“Thank God,” he said on a growl, taking her lips once more.
He kissed her with all the love burning inside him. He kissed away the years she should have been his and he should have been hers. He kissed away all the pain. He kissed her sweetly, tenderly, using his lips and tongue to show her how precious she was to him. An incomparable.
His heart.
And when their mouths finally broke apart once more, they were both more breathless than ever. They clung, gazing into each other’s eyes with the giddiness of a man and woman who had looked into their shared future and found it laden with endless promise.
“I mean to make you my wife this morning,” he told her.
She smiled. “Good. Because I intend to make you my husband.”
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here…”
The drone of the minister’s voice echoed throughout the mostly empty sanctuary.
Hannah still felt as if she were in a dream as she stood across from Graham in the church he had somehow managed to secure for their nuptials. She had no doubt a fair amount of coin had exchanged hands for this favor, along with the special license.
They had spent five years and two months apart, only to be reunited and joined in holy matrimony in the span of two days. Her sisters were in attendance, both of them having been in London for some time now. Hannah’s father had chosen not to attend. Her brother Maximilian was here, looking rather tap-hackled from Lord knew what iniquities he had been about the day before. As was Graham’s friend Percy.
Hannah had eyes only for the man she was marrying at long last.
“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?” the minister directed his attention to Graham now, his voice and countenance equally solemn. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Graham’s brilliant-blue gaze seared hers. The smile he gave her melted her to her very soul. “I will.”
The minister turned to her. “And wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she spoke the long-awaited words. “I will.”
The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur. Rings were exchanged. Psalms were read. Hands were linked. After what seemed an eternity, she was signing her name in the parish register. Together, she and Graham emerged from the church, husband and wife. Just as they always should have been.
He handed her up into his waiting carriage. As she settled herself upon the leather bench, she scooted nearer to the window. Even in the blistering chill of the cold, their guests spilled out of the church behind them, waving and smiling. Everyone was happy for them. She knew a brief twinge of sadness that her father had chosen not to attend and that her mother had yet been waylaid in Cornwall.
Perhaps, in time…
Her new husband settled himself alongside her in the carriage and promptly pulled her onto his lap, nuzzling her throat. There would be no wedding breakfast, and the hunger for him flaring to life within her was heartily glad for it. All she wanted was Graham. His kisses, his embrace, his love.
Now and forever.
He ran his nose along a sensitive part of her throat, his lips brushing over her ear. “You are sad about your father.”
How had he guessed? Her hands settled upon his shoulders as the carriage rocked into motion, taking them back to Belvedere House. “I wish I could forgive him,” she said honestly. “And I wish he could see how happy we are.”
“Give him time, darling.” He caught the fleshy lobe of her ear in his teeth. “Time has a way of breaking down even the most seemingly insurmountable walls. Only look at us. Mere days ago, I had no hope of ever seeing you again. And now you are my wife.”
How handsome he looked, she thought. But she wanted the brilliance of his hair, the thick softness of it caressing her fingers. She plucked his fashionable Wellington hat from his head, laying it upon the bench at their side.
“My beloved husband,” she said with great contentment as her fingers trailed over his scalp, relishing the sensation of those thick, auburn locks. “Mere days ago, touching you like this was something I could only manage in dreams. And now you are here. And you are mine.”
He grinned roguishly back at her. “I have always been yours, Hannah love. Just as you have always been mine.”
“Yes,” she agreed, unable to refrain from kissing him then. She had been dying for his lips ever since she had kissed him last.
His tongue slid into her mouth, and she sucked on it, then bit his lower lip as he had done to her before. She was ravenous for him. Desperate, in fact.
“My dear Lady Haven,” he said, feigning alarm. “I do believe you are attempting to enjoy our wedding night prematurely. How shocking. One cannot make love in a carriage.”
His words sent a wicked surge of heat straight to her core. Her longing for him, like her love, would never die. She tugged lightly on his hair, feeling bold. “Are you certain one cannot make love in a carriage, Lord Haven? The last two months have left me so desperately lonely, so in need.”
As she said the words, she teased them both by straddling his muscled thighs. Her gown rode up around her, and beneath them she was bare aside from her petticoats, chemise, and stockings. It was true that the winter was so frigid, the Thames had frozen over. But she was not cold now. Not with so many layers and her husband to keep her warm.
“Perhaps you might persuade me, my lady,” Graham said then, his knowing hands gliding beneath her skirts.
He traced her seam, where she was aching for him, then stroked her pearl, his eyes locked upon hers, his breath a sweet curtain over her lips.
“Have I persuaded you yet, my lord?” she asked in a voice she scarcely recognized as her own as he sank a finger inside her.
“So wet, Lady Haven,” he said, humming his approval when she clenched on him, bringing him deeper. “Yes indeed, my darling, I do believe you have convinced me that nothing is impossible. In so many more ways than one.”
She kissed him swiftly. “Then make love to me, Lord Haven.”
