by Julia Quinn
He raised a brow at that.
“Oh, very well, one hour at least. Probably ninety minutes.”
He glanced over at his cousin and brother, still holding court across the room. “We had difficulties adjusting Sebastian’s sling with his coat.”
“And people say women are fussy.”
“While I would have to argue on behalf of my gender, I am always happy to impugn my cousin.”
She laughed at that, a bright, musical sound, then grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”
He followed her through the crowds, impressed by her single-minded determination to get to wherever it was she was going. She weaved this way and that, laughing all the way, until she reached an arched door at the far side of the room.
“What’s this?” he murmured.
“Shhhh,” she directed. He followed her out into the hall. It wasn’t empty; there were several small groups of people congregating here and there, but it was much less crowded than the main room.
“I’ve been exploring,” she said.
“Apparently so.”
She turned another corner, and another, and the crowds grew progressively thinner, until finally she stopped in a quiet gallery. One side had doors interspersed with tall portraits—perfectly ordered, two paintings between each door. The other side held a neat row of windows.
She stopped directly in front of one of the windows. “Look out,” she urged.
He did, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Shall I open it?” he asked, thinking this might offer more clues.
“Please do.”
He found the lock and undid it, then lifted the window. It glided up without sound, and he poked his head out.
He saw trees.
And her. She had poked her head out right beside him.
“I must confess to confusion,” he said. “What am I looking at?”
“Me,” she said simply. “Us. Together. On the same side of a window.”
He turned. He looked at her. And then…He had to do it. He couldn’t not. He reached for her, and he pulled her to him, and she came willingly, with a smile that spoke of the lifetime they had waiting ahead of them.
He leaned down and kissed her, his lips eager and hungry, and he realized he was shaking, because this was more than a kiss. There was something sacred about this moment, something honorable and true.
“I love you,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it yet. All his plans had been to tell her when he proposed. But he had to. It had grown and spread inside of him, bubbling with warmth and strength, and he just could not keep it back. “I love you,” he said again. “I love you.”
She touched his cheek. “I love you, too.”
For several seconds he could do nothing but stare at her, holding the moment in reverence, letting every speck of it wash over him. And then something else took over, something primal and fierce, and he crushed her to him, kissing her with the urgency of a man who must claim his own.
He couldn’t get enough of her, her touch, her feel, her scent. Tension and need were spiraling within him, and he could feel his grip slipping—on his control, on sense of propriety, on everything except her.
His fingers were grasping at her clothing, desperate to feel her skin, warm and smooth. “I need you,” he groaned, his mouth moving to her cheek, her jaw, her neck.
They twisted and turned away from the window, and Harry found himself leaning up against a door. He took the knob in his hand, turned, and they fell in, stumbling and tumbling, but managing to remain upright.
“Where are we?” Olivia asked, her breath shaking her body.
He shut the door. Locked it. “I don’t care.”
He grabbed her then, pulled her to him. He should have been gentle, he should have been tender. But he was beyond that now. For the first time in his life, he was moved by something beyond his control. He was moved to something he could not resist. His world became nothing but this woman, and their bodies, and showing her, in the most fundamental way possible, how much he loved her.
“Harry,” she gasped, her body arching against his. He could feel every curve through their clothing, and he had to—he couldn’t stop—
He had to feel her. He had to know her.
He said her name, barely recognizing his own voice, grown hoarse with need. “I want you,” he said. And when she moaned incoherently in response, her lips finding his earlobe as his had done hers, he said it again.
“I want you now.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
With a shuddering breath, he pulled away from her and took her face in his hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded.
But that wasn’t good enough. “Do you understand?” he asked, urgency making him sound almost strident. “I need you to say it.”
“I understand,” she whispered. “I want you, too.”
Still, he held off, unable to let himself cut that last thread of sanity, of propriety. He knew he was ready to commit his very life to her, but he had not sworn it in a church, before her family. But by God, if she was going to stop him now, she was going to have to stop him now.
She went very still; for a moment even her breathing seemed to stop, and then she took his face in her hands, the very same position he held with her. Their eyes met, and in her face he saw a love and a trust so big and so deep that it nearly paralyzed him with fear.
How could he possibly be worthy of this? How could he keep her safe and happy and make sure that every second of every day she knew how much he loved her?
She smiled. At first it was sweet, and then it grew clever, and maybe a little bit mischievous. “You’re going to ask me to marry you,” she murmured, “aren’t you?”
His lips parted with shock. “I—”
But she placed one of her hands against his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Just nod if it’s yes.”
He nodded.
“Don’t ask me now,” she said, and she looked almost serene, as if she were a goddess and the mortals around her were doing exactly what she asked of them. “This isn’t the time or the place. I want a proper proposal.”
He nodded again.
