Her lips lifted, just enough. “I must beg you to keep your false flirtations to yourself, sir.” Her words deepened to a whisper. “You see, I am not supposed to know you. It wouldn’t be proper.”
He cleared his throat. “There once was a spinster by chance . . .”
“This one better not be about my breasts,” she warned, but her voice was low and delicious. In an instant his eyes were just there, on the creamy swell of skin that rose up from the yellow silk and appeared to be begging for his kiss.
He swallowed hard, willing his feet to keep to the prescribed rhythm. “Who consented to just one dance.”
She ducked her head. “But she tread on his toes . . .”
He nodded, though in truth she’d not stepped on his toes once. “And ought to box his nose . . .” He paused dramatically, letting a few steps go by, then leaned in, his words the merest whisper in her ear. “ . . . because he wanted to remove her pants.”
She began to shake with laughter. “I am wearing a gown tonight, my lord. Not trousers.”
He bent in to whisper again. “But I know what you were wearing earlier this afternoon, don’t I?”
Chapter 30
Lucy hadn’t been sure she could do it. Those first, stumbling moments into the crowded ballroom and the nearly disastrous conversation with the Duchess of Pembroke had flayed her nerves. But somehow, on Thomas’s arm, she began to think she could do nearly anything.
Flirt, if she must. Smile, if he encouraged it.
Fly, if he but told her she could.
The waltz ended too soon. Would she be permitted another with him tonight? It probably wouldn’t be appropriate, but somehow, a reel or a quadrille seemed far too tame. Rules and propriety aside, she only knew she didn’t want the moment to end.
“I feel . . . a bit breathless,” she said as the last notes drew to a close, not even needing to fabricate the excuse. “A bit of fresh air might be in order.”
His eyes darkened promisingly. “A turn in Lady Pembroke’s gardens, perhaps?”
She pulled him toward the open French doors, wanting only to escape the notice of her mother and whoever else might be watching. Or waiting. Somewhere, Lydia’s viscount was no doubt looking for her, waiting for his chance to pounce. She didn’t particularly feel like playing the part of prey at the moment. Not unless it was to snare a marquess.
Outside, the cooler night air was a pleasant balm compared to the too-warm atmosphere of the ballroom. She leaned closer to Thomas, welcoming the warmth that radiated from him. She was tempted to wrap herself around him, but knew she couldn’t. At least, not right here. But if they would but go a few more steps, into those shadows, who knew what trouble they might reasonably get up to?
“Did things go well with your sister?” she asked, tugging him deeper into the garden.
“Better than I had ever hoped,” he said, his voice a low rumble that did delicious things to her stomach. “I have you to thank for that.” He pulled her gently around to face him, leaving them in disappointing view of the ballroom. “I have you to thank for everything, Lucy. You’ve opened my eyes to the world I turned my back on. One can fulfill the obligations of their position as well as find happiness. I can live in London or I can live in Cornwall.”
“Or, you can split your time between both.” She stepped closer. “With me.”
THOMAS SCHOOLED HIS face to a frown, though it took some effort, given the way his heart wanted to pound right out of his chest. “But you don’t want a husband,” he reminded her.
He’d asked her to marry him—what was it, three times now?
She’d made it clear this needed to be her choice.
And he was enjoying the turnabout.
She swallowed, looking impossibly vulnerable in the darkness. “Don’t I?” she whispered.
He let the moment hang. When her hopeful look began to turn pinched, he relented and began to move, pulling her toward the drape of a shadow cast by a pair of well-manicured plum trees, their new spring blossoms sweetly fragrant.
Prunus cerasifera.
Thank God, Lady Pembroke had a deep, lovely set of gardens.
“Well, I imagine that changes things, doesn’t it?” he asked, drawing her deeper into the darkness. “If you want a husband, you are in the right place. Most young ladies come to these events to make an exceptional match. Has anyone here caught your eye? I could see you with a fat old viscount, for example. Although, if you want my advice, I suspect you need to find someone who isn’t looking for a biddable sort of wife.”