He made another growl low in his throat, and then his mouth was back on hers. He withdrew his finger. There was a brief pause as he undid the fall of his breeches. And then, his thick, rigid cock was where she wanted him most, glancing over her slick folds, probing her entrance.
“Take me,” he ordered her. “All of me.”
Instinct guiding her, she sank down on him, hard. He impaled her in one thrust, so deep it stole her breath. The rightness of it washed over her, along with bliss. And gratitude. So much gratitude. With the carriage rocking around them, they began a rhythm, his hands on her waist to steady her as she controlled the rhythm and pace.
She was on the edge. The knowledge Graham was hers forever and she was his had brought her shockingly near to spending already. His fingers found her pearl again as they kissed and she rode him. A moan left her, and he swallowed it up, kissing her harder.
One more thrust, and she was coming apart. Losing control. Gasping for breath, she collapsed against him, her lips still pressed to his.
“I love you, Graham,” she said as she tightened on him, loving the feeling of his body inside hers, so demanding and rigid, filling her as only he could.
The spiral of pleasure was intense as it took her, and she surrendered herself to it. To him. As she shuddered and collapsed against him, he surged inside her, releasing his seed in a hot torrent.
“And I love you,” he whispered back in the aftermath of their passion.
They held each other tightly, bodies entwined as one, as their carriage lumbered through London, taking them home.
Epilogue
His wife looked weary but radiant. More beautiful than he had ever seen her. And what
a bloody relief, at long last.
Graham had spent the last few hours in torment, pacing the floors, damn near tearing his hair out with every sound that had emerged from his wife’s lying-in chamber. Thankfully, his brothers-in-law had been there to offer him support, along with a bracing glass of the finest smuggled Scots whisky a man could procure.
The result was that as he finally was allowed entrance to Hannah’s chamber and his gaze settled upon the beautiful sight of Hannah holding their babe in her arms, he was no longer feeling murderous. Indeed, he was feeling thankful. And relieved. And in love.
So damned in love.
With his wife and the precious, swaddled babe in her arms.
“You have a daughter,” Hannah proclaimed.
He saw a red face, eyes screwed tightly closed, a shock of brilliant orange-red hair, short as the fuzz on a peach. A tiny, precious nose that was a replica of his wife’s. A chin that was stubborn like his. Golden eyebrows. Sweet little ears. Rounded cheeks.
He had to sit.
Thankfully, there was a chair behind his arse. Else, he would have fallen to a heap on the floor, so overwhelmed was he by the current of emotion flowing through him. He stared at Hannah, at the babe. By God, he was more in love now than he had been a minute ago. A breath ago.
“You are well?” he asked her. “The birthing, was it…”
“I am well,” she said, saving him. Her smile was soft as she glanced down at the bundle in her arms. “I would endure it all over again, a hundred times, just to have her.”
Bloody hell, she was far stronger than he could ever hope to be. Her resilience continually astounded him. Everything about her did, actually. He was so damned lucky she was his wife. He would wait the years it had taken for them to come back together, just to call her his. Just to sit here in this moment and fall in love with her again as he watched her cradling their daughter.
He cleared his throat. “I have no wish for a hundred children, my darling. Perhaps three. Four at most, I should think.”
Hannah smiled at him, running her finger lightly against the babe’s cheek. “She will most certainly need siblings. But first, she needs a name. What do you think, my love?”
“She needs a special name,” he agreed, “for she is the one who finally brought us together, just as we should have been, after so very long.”
“Yes she did,” Hannah agreed. “What do you think of Gertrude? It is close in meaning to Gervase, in remembrance of your brother.”
He stared down at the quiet, cherubic face, then glanced back to his wife, love rushing through him anew. “It is a perfect name for her, my love. Thank you.”
Her smile went straight to his heart. “I hoped you would approve. It seems right.”
Yes, it did. He stood then, going to Hannah, settling himself alongside her in the bed. He slid his arm around her, then kissed his daughter’s soft crown before lifting his head. He was lost, once more, in his beautiful wife’s eyes. “You were brave and strong and wonderful. Far stronger than I could ever hope to be.”
She cupped his cheek. “You are my strength. Now and always.”
He turned his head, kissed her palm. “And you are mine, for eternity. I love you both so much, my heart is bursting with it.”
“Mine too,” she told him. “I love you, Graham.”
He had never known such happiness as he knew now, in this moment, with Hannah and their daughter within the circle of his arms. “And I love you.”
Gertrude began to cry, the plaintive wail of a newborn infant lost in the strange new world into which she had been suddenly thrust.
He stroked his daughter’s head softly, seeing so much of himself in her, feeling his heart swell in his chest. “I love you too, little one. Never fear. I love you, too.”
Hannah laid her head on his shoulder, and a deep and abiding peace settled over him. At long last, they had found their happiness.
Together.
The End.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Graham and Hannah’s story! I hope you enjoyed this seventh book in my The Wicked Winters series!