“But if I know that you plan to ask me, I might be convinced to act in a manner…”
It was all the permission he needed. He pulled her back for another searing kiss, his fingers finding the cloth-covered buttons at the back of her gown. They slipped easily through the buttonholes, and in seconds the fabric pooled and rustled at her feet.
She was standing before him in her chemise and corset, the pale fabric glowing softly in the moonlight filtering through the uncurtained upper half-moon of the room’s only window. She looked so beautiful, so ethereal and pure—he found himself wanting to stop and drink in the sight of her, even as his body burned for closer contact.
He shrugged off his own coat, then loosened the folds of his cravat. Through it all she just stood there, silently watching him, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. He undid the first few buttons on his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head and, with whatever last grasp on rational thought he had left, he laid it neatly on a chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. She let out a little giggle, clasping her hand to her mouth.
“What?”
“You’re so neat,” she said, looking almost embarrassed to be pointing it out.
He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. “There are four hundred people on the other side of this door.”
“But you’re ruining me.”
“I can’t do it neatly?”
Another snort of laughter burst from her mouth. She reached down, picked up her dress, and handed it to him. “Would you mind folding this as well?”
He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Wordlessly, he reached out and took it.
“If you are ever short of funds,” she said, watching him lay the dress over the back of a chair, “there are always opportunities for a conscientious lady’s maid.”
He turned,
one corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry salute. He tapped his left temple, close to his eye, murmuring, “Blind to color, if you recall.”
“Oh, dear.” She clasped her hands together, looking terribly proper. “That would be a problem.”
He took a step toward her, his eyes devouring her. “I might be able to make up for my lack with excessive devotion to my mistress.”
“Loyalty and fidelity is always prized amongst servants.”
He came close, very close, until his lips were almost touching the corner of her mouth. “And amongst husbands?”
“It’s very prized amongst husbands,” she whispered. Her breathing was growing erratic, and just the touch of it on her skin made his blood race.
His hand went to the ties of her corset. “I am very loyal.”
She nodded jerkily. “That’s good.”
He tugged on the ribbon, first undoing the bow, and then slipping his finger under the knot below. “I can say ‘fidelity’ in three languages.”
“Really?”
Really, and he didn’t care if she knew. He planned to make love to her in all three, but for the first time, he thought he would stick to English. Well, mostly.
“Fidelity,” he whispered. “Fidelité. Vyernost.”
He kissed her then, before she could ask more. He would tell her everything, but not now. Not when he was shirtless, and her corset was undone and sliding from her body. Not when his fingers were working the two buttons of her chemise, unhooking the straps that held it in place over her shoulders.
“I love you,” he said, leaning forward to place one kiss on the hollow over her collarbone.
“I love you,” he said again, moving up to the elegant line of her neck.
“I love you.” And this time he whispered it, hot at her ear as he let go of the straps and allowed her last garment to fall from her body.
Her arms came to cover herself, and he kissed her once, lightly, on the lips as his fingers moved to the fastening of his breeches. He was aching for her, hot and heavy with need, and he had no idea how he got his boots off so fast, but before he could even take another breath, he’d lifted her into his arms and was carrying her over to the divan.
“You should have a proper bed,” he murmured, “with proper sheets and proper pillows…”
But she just shook her head, clasping her fingers behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. “I don’t want to be proper right now,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “I only want you.”
It had been inevitable. He’d known that for some time now, since the moment she’d slyly asked him if he planned to propose. But even so, something seemed to tip at that moment, sending him over the edge of restraint, transforming this from a seduction to sheer madness.
He set her down on her back and immediately covered her body with his. The touch was electric. They were skin to skin, pressed up against each other with breathtaking intimacy. And he wanted so much just to bury himself inside her, to have her, to know her, but he could not allow himself to rush. He did not know if he could bring her to completion; he’d never made love to a virgin before, and he had no idea if it was even possible. But by God, he would make this good for her. When they were through, she would know that she had been worshipped.
She would know that she was loved.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, kissing her on the lips before moving to her throat.
He heard her breath, raspy, excited, and perhaps a little confused. “What do you mean?”
He cupped her breast with his hand. “Do you like this?”
He heard the swift intake of her breath.
“Do you?” he asked softly, trailing his lips down to the base of her neck.
She nodded, quick frantic movements. “Yes.”
“Tell me what you like,” he said again, and his mouth found the tip of her breast. He blew a little air on it, then circled the edge with his tongue before finally capturing her with his lips.
“I like that,” she gasped.
So do I, he thought, and he moved to the other side, telling himself it was for balance. But really it was for him, and for her, and because he couldn’t bear to leave one inch of her untouched.
