by Eloisa James
“God, you’re perfect.”
She gurgled with laughter, her arms slung around his neck. “I think I have too much of a curve there.” She was laughing, but there was something a little shy in her voice too.
“No,” he said, fervently. “I love your body. Here.” His hands slid around and he pulled her against him again. “Here.” His hands slid to her waist, even higher.
She gasped and he caught her mouth again and then they didn’t say anything for a long time.
But in the back of his head, the mathematical part of his brain was ticking off the minutes. Finally, he tore his mouth away and said, “I have to go. I mean, we must return to the house.”
“No!” Her small hands caught his shoulders. “Don’t!”
“I must,” he said hoarsely. “I cannot marry where I would.”
“Why not?”
It didn’t matter; she had no idea who he was. But he had to tell her the truth, to explain. “I am your monarch,” he said, the word coming quietly into the evening air. “If I asked you to marry me, you could not say nay.”
She made a sound, not a gasp, a tiny protest, perhaps.
“There is no way to woo a woman under those circumstances,” he said with finality, willing her to understand. It wasn’t as if she was as attached as he was. He’d never once seen an expression in her eyes that mirrored what he felt—this sort of ravening, terrible hunger to be with her at all times. During the day and night.
“I must go,” he said, removing her hands from his neck and standing back. He dropped her hands and bowed. “If you’ll allow me, my lady, I will escort you from the woods.”
“I thought you said this was to be a greenwood wedding,” she whispered. Her eyes had turned dark, though he could hardly see in this light. “You haven’t given me a flower, Your Highness.”
He turned rather blindly and broke off a sprig of late-blooming lilac. “The color goes with your eyes.”
She took the flowers, a little smile curling her lips. “As if you know the color of my eyes. It’s far too dark for that.”
“Green,” he said. “Your eyes are green.”
“I suppose you have fulfilled the requirements for this wedding. This greenwood wedding.”
“You have the flower.”
“But if ’tis a wedding,” she said, stepping toward him again, “I would have your vow, Your Highness.”
He bowed again, kissed the tips of her fingers. “It would be my pleasure, my lady. I bind my heart to you,” he said, the words a relief to say in the open air. “To love no other woman, to the end of my days.”
She caught his hand and brought his fingers to his lips. “Then so do I to you,” she said, low and soft. “In this greenwood wedding.”
There was something magical about that moment. Hope sparked in his soul for the first time in years, some sort of abiding hope that fed on the smile playing around her lips.
Then she shook out her train and turned toward the house. Neither of them said a word. It was past eleven and the sky had grown very dark, the stars remote and far away. They slipped through the doors and no one seemed to have noticed they were gone. It was as if time had stood still. There were no alarmed cries, or curious gazes.
Elias realized that he was, shamefully, hoping that there would be a scandal and he would have to marry her. For the good of her reputation, naturally.
But he bowed and then took himself away, up the stairs. He could not bear to watch Reggie fall to one knee; he was quite certain that his friend would make a public gesture of his proposal.
Yet even after he took off the ridiculous chain, the velvet coat, the billowing white shirt, a spark of joy still played in his chest. He drank himself a glass of Scotch, trying not to think about what was happening downstairs. When he finally slept, he dreamed that he walked in a door and found her waiting for him in a small sitting room. The welcome in her eyes sent a blaze of fire up his body and he slammed the door behind him.
Then he stalked toward her, loving the way her eyes shone and a flush rose in her cheeks. “Eli!” she cried, half protesting, but not really . . . And then just when he had caught her up and put her on the sofa, unable to stop himself, pulling up her skirts while she burst out giggling—
The door opened. He woke to find that his ancient valet, Biggles, was ushering in footmen carrying steaming pails of water. Biggles was not a man for flowery morning salutations, so after the footmen left, Elias climbed silently from his bed and got into the bath, reminding himself that a greenwood wedding was nothing.
Nothing.
Less than nothing.
Biggles cleared his throat. “My lord.”
Elias poured a final dipper of water over his head, rinsing out the soap. “Yes?”
“You are missing a shoe, my lord.”
“Do you mean that the bootblack returned only one?”
“No, my lord.” Biggles paused. “To be entirely accurate, the bootblack returned only one of all your footwear. You now have one boot, one dancing slipper, and two shoes which do not match.”
“That’s quite unbelievable,” Elias said. “What on earth could have happened? Would you toss me that towel, please?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Biggles replied, his tone righteously disapproving, though he did unbend enough to hand over a towel. “It appears to be an obscure jest; I would suggest that Mr. Dolan is the perpetrator.”
Elias turned his head. Tucked carefully into each of his unpaired shoes was a sprig of lilac.
He sprang to his feet, water sluicing from his body onto the floor. “How in the bloody hell did those get in here?”
“I put your shoes out late last night, as is the household custom, and this is the state in which I found them.”
Elias dried himself in two minutes. He knew precisely which room was Penny’s; she was two doors down from his own.
His thoughts knocked together like wooden pins. He stumbled into his clothes, too impatient to wait for Biggles to fumble around with his garments. Instead, he pulled on a random pair of breeches and snatched up the pillowing linen shirt he had worn the night before. He didn’t bother with stockings—or, obviously, with shoes.
