The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
Page 29
His wife smiled at such nonsense. “Just forgive her. I have.”
“I thought you said you were not a model of Christian charity and forgiveness.”
She shrugged. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Richard took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Do you think you might be able to forgive me?”
“I already have,” she whispered.
Relief washed over him with such force it was a wonder he remained able to stand. But then he looked into her eyes, her pale lashes still wet with tears, and he was gone. He took her face in his hands and brought her to him, kissing her with all the urgency of a man who has faced the precipice and survived.
“I love you,” he said roughly, his words kisses in themselves. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.”
“I never thought I would hear you say that.”
“I love you.”
“Again,” he ordered.
“I love you.”
He brought her hands to his mouth. “I worship you.”
“Is this a contest?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m going to worship you right now.”
“Right . . . now?” She glanced at the window. The afternoon sun was streaming in, relentlessly bright and cheerful.
“I’ve waited far too long,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms. “And so have you.”
Iris let out a little squeal of surprise as he dropped her onto the bed. It was only a few inches to the mattress, but it was enough to give her a little bounce, and enough for him to take the moment to cover her body with his, reveling in the primitive sensation of having her pinned beneath him.
She was at his mercy.
She was his to love.
“I adore you,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He kissed the delicate hollow over her collarbone, reveling in her soft mewl of pleasure. His fingers found the lacy edge of her bodice. “I have dreamed of this.”
“So have I,” she said tremulously, gasping when she heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing cursorily at the small tear at the bodice of her frock.
“No you’re not.”
“I’m not,” he agreed cheerfully, taking the edge of the fabric between his teeth.
“Richard!” she nearly shrieked.
He looked up. God, he was like a dog with a bone, and he didn’t care one bit.
Her lips quivered with unspent laughter. “Don’t make it worse.”
He grinned wolfishly, tugging gently with his teeth. “Like this?”
“Stop!”
He released the fabric and used his hands to push her dress down, revealing one perfect breast. “Like this?”
Her only answer was the quickening of her breath.
“Or like this?” he asked huskily, taking her into his mouth.
Iris let out a keening cry, and her hands sank into his hair.
“Definitely like this,” he murmured, teasing her with his tongue.
“Why do I feel that . . . ?” she whispered helplessly.
He looked up in bemusement and echoed, “Why do you feel it?”
Her flush spread from her cheeks to her neck and down. “Why do I feel it . . . down . . . there?”
Maybe he was a rogue. Maybe he was just very very wicked, but he could only lick his lips and whisper, “Where?”
She shuddered with desire, but did not speak.
He slid her slipper from her foot. “Here?”
She shook her head.
His hand slid up her slender calf to the inside of her knee. “Here?”
“No.”
He smiled to himself. She was enjoying their game, too. “What about”—he brought his fingers higher, resting them at the soft crease between her hip and her thigh—“here?”
She swallowed, and her voice was barely audible when she whispered, “Almost.”
He moved closer to his goal, trailing the tips of his fingers through the soft thatch covering her womanhood. He wanted to look at her again, see the impossibly blond curls in light of day, but that would have to wait. He was too busy watching her face as he slid his finger inside her.
“Richard,” she gasped.
He groaned. She was so wet and ready for him. But she was tiny, and as they both well knew, still a virgin. He would have to make love to her with great care, moving slowly and with a gentleness at complete odds with the raging fire burning within.
“What you do to me,” he whispered, taking a moment to regain at least a portion of his composure.
She smiled up at him, and there was something so sunny and open in her expression . . . He felt it echo across his own face until he was grinning like a loon, almost laughing with the sheer joy of her company.
“Richard?” she said, her grin right there in her voice.
“I’m just so happy.” He sat up to yank his shirt over his head. “I can’t help it.”
She touched his face, her small hand light and delicate along the line of his jaw.
“Stand up,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“Stand up.” He eased himself off the bed, then tugged at her hand until she followed suit.
“What are you doing?”
“I believe,” he said, sliding her dress down over her hips, “I’m disrobing you.”
Her eyes fell to the front of his breeches.
