She leaned back and gently cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I brought it on myself. I should have spoken my heart to you so much sooner.”
Her lips curved. “We are equally guilty of that. But no more recriminations, James. Kiss me.”
He tangled his hands in her hair and gladly complied, sliding his mouth over hers and tasting her sweetness. At last. He stood, drawing her up with him, and moved them, still joined in their kiss, to stand beside the bed.
“Lily. My beautiful one,” he murmured. “Be with me.”
“Always,” she breathed.
His hands made quick work of the sash about her waist. The rich silk robe slipped off her shoulders with a single tug. “I want to see you.”
“And I you.” Fingers brushing his neck, she untied his cravat and pulled it off, then began slipping the buttons of his shirt free. The look on her face was intent, serious, and her hands explored each inch of his chest as it was revealed, leaving trails of fire on his skin. He didn’t know if he could burn any hotter, but each touch left him desiring her more.
“I could paint you like this,” she said, “All firelight and muscle and smooth skin. Perfectly male. Perfectly beautiful.” She leaned forward, trailing kisses across his chest.
“Enough. Now you.” Before the words were out of his mouth he had half the buttons of her nightdress unfastened. She took the fabric from his hands and pulled it off over her head. The firelight caressed her body and he touched her, tracing the patterns of light over her warm, soft skin. She sighed and he pulled her close against him.
Lily could not open her eyes. It must be a dream and she was nodding asleep by the fire. But no, the intimate touch of his hands moving over her naked breasts was real. She gasped—the heat of his mouth closing over one nipple was most certainly real. Her eyes flew open and she set her hands to his shoulders.
His hands moved lower, curving around her hips, smoothing down her thighs, while his mouth moved to suckle her other breast. Heat sparked between her legs and she did not know how much longer she could wait for him this time.
She did not have to. As if sensing her need, he swept her up and laid her gently on the bed. “James,” she said, holding out her arms. She wanted him lying beside her—over her, the weight of him pressed against her. Inside her.
“Patience, love.” He smiled at her. “I don’t think you want these in your bed.” He sat on the edge to pull off his boots.
“I want you in my bed. All of you. But I will allow you to take your boots off.”
“And my trousers, shall I leave those?”
“Please.” She was blushing, she could feel it, but even so she watched as his hands unfastened his trousers, allowing his manhood to spring free.
She reached and brushed her fingers over it. “Hmm. I think it needs further study, but you certainly do not resemble any flower I have ever seen.”
“How much study?” His breathing sped when she smoothed her thumb over him.
“Years. Decades.”
In one smooth motion he swung himself onto the bed and straddled her, knees on either side of her thighs, hands beside her shoulders. A fierce light burned in his eyes as he looked down at her.
“Lily. You are the flower that deserves the utmost exploration.” He bent his head to her mouth again and she arched against him, yearning for the feel of his skin against hers. It was a thrilling, yet somehow comforting sensation. He must have felt her desire, for he slowly let himself down, straightening his legs over hers until his body pressed against hers everywhere. Her legs opened of their own volition, parting under his until she could feel the tip of him there.
“Not yet,” he said against her lips. “I want you so much, but not yet.”
Before she could question why, he had slid down her body, his hands moving along her legs, pulling them wider. The feel of his mouth there, at her center, drove all her questions away. There was only soft heat and desire and the sound of her own sighs. She was becoming one of the flames flickering in the night. Oh, what he did to her—she hardly knew she could feel this way.
“Now.” His voice was rough with desire. “Now, Lily.”
“Yes.” She took him back into her arms.
His manhood was there, between her legs, sliding in deeper, deeper, until he was completely inside her. Her arms tightened around him and he went still. She had never felt so complete.
Slowly at first, he began to move in her, but she needed him closer. Lily wrapped her legs about his waist and arched her hips to meet him, welcome him. Each stroke echoed like a poem, an ancient meter of desire and love, lost and found with each new generation. She clung to him, pressing kisses against his neck and shoulders as he held himself above her and they obeyed the rule of their hearts.
Lily clenched around him and cried out. Shouting her name, James let the wildfire rush through him, let it burn away all the loneliness and despair he had carried so long.
The aftermath was like floating, both of them coming slowly back to earth, two petals borne on a languid breeze, whirling, coming to rest at last, side-by-side, on a disheveled bed in a quiet manor house in the middle of the English countryside.
Outside the stars turned, the wind rustled in the hedgerows, the whole huge breath of the night continued, waiting for dawn. All was well.
James lowered himself. They lay on their sides, legs still intertwined. The flickering light showed traces of tears on Lily’s face.
Her smile was tremulous. “I feel touched, known so deeply. I’ve never been so close to the wonder. Even painting, I grasp it for a moment, and then it’s gone. But you…James.” She buried her head against his shoulder and he pulled her in close.
