Your loving
Auntie Hazel
She folded the letter, blushing from her neck to her hairline, and leaned to him for a kiss flavored of sausage and raspberry jam.
“I’m glad they caught those rapscallions,” Sebastian commented. “Will you write to her to extend that sought-after invitation for next summer?”
He waited for her to nod between bites of breakfast before adding, “We have plenty of time before then to plan entertainment. I wish we had an off-season opera house void of the London ton. I think both of you would enjoy the opera.”
He pushed away his plate, crossing one leg over the other and leaning against his chair-back to admire his wife.
“Fiddlesticks. The opera is only for being seen. No one goes for the music.”
“But we would. Wouldn’t that be a naughty game? Everyone vying to see the new countess, watching with bated breath our box door for us to promenade around the room during intermission, only for us to disappoint them by hiding in our box the entire time, me fondling you in a dark corner.”
“Sebastian, you’re a dirty scoundrel! You will do no such thing. And especially not if my aunt is sitting next to us in the box. I do like the idea of the opera, sans fondling, that is. We’ll take the ton by storm from inside an opera box.”
The twinkle in her eyes was meant for him, her adoration of him. He wanted to know her, inside and out, wanted to know what made her tick, what made her family so tightly twined, wanted to know everything about her.
Loving her hadn’t happened all at once, a single moment when he knew he was in love. His feelings deepened with each nuance he learned about her and each time she learned something about him. And now she knew something about him no one else knew. She knew, even if only half the story, what defined him, for good or ill. They shared a secret.
His foot slid under the table to play with her toes.
“Tell me about your cousin,” he requested. “I regret I never had a chance to talk with him, but he did seem amiable.”
Her foot rubbed against his, their toes gripping each other’s, warm skin against warm skin.
“I wish the two of you could become acquainted,” she admitted. “He has a heart of gold and a wonderful sense of humor. My uncle and he were thick as thieves, so his world crumbled when his father died in the carriage crash. I think he’s still struggling with the responsibility of the barony, as well as the loss. A friend like you could be just what he needs, you know.”
“I’ll make a point to get to know him in London. Is he married? Any wee ones?”
“Heavens no. Aunt Hazel pushes him too hard, hoping marriage’ll settle him and give her grandchildren to spoil. He’s too overwhelmed to consider matrimony. I suspect the more Hazel pushes, the more he resists.” Lizbeth sipped her coffee, adoring him from over the rim.
Walter would be out of luck if waiting to meet the perfect woman, he mused, as Sebastian had just married her. To express that sentiment, he moved the top of his foot up her calf, marveling at the softness of flesh. He worked his way to the back of her knee, reveling in the feel of her velvety skin.
It wasn’t only her delectable figure that excited him. It wasn’t just her wit, humor, and tenderness. It was knowing she still wanted him after seeing his disfigurement, after seeing him weak. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t found him repugnant. He had wept before her, a broken man, a weakling, and she had still wanted him.
She had seen him inside and out and wanted nothing more than to love him. In her own way, she filled him with confidence about himself and confidence their marriage could work. When he looked at her, he saw the most amazing woman, an angel of the highest order, and he, too, wanted nothing but to love her.
“We still haven’t chosen a book,” he said, tickling the inside of her leg with his toes. “I’m offended you didn’t like any of the choices I offered yesterday.”
“I hardly consider Frances Burney a serious offer,” she scoffed.
“Come now, what could be more enticing than a romantic novel about an illegitimate daughter of an aristocrat searching for love amongst the peerage?” he worked his foot up her thigh, smiling wickedly.
“It’s completely unrealistic! And I refuse to believe you’ve read any of her books,” she admonished.
“I have, actually. All of them. I’m determined we’ll read her latest release Evelina. We can compare the heroine to Pamela of your oh-so-beloved Richardson novel.”
“You know very well I despise that book. Ridiculous female.” She shoved his foot to the floor, foiling his naughty plans.
“How about Charlotte Lennox? I recommend The Female Quixote; or, The Adventures of Arabella. It is right up your alley.”
“And what alley would that be exactly?” she asked skeptically with a dubious stare.
“The alley of headstrong and stubborn bluestocking nonsense. All of that drivel about independence and strong women.” He flashed her a devilish grin. He was rather fond of her stockings after all.
“To the library, then? I think you’re tricking me into reading a romance.” She stood and walked to the door without a backward glance.
He laughed, admiring the sway of her hips before following her. He felt the all too familiar stirrings in his breeches as her enticing derriere swung side to side.
Over the past week, he had reveled in her lovemaking. Never had he known someone to love with such abandon, such exuberance, and he certainly would never have expected such from virginal inexperience.
If he hadn’t witnessed her virtue on the sheets after the wedding night, hadn’t felt the barrier between girl and womanhood, he would have sworn on the bible she was experienced in the sensual art of the flesh. She loved his body freely with her own, no inhibition whatsoever. He was enthralled by her, obsessed with giving her pleasure.
