Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  She wanted all of him, and she wanted him in every possible way.

  “George,” she moaned, loving the sound of his name on her lips. She said it again, and then again, using it to punctuate every kiss. How had she ever thought that this man was stiff and unyielding? The way he was kissing her was heat personified. It was as if he wanted to devour her, consume her.

  Possess her.

  And Billie, who had never much liked letting anyone take charge, found she rather wanted him to succeed.

  “You are so. Unbelievably. Beautiful,” he said, not quite managing to say it like a proper sentence. His mouth was far too busy with other pursuits to string the words together smoothly. “Your dress tonight . . . I can’t believe you wore red.”

  She looked up at him, unable to halt the playful smile that spread across her lips. “I don’t think white suits me.” And after tonight, she thought naughtily, it never would.

  “You looked like a goddess,” he rasped. And then he stilled, just a little, and pulled back. “But do you know,” he said, his eyes burning with wicked intent. “I think I still like you best in breeches.”

  “George!” She couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Shhhh . . .” he warned, nipping at her earlobe.

  “It’s hard to be quiet.”

  He gazed down at her like a pirate. “I know how to silence you.”

  “Oh, yes, pl—” But she couldn’t finish the sentence, not when he was kissing her again, even more fiercely than before. She felt his fingers at her waist, sliding under the silky sash that held her dressing gown against her body. It came undone and then slipped entirely to the floor, the silky material shivering across her skin as it fell.

  Goosebumps rose on her arms as they were bared to the night air, but she felt no chill, only awareness as he reached out reverently to stroke her, slowly, from shoulder to wrist.

  “You have a freckle,” he murmured. “Right”—he leaned down and dropped a light kiss near the inside of her elbow—“here.”

  “You’ve seen it before,” she said softly. It wasn’t in an immodest spot; she had plenty of frocks with short sleeves.

  He chuckled. “But I’ve never given it it’s proper due.”

  “Really.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He lifted her arm, twisting it just a bit so that he could pretend to be studying her freckle. “It is clearly the most delightful beauty mark in all of England.”

  A marvelous sense of warmth and contentment melted through her. Even as her body burned for his, she could not stop herself from encouraging his teasing conversation. “Only England?”

  “Well, I haven’t traveled very extensively abroad . . .”

  “Oh, really?”

  “And you know . . .” His voice dropped to a husky growl. “There may be other freckles right here in this room. You could have one here.” He dipped a finger under the bodice of her nightgown, then moved his other hand to her hip. “Or here.”

  “I might,” she agreed.

  “The back of your knee,” he said, the words hot against her ear. “You could have one there.”

  She nodded. She wasn’t sure she was still capable of speech.

  “One of your toes,” he suggested. “Or your back.”

  “You should probably check,” she managed to get out.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, and she suddenly realized just how much he was holding his passion in check. Where she was joyously setting herself free, he was waging a fierce battle against his own desire. And she knew—somehow she knew—that a lesser man would not have had the strength to treat her with such tenderness.

  “Make me yours,” she said. She had already given herself permission to let go. Now she was giving it to him, too.

  She felt his muscles contract, and for a moment he looked as if he were in pain. “I shouldn’t . . .”

  “You should.”

  His fingers tightened against her skin. “I won’t be able to stop.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  He drew back, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he put a few inches between their faces. His hands were at her cheeks, holding her absolutely still, and his eyes burned into hers.

  “You will marry me,” he commanded.

  She nodded, her only thought to give her agreement as fast as she could.

  “Say it,” he said savagely. “Say the words.”

  “I will,” she whispered. “I will marry you. I promise.”

  For about a second he stood frozen, and then before Billie could even think to whisper his name, he’d picked her up and practically thrown her onto the bed.

  “You are mine,” he growled.

  She edged up onto her elbows and stared up at him as he stalked closer, his hands first tugging his shirt from his breeches and then moving to pull it over his head entirely. Her breath caught as his body was revealed. He was beautiful, as odd as that seemed to say about a man. Beautiful, and perfectly made. She knew he did not spend his days thatching roofs and plowing fields, but he must do some sort of regular physical activity because there was no softness to his form. He was lean and defined, and as the candlelight danced across his skin, she could see the muscles flex beneath.

  She scooted up into a sitting position and reached out, her fingers itching to touch him, to see if his skin was as smooth and hot as it looked, but he was just beyond her grasp, watching her with hungry eyes.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. He stepped closer, but before she could touch him he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “When I saw you tonight I think my heart stopped beating.”

  “And is it now?” she whispered.

  He took her hand and laid it over his heart. She could feel it pounding beneath his skin, almost hear it reverberating through her own body. He was so strong, and so solid, and so wonderfully male.

  “Do you know what I wanted to do?” he murmured.

  She shook her head, too entranced by the low heat of his voice to make a noise of her own.