The wonder. He knew it too, knew that with her by his side it would always be within reach. The world might intrude, the everyday making of their lives might push the fierce intensity away at times, but in the scent of her, the feel of her in his arms in the fire-shot dark, he would know.
Lily opened her eyes. The fire had burned low in the grate, but there was enough light to see James propped up on one elbow. He was looking at her so tenderly it made her heart ache. He said nothing, only traced her face, and smoothed her unruly hair back with a gentle hand.
A deep, unshakeable happiness lodged in her. He loved her, had followed her, had the courage to bare his heart just as she had finally looked into her own. She laughed softly.
“What is it?”
“My reputation is secure, James. Even if your cousin announces our liaison from one end of town to the other, it will not matter, because we are going to marry.”
He grinned at her. “Poetic justice. You’re right, there’s nothing Reggie can do. Not a thing.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. Another on her cheek. Then her mouth. “Wait. I nearly forgot.” He slid from the bed.
“What?” She watched him, the muscles pulling taut under his skin as he bent, hunting for his trousers. He was all sensual, manly beauty, and he was hers. One day soon she was going to lie him down on rumpled cotton and capture that lean, hard body on paper. Of course, he might insist that she be naked at the time too. In which case, it was unlikely that she would complete the sketch within a reasonable amount of time. But she would enjoy trying.
“I didn’t finish this properly before,” he said, kneeling beside the bed. He brought his closed fist up, and then slowly opened it, uncurling his fingers like a flower opening to the sun. The ring he revealed had a blue stone that glinted and winked—a sapphire, surrounded by the pale fire of tiny opals.
“It’s exquisite,” she said softly.
“No more than you are.” He slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly, fit as though she had always worn this ring. “It is one of the few things I have that belonged to my mother. Nothing gives me greater joy than seeing you wearing it.” Emotion darkened his eyes, and she was lost in their flickering depths.
She breathed his name as he bent to kiss her, showed him her love with every touch and caress
, gave herself to him as the stars faded into dawn. Her lover. Her love.
Chapter 27
Essex, England, August 1847
The pealing of the bells could be heard for miles when they left the church. The matched grays pulling their open carriage trotted effortlessly down the road, and larks swooped over the passing fields, singing as if their hearts were breaking with joy.
Lily knew that joy. She glanced over at James, who was handling the reins with a steady touch. He looked impossibly handsome, the warm sunshine striking tawny highlights from his hair and making the amber lights in his eyes dance.
He shot her a sidelong grin. “Well, wife of mine. I think we carried that off splendidly. The church was certainly full, at any rate.”
“Yes, full of my weeping relatives. Aunt Mary must have gone through at least three handkerchiefs. And Mrs. Hodge’s eyes looked suspiciously bright, don’t you think?” Even Lily’s mother had unbent enough to wish her daughter well. She had turned to her husband and said, “At least Lily is marrying. I had begun to despair of even that,” then smiled at her daughter, taking the sting from her words. And if James was not her mother’s first choice in a husband, he was certainly Lily’s.
“I think Mrs. Hodges’s state had more to do with her allergy to orange blossoms. At least that’s what she claimed.” He bent and nuzzled her hair, knocking her chaplet of white flowers askew. “I much prefer them to roses, myself. And Caroline thought they were most becoming.”
“I’m glad your cousin did not grace us with his presence. Though in some ways we are here because of him.”
“I might have preferred a less painful style of matchmaking. No, Lord Denby sent Reggie off to inspect the properties in Wales—urgent business, I’m sure.”
She shook her head, banishing all thoughts of the dark rogue. “Now tell me, where are we going? You have been very mysterious about the whole subject, although I shouldn’t complain. The last time you were so secretive I ended up being treated to the most delicious tangerines. Are you taking me somewhere to feed me citrus?”
“Definitely.” He grinned. “Most definitely—but not yet.”
They had spoken long and deeply about what their future would hold. She had assured James that if he wanted to take up his career in the military again, she would happily go with him. Her home was with him—the true home of her heart. Together, she knew, they could take any path and flourish, but he had shaken his head and declared himself finished with the army.
Between them they had a modest income, enough for a house in town or a spacious cottage in the country. James was as eager to leave London as she was. Lying curled together late at night their talk had ranged over where they could live and what they wanted to turn their hands to. He wanted to tend the land, he said, happy to boast muddy knees and rough hands. It could be a simple life, that of the country gentry.
For her part, Lily wanted only an airy, north-facing room where she could paint. Sir Edward was eager to have her continue illustrating for him. In fact, the Mercerium monograph had been wildly successful. She had been asked about her paintings so many times recently she thought perhaps she might assemble a book highlighting her best illustrations.
“You’ll know where we’re going when we get there,” James said, placing his free arm around her shoulders. “But it will be some time yet. Rest, my love.”
She did, lulled by the steady movement of the carriage and the warm sun. They passed through a village—she was dimly aware of the horses’ hooves striking sharply off the cobblestones. Later, shadows flickered across her face and she heard the susurration of wind through poplar leaves.
