by Lower, Becky
Grace’s smile lit the darkening room and she wrapped her arms around him. “Yes, Halwyn, let’s get married.”
Epilogue
Halwyn rolled onto his side in the large bed and ran his hand over his wife’s curves. Even though the bed was cavernous, she slept curled up next to him every night. A smile curved his lips as he thought of the lovemaking they had engaged in right before falling asleep the previous evening. It should have been enough to satisfy him, but his hardening manhood made him realize that he’d never get enough of Grace. His darling Grace.
His hand dipped from her rounded breast over her curved hip to the special spot between her legs where she was the most sensitive. Even in sleep, she reacted to the gentle massaging of her clitoris. Her body shuddered and a low moan wafted through the air before she opened her lovely blue eyes.
“Good morning, husband,” she whispered, as she ran her hand down his chest and wrapped her fingers around his engorged shaft. “What a lovely way to wake up.”
Halwyn growled before he captured her lips, and his tongue found entry into her mouth. It had been three months since the nightmare in the Hamptons, when he thought he’d lost her completely, but all he had to do was remember his panic on his wedding day and his love for her renewed itself. He tasted her, teased her body with his hands, matched her moans with his own, and thought life couldn’t get any better than this.
His fingers slipped into her vagina while his thumb still massaged her sweet spot. Her breathing became ragged, and her eyes closed as sensation after sensation poured over her. His fingers slid in and out, his pace becoming more frantic as her body matched his rhythm, thrusting up each time he slid his fingers back in. He kissed her closed eyes and was transfixed by her expressive face as she went over the edge to climax.
He rolled on top of her then, eager to position his mouth over her core, and taste her there. Even as she was coming back down from her crashing emotions, he led her back up again, this time with his tongue instead of his fingers. When he sensed she was about to come again, he entered her, his fully engorged shaft plunging into her depths. She was so ready for him; he slid in and out only a few times before she cried out in delight as her orgasm overtook her. Halwyn held back no longer, and matched her cries as he emptied himself into her.
He moved to her side as they both struggled to get their breath back. He was reluctant to break contact with her completely, and kept his now wilted shaft inside her as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms. Grace reached up and peppered his face with small kisses as her breath regained a normal pace.
“Are you aware of what day this is, Grace?” Halwyn hated to break the sensual atmosphere they had created, but the outside world was invading their cocoon.
“Yes, Halwyn, and Mother and I are ready for Simon’s trial to begin. At least it shouldn’t be a protracted affair, since we are both willing to speak out against him, and detail all that he’s done.”
“So, quite possibly by this evening, the evil Simon Huffman will be behind bars for a long, long time, and you and your Mother will be safe. Could the day get any better?”
Grace smiled, and pulled his face toward her for another kiss. “What if I were to tell you there will soon be a reason to turn our game room back into a nursery?”
Halwyn’s shaft began to swell inside Grace as he grasped the ramifications of her statement. “You mean, you’re pregnant? We’re going to have a baby?”
Grace’s laughter had never sounded sweeter. “Yes, my love. So, whatever your manhood is planning will be a wasted effort, since there’s already a baby brewing.”
Halwyn began to pump gently against Grace as the manhood in question sprang to full erectness. “I don’t believe this is a wasted effort, do you? All I want, for the rest of my life, is to make you happy. And to make you moan. To feel your body next to mine every night. You have captivated me, body and soul.”
Halwyn ceased his declaration of love and showed Grace again with his body how much he loved her. He didn’t need to put on his glasses to know that this woman was his true intended partner. For the rest of his life.
About the Author
Becky Lower has traveled the country looking for great settings for her novels. She loves to write about two people finding each other and falling in love, amid the backdrop of a great setting, be it New York City on the cusp of the Civil War or present day Middle America. Historical and contemporary romances are her specialty.
Becky is a PAN member of RWA and is a regular contributor to USA Today’s Happy Ever After column. She has a degree in English and Journalism from Bowling Green State University, and lives in an eclectic college town in Ohio with her puppy-mill rescue dog, Mary. She loves to hear from her readers at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.beckylowerauthor.com to find out about her upcoming releases.
More from This Author
(From The Tempestuous Debutante by Becky Lower)
New York City, January 1857
This was it.
The one.
The dress that — with a few of her embellishments — would make her, Jasmine Fitzpatrick, the belle of the cotillion ball.
Of course, after last season’s debacle, she’d need all the help she could get.
Jasmine picked up her copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book and bounced down the staircase of the family brownstone, stopping at the first-floor landing to take a deep breath. Today was the day she would confront her parents. Each time she had tried to broach the subject of the ball during the past couple weeks, they had studiously avoided it or given her excuses about needing to cut out extraneous expenses. Her mother had even cancelled a planned shopping trip for the two of them last week. But time was growing short. After all, the ball was only three months away.
She moved from the hallway to the front parlor, where her parents usually relaxed on a Saturday afternoon. Her mother, Charlotte, was sitting on the loveseat and stitching a piece of embroidery while Jasmine’s father, George, sat nearby in a tan leather chair, reading his daily newspaper. There was a low buzz of conversation between them that Jasmine couldn’t quite make out, but she did catch an expression of worry on her mother’s face. Undeterred, she plunged into the room, waving the fashion book.