  “I wanted to turn you around and push you right back through the door before anyone else saw you. I didn’t want to share you.” He traced her lips with his finger. “I still don’t.”

  Heat flared within her, and she suddenly felt more daring, more womanly. “I don’t want to share you, either.”

  He smiled slowly, and his fingers trailed down the length of her neck, across the delicate hollow of her collarbone, resting only when he reached the ribbon that tightened the neckline of her nightgown. Without ever taking his eyes from hers, he gave one of the strands a tug, sliding it slowly from the knot, its corresponding loop getting smaller and smaller until it finally popped through, and she was undone.

  Billie watched his fingers, mesmerized, as they whispered across her skin, the edge of the now loosened bodice catching between his thumb and forefinger. The silk slipped from her shoulder, then slowly slid down her arm. She was so close to being revealed to him, but she could feel no modesty, summon no fear. All she had was passion, and the unrelenting need to follow it through.

  She looked up, and so did he, almost as if they’d planned it. He caught her eyes with a questioning gaze, and she nodded, knowing exactly what he was asking. He drew a breath, its ragged sound speaking of desire, and then he nudged her nightdress over the rise of her breasts before allowing gravity to do the rest. The pale peach silk pooled luxuriously around her waist, but Billie didn’t notice. George was staring at her with a reverence that took her breath away.

  With a trembling hand, he reached out and cupped her breast, her nipple grazing lightly against his palm. Sensation shot through her, and she gasped, wondering how such a touch could make her abdomen clench. She felt hungry, but not for food, and the secret place between her legs tightened with what she could only assume was desire.

  Was this how it was supposed to feel? As if she were incomplete without him?

  She watched his hand as he caressed her. It was so big, so powerful, and so thrillingly male against h
er pale skin. He moved slowly, a stark contrast to the feverish kissing of just a few minutes earlier. He made her feel like a priceless work of art, and he was studying every curve.

  She caught her bottom lip beneath her teeth, a little moan of pleasure slipping through her lips as his hand drew slowly away, teasing her skin until their only connection was his fingertips at her nipple.

  “You like that,” he said.

  She nodded.

  Their eyes met. “You’ll like this even better,” he growled, and then, as she gasped in surprise, he leaned down and took her into his mouth. His tongue rolled across her, and she felt herself tighten into a hard little bud—the sort she normally only felt in the chill of winter.

  But she was the farthest thing from cold.

  His touch was electric. Her entire body tightened, arching until she had to plant her hands on the bed behind her just to keep from falling over.

  “George!” she practically squealed, and once again he shushed her.

  “You never learn, do you?” he murmured against her skin.

  “You’re the one who’s making me scream.”

  “That wasn’t a scream,” he said with a cocky smile.

  She eyed him with alarm. “I didn’t mean it as a dare.”

  He laughed aloud—although more quietly than she’d done—at that. “Merely planning for the future, when volume is not an issue.”

  “George, there are servants!”

  “Who work for me.”

  “George!”

  “When we are married,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers, “we shall make as much or as little noise as we wish.”

  Billie felt her face go crimson.

  He dropped a teasing kiss on her cheek. “Did I make you blush?”

  “You know you did,” she grumbled.

  He looked down at her with a cocky smile. “I probably shouldn’t take quite so much pride in that.”

  “But you do.”

  He brought her hand to his lips. “I do.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face, finding that despite the urgency in her body, she was content to take a moment just to look at him. She caressed his cheek, tickling her fingertips with the light growth of his beard. She traced his eyebrow, marveling at how such a straight, firm line could arch so imperiously when he wished. And she touched his lips, which were so improbably soft. How many times had she watched his mouth when he was speaking, never knowing that those lips could bring such pleasure?

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice a husky smile.

  Her lashes swept up as her eyes met his, and it was only when she spoke that she knew the answer. “Memorizing you.”

  George’s breath caught, and then he was kissing her again, the levity of the moment giving way once again to desire. His mouth moved to her neck, teasing along the side, trailing fire in its wake. She felt herself descending, lying back against the bed, and then suddenly he was on top of her, skin to heated skin. Her nightgown slid past her legs, and then it was off completely. She was nude beneath him, without a stitch, and yet somehow it didn’t feel awkward. This was George, and she trusted him.

  This was George, and she loved him.

  She felt his hands move to the fastening of his breeches, and then he swore under his breath as he was forced to roll off her in order to (in his words), “get the bloody things off.” She couldn’t help but chuckle at his profanity; he seemed to be having a much rougher time of it than she imagined was usual.

  “You’re laughing?” he asked, his brows rising into a daring arch.

  “You should be glad I was already out of my gown,” she told him. “Thirty-six cloth-covered buttons down the back.”

  He gave her a fearsome look. “It would not have survived.”

  As Billie laughed, one of George’s buttons finally went flying, and his clothing fell to the floor.

  Billie’s jaw dropped.