When the carriage slowed she roused. Long rays of sunlight slanted from the west as James guided the horses down a wide lane. Ahead she glimpsed the edges of a building through the greenery surrounding it.
“Are we there?” She rubbed her face and took a long breath.
“Nearly.” A mischievous grin tugged the corners of his mouth.
She scanned the roadside and sat upright. They had almost drawn even with the building—a small cottage with flowers blooming in the dooryard.
“It’s lovely, James.”
“Yes, it is.” He took the reins in a firm grip, but instead of pulling the horses to a stop he urged them on to a quicker pace.
Lily swiveled, keeping the cottage in sight as they passed. At his low chuckle, she glanced over at him. “You laugh, but I believe I could be happy there—as long as we were together.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He guided the horses around a turn, then drew them to a halt and gestured. “Look. Could you be happy here as well?”
Ranks of beeches lined the drive, their tall branches stretching into the clear air, rustling a welcome. In the field beyond a white horse lifted its head and cantered away down the gentle rise. She watched it go, tossing its gleaming mane. Then her eyes were drawn past, to a brighter sparkle.
A fountain played high from the middle of a small lake, throwing clear drops into the air. She could not hear the splash from where they sat, but imagined its watery music. Ornate steps led up to a series of terraces, large pots planted thickly with flowers adorning the walkway.
And presiding over it all—the house. Except it was not a house, or a spacious cottage, or even a manor. It was a mansion, four stories rising from the lush green lawns and terraces, the roofline sporting turrets and dormers and fanciful ironwork. The stone façade glowed warm gray in the westering light, and the windows winked at her.
Lily leaned forward. There, on the far edge of the building—was it possible?
“The conservatory,” James said, following her gaze. “It was my grandfather’s pride.” He clucked the horses into motion, smiling widely as she took it silently in. Was this their new home? How could it be? “The folly is just over there,” he pointed, “and the wilderness walk and grotto. And here we are.” The carriage swept up the drive and he halted them just before the doors. He leaped down and held out his arms to her.
She closed her eyes, afraid if she opened them again it would all disappear. Surely this place was a dream?
“Come, my lady.” His voice was laughing and tender. Lily opened her eyes, but before she could step down from the carriage he had taken her into his arms.
“I am quite capable of walking,” she said, sliding her hands around his shoulders to keep her balance. Being clasped in his embrace reminded her of the beach at Cadiz, of the long, long journey that had taken them, at last, to where their hearts belonged.
He dropped a kiss on her forehead but kept striding up the stairs. “I know. You are quite capable of so many things. But let me do this.”
The doors swung open at their approach and James carried her into a golden-lit entryway. His boot-heels clicked over the marble floors then were muffled by a rich blue and burgundy carpet.
“Welcome to Somergate, my love. Welcome home.” He gently set her on her feet and placed an achingly sweet kiss on her lips.
She leaned into him. “But how?”
“Reginald renounced his claim, and with some prompting from my uncle and his solicitor, Kew Gardens agreed that the property was fairly won—but I did not know it for certain until this morning.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a large key made of gleaming brass and ornamented with flourishes. “Lord Denby gave me this, just before I took my place by the altar, and told me the staff were prepared and waiting for our arrival.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Between that surprise and the sight of you walking toward me down the aisle, I was hard-pressed to keep from shouting aloud and dancing over the pews.”
“I’m glad you were able to restrain yourself. Though it came as a surprise when you whirled me off my feet after we kissed.” The memory made her laugh aloud. The look on her mother’s face at their improper behavior had been priceless.
“Ah, Lily.” He enfolded her in his arms. “With you at my side, I am capable of anything.”
“It seems as though you have your wor
k cut out for you. This is a bit more than we were imagining.” She gazed around the spacious entry, then caught sight of the painting at the top of the stairs. Recognition made her gasp aloud.
It was the portrait of James—the one she had painted a lifetime ago in the conservatory at Brookdale.
Slowly she walked up to it, feeling his strong presence at her shoulder as he followed. Those features, so known now, so beloved. How could she have guessed that he would come to mean so much to her? “My husband,” she murmured, reaching to trace the lines of paint.
She paused, struck again by the look in the portrait’s eyes—the shadowed loneliness, searching for completion. Her heart ached to see it, then ached with happiness as she turned and cupped his face in her hands. His warm skin, his smile, a hint of a dimple in the left cheek. And his eyes.
No trace of sorrow remained there. Pure joy danced in those warm brown depths. He had found what he had been searching for, it seemed.
“You are what I’ve needed my whole life,” he murmured, then kissed her.
Lily’s blood sang as his mouth moved fiercely, lovingly, over hers. She embraced him, pressed herself against his hard, lean body and pulled him close.
They were, both of them, home.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2008 Anthea Lawson
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2092-9
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Passionate Page 32