Please consider leaving an honest review of Wooed in Winter. Reviews are greatly appreciated! If you’d like to keep up to date with my latest releases and series news, sign up for my newsletter here or follow me on Amazon or BookBub. Join my reader’s group on Facebook for bonus content, early excerpts, giveaways, and more.
Do read on for a bonus excerpt from Winter’s Wallflower, Book Eight in The Wicked Winters series, featuring the quiet Lady Adele Saltisford, the dangerous Mr. Dominic Winter, and a whole lot of steam, available here.
Until next time,
Scarlett
Winter’s Wallflower
The Wicked Winters Book Eight
By
Scarlett Scott
He’s the lord of London’s underworld. She’s the lady who deceived him. And now, there will be hell to pay…
Dominic Winter rules his empire with cutthroat determination, his heart as cold and dead as the January ground. Debts must be paid. Men must be loyal. Anyone who defies him will suffer the consequences, including the indolent aristocrats who frequent his establishments.
When a beauty boldly ventures into his lair and strikes a bargain with him to save an unworthy lord, Dom is captivated. Though his instincts tell him she cannot be trusted, soon, he will do anything to make her his. Until she disappears.
Desperate to save her beloved brother from ruin—or worse—at the hands of the despicable Mr. Winter, Lady Adele Saltisford offers herself in exchange. But one night of unexpected passion leaves her with dire consequences. Torn between her dangerous attraction to Dom and loyalty to her family, Adele flees London.
It doesn’t take Dom long to discover the depth of her betrayal and give chase. This time, nothing and no one will stop him from claiming her. It’s crime lord versus duke’s daughter in a battle of the heart.
Chapter One
London, 1813
Lady Adele Saltisford’s virtue was a small price to pay for her brother’s life.
She reminded herself of the undeniable truth of this fact as she waited for London’s most dangerous man to see her. Her hands shook beneath her silk taffeta cloak, and she was grateful once more that she had not relinquished her outerwear to the hulking manservant who had ushered her to this anteroom. Her veil, too, was firmly in place, shielding her face.
Not that she expected to know anyone at a gaming hell dubiously called The Devil’s Spawn to recognize her. Nevertheless, her brother had frequented this establishment. It stood to reason some of the society gentlemen who filled her dance card and flirted at musicales were also patrons. Difficult indeed to countenance, knowing what the fiend who owned it was capable of.
Maximilian had been badly beaten. Bloodied. The warning he had received had been dire. Mr. Dominic Winter did not care if Max was Marquess Sundenbury, heir to the Duke of Linross. Max owed him an immense sum, and he intended to collect. One week was all he had left to repay. Adele was not meant to have discovered him as she had in his bachelor’s rooms. But when Mama had fretted over his failure to appear at supper one evening, Adele had taken it upon herself to pay him a call the next morning.
What she had witnessed had broken her heart. But Max had been determined he would not seek out their forbidding father for assistance with his plight. He had sworn he would find a means of repaying Mr. Winter before the villain’s paid ruffians revisited.
The massive man returned, his expression forbidding as ever. If murder had a face, Adele was certain this man’s was it. She eyed his fists, massive as ham hocks, and wondered if he had been one of the scoundrels who had beaten Max.
He crooked a finger, beckoning her.
Whilst the man who had initially answered the door she had rapped upon had been only too quick to speak, mistaking her for a woman of ill repute and informing her she had the wrong entrance, the giant before her had yet to utter a word. She eyed him now, heart po
unding harder.
Misgiving blossomed.
She was sure she ought not to follow this wicked-looking man anywhere. What if he had no intention of taking her to Mr. Winter? What if he led her to a private room and ravished her?
He made a guttural noise and stalked toward her. Adele told herself to be brave, but when he raised his massive hand, she feared a blow was forthcoming. She shrank into the wall at her back, hitting her elbow on the plaster in the process.
His hand wrapped around her arm in a grip that was not nearly as punishing as she had feared.
“Unhand me, you rogue,” she commanded.
But the manservant ignored her. Instead, he hauled her from the small room, pulling her into the hall with its gleaming wood floor and shocking, lewd paintings gracing the walls. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded, attempting to wrest herself from the giant’s grasp to no avail. “I demand to see Mr. Winter. If you dare to harm me, I shall have the magistrate upon you.”
The man made another sound in his throat, part dismissal, part feral growl.
But he did not break his stride.
She felt rather like a mouse being carried off by a cat. This could not end well for her, in any instance. They reached a door at the end of the hall and the man paused at last, rapping thrice.
“Enter,” called a deep, masculine voice.
It was him.
Adele knew, instinctively, who the voice belonged to. She had a heartbeat in which to prepare herself before the manservant opened the door and hauled her over the threshold as if she were the spoils of the day’s hunt.
There stood her nemesis. Mr. Dominic Winter. His back was to her. All she noted was his coat—black, the cut fine, tailored to precision. If she did not know him for a heartless thief and murderer presiding over a vast empire of similar criminals, she could have mistaken him for a gentleman in any one of London’s most exclusive drawing rooms.
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