Julia grinned. “Lord Farring has come up with a marvelous plan, and Markham approved. Lord Farring’s sister—Lady Horatia—is just my age, can you imagine that? I’m to be a guest of a duke and duchess, and I will be able to take dancing lessons with Lady Horatia. Lord Farring says that she has always felt slighted because her elder sisters came out together, and I am the perfect solution.”
Bless Lord Farring. Katherine smiled. “Sounds like a wonderful plan.”
“Best of all, I won’t be far from you,” Julia finished.
Katherine embraced Julia. At least Julia’s future would be much, much brighter, now. And, in a convoluted way, she had Bromton’s abhorrent behavior to thank for that.
Markham appeared at the top of the stairs. She met his gaze and released Julia.
“Percy,” she greeted coolly.
Julia skipped over and grabbed Markham’s hand. She pulled him into the circle and then grasped Katherine’s hand, forming a chain.
“You two must make up,” Julia said with authority. “I’ll not tolerate another second of this childish behavior.”
Katherine sent Julia a speaking glance. Markham snorted.
“Katherine,” Julia said, “what Markham did was not very wise, nor very thoughtful, but can we agree that he had your best interests at heart?”
Katherine glanced heavenward.
“He is but a male,” Julia persisted.
Markham stiffened. “I beg your pardon!”
“Ah, Percy,” Katherine said. “You gamble one sister away, but heaven forbid the other insult your manhood.”
Markham blushed. “The voucher actually read: ‘the hand of my sister Katherine, if both parties deem an alliance suitable.’”
“Lud, Percy, can I trust you with Julia?”
“I never sank his ships,” Julia pointed out.
Katherine chuckled halfheartedly.
“I did think you’d suit,” Markham said quietly. “And I still do. Brom received the far better bargain.”
“Oh,” Katherine smiled reluctantly, “I agree wholeheartedly on that point.”
“Can you forgive me?”
Could she? He had much to learn, this brother of hers. But, his love was sincere.
“Smile, Percy,” she said, touching his cheek. “You get away with much more when you make use of your dimple.”
With gratefully upturned lips, he placed his hand in hers. Katherine glanced up to the sky as a butterfly wafted overhead. Feeling her mother’s presence, she squeezed her siblings’ hands.
“Bromton’s horses are going to be restless. I must go.” She closed the three-way embrace. “I love you two.”
“We love you, too,” Julia replied.
“Women,” Markham said derisively, though he had a suspicious gleam in his eye.
Katherine reached up to cup her little brother’s cheek. “Take care of Southford.”
“I will,” he replied.
“And you,” she turned to Julia, “take care of him.”
“Who will take care of you?” Julia asked.
Katherine’s gaze drifted to the top of Bromton’s carriage, just visible in the drive below.
Many, many emotions jumbled around in her heart. She needed time, time to untangle them, knowing each knot would resist.
“I intend,” she said with a sniff, “to care for myself, for once. It is sure to be a novel experience.”
…
If he had ridden alone, Giles could have completed the trip to London in just a few hours. The addition of his wife and his coach-and-four transformed the journey into a two-day affair.
An excruciating two-day affair.
Giles may have been sitting beside the woman he loved, but neither had spoken a word beyond what was absolutely necessary. The loneliness weighting his heart was not just loneliness, but a scourge—a lash that beat repeatedly on the same open wound until he was certain there would be nothing left of him when they reached the city but bone and blood.
Luckily, the inn he’d arranged had been able to accommodate an additional room. However, the thin, wooden walls only served to amplify the sounds she made as she prepared for bed. He’d lain awake most the night, much as he had every night since the terrible scene in the library.
Staring with sand-dry eyes at the ceiling, he’d practiced a thousand different ways to beg.
The phantom Katherine refused each one.
The future stretched out before him—one, long, dark corridor of shame.
He’d considered riding outside the carriage. Then he remembered, he did not deserve relief. As the carriage rumbled over yet another rut, he snuck a glance at Katherine. She looked so pale, so drawn. Ah, hellion, don’t let me do this to you.
“Would you like me to slice you a bit of cheese?” he asked. “You did not break your fast.”
She arranged her skirts, keeping her eyes carefully averted. “Better to keep the interior of your carriage clean, my lord.”
He blew out a breath.
Was this to be his life? A life where every tentative volley of truce was met with cannonades of scorn?
He had his Langley wife. She’d promised him an heir. Be careful what you wish for, lest it combust in your face.
He rested his head on the back of the carriage as the carriage bounced. Thunk, rattle, rattle, rattle. Thunk, rattle, rattle, rattle. Thunk. Jarring, physical pain was his only relief. Thunk, rattle, rattle. Thunk, rattle, rattle, rattle. Thu—
First, she touched his shoulder, and then she placed something soft behind his head.
He dared not open his eyes, lest he weep.
On impulse, he reached up and grasped her hand. Without looking, and, most certainly, without speaking, he held her gloved fingers against his chest. She ceased breathing. Then, in slow measures, aspiration returned.
His hand made a nest for hers. After what seemed like an hour—each second marked by a small circle drawn against her palm with his thumb—her fingers curled around his and she rested.