With a deep breath to cool his ardor, he followed her through the south wing towards the library, enjoying the view of her backside. At this rate, he doubted he would make it to the library before disrobing her. She wore no petticoat or stays beneath her dress, and the thin, nearly transparent material outlined her figure beneath. Did she purposely tease him?
By the time they reached the armory, his ardor was no longer cooled. He walked with a limp, simultaneously cursing and blessing the transparency of her gown. He jogged ahead of her to lead her up the stairwell, but then halfway up the spiral, he grabbed her by the waist and forced her against the stone wall.
His eyes said it all, he was sure. He licked her lips ravenously, tasting residual honey and coffee. He kissed along her jaw and down to her neck, nibbling until she moaned into his ear, pulling him roughly against her.
Nipping her earlobe, he asked gutturally, “Do you know why they make castle staircases clockwise?”
Her reply was breathy, her eyes closed. “Why do they make them clockwise?”
“Soldiers couldn’t swing their swords because of the interior curve. It disarmed them.” He licked her neck.
“Oh.” She arched her back until the triangle between her legs pressed against his pelvis, rubbing herself against his hardness. “Do you feel disarmed?”
“Let’s see if I can swing my sword, shall we?” He drew her gown below her breasts to circle his tongue around the pink skin, suckling each nipple to attention.
She gasped against his mouth, raising her leg to wrap around the posterior of his thigh. Cupping her buttocks, he rubbed himself fiercely against her.
“We shouldn’t be here. A servant could catch us.” She panted, her eyes still closed. Her fingers dug into his hair, encouraging him to enjoy more of her cleavage.
“Doesn’t that add to the excitement?” He muttered against her breasts, his tongue flicking over each nipple.
He tugged her dress down to her waist and wet her gasping lips with his own, grazing on her lower lip. The feel of her hands sliding down his
body to unbutton his fall flap hardened him to madness, a nigh painful pulse swelling him. If he couldn’t bury himself inside her soon, he would mess on her dress.
Free of the flap, he lifted her off the ground so she could wrap her legs around his waist. In one swift motion, he slid into her slick center. She cried out as he drove deeply, vigorously with fervor, thrusting against her contracting muscles. He surged into her, loving her crinkled brows, her mouth open and panting.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded, wanting to watch her pupils dilate when she climaxed, wanting her to watch him love her. “Look at me.”
He found nothing more erotic than her watching him, seeing her desire for him. Her eyes made him feel flawless.
Slowly, drunkenly, she opened her eyes, glazed from their lovemaking, darkened from the imminent orgasm. One hand remaining under her for support, he used his other to slip between their bodies and rub her pleasurably, driving her wild.
She gasped his name, her eyes focused on his. Sliding his thumb repeatedly over her swollen button, he thrust aggressively, forcefully, prodded by her fingers digging into his shoulders, desperate to feel her convulse against him.
When her muscles throbbed around him, tightening, gripping, her body shaking with the tremors of ecstasy, he released himself into her with a roar, one hand still on her buttocks, the other hand moving to brace against the wall for support. He reveled in the warm wetness of her womanhood, evidence of her desire for him, and marveled at the intimacy they shared and in her uninhibited passion for him.
Tentatively, she lowered her legs back to the floor, holding him to support herself. A shared laugh filled the stairwell as they tidied themselves, lifting bodice over bosom, buttoning the flap, smoothing frizzed wisps of hair that had been flattened against the stone wall or splayed from roaming hands.
“So, about that book,” she said, giggling.
Taking her hand in his, as was his new favorite way to claim her, to hold her possessively and reassure himself she would never leave his side, he led her upstairs into the library.
Upon entering, he released her and bound up the rounded steps to the second-floor catwalk. He browsed the shelves, sated, a perpetual half-smile on his lips.
As he perused, he could hear her pulling books from shelves below, the crisp flip of pages, the thud of a book returned to the shelf.
“What’s this collection?” She called up to him.
“I can’t very well see to which collection you refer, my less than explicit wife.” He pulled two novels from the shelf and started a stack on the catwalk.
“It’s hidden behind the stairs, a lonely shelf. Journals perhaps?”
“Ah,” he grumbled. “That would be my father’s collection. I had all of the books from the estate brought here and the ones of his tucked away.”
He could hear pages turning from below. Devil take it. He should have burned the collection years ago.
“They’re travel journals,” she shouted from below. “This one is from the West Indies, and this one from the Mediterranean. I think he made a travel diary of every trip he took. These must be fascinating to read.”
She was having far too good of a time with his father’s books.
Leaning over the railing, his ire rising, he demanded through gritted teeth, “Please, put those away, Lizbeth, and don’t touch them again. I don’t want my father’s things touched.”
“It’s part of the healing process, Sebastian. We should read these together. Listen to this part—.”
He took the steps two at a time to close the book before she could read from it. With a tight-lipped warning, he replaced the diary onto the shelf, scooped her into his arms, and carried her up to the catwalk.
“Do not read those again. Leave my father in his grave,” he ordered sternly, still holding her in his arms.
Instead of arguing, she trailed her finger across his cheek and said, “I confess. I only married you for your library.” With a kiss, she defused his anger.