“Look what I just found! The perfect debutante gown for the cotillion ball in April. Look, Mother. Don’t you think it’s delightful? Or at least it will be when I add some glass beads to catch the light, and maybe some lace trim … ” She laid the open book in her mother’s lap and then took a seat opposite them.
Jasmine caught the quick wrinkling of her father’s brow and began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was not right.
Her mother ran a hand down the front of her throat. “We were just talking about the upcoming season, dear.”
Jasmine let out the breath she’d been holding. “Well, good. We’re thinking along the same lines, then. It’s imperative we begin assembling my wardrobe, and I need to get some new slippers to replace the treacherous ones Monsieur Louboutin made for me last year.”
Her mother reached over and patted Jasmine’s hand. “We may both have had the same topic on our minds, but we are definitely not thinking along the same lines. To begin with, you don’t need a white debutante gown, since you were introduced to society last year.”
Jasmine’s uneasy stomach turned over. “But … but … no!” She leapt to her feet and began to pace the room. “I was a debutante for all of fifteen minutes last season, before I fell and broke my ankle. I demand to start over. There are other nineteen-year-olds who are among those to be introduced this year.”
Jasmine sensed moisture beginning to form at the back of her eyes. Two fat tears slid down her smooth cheeks.
Her mother was oblivious to her tears, though. “You know I’m sorry your season came to such an abrupt end last April, but the rules of the debutante ball are exacting, and must be followed to the letter. Annie Schemerhorn thought of everything when she introduced
the ball to New York society a few years ago. You made your debut last year, so now you will be a returning debutante. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it must be.”
Jasmine’s tears fell in earnest now as she wrung her hands. “But you know ‘returning’ debutantes are those who are too plain to have captured a husband during their season. I cannot be one of those ‘poor unfortunates.’”
“My darling daughter, everyone knows about your accident just as the ball was beginning last year, so they won’t think anything of it if you are a returning debutante. It will be fine. And wherever did you come up with the phrase ‘poor unfortunates’?” Her mother smiled and patted Jasmine’s hand again before tucking a new stitch into her embroidery.
“Amanda Phillips came up with the name to distinguish those girls from us new debs last year.” Jasmine sat for a moment, making certain her father was watching as she wiped away her hot tears. She took a deep breath. “Well, regardless, we must discuss my wardrobe for the season. If I’m to be relegated to the poor unfortunates, it’s even more essential that my wardrobe be better than everyone else’s.” She peeked at her father hopefully.
He folded his paper with a snap and fastened his eyes on his daughter. “You may have one new gown for the cotillion ball and a new pair of slippers. But other than that, you already have an armoire filled with dresses and riding habits that you didn’t get to wear last season, so you have no need of new clothing.”
“I have no need of new clothing?” Jasmine added stomping to her pacing, for effect. “I think I have even more need, since I’ve just been told I’m not to have my moment at the top of the stairs. With all those new debutantes stealing the attention, I’ll need to look especially beautiful in order to fill up my dance card, and that means new dresses for every ball. Amanda, Heather, and I all laughed at Cecily Montgomery and her old, tired dress last season. I simply cannot be seen in last year’s styles.”
Her father’s mouth twitched into a smile as he reached up and caressed Jasmine’s cheek. “Your beauty has nothing to do with your clothes. Don’t you know that by now? I realize it’s not what you were expecting, but we must all embrace austere measures. I am sorry, daughter, but the banks are suffering. Our investments out west have started to fail, and the state of the European economy has me a bit concerned. I’ve shielded the family from my troubles as long as I could, but I’m afraid we all must do our part.”
He ran a finger around his starched collar and then went through the ritual of lighting his pipe. He inhaled the fragrant tobacco before turning to his wife. “Charlotte, I think we should make a trip to St. Louis in the next few months. I want to go over our client list at the bank branch there with our son, Basil.”
Jasmine stopped her pacing and whirled around. “You have the means to go to St. Louis, but not enough to buy me new outfits? I don’t understand. You were more than willing to shower clothing on Ginger for her season. Why are you being so unfair?” Her father had always been a soft touch when it came to his daughters’ emotions, but it wasn’t working this time. Maybe she needed to put a halt to the tears and pout prettily instead. He had never been this unrelenting before.
“Our trip, if we take one, will be for business,” he replied with a sigh. “Bad times are ahead, and I’m trying to hold the banks together. Who would have thought the mere choice of a silk top hat would totally destroy the beaver industry? At least we’re fortunate enough to have invested in Blake Morgan’s haberdashery, but I’m still uneasy about the situation. I’m even considering bringing in a partner to help get our financials back where they should be.” His eyes twinkled as he continued. “I know talk of my business bores you to tears.” He brushed away the dampness from Jasmine’s cheek to emphasize his point. “But I have to do what’s best for our entire family, and that means sacrifices for all of us.”
“This is the first I’ve known about a potential partner,” Jasmine’s mother said. “Tell us about this person, George. Is it someone we’re acquainted with?” She set her embroidery aside and stared at her husband, suddenly very interested in what he was saying. She seemed very eager to move the conversation away from the need for new gowns.