He simply headed out the door, ignoring Biggles’s piping voice behind him.
He was at Penny’s door in a second. With one quick glance down the corridor, he pushed the door open and walked in.
Clearly, she was not an early riser, as he was. He stood for a moment, looking at the feminine jumble spread out around the room, the pile of ribbons, the many, many shoes—none of which were his . . .
Then, finally, he allowed himself to turn toward the bed.
Penny was awake. She was lying on her side, looking at him. Her hair gleamed chestnut in the soft light, falling in loops and twists all over the white sheets. She looked naughty, and pleased with herself, and entirely Penny-like.
“Were you looking for something, Eli?” she asked. She pulled back the sheet next to her and there was a linen bundle, a bulging bundle that might well have one man’s boot in it as well as sundry other footwear. “Or should I say, Your Majesty?”
A burst of happiness swept through him and he prowled toward her, every inch of his body burning with the desire to touch her. To have her.
“Why did you take my shoes?”
She shrugged and sat up. Her sheet slipped down, and the wide neckline of her nightdress slid down one shoulder. His body ached with a deep awareness of her.
“You were fleeing at midnight,” she pointed out. “Shoes seemed appropriate.”
He came to a halt next to the bed. She gave him a wicked grin and slid down on her back. He leaned over, bracing his arms on either side of her shoulders. “Are you by any chance referring to a fairy tale?” Comprehension shot through him and he straightened. “Cinderella. You are comparing me to a destitute fairy tale character. Quite appropriate, I suppose.”
She reached forward and grabbed a twist of his shirt, her eyes darkening. “I
love you, Elias Hempleworth-Gray, and I have loved you for years!”
Elias was about to wrench free of her grip, but he froze.
“I’ve loved you for years,” she said, her tone softening, “even though most of the time you—you don’t look at me. You won’t touch me, or dance with me, or kiss me! You pretend you don’t want me, and then last night . . . last night—” She broke off, scowling at him.
He knew her every mood, in every light. She was truly furious, on the verge of tears. He had hurt her. Something primitive lit in his chest.
“You think I don’t want you?” He snarled it, bending back down again, pushing her over on the bed. “I cannot have you, Penny, but I’ve never wanted anything as much in my life. I can’t take you. I—”
Her smile returned, and the pain in her eyes eased. She slipped the top button from the wide-necked nightgown and his explanation dried up in his mouth.
“No,” he managed.
“You can take me,” she said, cherry dark lips curving. “I am giving myself to you, Eli.”
“You can’t.”
“I am my own person. You love me. You said so, in the woods. And I love you; I’ve always loved you. I had no idea how you felt, but Reggie promised that you cared for me.” She undid another of her buttons, and he caught a glimpse of the curve of a creamy breast.
“Reggie said what?” He repeated, idiotically.
She deserted the buttons and slung her arms around his neck. “He said you cared me, but that you would never tell me, because you believed I would have no choice, that I would feel compelled to accept your proposal. He’s right. I could not refuse you.”
Elias felt as if his heart cracked as he stood there, staring down at her.
“How could I say no?” she said, her words stumbling a bit. “I love you, Eli! I love you more than, more than anyone. Ever. You’re the only one for me. I thought you’d . . . I thought you would know that. But the whole season went by. Four months. And you never . . . you avoided me.”
Her lip trembled, and without thinking, Elias kissed her, so fiercely that he stole the very taste of sorrow from her mouth. “Don’t,” he said, a while later, discovering that he was now lying on the bed beside her, one hand tangled in her hair, his lips a breath away from hers.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say those things. You know why I couldn’t come near you. And now—” because he was beginning to accept that pride didn’t matter when it came to love “—now everyone will say that I married you just for the estate. I wish to hell that your father hadn’t bought Leyton House after my father lost it!” The words came out savagely.
“I am not sorry,” Penny said, edging a bit closer. Her rounded shoulder was entirely free of the delicate lawn of her nightgown; it shone like porcelain in the morning light stealing through the curtains. “If my father hadn’t bought Leyton House, I would not have grown up next to the inimitable Reggie.”
“That’s true,” Eli mumbled. He was burning to kiss, lick, even bite her shoulder. What was he thinking? Gentlemen didn’t do that sort of thing.
“If my father hadn’t bought that particular house, you wouldn’t have visited Reggie every school holiday, because you would have had your own residence.”
He succumbed and kissed her shoulder, loving the faint fragrance of lemons that clung to her.
“And if I had not spent all that time with you when we were children, I would never have known that you’re the man for me,” she said, her voice wavering a little.
Eli lifted his head and their eyes met. “I have never wanted any other woman than you, Penny. The truth is that I . . . I adore everything about you. You are the only one for me. Since I couldn’t marry you, I wasn’t going to marry at all.”
“Then why didn’t you court me?” she asked, her eyes on his, a hint of pain still there. “I thought that when I debuted, in March, that you would say something. I kept waiting for you to come forward. I thought—I told my father that I was going to marry you. And then you ignored me!”