She made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snarl.
He tugged her toward him. She took one step, then another, until she was standing between his braced legs and he was leaning back against the bark of a plum tree, welcoming the chance to kiss her properly.
Though not nearly as properly as he wanted.
HE PULLED HER into a kiss, the gentle press of his lips against hers nearly chaste. But Lucy was having none of his chivalry. She opened her mouth and pressed insistently against him. She sighed into the pleasure of it, though her mind was rattling the bars of the cage. The blasted man. Kissing her like this, instead of proposing. She’d hinted. She’d cajoled.
She’d very nearly begged.
Why wasn’t he asking her to marry him again?
And oh, if he only would, there would be no more need for tiresome balls, no more dutiful expectations. She would have fulfilled the entire purpose of a Season: to catch a titled husband. She tried to imagine the look on her mother’s face when she learned her wild, ill-mannered, short-haired daughter had landed a marquess instead of a viscount.
Although, “landed” was a bit of a stretch, given that he seemed content to merely kiss her as though their lives—but not their reputations—depended on it.
It had not escaped her notice that he’d made quite sure to wait for the shadows, after all.
Through the drugging power of his kiss, it suddenly hit her. Why he’d pulled her into the shadows, rather than risk her reputation with this kiss in full view of the ballroom. He’d said he would wait for her decision, and asked her to consider him in the event she ever changed her mind. He didn’t want to force her.
He was waiting for her to ask him this time.
Lucy broke away, gasping for a much-needed breath of air, and then pressed her lips flush against his ear. There was no hesitation, no sense of wondering at her decision.
It was simply made.
It had been, from the moment she’d read Aunt E’s final diary entry.
“Thomas,” she said, her voice husky with desire. “I love you. I love the way you kiss me, and I love the way you argue with me. I even love your terrible poetry.”
She felt the change ripple through him, as though all this time, he’d been holding back a piece of himself, waiting and wanting. “I love you, too, Lucy.”
“Then there’s only one thing for it.” She tipped her forehead against his, wanting to hold her breath, and yet knowing her words had never been so important. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”
THOMAS PAUSED, ENJOYING the chance to make her squirm.
But he couldn’t maintain the ruse for long. There was only one answer on his lips, and it was insisting on tumbling out.
“I would be honored to make you my marchioness, Miss Westmore.”
She practically threw herself against him, her arms tight about his neck. “Thank you,” she gasped. “I was about to say ‘please,’ and we both know how much I hate to say that.”
When it landed on his mouth, her kiss was fevered and hopeful and so bloody right, he couldn’t help but take what she offered, sweeping into her mouth with a guttural growl of approval. Whatever hold he’d maintained on his desire until now disintegrated in the face of such a sweet assault. He felt his body respond, his cock swelling to the point of violence, warning him to not stretch the moment out too long. Her curves were lush handfuls against his greedy palms, and he gave his hands shameful p
ermission to roam, refamiliarizing himself with territory he’d feared was lost to him forever.
As if deciding he needed a map, she pulled at the edge of her bodice, and he nearly groaned out loud as her rounded breasts spilled out, taunting him with their pert coral tips.
“When?” he groaned against her throat, his tongue sweeping in small circles, drowning in the taste of her. “When should we do it?”
Because God above, if she made him wait, he was going to lose his mind.
“TODAY,” LUCY PANTED. “Yesterday, if you can manage it. Post the bans tomorrow.” She slipped a hand down and cupped his length in her palm, making him hiss out a breath between his teeth. “Just please don’t make me wait anymore.”
She knew it wasn’t proper. Less than a hundred yards away a candlelit ballroom was waiting, with musicians and matrons and probably a viscount, searching for Lydia in every corner. But Lucy was betrothed.