“Oh, I’ll get to that,” he promised. “But first . . .” He found the delicate ties to her chemise and pulled, catching his breath when it fell to the floor in a cloud of white silk. She was still wearing her stockings, but he wasn’t sure he could wait long enough to divest her of those, and at any rate, her hands were at his waist, urgently slipping the buttons undone.
“You’re too slow,” she muttered, practically yanking his breeches down.
The threads of his desire stretched impossibly taut.
“I’m trying to be gentle.”
“I don’t want you to be gentle.”
He grabbed her under her buttocks, lifting her to meet him, and they both tumbled to the bed. Her legs slid open, and without even trying he found himself at her entrance, using every ounce of his control to keep himself from plunging forward.
He looked at her, his eyes asking—Are you ready?
She grabbed his bottom and let out a frustrated cry. It might have been his name. He didn’t know; he couldn’t hear anything beyond the blood rushing through his body as he surged forward, sheathing himself within her.
It was all so fast. He felt her tense, and he lifted himself up as best he could. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“Don’t stop,” she growled, and then all speech was lost. He plunged into her, over and over, driven by an urgency he did not fully comprehend. All he knew was that he needed her. He needed to fill her, to be consumed by her. He wanted to feel her legs wrapped around him, to feel the thrust of her hips as she rose to meet him.
She was hungry, maybe even as hungry as he was, and it only served to inflame his desire. He was close, so close, he could barely keep himself from exploding. And then—thank God because he didn’t think he could have lasted another second—he felt her clench around him, tight as a fist, and she cried out. He came so fast, she was still pulsing around him when he was done.
He collapsed atop her, lying there for two breaths before sliding to the side so as not to crush her. They lay there for quite some time, just letting their bodies cool, and then, finally, Iris let out a little sigh.
“Oh my.”
He felt himself smile, slow and satisfied.
“That was . . .” But she didn’t finish.
He rolled to his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “That was what?”
She just shook her head. “I don’t even know how to describe it. I don’t know how to begin.”
“It begins,” he said, leaning down to kiss her lightly, “with ‘I love you.’”
&nb
sp; She nodded, her movements still slow and languid. “I think it ends with it as well.”
“No,” he said, his voice gentle but brooking no argument.
“No?”
“It doesn’t end,” he whispered. “It never ends.”
She touched his cheek. “No. I don’t think it does.”
Then he kissed her again. Because he wanted to. Because he had to.
But mostly because he knew that even when his lips left hers, their kiss would still linger.
It, too, would never end.
Epilogue
Maycliffe
1830
“WHAT ARE YOU READING?”
Iris smiled at her husband as she looked up from her correspondence. “A letter from my mother. She says that Marie-Claire attended three balls last week.”
“Three?” Richard shuddered.
“Torture for you, perhaps,” Iris laughed. “But Marie-Claire is in heaven.”
“I suppose so.” He took a seat beside her on the little bench she used at her writing table. “Any potential suitors?”
“Nothing serious, but I have a feeling my mother is not trying quite as hard as she might. I think she wants another season with Marie-Claire. Your sister is proving a far more cunning debutante than any of her own daughters were.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “God help them both.”
“And in other news,” Iris said with a laugh, “Marie-Claire is taking viola lessons three days per week.”
“Viola?”
“Perhaps the other reason my mother is reluctant to let her go. Marie-Claire has a spot in next year’s musicale.”
“God help us both.”
“Oh, yes. There is no way we shall be allowed to miss it. I would have to be nine months pregnant to—”
“Then we should start right now,” Richard said with enthusiasm.
“Stop!” Iris protested. But she was laughing, even as her husband’s lips found a particularly sensitive spot just above her collarbone. He always seemed to know exactly where to kiss her . . .
“I’ll shut the door,” Richard murmured.
“It’s open?” Iris squealed. She yanked herself away.
“I knew I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered.
“Later,” Iris promised. “We haven’t the time now, anyway.”
“I can be quick,” Richard said hopefully.
Iris gave him a lingering kiss. “I don’t want you to be quick.”
He groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“I promised Bernie we would take him out to try his toy boat on the lake.”
Richard acquiesced with a smile and a sigh, as Iris knew he would. Their son was now three, an adorable little butterball with plump pink cheeks and his father’s dark eyes. He was the center of their world, even if they were not the center of his. That honor went to his cousin Samuel, who at age four was one year older, one year taller, and one year more wily. Fleur’s second son Robbie was six months younger than Bernie and completed the mischievous trio.
The first year of marriage had not been easy for Fleur and John Burnham. As expected, their wedding had caused quite a scandal, and even though they now owned Mill Farm, there were still those who would not let John forget that he had not been born a gentleman.
But Fleur had spoken true when she’d said she had never wished for riches. She and John had made a very happy home, and Iris was grateful that her children would grow up with cousins just down the lane. It was still just Bernie, but she hoped . . . there had been a few signs . . .
Her hand went to her abdomen without her realizing it. She would know soon.
“Well, I suppose we have a ship to launch,” Richard said, holding out his hand as he came to his feet. “I feel I should tell you, though,” he said as Iris rose and took his arm, “I had a similar boat as a boy.”
Iris winced at his tone. “Why do I think this does not end well?”
“Sailing is not in the Kenworthy blood, I’m afraid.”
“Well, that’s all right. I should miss you too much if you took to the sea.”
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Richard dropped her hand. “I have something for you.”
“You do?”
“Wait right there.” He left the room, returning a moment later with his hands behind his back. “Close your eyes.”
Iris rolled them, then closed them.
“Open!”
She did, and then gasped. He was holding a single long-stemmed iris, the most beautiful bloom she’d ever beheld. The color was brilliant—not quite purple, not quite red.
“It’s from Japan,” Richard said, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “We’ve been growing them in the orangery. We’ve had a devil of a time keeping you away.”
“From Japan, though,” Iris said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe—”
“I would go to the ends of the earth,” Richard murmured, leaning down to brush her lips with his.
“For a flower?”
“For you.”
She looked up at him with shining eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to, you know.”
“To go to the ends of the earth?”
She shook her head. “You’d have to take me with you.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“And Bernie.”
“Oh, of course.”
“And—” Oops.
“Iris?” Richard said carefully. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “We might need room for four on that journey.”
His face broke into a slow smile.
“I’m not positive,” she warned him. “But I think . . .” She paused. “Where is the end of the earth?”
He grinned. “Does it matter?”
She smiled back. She couldn’t help it. “I don’t suppose it does.”
He took her hand, kissed it, and then led her out into the hall. “It will never matter where we are,” he said softly, “just so long as we’re together.”
About the Author
JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since.
The New York Times bestselling author of twenty-four novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family.
Please visit her on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.
www.avonromance.com
www.facebook.com/avonromance
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Julia Quinn
The Smythe-Smith Quartet
JUST LIKE HEAVEN • A NIGHT LIKE THIS
THE SUM OF ALL KISSES
THE SECRETS OF SIR RICHARD KENWORTHY
The Bridgerton Series
THE DUKE AND I • THE VISCOUNT WHO LOVED ME
AN OFFER FROM A GENTLEMAN
ROMANCING MISTER BRIDGERTON
TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE
WHEN HE WAS WICKED • IT’S IN HIS KISS
ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING
THE BRIDGERTONS: HAPPILY EVER AFTER
The Bevelstoke Series
THE SECRET DIARIES OF MISS MIRANDA CHEEVER
WHAT HAPPENS IN LONDON
TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT YOU
The Two Dukes of Wyndham
THE LOST DUKE OF WYNDHAM
MR. CAVENDISH, I PRESUME
Agents of the Crown
TO CATCH AN HEIRESS • HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS
The Lyndon Sisters
EVERYTHING AND THE MOON
BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN
The Splendid Trilogy
SPLENDID • DANCING AT MIDNIGHT • MINX
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or de
ad, is entirely coincidental.
THE SECRETS OF SIR RICHARD KENWORTHY. Copyright © 2015 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition FEBRUARY 2015 ISBN: 9780062072955
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062072948
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