Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  “If you make me wait too long,” she said, “I will lose my nerve.”

  “Give me three minutes touching you, and you won’t be thinking about your nerves,” he promised.

  “When does that three minutes start?” she asked breathlessly.

  “As soon as I do this.” He sank to one knee, his legs protesting since they were sore and tight from the fight earlier. But he’d forget about his stiff muscles soon enough. It had been a long time since he’d played the gentleman, but he still knew how to do it. “Miss Brown, forgive the suddenness of this proposal, but it cannot have escaped your notice that my feelings for you have deepened and ripened into a feeling that I can only describe as love. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She stared at him, and he went over the words in his mind again. He’d said them correctly, hadn’t he? That was the way to propose.

  “You love me?” she asked.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You said something about ripening, and I wasn’t certain if you meant me or fruit.”

  He’d done this all wrong because he was a coward, as she’d claimed earlier. He’d thought by relying on formality he could avoid the emotion of the moment.

  But Modesty was obviously having none of that, and bully for her. He took her hand. “I love you,” he said simply. “Is that clear enough?”

  “But you said earlier—”

  “Earlier I was a fool. I knew I was being a fool even then. I knew I didn’t mean it because even though I didn’t want to fall in love with you, I already had. I already have.”

  “But you said you couldn’t bear to feel that pain if you loved and lost again.”

  His hand on hers tightened. “I had a taste of that pain tonight when you were missing and when I found you with Notley. And you know what I realized?”

  “You should give Mr. Trogdon a raise?”

  He grinned. “Besides that.”

  “What?” She stepped closer, and he caught the scent of lemons that must have scented the soap she’d used.

  “That I don’t want to live without you. That not having you is as bad as having you and losing you.”

  “You won’t lose me.”

  “There are no guarantees of that.”

  “Agreed. But I am here now, and so are you. We have right now.” She reached for that ribbon again, and it pained him to put his hand over hers, stopping her.

  “You didn’t answer my question, and I don’t want to take you to bed until you do.”

  She put her hands on either side of his face and looked at him with so much love it made his heart ache. “I will have you for a husband, Rowden Payne.” She stepped back, just out of reach, and grasped that flimsy white ribbon. “I.” She tugged one side loose. “Will.” She tugged the other side loose. “Marry.” She let the garment slip off her shoulders. “You.” The nightgown slid down her body, leaving her naked and golden in the lamplight.

  Rowden didn’t breathe for several heartbeats. She was beautiful with her curves and her angles and those lovely breasts with the rosy tips. A triangle of auburn hair invited him at the juncture of her thighs, and he went to her and sank to his knees. He pressed a kiss to her belly, and she inhaled sharply. His hands skated up the backs of her thighs, pressing into her round bottom then over her hips and up her ribs to cup those heavy breasts.

  He wanted to sink into that soft body, to explore every inch of it. And he knew just where to start. “Lie on the bed,” he said, standing and removing his coat.

  She gave him a nervous look, and he wanted to kick himself for forgetting this was her first time. He took her hand and led her to the bed, then sat on the edge and removed his boots. “Have you ever seen a naked man?” he asked.

  “In a museum. And well, you are almost naked when you fight.

  He yanked his shirt over his head. “Then this much nudity doesn’t bother you.”

  “On the contrary.” She reached over and ran a hand across his shoulders and down his chest. “I have been wanting to do that all night.”

  “Usually, I would let you have your way—ladies first and all that—but I don’t trust myself to do this right if I let you have your way.”

  “There’s a right way to do this?” she asked, looking a bit worried.

  He lifted her onto the bed, resting her head on the pillow then looking down at her. His chest was pressed against her side, and her skin was soft and warm. “Not a right way,” he murmured, dropping kisses over her face. “But I want you to have as much pleasure as I do.”

  She wriggled against him, obviously anticipating the pleasure she already knew he could give her. But instead of sliding his fingers between her legs, he rolled over on top of her and kissed her, slowly making his way down her body.

  He pressed teasing kisses behind her ear; long, luxurious kisses on her lips; and delicate kisses on her neck. He worked his way down, tracing the curve of her breast with his tongue and then sucking lightly on her distended nipples. She arched her back, and he sucked harder, using the distraction to wedge a knee between her legs and open them. She stiffened slightly, but then he slid his tongue between her breasts and down to her navel, and she was gasping for air and trembling. He pressed his knee upward slightly, into the warm heat of her sex.

  She moaned and moved against him, even as he slid down further to press kisses on her hip bone and then that soft hair between her legs. He opened her legs further, sliding his mouth down to lick between her legs. She gasped in shock and sat, staring at him as though he were mad.

  “Not in Song of Solomon?” he asked.

  “No!”

  His fingers trailed lazily up and down the skin of her inner thigh. “Solomon had how many wives? Ten? Twenty?”

  “Seven hundred,” she said, her voice breaking as his fingers moved upward.

  “Then he surely knew something about cunnilingus,” he said. “What are the verses?” He’d never thought he’d be quoting scripture in bed, but all those years of being forced to read the Bible were finally proving useful. “I remember. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.” Her eyes were shining now, her breasts rising and falling with heat. “Let me taste you. One word from you, and I’ll stop.” He lowered his head again, kissing her outer lips then parting them to sweep his tongue along her until he reached the small pink bud hidden in her folds.