She loved this man. They were out of sight, and he had said yes, and she was not leaving here tonight with her maidenhead intact. She’d pay him a thousand pounds, if it came down to it.
Thankfully, he was in an agreeable mood, because he sank down onto the soft grass, drawing her down with him until she was resting on top of him. She kissed him long and hard, struggling to pull her skirts free where they were pinned beneath his legs, not even caring if the expensive silk was collecting grass stains and bits of plum blossoms that would give them away more surely than any bold confession. She never needed to wear another ball gown as long as she lived, but there would be only one first time with the man she loved, and the moment was here.
She struggled at the buttons of his trousers, growing frustrated when they wouldn’t give to her needy fingers. But then his hands were there, helping her.
His length spilled out in her hands, the surprise of it making her gasp in wonder. “I didn’t expect it to be so soft,” she confessed, running her nails lightly across him.
“Trust me, it isn’t soft,” Thomas choked out.
She ran her hand up the length, pausing to rub her thumb against the tip. Remembering how he had kissed her so intimately in Cornwall, she lowered her head and pressed her tongue against him, smiling to herself to feel him tremble in response to her daring.
“Lucy—” came his protest, but she ignored him, pressing her willing mouth around him, enjoying the sharp hiss of his breath as she ran her tongue in hot, liquid swirls against his straining skin. And then he could no longer form a coherent protest, because his breathing became far too strained for words.
Though she wanted to linger—to punish him, even, for making her wait so long—she finally let him pull her roughly up and away. She followed his lead as he urged her to straddle him. Because she wanted this, too: more of him, more of the feelings he spun up inside her. And she trusted him, now, to not let her down with only half an experience, the way he had before.
She settled over him, and as she lowered herself slowly, she felt that soft fullness pressing against her in the most perfect place imaginable. She closed her eyes, adjusting to the strange welcome of it all.
“You are chewing on your lip,” came his voice. “What are you thinking?”
Lucy opened her eyes. “Truly?” she whispered. When he nodded, she felt her cheeks heat. “I was thinking that perhaps there are some advantages to wearing skirts after all.” She shifted, enjoying the way the movement made him groan. “For example, I couldn’t do this if we were both wearing trousers.”
“For God’s sake, hold still, Lucy.”
She did. And found that was very nearly as enjoyable as the pursuit of friction.
After a moment his jaw softened, as though preparing himself for a monumental task. “Ready?” he asked, his voice almost a moan.
She blinked. “You mean . . . this isn’t it?”
His smile was slow and wicked. “Not even close.”
“Then yes. Please,” she told him.
And that, apparently, was all she needed to say. The delicious, slow glide of his body against hers became a sharp pinch of pain. She drew in a sharp breath, realizing she was now seated on top of him, his body joined with hers.
“Are you all right?” he asked through gritted teeth.
She loosened her breath. “I believe you now. It is not so soft after all.”
His chuckle rippled through them both. “It gets better, I promise.”
She moved, almost experimentally, to learn that it did, indeed, get better. She felt him move inside her, the sweetest of invasions. He was seated so deeply inside her she felt as though he might very well touch her heart. And it got better still when he pulled her forward so her begging breast was flush against his mouth. He drew her nipple in, suckling gently, rolling it against his tongue until she was thrashing in pleasure.
Yes, this was much better.
She tossed her head, enjoying the sheer torment of his lips. Somehow, he guided them into a welcome rhythm, his hands against her hips, showing her how to move. Where their bodies were joined, she felt that building sensation, the one he had shown her that morning in the meadow. But it was different, somehow.
Perhaps because it was a shared experience this time, instead of a one-way gift.
He relinquished his attentions at her breast to both pull her down and rise up to meet her mouth, capturing her soft cries, silencing her with a kiss. “Shhhhh. They cannot see us,” he whispered, his voice ragged, “but they could perchance hear us if we are not careful.”