Chapter 27
“Lizbeth. Lizbeth, where are you?” Sebastian tossed restlessly in the bed next to her.
Perspiration beaded his forehead, a thick crease forming between the brows. He tossed his head side to side, his fists clenching the sheets.
This was the second night in a row he suffered a fitful sleep. Her heart went out to him. What haunted his dreams? Did he dream of his father?
She inched closer to him, rubbing his chest with an open palm.
Whispering in his ear, she said, “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
Sebastian settled, his hand searching for hers. She slipped her hand into his. His head turned in her direction with a soft snore, his eyes remaining closed. Kissing his sweaty forehead, she moved the wet hair from his face before resting her head against his chest. Her fingers ran through the thick bed of chest hair until she drifted back to sleep, the sound of his beating heart against her ear.
She woke to a sliver of moonlight faintly glowing into the room. The bed next to her was empty. Squinting into the darkness, she saw only empty room around her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recalled a whisper in her ear, a soft growl mentioning a beach walk. Had she dreamt that, or had Sebastian gone for a midnight walk?
Rising from the comforts of the bed, she went to the north facing window to eye the beach below. The negligible sheen of moonlight restricted the distance of her sight. Maybe that was a flash of white by the rocks? Or maybe that was just a wave?
After wrapping herself in a robe and slipping on a pair of boots, she double checked the dressing room, sitting room, and library. Surer now that she had heard his whisper, she strolled out of the castle and towards the beach hoping she wasn’t on a fool’s errand. Any normal wife would have stayed in the warm bed, especially when the crisp air chilled her to the bone.
Much to her relief and embarrassed surprise, the white she had seen from the window was a nightshirt held down by a rock. She searched the beach for her husband, spying him in the ocean. Sebastian dove into the waves then rode them back to shore before diving again.
She’d married a madman, she concluded.
Before she could hide or return to the castle, he spotted her and waded through the water to shore. When he stood and walked towards her, she was shocked, and admittedly thrilled, to find him nude. Of course, he was nude, she scolded herself. His nightshirt was under a rock, after all. The reality hadn’t dawned on her until she witnessed the truth with her own eyes.
He moved towards her, muscles flexing, a cat on the prowl. His body was not of a man who sat idly, leaving the hard work to slaves. No, his body spoke of a man who climbed rocks, swam against currents, ran across landscapes, and labored in fields. The body of a man who wasn’t afraid to sweat. She loved his body, this god of the sea. All she saw as he approached was Neptune.
Quickening his pace to close the distance, he swooped her up by her waist, laughing wildly into the night sky and soaking her robe. “Come swim with me, Lizbeth.”
“You’re naked!” She squealed, the frigid wetness of his body shocking her awake.
“Does that offend your delicate sensibilities? Should I cover my furry parts?” He kept laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I dare you to join me and feel the healing magic of the ocean.”
“What if someone sees us?”
He set her down and ran back to the water, shouting behind him, “We’re on our own private island, Lizbeth! Who could ever possibly see us?”
Feeling daring, she disrobed and tucked the garment under a rock next to his nightshirt, the boots next to the rocks, and then waded in, all shivers from the icy water. Before she was knee deep, he splashed towards her, roaring like a charging lion, initiating a game of chase.
They ran, chasing each other into the waves, falling into the water, laughing, and gulping mouthfuls of salt.
; He chased her back to the beach until she double backed to take pursuit. She chased him across the shore, over the dune, and up the grassy knoll. Just as she reached him, he turned and caught her in his arms, their bodies falling to the ground. Lizbeth sank into the muddy bank, her hands grasping at the grass, ripping up handfuls as he tortured her mouth with his, searing it with fierce heat.
His mouth and skin tasted like the salty ocean water. She licked the water from his neck, as he plunged hard and thick into her wet and ready entrance. She felt the familiar pressure, the mounting sensation as he thrust, filling her to capacity. Watching him watch her increased the sensation, their eyes locked, his glinting in the darkness, the reflective eyes of a hunter.
Arching to meet his thrusts, she dug her heels into his bottom, forcing him deeper. Sebastian threw back his head and howled, driving into her with long, fiery strokes until they cried out in climax.
Lying on the grass post coitus, they covered themselves with a blanket of stars, warmed only by body heat. The night sky sparkled with diamonds.
“What’s that long hazy patch?” she asked him, her head resting on his shoulder.
She nestled against his body, his arms enveloping her protectively, and pointed to an elongated glow in the sky, so different from the billions of twinkling candles overhead.
“That’s Andromeda, another galaxy. You’re here at the most perfect time, as the autumn nights have the darkest skies, all the better to see with the first quarter moon. In November, I want us to watch the meteor showers.”
“I’d like that. Look, there’s a river of stars.” She pointed. “And then clusters of them over there, and look, over there, too!”
He kissed the top of her head. Feeling brave after such a primal midnight romp, she kissed his chest and said, “Show me your soul, Sebastian. I fall in love every time I see your rawness. Too often, we go through life guarded, fearful. Let’s be real; let’s be raw, my darling. Show me your soul. Tell me what haunts your dreams.”
The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1) Page 26
