“I love you, too,” he said. “And you’re right—words can’t express—” He sighed and ran a finger down her cheek. “Come. Let me show you.”
Molly held Harry’s hand tightly as they climbed the stairs.
Last night—her last as an unmarried woman—she’d been visited by Penelope in her bedchamber at Lord Sutton’s rented mansion on Jermyn Street. Penelope had held her hands, and they’d cried together, both of them wishing aloud that their mother could have been there to speak to Molly about her wedding night.
Penelope, of course, knew Molly and Harry had already, ahem, spent time together—what were sisters for, after all, but to share in such wondrous news?
“But nothing can prepare you,” Penelope had said, swallowing hard and rubbing the backs of Molly’s hands with her thumbs, “for the actual…act.”
“Really?” Molly grew breathless just thinking about the possibilities.
Penelope nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. There’s nothing like it. Especially when you’re in love.”
“And are you in love with Roderick, still?” Molly whispered, and pulled her hand out of Penelope’s to push a curl behind her ear.
Tears flooded Penelope’s eyes. “More than ever. If Harry is at all like him—and of course, we know he’s cut of the same noble, kind, handsome, and irresistibly amusing cloth—you’ll be tremendously happy as his wife.”
“And married to two brothers, our sister bond will be stronger than ever, won’t it?” Molly said, wiping at her own eyes.
“Stronger than ever,” Penelope choked out.
They hugged. And cried a few more happy tears.
Now Molly was about to find out what Penelope had been talking about so feelingly. Penelope and Harry’s mother—now Molly’s mother-in-law—had seen to it that their bedchamber was warm and welcoming. Vases of white roses decorated both sides of the mantel. The bedclothes had been drawn back, and a small, cheerful fire laid.
Molly looked at the far wall, where Harry was staring. It held numerous oil paintings in gilded frames, fronted by a bust of Lord Nelson on a pedestal, a gift from Captain Arrow, who practically worshiped the man.
“What is it?” she asked.
“See that picture of the hunting box?” Harry said. “Father told me we’d find another wedding present in our bedchamber. I’ve always loved that painting. So has he. He probably has a dark rectangle on the wall in his library where it’s resided for decades.”
Molly smiled. “How sweet of him to give it to us.”
Harry gripped her hand. “No, Molly. You don’t understand. This means…he’s given us the hunting box, as well.”
“It does?”
Harry gave a soft laugh. “Father’s a slave to family tradition and expects me to know every nuance of it, as well. In our family, whoever owns the painting owns the property.”
He turned to her and kissed her, his naked form pressed firmly against her own.
“He must know it’s special to us,” she murmured against his lips.
“It’s where we fell in love,” Harry said, his hands kneading her bottom, her hips, and then sliding up to cup her breasts.
Several delicious moments later, they were on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, their kiss unbroken, the need between them palpable. He was hard against her belly. She could barely breathe when he nipped teasingly at her breasts and then suckled them. And the exciting way he pinned her arms above her head and kissed her as he stroked the soft core of her drove her mad with longing.
She loved him. She loved him so much it left a knot in her middle that begged to be loosened. Harry, she knew, was the only one who had the power to do so.
“Please, Harry,” she managed to say around their kisses.
He was already between her legs. “This might hurt,” he said. “But just for a moment. If you can trust me—”
“You know I do.” She smiled at him, drew an invisible line down his cheek with her index finger, a line that ended at his lips.
He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Molly—” he whispered raggedly.
And then he was inside her.
There was a split second of pain between her legs, but she hardly noticed. Because Harry was kissing her mouth and then her breasts as he began a sweet tempo of movement. The feeling of fullness inside her was so pleasurable—so right—that she lifted her hips to bring him deeper.
“Oh, Harry…” she whispered.
Everything they’d shared before this moment was in his gaze—their outrageous, thrilling courtship, their childhood, their years of separation and suffering, and the wedding promises they’d made that very morning.
He pressed a hand against her brow and swept her hair back. “You’re my love,” he said simply. “Forever.”
“And you’re mine,” she said, smiling at him. “Forever.”
But words, wonderful as they were, and so true—were not enough.