She arched beneath him, pressing up against his mouth, and he slid one of his hands down, wrapping around her bottom. He squeezed, then moved, his fingers finding the soft skin of her inner thigh. And when he squeezed again, his fingers were close, so close to the very center of her, so close that he could feel her heat.
His mouth moved back to hers just as his fingers found her, stroked her, entered her.
“Harry!” she cried out, surprised, but not, he thought, upset.
“Tell me what you like,” he said again.
“That,” she managed to get out. “But I don’t…”
He moved deeper, in and out, her wetness making him burn with need for her. “You don’t what?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He smiled. “You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know what I don’t know,” she practically snapped.
He bit back a laugh, and his fingers stilled for a moment.
“Don’t stop!” she cried.
And so he didn’t. He didn’t stop when she moaned his name, and he didn’t stop when she grabbed his shoulders so hard he was sure he’d be bruised. And he absolutely did not stop when she convulsed around him, so fast and so hard that she nearly pushed him out of her.
A gentleman might have stopped then. She had climaxed, and she was still a virgin, and he was probably a beast for wanting to make love to her fully, but he simply couldn’t…not.
She was his.
But not, he was coming to realize, quite as much as he was hers.
Before she came down from her climax, before she could collapse from the power of it, he pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at her opening. “I love you,” he said, his voice husky and hoarse with emotion. “I have to tell you. I need you to know. Right now I need you to know.”
He pushed forward then, expecting resistance. But she was so excited, so well loved, that he slid inside with ease. He shuddered at the pleasure of it, of the exquisite joining of their bodies. It was as if he’d never done this before—his desire took over and he lost all control. And then, in what would have been shameful speed had he not just pleasured her, he cried out and stiffened, and then, finally, collapsed.
Chapter Twenty-one
Olivia left first.
She wasn’t sure how long they had lain there on the divan, trying to regain their sanity, and then, once they were able to breathe normally, it had taken some time to right their appearances. Harry couldn’t get his tie folded with the same crisp precision as his valet had done, and Olivia had found that one handkerchief was not up to the task of…
Good heavens, she couldn’t even think the words. She did not regret what she had done. She could never; it was the most wonderful, amazing, spectacular experience of her life. But now she was…sticky.
Their departure was also delayed by several stolen kisses, at least two lustful glances that had threatened to send them right back to the divan, and one extremely mischievous pinch on the behind.
Olivia was still congratulating herself on that one.
But eventually they managed to look respectable enough to rejoin polite society, and it was decided that Olivia would depart first. Harry would follow five minutes later.
“Are you certain my hair looks presentable?” she asked as she placed her hand on the doorknob.
“No,” he admitted.
She felt her eyes widen with alarm.
“It does not look bad,” he said, with a man’s typical inability to accurately describe coiffure, “but I don’t think it looks precisely the same as it did when you arrived.” He smiled weakly, clearly aware of his shortcomings in this regard.
She rushed back over to the room’s lone mirror, but it was over the mantel, and even on her tiptoes she couldn’t
quite catch a glimpse of her entire face. “I can’t see a thing,” she grumbled. “I am going to have to find a washroom.”
And so their plans changed. Olivia would leave, find a washroom, and then remain there for at least ten minutes, so that Harry could leave five minutes after she departed and arrive back at the ballroom five minutes before she arrived.
Olivia found the subterfuge exhausting. How did people manage such things, sneaking about like thieves? She would make a terrible spy.
Her frustration must have shown on her face, because Harry came over and kissed her once, softly, on the cheek. “We shall be married soon,” he promised, “and we will never have to do this again.”
She opened her mouth to point out that her mother would insist upon a three-month engagement at the very least, but he held up a hand and said, “Don’t worry, that’s not your proposal. When I propose, you’ll know it. I promise.”
She smiled to herself and murmured her farewell, peeking out the door first to make sure no one was coming, then slipping out into the quiet, moonlit gallery.
She knew the location of the washroom; she’d been there once already that evening. She tried to walk at precisely the correct speed. Not too fast; she did not want to look as if she was rushing. Not too slowly, either; it was always best to appear as if one had a purpose.
She encountered no one on her way to the washroom, for which she was grateful. When she opened the door, however, and stepped into the outer chamber, where ladies could wash their hands and check their appearances, she was met with:
“Olivia!”
Olivia nearly jumped out of her skin. Mary Cadogan was standing at the mirror, pinching her cheeks.
“Good heavens, Mary,” Olivia said, trying to catch her breath. “You gave me a start.” She desperately did not want to get caught up into a conversation with Mary Cadogan, but on the other hand, if she had to run into someone, she was grateful it was a friend. Mary might wonder at Olivia’s mussed appearance, but she would never suspect the truth.
“Is my hair an absolute fright?” Olivia asked, reaching up to pat it. “I slipped. Someone spilled champagne.”