It was time to tell the truth, the whole truth. “I was afraid that you would never love me this way.” He brushed her mouth with his. “I was afraid that you felt the kind of friendship that you feel for Reggie, and you would marry me to make up for my father’s stupidities. I couldn’t bear it. I’d rather be alone.”
“I don’t feel friendship for you.” One slender hand ran down his cheek and she bent forward and gave him a kiss that made his heart pound in his chest.
“I couldn’t bear the idea that I—that I would buy your love with my title.” His voice came out low, roughed by a desire so keen that he wanted nothing more than to rip off her nightgown.
Yet her smile healed a broken loneliness inside him, something that had burned inside him for his entire life. “My love is a free gift,” she whispered, brushing his lips with hers. “I gave it to you with no expectation, when we were mere children. I gave it to you before I knew that you would turn into the sort of man every woman wants. The most handsome man in all London. The sort of man who will be a wonderful husband and father.”
He couldn’t stop himself, then. He rolled on top of her with a kind of reckless hunger. She was his, and he’d never had anything of his own before. Penny looked up at him, green eyes wide with trust and love, and Eli felt as if the caring and hope he saw there filled him up, like an empty vase is filled with water.
So he propped himself on his elbows and kissed her. And then he deliberately rocked against her softness, heard her little gasp, felt the way her fingers tightened on his shoulders.
“I love you,” he growled, sometime later. He had lost his billowing shirt, and her nightdress was around her waist. It wasn’t that hard to say. The words just came right out of his mouth. They probably would, his whole life, many times a day.
“Mmm,” Penny said. She was placing a series of kisses all along his jaw. Sunshine was coming in the window now, gilding her hair.
Eli had his hand on the most beautiful breast he could have imagined . . . but he sighed and tugged Penny’s nightdress back into place.
Her hands slid down his back, lightly shaping every corded muscle. “No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he whispered back, loving the reluctance in her voice. “I won’t dishonor you before I even ask your father for your hand.”
“There will be no argument,” she said with a gurgle of laughter. “He was so sad when I had to tell him that you showed no interest in me. He thinks you’re the only aristocrat he’s met who’s worth his salt.”
“No interest.” He was stunned for a moment. “You really thought that I had no interest? I mean, I tried not to show it. But I did nothing but stand at the side of rooms and watch you. I couldn’t stop myself.”
At that, she sat up. “I do have to say this, Eli. We love each other, and between us, money doesn’t matter. You are not a king and I am not lady-in-waiting: we are just a man and a woman. So you’ll take that money my father made, and do wonderful things with it.”
“And you,” he said, his heart brimming with happiness, “what will you do?”
She blushed. “Have children.”
“How many children?”
“Oh, you know the fairy tale. She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.”
Eli laughed, the deep belly laugh that she had taught him. “That’s a nursery rhyme, not a fairy tale, darling.”
“Well.” She kissed him again, as if she couldn’t stop herself. “That’s what I want to do, Eli. I want to have children, lots of them, and be dreadfully unfashionable and spent time with them in the nursery.”
“I would like that as well,” he said, with all the heartfelt truth of a lonely childhood in his voice. Maybe she was right about money, but it didn’t matter. He had to have her. He couldn’t live without her. “We should discuss those shoes,” he said, “and then I promise not to cavil over your dowry again. Cinderella?”
“It was Reggie’s idea.” She presse
d another kiss on his jaw. Followed by a tiny nibble that sent lightning down his body. “He bribed his valet into snipping most of the stitches in your sleeve because he said that I would only see the real you if . . . well, if you weren’t the real you. And then he had his valet steal your shoes. The lilacs were my idea. Reggie really, truly doesn’t want to marry me, you see.”
A laugh escaped Eli’s chest. “I really, truly do want to marry you, Penny.”
There was another flash of uncertainty in her bright eyes. “It was awful not knowing whether you wanted me.”
He began kissing her then, the kind of kiss that promised he would never leave her.
That if he had to go, he would come back to her, whether he had two shoes, or none. Whether his carriage kept its wheels or turned into a pumpkin.
Whether the distance was 100 miles or—he realized now—all the way from Scotland.
Ever After
London
December 31, 1812
A New Year’s Ball given by Lady Bracknell
It was Miss Violet Leighton’s considered—if cynical—opinion that fairy tales were poppycock. How could they not be? Her father had quite ruled out stableboys; kissable frogs seemed to be far and few between; and the gentlemen she’d met were more suited to a farce than a fairy tale.
In short: marriage was ever after without the promise of “happily,” a chilling thought that had led her to refuse seven proposals.
At age twenty, her father saw her as hopelessly pigheaded. Her little sister Millicent, on the other hand, saw her as hopelessly romantic, still waiting for her prince to come.
Violet saw herself as a spinster. For . . . ever after.
“He’s here!” Millie was panting audibly as she popped up at Violet’s elbow, her eyes shining with excitement.
Violet’s heart skipped a beat, but she gave her sister an admonishing look, turned aside, and directed a lavish smile at the gentleman to whom she had been speaking. The last thing she wanted was to appear like a social-climbing ninny before a leader of the ton. “I do apologize,” she said, “I didn’t quite follow what you said about ghouls.”