  George’s smile was almost feral as he climbed back onto the bed, and she had a feeling he was taking her amazement as a compliment.

  Which she supposed it was. With a healthy dose of alarm.

  “George,” she said cautiously, “I know that this will work, because, goodness, it has worked for centuries, but I have to say, this does not look comfortable.” She swallowed. “For me.”

  He kissed the corner of his mouth. “Trust me.”

  “I do,” she assured him. “I just don’t trust that.” She thought of what she had seen in the stables over the years. None of the mares ever seemed to be having a good time.

  He laughed as his body slid over hers. “Trust me,” he said again. “We just need to be sure you’re ready.”

  Billie was not sure what that meant, but she was having a difficult time even thinking about it because he was doing very distracting things with his fingers. “You’ve done this before,” she said.

  “A few times,” he murmured, “but this is different.”

  She looked at him, letting her eyes ask her question.

  “It just is,” he said. He kissed her again as his hand squeezed its way up the length of her thigh. “You’re so strong,” he said softly. “I love that about you.”

  Billie took a shaky breath. His hand was at the top of her leg now, spanning the whole width of it, and his thumb was very near to her center.

  “Trust me,” he whispered.

  “You keep saying that.”

  His forehead rested against hers, and she had a feeling he was trying not to laugh. “I keep meaning it.” He kissed his way back down her neck. “Relax.”

  Billie wasn’t sure how that was possible, but then, just before he took her nipple in his mouth again, he said, “Stop thinking,” and that was an order she had no trouble following.

  It was the same as before. When he teased her this way she lost her mind. Her body took over, and she forgot whatever it was she’d thought she feared. Her legs parted, and he settled between them, and then oh God, he was touching her. He was touching her and it felt so wicked and so divine, and it just made her want more.

  It made her hungry in a way she’d never been before. She wanted to draw him closer; she wanted to devour him. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down. “George,” she gasped, “I want—”

  “What do you want?” he murmured, sliding a finger within her.

  She nearly bucked off the bed. “I want—I want—I just want.”

  “So do I,” he growled, and then he was opening her with his fingers, spreading her lips, and she felt him pressing at her entrance.

  “I’m told it will hurt,” he said regretfully, “but not for long.”

  She nodded, and she must have tensed up, because he once again crooned, “Relax.”

  And somehow she did. Slowly he pushed inside. The pressure was stranger than it was great, and even when she felt a light stab of pain, that was overshadowed by her need to keep him close, then closer.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded again.

  “Thank God,” he groaned, and he moved forward, entering her more deeply.

  But she knew he was holding back.

  He was gritting his teeth and holding hard, and she would swear he looked like he was in pain. But at the same time he was moaning her name as if she were a goddess, and the things he was doing to her—with his member and his fingers, with his lips and his words—were stoking a fire that consumed her.

  “George,” she gasped, when the tightness within seemed to grab her from the inside out. “Please.”

  His movements grew more frenzied, and she pushed back, the need to move against him too overwhelming to ignore. “Billie,” he groaned. “My God, what you do to me.”

  And then, just when she was certain she could take no more, the strangest thing happened. She grew stiff, and she shook, and then the moment she realized could no longer so much as draw a breath, she shattered.

  It was indescribable. It wa
s perfect.

  George’s movements grew more frenzied, and then he buried his face in the crook of her neck, muffling his hoarse cry against her skin as he plunged forward one last time within her.

  “I’m home,” he said against her skin, and she realized it was the truth.

  “I’m home, too.”

  Chapter 24

  When George went down to breakfast the following morning, he was not surprised to learn that Billie was still abed.

  She had not, he thought with some satisfaction, had a restful evening.

  They had made love three times, and already he could not help but wonder if his seed was taking root within her. It was odd, but he’d never given much thought to having children before. He’d known he must, of course. He would one day inherit Manston and Crake, and he had a sacred duty to provide the earldom with an heir.

  But even with all that, he had never imagined his children. He had never pictured himself holding a child in his arms, watching him learn to read and write, or teaching him to ride and hunt.

  Or teaching her to ride and hunt. With Billie as their mother, his daughters would surely insist upon learning all the same skills as their brothers. And while he’d spent his childhood thoroughly annoyed by Billie’s insistence upon keeping up with the boys, when it came to his daughters . . .

  If they wanted to hunt and fish and shoot a pistol like a marksman . . .

  They would hit the bull’s-eye every time.

  Although he might draw the line at jumping hedges at the age of six. Surely even Billie would now accept that that had been absurd.

  Billie would be the best mother, he thought as he walked down the hall to the small dining room. Her children would not be trotted out once a day for her inspection. She would love them the way her own mother loved her, and she would laugh and tease and teach and scold, and they would be happy.

  They would all be happy.

  George grinned. He was already happy. And it was only going to get better.

  His mother was already at the breakfast table when he entered the room, glancing at a recently ironed newspaper as she buttered her toast.