Lucy tried to be quiet. Oh, how she tried. But she was spiraling out of control now, the friction of their bodies and the slow, building pleasure impossible to fight.
“Thomas!” His name wrenched from her throat, captured by his mouth, protecting her from ruin, even as he tossed her toward the heavens. Her climax rippled through her like a summer windstorm, achingly sweet.
He was close behind, panting against her breast, every bit as devastated.
And then they were floating back down together, arms entwined, breath sounds melding.
Gradually, the scratch of earth beneath her knees began to creep in, and sounds of the distant ballroom and the sweet fragrance of plum blossoms insisted on intruding, reminding her of where they were, and what they had done.
But she didn’t care.
How could she, when it was Thomas, and she was finally where she was supposed to be?
She pushed herself up and stared down at him, her eyes lingering on his smile, just a bit higher on one side than the other. “I love you,” she murmured again, unable to say it enough now that she had found the courage to acknowledge it.
“I love you, too,” he told her, reaching up to press a kiss against her temple. And then his chuckle came, shaking her with its force, given their bodies were still very much joined. “But after much consideration, I am thinking a special license may be the way to go.”
Epilogue
“You’re missing the flowers.” Thomas turned away from the coach window and regarded his wife with an upraised brow. “It is an entirely different landscape now in July than it was in April. The heath has begun to bloom.”
From the opposite seat of the mail coach, Lucy continued to read her book. “I imagine we have plenty of time to see it,” she said absently, turning a page. “After all, we’ll be here through October, setting up the new jewelry business. I know Josephine is eager to get started.”
Thomas frowned. Yes, his sister was eager to begin her new jewelry business, selling the popular serpentine pendants and pins to the most distinguished members of the ton—nary a one who suspected the true origins of the mysterious Mrs. Smythe. They’d started with a few discreet pieces, cutting and polishing the lizardite rock Lucy had brought back to London. The first piece had been delivered to the Duchess of Pembroke, compliments of Smythe Jewelry.
It had worked like . . . well, a charm.
Everyone who was anyone wanted one.
Now they needed to deliver more.
Thomas was a little
worried, given the potential risks of discovery Josephine faced in her new role, but she had changed enough in appearance in the last few years that it should all be fine. Besides, he had a notion his sister was looking forward to a bit of financial independence and the thought of putting one over on the Society that had once shunned her.
If Josephine were willing to take the risk, it was not his place to try to stop her.
But these next few months in Lizard Bay were bound to be busy. He had a notion the Tanner orphans would be eager enough to collect the lizardite rocks that littered the coast, in between their studies, but he still needed to find townspeople to polish the stones, and he needed to sort out who had a talent for metalworking and artistry. Plus, there was the matter of finishing the repairs on Heathmore Cottage and making sure the Tanner boys had a full complement of shoes. There wouldn’t be a lot of time for leisurely walks on the moors.
And more to the point, the landscape next week would be different than the landscape today. That was one of the things he loved about the peninsula: it changed, nearly daily, with a new array of plant life blooming in rapid, wondrous succession.
“We are nearly to Lizard Bay,” he said. “And it will be dark soon. Don’t you want to look out the window for a minute or two?”
“I want to finish these next few pages first.”
Thomas glanced out the window again just as the little town appeared on the horizon. It felt good to be coming back, but better still to be coming back with Lucy on his arm, properly married. Despite the occasional, inevitable argument, three months of marriage roundly agreed with him. He, lonely for so much of his life, had been thoroughly indoctrinated into the loud, raucous Cardwell family, though he’d half suspected Lord Cardwell kept a pistol in his jacket right up until the nuptials. With the jewelry business as an excuse, he was able to visit Josephine and his niece as often as he liked, posing as an investor.
And of course, he awakened every morning, a smile on his face and tangled in the arms of a wife who slept like the dead.
But despite their idyll, it seemed they’d regressed a bit in the past hour. His new wife was paying far more attention to her book than to him.
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 34