Moonlight on My Mind
Page 32
She clung to him, reaching for the release she knew hovered, just out of reach. It was a far different journey now that she understood the fire beneath her skin was merely the prelude to something more portentous. He drove her there, with the feel of his hand at her breast, and the impossibly sweet sound of her name on his lips.
She was in awe of the emotion he’d unleashed in her, in the strength of her love. She let herself go, trusting him, trusting herself. Her body was tutored now, aching for that peak, willing to expend whatever was needed to find it.
“Please,” she begged him.
He obligingly bent his damp head and captured her nipple in his mouth, and that was all it took to hurl her right over the edge. She broke apart in his arms, her eyes blurring with the pleasure-pain of it. The cry that was wrenched from her throat would have sounded feral, but for the sound of his own lashing release.
Her return to sanity was blissfully slow. The room came back into focus in slow measures. First the fire, burning low in the grate. Then the floor, where Patrick’s boots lay tossed about like so much rubbish, and the water soaking the carpet beneath the tub. And finally, her husband, with his unkempt sandy hair and lovely, lean body and smug, smug grin.
Although, surely if anyone ought to be a bit smug, it was she.
She smiled through the remaining fog of pleasure. “Why are you grinning in such a lascivious manner?”
He gathered her back against his chest. One big hand trailed down her arm, raising gooseflesh anew. “You are sweating. I am not sure I realized before tonight that ladies might sweat.”
“I imagine most ladies don’t,” she admitted, knowing she ought to take offense. But how could she object to her state of dishevelment, when she wanted only to indulge in the act again? “Although they probably don’t tup either.”
His chuckle floated, just behind her ear. “More fool they.”
She wanted only to stay here, safe in his sweat-slick arms, the world held at bay by nothing more than a busted latch and a heavy chair. But reality tried to nudge that delicious logic aside. “I suppose I ought to call for another bath.”
“Whatever for?”
“Why, because I am sweating, of course. As you have been so kind to point out.”
He lifted the damp curls off her neck and pressed a kiss against her heated skin. “You might want to wait until I’ve finished with you.” He pressed into her, and she could feel him already stirring to life again against the small of her back.
She closed her eyes and turned herself over to the delicious sweep of longing that once again began to displace good sense. “I suppose I could delay it a bit longer,” she gasped as his mouth once more began its sweet, busy assault on her senses. “Until you’ve finished.”
He laughed against her shoulder, and his chuckle reverberated through her. “I will never be finished with you, Julianne. So best be careful, love. You may never bathe again.”
Epilogue
October 1843
He wasn’t in the mood for a proper English miss.
Not that those words precisely described the red-haired infant Julianne delivered into Patrick’s arms that full-moon October night.
Their new daughter’s entrance into the world was timed, of course, for maximum effect. The baby was a good two weeks earlier than predicted—the better, Patrick supposed, to surprise them all. And more to the point, she arrived a mere five hours after announcing her intentions, with the onset of labor during the second course of dinner.
Once the first blush of panic had worn off and Patrick realized his wife was not inclined to take a leisurely, rational approach to childbirth, he had elbowed the housekeeper aside, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded with the decidedly un-earl-like behavior of delivering his firstborn.
Patrick held the slippery bundle in his hands and stared down into his new daughter’s scrunched-up face, thinking her quite possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He wiped her tiny nostrils clean with the soft cloth the housekeeper handed him, willing his daughter to breathe. She did so with a short, soft gasp, inhaling her first taste of life.
And then the new Lady Sarah Jane Channing let loose a high, warbling wail that reminded Patrick very much of the child’s mother.
He reluctantly turned her over to the housekeeper. While his medical skills had rendered him perfectly capable of delivering his daughter, the scrubbing and swaddling part of the experience was admittedly beyond his scope of experience. When baby Sarah was finally presentable in a manner befitting the offspring of a peer of the realm, Patrick carried her back to Julianne. He stood beside them, humbled to silence by the experience of seeing his daughter’s cries subside as she nestled tight into the crook of his wife’s arm.
He wondered, for a breathless moment, how his normally squeamish wife would react to the sight of a newly born human, which admittedly lacked the innate softness he knew the baby would later acquire. But Julianne looked down on her daughter with as much awe as Patrick felt himself, and he felt something slip in the vicinity of his heart.
“You amaze me, wife.”
She looked up. “I do?”
“Aye.” He had memorized every feature, and every nuanced emotion of his wife’s beautiful face, and damned if there wasn’t something missing. “I don’t know a single other woman who could come through childbirth with her freckles still carefully hidden from view.”
“A lady does not like to be reminded of her flaws,” Julianne said, her voice ringing with amusement and weary happiness. “I confess, this little one took me by surprise. ’Tis unnerving to find yourself at the whim of another person, even one so sweet and little.”
Patrick chuckled. “At last you know how I feel, almost every day.”
His wife’s eyes flashed like green ocean glass, tumbling in water. “Then you are now saddled with two unpredictable females. Whatever deity did you insult to be so blessed?”