It was enough. He would press no further.
He sunk back onto her makeshift pillow and, with his hand, he prayed a wordless prayer.
In his prayer’s comfort and promise, finally, he slept.
…
For the first time in her life, Katherine had fallen asleep in a carriage. The carriage’s leather-covered seats were cushioned with horsehair, the wheels were well-sprung, and the team expertly managed. None of those things had been the reason for her ability to rest.
Bromton’s touch—gentle, constant, and warm—had slipped past the sentinels of her anger and fear, delivering a signal straight to her soul: all will be well.
The message had calmed and comforted.
She’d slept straight through to their arrival. And before she could parse how she felt, Bromton began introducing the assembled servants. Next, he guided her through the house. She could not think while he studied her features. They walked from chamber to chamber, each grander than the last. Bromton fidgeted, repeating himself as he pointed out architectural details.
Every room fed her growing dread.
She could hardly fathom being mistress of all this, and “all this,” Bromton had assured, was mere prelude to Castle Bromton.
She struggled to, again, find comfort in Bromton’s presence. She struggled and failed. She’d made a terrible mistake. She could never be equal to this place, let alone its mistress. And she had no answer to Bromton’s anxious eagerness to please.
Could she let him love her? Did she believe in love at all?
“Might I retire?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied.
All propriety, he led her to the series of rooms that would be her domain.
“The family chambers form the rear of each wing,” he explained. “From the landing I turn left, you right. However,” his breath hitched, “a door connects the bedchambers.”
His gaze beseeched, devoured. She stood alone on an island ache. The only possible way to return
to him was to wade voluntarily into too-deep waters of pain. Panic fluttered at her throat.
He lifted her hand. One finger at a time, he tugged the leather from her fingers until he’d removed her glove. Two rings glinted in the light—one red, one gold. Holding her gaze, he placed a kiss on her knuckles, just the rings.
Sensations. So many sensations. Each, with the pull of a tide. Each, too fierce to name.
“May I come to you tonight?” he asked.
She swallowed with difficulty. Her throat had completely dried. “I do believe it is your right.”
“My right,” he repeated, softly. The red rim around his eyes darkened.
No. If he cried, she would break. Not just her resistance, but whatever remained of her heart.
With her gloved hand, she reached up and cupped his cheek. “Giles.”
“Can you forgive me?”
The simple answer was no. Her heart huddled in a dark corner, aching and bruised and wanting desperately to keep its tormentor at bay. But her other parts sang at his touch. She wanted more than anything to sing.
“Have I ever met the true Giles?” she asked slowly.
“I judged my mother for her secret,” he said. “I judged you for yours.” His cheek twitched. “It is not fair of me to ask that you do not judge me.” He shuddered as he inhaled. “But, hellion, you know me,” he touched her heart, “here.”
Perhaps her heart hadn’t been huddling. Perhaps it had been waiting to twirl. Twirl so fast, she was dizzy.
“Do I know you?” Her voice was oddly flat.
With his eyes, he started a thousand sentences. He left them all unfinished.
“May I hold you?” he finally asked.
Her gaze fell to his chest, her body remembered the security she’d found when she’d rested her cheek against his shoulder and demanded she find it again.
“Yes,” she said finally.
Instantly, she was engulfed in his coat. His familiar arms encircled her with strength. His labored breath lifted the curls on her neck. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t trust herself when he was near.
“I cannot think when you are holding me,” she said.
“I do not want you to think,” he whispered against her ear. “I want you to feel.”
“Feeling,” she said, breathless, “is not the problem.” She pulled back. “I feel. I feel…everything.”
She opened the door to her chambers and strode inside. Like a lost puppy, he followed.
She froze. This room was unlike any of the others. This room was warm and inviting. And the walls had been painted to reveal a familiar scene—the view of Southford from her mother’s folly.
“The painters have worked through the nights to finish,” he said.
Her eyes traveled over the hemlocks to the columns to the meadow, replete with tiny sheep. Slowly, her gaze moved about the room from table to table, spotting pieces she recognized. Her mother’s keepsake box, her father’s favorite lamp. It was as if he’d sprinkled the room with her most cherished memories.
“How?” she stuttered.
“Markham and Julia helped. One more surprise awaits.” He looked down at his feet. “You’ll sleep in a familiar bed tonight.”
His thoughtfulness moved her beyond words. How could she reconcile this man with the one who’d hurt her so deeply?
She turned away. Her hand shook as she touched one wall. She faced him. She stared for a long moment, searching his face as if she could discern the answer to some riddle. Why was it that he’d lied, and she was the one coming apart?
“Please come back to me,” he pleaded.
“My mind says no, but my heart says…”
“Yes?” He caressed her face with worshipful tenderness.
She did not respond.
“What more can I do?” he asked.
She did not know. Words would be forever inadequate. Then again, perhaps they did not need words.
She was a matron, now. Unbound by the stifling rules of propriety. And she had, in her private chambers, a man who affected her more deeply than anyone. A man capable of bringing her great pain…and great pleasure. A man who had re-created her favorite view, simply so she would feel its warmth and comfort.