  She fell back, her legs trembling, her breaths coming in fast pants now. He spread her legs wider, and she didn’t protest, opening for him, as he teased her with his tongue. Her hands fisted on the bedclothes and she began to moan faster. His tongue moved faster as her hips began to writhe. “Please,” she begged. “Yes, oh yes.”

  He could have slowed down, taken his time. It had been a long time since he’d done this, and he’d forgotten how much he liked it. But there would be time to tease and torment her later, time to draw out her pleasure until she was wild with need. For now, he pressed his tongue to her until he felt the way her body tensed and lifted, and she cried out with release.

  MODESTY HAD THOUGHT she knew pleasure. Rowden had touched her in the coach, bringing her to climax twice before. But that was nothing to the pleasure he gave her now, nothing to looking down and seeing his dark head buried between her legs as his tongue flicked wickedly over her...fruit.

  This time when she climaxed, she felt like her entire body would break into a thousand pieces. Every single ounce of her was thrumming with glorious release. But she didn’t shatter, she held together, and came back down and into his arms. His large, solid body was on top of hers, and he was kissing her belly and her breasts, then her neck and her lips. Modesty dug her hands into his hair, tempering her own kisses because she knew his face was bruised.

  “Should we wait?” he asked, his voice low and breathless.

  “Wait?” She could barely understand him, her mind was fuzzy with pleasure.

  “Wait to consummate the marriage until we actually say the vows. I’ll wait if you
want.”

  She pulled back and looked him full in the face. “I don’t want to wait. I love you.”

  His face softened, and despite the cuts and mottled bruises, he looked almost sweet. “I love you. I don’t know why I fought it.”

  She gingerly touched the bruise by his eye. “You’re a fighter. It’s what you do.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, he was kissing her again, his body pressing against hers with a delicious heaviness. She ran her hands up and down his muscled back, and then found a measure of bravery and cupped his buttocks. “Shouldn’t you remove the breeches?” she asked.

  “Definitely.” In a few movements, he was as naked as she, his body warm and hard as he pressed against her. Now when she ran her hands down the length of him, all she felt was sinew and muscle and skin.

  He was touching her as well, his hand moving between her legs to stroke her. She didn’t think she could feel pleasure again, but her body responded and her breath caught in her throat.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “But you have to relax and trust me. Do you trust me?”

  “I’ve always trusted you.” It was true. When her father had disappeared, Rowden was the one she’d gone to for help. Somehow she’d always known she could count on him.

  The pressure between her legs grew more insistent as he entered her, but her pleasure grew as well as he continued to kiss and stroke her. She pulled him close, wanting this joining, wanting to be one with him now and forever. As her pleasure mounted so did the insistent pressure. It was not unwelcome, just novel. And when he finally brought her to climax, there was pain with the pleasure, but the pain was not so great that she couldn’t watch his face as he found his own pleasure. He would have thought her daft, but she thought him beautiful in that moment.

  Afterward, he pulled her close, kissing her, whispering how much he loved her, how he did not want to wait to marry her. She was almost asleep when he said, “I’ll go see your father tomorrow.”

  Modesty’s eyes opened and she sat. “What?”

  “To ask his permission to marry you.”

  She shook her head. “He won’t give it, and I’m of age. I don’t need his permission.”

  He lifted himself onto his elbow and looked up at her. “You don’t want his blessing?”

  “I don’t want anything from him.”

  He laid back and looked up at the canopy of her bed. It was a grand bed, and she’d felt very small sleeping in it alone last night. Now she looked down at him, and he looked as though he belonged. Of course, he belonged. He was the son of a duke.

  Modesty realized her mistake. “Rowden, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He waved a hand. “I used to think that way. I didn’t need or want anything from my father, or my mother, for that matter. The pain of your father’s lies is still raw, but think of how you’ll feel years from now.” He looked at her, his green eyes dark. “The absence of family leaves a hole.”

  Modesty hugged him, holding him close. “I’ll be your family now.”

  He stroked her hair. “And I’ll be yours, but reconsider cutting your father out completely. If you don’t want me to go to him, I’ll respect your wishes. Just be sure that is what you want.”

  She looked up at him. “Did you ever try to make amends with the duke? After your wife died or after the war?”

  He nodded. “I’ve tried several times over the years, but I’m dead to him now. He’s a hard man and a stubborn one. But I’m lucky.”

  She frowned. “I fail to see how.”

  “I lost my family, but in the war, I gained a new one.” He gestured to the room. “Lord Nicholas, Mostyn, Sterling. They’re all part of my family now. They’re my brothers.”

  “Then they’re my brothers as well.” He pulled her down for a kiss. After a long while, she said, “How long until we can marry? Three weeks to call the banns seems a lifetime.”

  He gave her a roguish grin. “I may be the disinherited son of a duke, but I still have a few connections.”

