how she lured him to her with her unselfconscious charm, how happy she was to be with him.
How she’d apologized.
He wasn’t angry anymore, now that he knew why. That is, he supposed he might be again at some point, but it was difficult to stay mad at someone who was wonderfully and thoroughly naked and who was very interested in having you ravish her into next week.
“Well?” she said, after he didn’t reply. “How are you going to convince me?”
He raised himself up on his arms and moved up her body so they were face-to-face. She arched an eyebrow and he felt the urge to make her so well-pleasured she couldn’t speak, let alone refuse his offer.
Which was precisely what he was going to tell her.
“I cannot convince you with my words, Your Grace. I can only convince you with my tongue”—and then he leaned down and claimed her mouth, withdrawing to speak again—“and my body”—and he moved one hand, which she’d placed on his back, to his penis—“and my cock.” And he kissed her again, putting his hand on top of hers and showing her how he wished to be stroked.
She learned quickly, and if he weren’t interested in thoroughly and completely compromising her, he would have let her continue.
But he knew what he had to do. It was the only—ironically enough—honorable thing to do, since she loved him, and he loved her, and that meant they should be married.
He’d have to ruin her, figuratively and literally, for anyone else.
He stilled her hand and broke the kiss. “Are you ready for me?” he asked.
She nodded vigorously, her eyes wide. Not in shock, but in interest. He was already anticipating just what their married life would be like, and he had to admit he was very much looking forward to it.
“Please,” she said, rubbing his cock on her mound. She closed her eyes and emitted a little moan that went straight to his—well, all over his body, but there in particular.
“Don’t say please,” he admonished, a part of his brain wondering how he could possibly be making jokes at this time. But that was what she brought out in him—that joy of life, no matter how difficult things seemed.
“Then just enter,” she commanded, tilting her chin up.
“Yes,” he replied, entering her with one deep thrust.
She gasped, and he froze, but she shook her head at his questioning look. “No, it’s fine. Continue,” she ordered, the curve of her mouth showing she was sharing the joke.
He d
id, pulling back out and in again, her wet heat surrounding him, her hands clutched on his arse, biting her lip as he thrust in and out.
It would be too much to expect that she would climax her first time, but he could tell that she was finding pleasure in it, her body moving to meet his, her fingers digging into his skin.
He set himself a steady rhythm, trying to think of haying equipment and ledgers so he could prolong the moment.
And then he couldn’t wait, his motions getting faster and faster, hearing his breath ragged, exploding from his lungs in short bursts.
He shouted an inarticulate groan as he came, a bone-deep feeling of satisfaction accompanying the waves of pleasure suffusing him.
And then he collapsed on top of her, heedless of his weight, knowing she could handle him no matter what. That she would handle him no matter what, now and forever.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Now I’ll say yes.”
Letter
Dear Genevieve,
Have I told you today how much I love you? Perhaps I should show you instead. I’ll come by your room after dinner.
Archie
Chapter 31
“Yes, please do come in,” Genevieve said as the earl and countess arrived. Chandler helped them off with their coats, and Genevieve gestured to the dining room. “This way. We are just waiting for two more.”
One of whom was to be her husband.
Husband.
Her entire life, she’d longed for a family, an enormous family with loads of people and animals and conviviality and love.
She’d ended up with Gran and Byron, Aunt Sophia, Miss Evelyn, and Archie.
It was more than enough.
The door opened again, and her head swiveled to see. Was he here? At last? Aunt Sophia walked in, followed by Archie, resplendent in formal evening wear. She’d never seen him dressed as a true gentleman, as he must have looked before joining the army and then working for a living. His coat and trousers were pitch-black, his shirt a snowy white, his evening neckwear ornamented with a small gray pearl.
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