Molly felt Harry’s fierceness, his craving, as their rhythm took on a new intensity. He dipped his head and kissed her, holding her tight in his embrace as their tongues melded in a dance of desire. She clung to him, wanting…wanting—
And then she was suddenly there—she’d no idea where she began and where Harry ended. All she knew was wave after wave of intense pleasure.
Of love.
Of oneness.
All in a rapturous moment.
She was exactly where she belonged—with Harry.
Her husband, her lover, and her best friend.
Sighing, she sank back down into the pillows, her arms still wrapped around his neck.
He rolled to the side and pulled her on top of him, a lazy smile on his lips. “So, Lady Harry—” he said in his very best Adorable Man voice.
She laughed. “Is that my new name?”
“Only at stuffy social occasions.” He grinned and wrapped one of her curls around his finger. “I’ve a question.”
“Ask away, my lord.”
“How do you feel about Lord Nelson being so close by? Arrow insisted he must reside in our bedchamber. He said something about hoping his presence would ensure we become the parents of at least one great naval hero.”
She turned around and stared at the bust of the revered admiral, who appeared to be watching them with a grim, determined expression. “He’s welcome to stay, of course,” she said blithely. “But I can tell by the look in his eye, he expects us to do our duty often.”
“And with the uncommon zeal particular to sailors and their wenches,” Harry added.
Molly grinned, laid her cheek on his chest, and listened to the beating of his heart. “What about Maxwell and Lumley? Did they give us a present?”
“They did, as a matter of fact.”
Molly lifted her head and gazed around the bedchamber. “I don’t see anything…out of the ordinary.”
“Well, the presents aren’t exactly here. Lumley has purchased and named a noble ram after me and a gorgeous ewe after you at his newest estate in Scotland. He has high hopes, he says, for a magnificent herd to rise from their union. And if you look in the little greenhouse in the back garden, you’ll see that Maxwell’s commissioned a botanist to experiment with cultivating a white rosebush named Harry with a pink rosebush named Molly in one pot. He predicts they’ll spawn a new, hearty, attractive, and clever generation of rosebush.”
“Clever roses?” Molly laughed.
“Yes. Clever. And I told Maxwell I insist one or two must have your hair color.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
She grinned. “And they must have your smile.”
Harry chuckled. “We’re no botanists, obviously.”
“Nor sheep breeders. But clearly we’ve deduced your Impossible Bachelor friends are trying to tell us something.”
“That they are,” Harry replied, and rolled her beneath him again. “Shall we get started proving them right, my love?”
Acknowledgments
I’m so excited to be able to thank the ma
ny kind people who’ve helped me become a published writer:
My fun and fiesty agent, Jenny Bent: I can’t adequately express how grateful I am to her for launching me on this journey.
My brilliant editor, Jennifer Enderlin: a bedrock of support and inspiration always. Her mentorship has meant the world to me.
The team at St. Martin’s Press: they’re simply fabulous, and it’s a honor to work with such caring, talented people.
My fellow writers, especially my friends at Lowcountry Romance Writers of America—every member has great stories to tell—and the Beau Monde chapter of RWA, in particular, Nancy Mayer and Sue Pace.
A special thank you to Cherry Adair for first picking my contest entry out of a pile and sending me to the national RWA conference. She has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I know.
I’d also like to thank other writers who have inspired me with their awesome talent, wisdom, fortitude, and grace: Debbie Macomber, Jennifer Crusie, Nora Roberts, Jane Porter, Christina Dodd, J.R. Ward, Jayne Ann Krentz, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, JoAnn Grote, Sharon Brennan Wray, Susan Wiggs, and Virginia Kantra. There are more, so many that I can’t name them all here. Every writer I’ve met has gifted me with something of herself, even if it’s simply the acknowledgment that we share the joys and angsts only writers can know.
Of course, without my family none of this would have happened at all. A special shout-out to my sister Kristin, who organized a sibling gift to me, my first laptop, so I could take my stories anywhere. My husband Chuck and my children, Steven, Margaret, and Jack, have provided me with endless hugs, encouraging words, and cups of tea. The rest of my family, on both sides, have also been unflagging in their support. I love you all!
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When Harry Met Molly ib-1 Page 33