  THE EVENING AFTER THE much-discussed exhibition in Hungerford, Thérèse stood in her parlor and wondered if she was as much an idiot as she feared. She’d dressed in her finest gown, a ruby silk with a beaded bodice she set off with a ruby necklace and earrings—not real rubies, of course, but good copies. She’d had her maid style her hair, piling it high on her head and adding hundreds of rubies to the dark, glossy locks so that she would glitter under the candlelight at the winter ball.

  That was if she attended the ball. She’d had no word from Chibale, and it might be too much to expect him to be able to travel back from Hungerford to London in time to escort her to the ball.

  She’d probably wasted her time dressing. She checked the clock on the mantel, sighed, and thought about calling her maid back to undress her again.

  “Bleuette ees pretty,” her parrot said, watching her from atop her cage.

  “I’m the pretty one tonight,” she told the bird.

  “Fine lace!”

  Thérèse wasn’t wearing lace, but she took it as a compliment anyway.

  “Shall we have dessert,” Bleuette squawked.

  “I hope we can have dessert,” Thérèse said. It had only been two days, but she’d missed having Chibale in her bed. She’d missed having him nearby, missed seeing his smile across the breakfast table. He was probably tired from celebrating his fighter’s victory the night before. She’d sent her maid out to gather all the news first thing this morning. Thérèse was so proud of Chibale. She wished she could have been there to tell him so and to celebrate with him.

  It seemed the more time she spent with Chibale, the more difficult it became to remember their time together was fleeting. He was in love with her, but she couldn’t allow herself to fall in love with him. She could never allow herself to be vulnerable to a man again.

  But Chibale had made it very hard not to fall in love with him. She remembered him sweeping up broken glass in her shop, his sleeves rolled to his elbows as though he were a common laborer. She remembered the way he touched her in the dark, as though she were someone special to be protected and cherished.

  Thérèse bit her lip. She was an imbecile. She had fallen in love with him and not even realized.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Bleuette called out, “Merde!”

  Thérèse shook her head. If she did not watch her tongue, she’d not be able to bring Bleuette to the shop any longer. Thérèse’s heart was racing as the knock sounded on the door again, and she took a deep breath and smoothed her skirts before walking calmly to the door and opening it.

  Her mouth dropped open when she saw him. Chibale stood in the doorway in a blue coat of superfine, a ruby waistcoat, and fawn breeches. His beaver hat sat at a jaunty angle, and he had a walking stick draped across one arm.

  In his other arm he held flowers. “For you,” he said.

  She took the mixture of tropical flowers that were so exotic she could not even identify them. “Where did you buy flowers thees time of year?”

  But his gaze was traveling down her and then back up again. “You look...I don’t have the words.”

  Thérèse felt her cheeks heat as they hadn’t since she’d been a young girl. “I see you wore red, as instructed.”

  “Red is my new favorite color,” he said, looking as though he might eat her up. She almost wished they could forego the ball and skip to the eating up part of the evening, but instead she reached for her wrapper and took his arm.

  A grand carriage waited on the street below, and she gave him another look as she climbed into what could only be described as opulence. “Exactly how much money did you win in Hungerford?”

  He laughed, sitting beside her, rather than across from her. “Not this much. Mr. Sterling offered the coach, and the flowers came from the conservatory of Lord Nicholas.”

  “You have generous friends.”

  “Yes, I do.” He gazed at her for a long time. “I
’m a lucky man.”

  She smiled. “Where ees your sister, Bethanie? I thought you were to escort her to the ball?”

  “She will arrive with my parents.”

  Thérèse understood then that he had made these arrangements for her. She’d told him she didn’t want to marry him and didn’t see the point in coming to know his family. Now she felt selfish. That young girl deserved to ride in this carriage to her first ball. “Ees it too late to fetch her—all of them?” she asked.

  Chibale stared at her. “No. I don’t think so. Are you certain?”

  Thérèse looked back at him and nodded. “Very certain.”

  HIS PARENTS WERE WARM and kind. Charlotte and Gamba Okoro were almost as starry-eyed as their daughter when they climbed into the lavish coach. The family seemed to genuinely love each other, and she watched as they teased one another and exchanged warm smiles.

  “But the best part about tonight,” Charlotte said, “is meeting the amazing woman who designed this dress.” She indicated the gown Bethanie wore. Thérèse had to admit it looked lovely on the girl. “You have a rare talent, madam.”

  “Merci, but it ees easy to dress one so lovely as your daughter.”

  “Chibale tells us you dress all of London,” Gamba said. And before she knew it, they had her talking about some of her famous and not-so-famous clients. And then the talk drifted to their work and Chibale’s brothers, and Thérèse was surprised when they arrived at the assembly hall. The time had passed so quickly, and she’d felt completely comfortable.

  Once inside, the Okoros introduced her to the president of the Negro Merchant’s Guild and his wife. She quickly fell into conversation with him and other members of the guild, who were eager to have her join their ranks. Finally, she realized Chibale was standing at her elbow. He gave her a deep bow. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

  “You should dance the first dance with your sister,” she told him, stepping away from the guild and talk of business.

  “I have danced with her twice, and now she dances with that man there. My father is keeping an eye on them, so I might dance with you.”