Slowly, she reached up around her neck and loosened her fichu. Without the support, the bodice gaped. The hint of her breasts had been enough to leave him transfixed.
Blood rose like a flame up his neck.
“Forget tonight.” By tonight, she might lose her nerve. “Come to me now.”
She undid the tie that gathered her overdress beneath her breasts and allowed it to fall away like a coat. She stood before him clad only in a shift, stays, and stockings. Still, he did not move.
She fumbled for the ties that held her stays but could not reach them.
“I require your assistance,” she glanced through her lashes, “husband.”
His unreadable gaze burned into hers. He took her fingers from the ties and placed her hands around his neck. In one, swift movement, he lifted her from the floor.
Her legs dangled from the crook of his arm as he carried her through the next two chambers—dressing rooms, perhaps, they moved too quickly for her to tell. She didn’t care, really. The burn behind his eyes fascinated.
When he reached the bed—her very own bed—they sunk as one into the mattress. He opened his mouth to speak. She covered it with her fingers. If he spoke, he’d awaken that thing inside. That thing that snapped and snarled and wished him to the devil.
“You said you wanted me to feel,” she said. “Make me feel.”
She grasped him by his cheeks and forced his lips to her mouth. He kissed her, his unspoken words melded to her skin, branding her, making her shiver in a way that simultaneously warmed and chilled.
She’d sworn to take care of herself, and the deepest, truest part of herself screamed, I want.
I want to be worshiped with his body.
I want his lips to cover mine.
I want his hands on my breasts.
I want him to fill me from the inside out.
So what if he’d hurt her? Her need grew from a place beyond justice-apportioning scales. Her need demanded fusion, not balance—heat strong enough to liquefy, to unify.
He withdrew from their kiss, his lips reluctantly parting from hers.
Struggle sweated into his scent, struggle she read in the harsh lines of his face. A gentleman wouldn’t take his wife, not while unresolved pain haunted the space between them. But she wanted to be taken. No, she demanded to be taken, and she would not be denied.
She wanted the brute, the bastard.
She reached through the specter of pain, grasping Bromton by his thigh. She searched until she found his manhood—stiff as she’d suspected, and painfully restrained beneath the cover of his falls. She grasped his length with her fingers, demonstrating just how little she thought of holding to the rules that bound lords and ladies.
She was no lady. And he was no gentleman. He was, however, a man. A man whose heat burned between her thighs. A man who left her nipples taut and pleading.
She worked the buttons that held his falls. One, two, three on the right. One, two—
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand above her head, and crowded her with his chest until she was pinned to the mattress. There, he paused, breathing heavily. She wet her lips, challenging him in silence.
Do you want me? Well, then, come and get me.
He dragged her other arm above her head, holding her prostrate by her wrists. Did he think she’d give up so easily? She wrapped her legs around his hips and arched.
“Dammit,” he growled.
She felt his curse in her belly, felt him crack off the edge of his foul language. She curved her back. Her arms strained as she pressed her breasts into his chest. The gentleman vanished. He moved against her in a pantomime of the act of love, until her shift crowded past her hips.
She was bare, and her legs spread, reveling in
the animal noises he made. She arched again. He yanked down her stays, forcing greedy lips against her breasts. She cried out—not with his name, but with sounds as incoherent as his—sounds of pleading and pleasure.
His stiff, heated cock slid along her wetness, seeking entry. She bit her lips and shifted her hips, longing to be filled, longing to be one. Words were rubbish. Her body could sing.
Then, she no longer needed to want. He was inside her, stretching her, molding her ready flesh to his. All his delicious muscle pinning her still so that every sensation she experienced came from him alone.
Had she wanted to be taken? Yes.
Each time he pumped into her body, she gasped for breath. Her awareness began and ended with him. He wrapped her gasps together like a leash, tightening his hold until she no longer cared who, or where, or what she was. She existed only in a dark cloud of heat, the thrust of his cock and his teeth on her nipples the only things keeping her from complete oblivion—until she slipped.
She may have moaned, she may have screamed. It did not matter. What mattered was the sensation that she’d dissolved, merging into a union that was the greatest pleasure she’d ever known.
When she came to her senses, his cock was fully sheathed. His elbows bit into her sides, his thighs shook. He burrowed his head into her shoulder. She was, literally, caged inside his release. Trapped in a moment that was both ultimate triumph and complete surrender.
Then, they stilled. Wet and exhausted, but stilled.
She blinked up at the ceiling in wonder, certain no two people had ever joined with such precision. Tears—happy tears—gathered at the corners of her eyes.
Slowly, he moved to her side, leaving a protective arm across her body. The hair of his forearm contrasted with her pale, smooth skin. Perhaps some words weren’t rubbish.
Words that could describe what she felt must exist.
One could not be gifted with a feeling so strong and not be able to show, to tell.
“Giles.” She reached out with his name.
He pulled in his arm and rolled away on his side, just as if she’d skewered him. With a sound that could only have been disgust, he retrieved his shirt from the floor.
“Giles,” she repeated, with growing alarm.
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