“No, but he has sent me some correspondence. He’s from England, and his name is Alistair Wickersham, a viscount. He’s coming to America to set up, of all things, a racetrack and a horse-breeding farm. And he wants to do that right here in New York. I’m planning to visit his headquarters in the Bronx tomorrow. Would you both care to come? We can meet some real British aristocracy.”
“Well, of course, George, I’d love to join you. But tell me about this viscount. Is he married?”
“Quit matchmaking, Charlotte. I don’t know much about him, but he did mention a wife who died in childbirth.”
Jasmine’s curiosity got the better of her, despite the fact this was banking business. If the man’s wife had died in childbirth, he might be still young, and not a man of middle age, like her father. He might be worth meeting, and before the season began. Her interest was piqued. “Do you have to call him ‘my lord’ or something? Ooh, how delicious.”
Jasmine noted her father’s raised eyebrow as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m fairly certain he’s coming to the States to escape the bounds of conventional England, so I do believe calling him Mr. Wickersham would be most appropriate.”
Jasmine turned to her mother, and caught the same gleam of anticipation in her eyes that she was feeling. A man with a title! Viscount Alistair Wickersham! She was certain that wasn’t the proper way to address him, but it would do for starters. Once they got to know each other, she would find all kinds of special ways to refer to him. Her twin sister, Heather, may have married last year, but Jasmine would be married to a titled member of English royalty by the time summer was out. She didn’t really give a fig about his appearance, but she wouldn’t be sorry if he turned out to be young and handsome. There was no way she could be lumped in with the poor unfortunates if she was engaged to a viscount by the time the season began. What did one call the wife of a viscount, anyway? Her brow furrowed in thought for a moment. Well, no matter. She’d be Lady whatever it was by August.
• • •
Parr O’Shaughnessy thought his partner was crazy. Or brilliant. He couldn’t decide. Either way, working with him meant a free trip to the United States with his special horse in tow. So he wasn’t going to point a finger at his lordship’s eccentricities until he reached the shores of his newly adopted country, and left the aching poverty of Ireland behind. Parr wasn’t delusional enough to think his skill in training horses got him this far. He was aware it was his horse, the Grey Ghost, that punched his ticket to the States.
The horse was the only possession Parr had left, and he had been pitting the graceful stallion against all comers when it caught the eye of Alistair Wickersham, the Viscount of Foxborough. The viscount had tried to buy the horse outright, but Parr loved his horse more than he loved food in his belly. So Alistair Wickersham instead offered to make him part of his scheme of establishing a horse breeding farm and racetrack in the colonies rather than have Parr continue to be a competitor. And that brass ring was something Parr latched onto.
So, here he was. One day off the boat, both he and Grey, and settled into the stable at Alistair’s new farm in the Bronx. Life was good. Parr stretched and rolled his shoulders as he curried Grey. He had his own somewhat modest quarters within the stable and it was warm and dry. Both were things he did not have in Ireland. The smells of the barn — hay, leather, horses — were with him morning, noon, and night, enticing in their aroma. And he already loved the scent of America, the land of opportunity. Parr, Grey, and Alistair were about to set the racing world on its collective ear. Starting this afternoon, when Alistair entertained a wealthy New York businessman, who would help legitimize their business for the other upper-crust members of New York society.
Parr was jolted from his dream-like musings when he caught wind of the familiar quick, sharp steps of his partn
er coming into the stable. He ran a hand over Grey’s flank one final time and put the currycomb away. He took a bite of a tangy green apple before feeding the remainder of it to his horse.
“Hello, milord.” Parr dipped his head at the man.
“Is everything ready for our guests, Parr?”
“Yes, ’tis. All the horses are groomed and the stable is clean.”
Alistair quickly viewed all corners of the barn. He shook his head. “I do wish you’d reconsider, and move into the house with me. We’re equal partners in this venture.”
“Aye, and worlds apart in social status. Besides, ’tis best for the horses if someone’s here to watch over them.”
“All right then, look lively. I see the carriage coming up the driveway. You’ll have to entertain the women while George Fitzpatrick and I speak of business.”
“Is he bringing his wife, then?”
“Not only his wife, but a daughter as well. I do wish he’d come alone. I hoped to have a respite from matrons trying to foist their daughters on me, for at least a little while.”
Parr grinned. “’Tis a terrible fate, milord, having women thrown at you left and right.”
“Please cease with the ‘my lord’ designation, Parr. I’ve told you, we’re in America now, and our ancient, obscure English titles don’t mean anything here. It wasn’t all that long ago that they booted the lot of us out of this country. We’re still referred to as ‘Redcoats’ in some parts of this land.”
“Well, then, what shall I call you? Foxborough?”
Alistair shook his head. “No, I don’t want to be known by where I’m from, so you can drop the use of the name Foxborough, too. I’m Alistair here. It’s why I came to this country, where I’m not just a son waiting for my father to die so I can become a duke. I wanted the challenge of doing something constructive with my life. And you’re a big part of that.”