“Never let it be said I do not count myself fortunate in that regard. You’ve a way of making me look forward to the unknown. And while baby Sarah took us all by surprise, it is better for you, certainly. The faster and earlier the delivery, the less difficulty you were likely to encounter.” He cleared his throat. “Er . . . at least . . . that is the way of it with horses.”
That made her laugh again, which made the baby stir in annoyance. “Well,” Julianne said, smiling over their daughter’s head, “I am glad to see your medical skills and good humor have not rusted during the months of disuse, at any rate.”
“Oh, I’ve found plenty by way of diversion about Summersby to keep those old skills sharp,” he assured her. Indeed, he’d found a heady mix of responsibility awaited him as the new Earl of Haversham, a unique concoction of affairs that involved as much or as little veterinary knowledge as he wished to apply to the business of managing—and improving—his estate.
And with every night spent in Julianne’s arms, his good humor was by now firmly established.
“Can you fetch my spectacles?” she asked, nodding to the bedside table. “I want to inspect her thoroughly.”
Patrick picked up the delicate wire rims. He settled them doubtfully on her nose. “You only need these to see at a distance. Why do you want them now?”
“I don’t want to take any chances on missing anything about her,” she said, squinting down through the lens at her daughter. After a short moment, she sighed and pulled them off. “You are correct, as you almost always are. I can see her far better without them.”
Patrick grinned. “Until she gains her legs. Then I suspect you shall find yourself relying on them more than you want.” He leaned down to kiss the tip of his wife’s nose, and the love he felt for her almost dragged him under with the force of it. “Does our little Sarah fit your mother’s name, as you had hoped she would?” he asked.
Julianne smoothed a gentle head over her daughter’s still-damp hair. “That she does. My mother would have been so pleased. But . . . are you disappointed I have not delivered y
ou an heir? I know you had hoped for a son we could name after Eric.”
Patrick shook his head, as sure of this as anything in his life. “No, love. I am not disappointed in the slightest. She is absolutely perfect. I can already see her chasing Gemmy and Constance, and twisting her grandmother ’round her little finger. She’s bound to lay waste to hearts from here to Scotland in about twenty years.”
Indeed, Patrick had a feeling the little waif was bound for trouble. After all, she had a head full of red hair and her mother’s demonstrably healthy lungs. And she might be tiny, but she’d already disappointed many a fortune-seeking bounder. Half of London had been waiting breathlessly for her appearance, the gaming books heavy with wagers on when she would arrive, most erring on the side of expediency over caution.
“We certainly showed the cynics, didn’t we?” Julianne lifted a brow, dragging his heart along with it.
And well they had. It was a good twelve months after the date scrawled on the blacksmith’s register in Moraig, and ten from when they had repeated those vows at the parish church, ensuring no one could ever challenge the validity of their union. No one could claim any longer that their marriage had been made in the worst sort of haste, or orchestrated to cover an imprudent night of passion.
“Yes, love. We’ve shown them all. You no longer have to chafe against the whispers.”
“Idiotic gossip. The fools making such wagers deserve to be parted with their money. You shall never, ever put stock in such things, will you?” Julianne crooned down at her daughter. “You shall be brave, and bold, and true to yourself. And above all, you shall marry for love.”
Patrick smiled. Because in truth, he knew that as time went by, they would quiet the gossip with more than just baby Sarah’s timing. Anyone who saw him with Julianne could not fail to see the rare affection between them. They had more than just the appearance of a love match. They had one in actuality.
And that was a rumor he was all too willing to prove.
Acknowledgments
While I make no claims for legal accuracy in this book, I would be remiss in not acknowledging (and thanking) historical author Courtney Milan. Through a critique I was fortunate enough to win at a charity auction, Ms. Milan reviewed an early concept of this story and offered some excellent points that helped shape the final product. Many thanks to my husband, John, who reads far more books with suspense elements than I do and who brainstormed major plot points over bourbon cocktails one night. Thanks to my critique partners, Alyssa Alexander, Sally Kilpatrick, Romily Bernard, Tracy Brogan, and Kimberly Kincaid, who kept me focused and sane and, most of all, moving on this monster of a manuscript.
I am indebted to my fabulous editor, Tessa Woodward, who encouraged me to not lose sight of the romance and who graciously gave me the time I needed to rewrite major portions of the book, even though it meant she was reviewing pages on the eve of her wedding. As always, thanks to the fabulous team at Avon, especially Tom Egner and the Art Department, who created what I have to say is my favorite stepback art of the entire series . . . apparently, I am the kind of girl who would prefer a tryst in a moonlit folly instead of on a rocky beach or up against a wall. Who knew?
About the Author
A veterinarian and infectious disease researcher by training, JENNIFER McQUISTON has always preferred reading romance to scientific textbooks. She resides in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, their two girls, and an odd assortment of pets, including the pony she promised her children if mommy ever got a book deal. Jennifer can be reached via her website at www.jenmcquiston.com or followed on Twitter @jenmcqwrites.
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By Jennifer McQuiston
Moonlight on My Mind
Summer Is for Lovers
What Happens in Scotland
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 dead, is entirely coincidental.
MOONLIGHT ON MY MIND. Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer McQuiston. 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 hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition APRIL 2014 ISBN: 9780062231307
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062231345
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