by Elisa Braden
He groaned his agony against her skin.
“Look at me, my love.”
He did. It hurt to fight through his own resistance. His own need to keep her safe. But as her heat and scent and sheer will battered him, he couldn’t help it. He surrendered. Raised his head. Found her eyes. Let her see.
And she held him. Blazing green lifted him. Moved inside. Smiled. “I am here, Jonas.” She shook her head as she gestured to the bed where his sketches lay. “Not there. Not in a box.” She placed her palm in the center of his chest, her fingertips digging as though she wanted to absorb him. “Here.” Her hand clutched his over her breast. “And you are here. I am not broken. Your love makes me stronger. It is nothing like his. I will never mistake that. And I will never let you walk away from me again. No matter what.”
“God Almighty.” His heart was twisting and pounding and so full he couldn’t breathe around it. “I love you, you beautiful, haughty, glorious woman. Christ, how I love you.”
Her radiant laugh ended in a long, low moan. Her sheath began to squeeze and demand a deeper penetration. Her sweet brow crinkled in a grimace of desire. She grunted. “Oh, heavens. I’m going to … you must take me now. Please. Oh, I need you. Hard and strong. Please.”
Within seconds, he’d reversed their positions, plopping her onto the bed with a bounce and tearing away his fall as she spread her thighs wide. He tossed her skirts up past her hips, looking his fill for one pounding heartbeat. Two. A third.
“Now, Jonas,” she commanded.
But he needed a taste. So he knelt. Gathered her juices on his tongue. Suckled her sweet, swollen bud into his mouth. Savored honey and rosewater.
Her body seized. Her keening cry signaled her climax in a familiar song.
And like music, he played her to draw out the notes, to create a symphony of pleasure. Only then did he grant his woman her wishes.
First, he climbed up between her thighs. Braced his body above hers. Kissed her beautiful lips. Felt her sigh his name. Drew back to meet her extraordinary eyes. Saw love glowing there. New arousal growing there.
He caressed her nipple through blushing velvet. “I hope you packed your thread and needle, love. Your dress will need repair.”
She moaned. Arched her back.
He grasped the edge of her bodice and tore. Velvet gave way, revealing stays trimmed in lace. He grasped the corset’s edge and forced the fabric down, letting it scrape across her engorged nipples. Then, he set to work.
“I believe you mentioned teeth.”
He nibbled. Strummed. Pressured and tormented. Then, he moved to the opposite breast and did the same, using his hand to plump and trap her for pleasuring.
Finally, when he felt her clawing at his shoulders and clutching at his hair, he moved on to her last wish, whispering it in her ear beforehand. “Hard and strong, now, hmm?” He positioned her thighs and took her in one deep thrust that drove another keen from her throat. Sweet, silken fire swallowed him whole. “Hard enough, love?” He gave her what she’d asked, his thrusts drumming as fast as his heart. “Is this strong enough?”
By all rights, she should have protested. He was battering at her like a marauder, clutching her uninjured thigh and forcing it up, pressing it wide so that she could take more and more and more. More of him. More pleasure and friction. More of everything they were together.
But she loved it. Soft little fists clenched his hair. An impassioned mouth suckled his throat. A fiery sheath demanded he take her. Make her his. Give her everything he had.
So, he did. He gave her himself, cupping her cheek and holding her eyes. Telling her to keep him always. To let him have her forever. To take his seed and give him children. To never let go.
And even as she screamed her pleasure and took his own inside her, she held him. Loved him.
Almost as much as he loved her.
Which was all a man could ask for. Moonlight and midnight, roses and rain, passion and strength and a glorious heart, all lying in his arms.
Something beautiful.
Someone precious.
A future better than any dream.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“My victories are many, it is true. But no prize is so precious as your heart.”
—Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter explaining the difference between triumphs and treasures.
His queen was trapped. He eyed his enemy’s position, absorbing the strategy and predicting the next move. If he went left, all was lost. If he went right, he’d leave himself open to attack. Moving back wasn’t an option. Any fool could backtrack. He might as well surrender.
No, the only way ahead was forward. Or perhaps diagonal.
A deep bark sounded from behind the western hedge. Suddenly, Humphrey bounded across squares of flagstone and lawn, a slobbery boot between his jaws. The dog veered left, knocking over Hannah’s knight and two of Jonas’s pawns.
“Humphrey!” Hannah cried.
Jonas cursed beneath his breath. If he didn’t want to hear her gloating all through luncheon, he needed this victory. He’d won their first two games, and she’d won their last two. This would end the tie.
His wife, he’d discovered, was ridiculously competitive.
Hannah shooed the hound away, but Humphrey took her gestures for playing and instead continued wreaking havoc until the only pieces left standing were Jonas’s bishop and Hannah’s king. A white pawn rolled past Jonas’s boot.
“Jonas! Do something.”
He crossed his arms and rubbed his jaw. “What would you have me do, love?”
She frowned at him fiercely. “Stop him!”
“He’s already absconded with someone’s boot. I’ve no wish to meet a similar fate.” He glanced down. “These are new.”
“You did this on purpose.”
“Caused the dog to disrupt our game?” He snorted. “I was about to have my third victory. Why would I want to—”
“You, dear husband, were about to lose.”
He loved the way her rosebud lips pursed on the word “lose.” Grinning, he stepped over a black rook and sauntered toward the woman who held him in thrall. “Is that so?”
“I had you trapped. “
Inching closer, he eyed her pink cheeks and darting tongue. “I had a way out.”
“Rubbish and rot. Three more moves, and I’d have had you.”
He lowered his head. “You know you can have me anytime you like, don’t you, love?”
Her eyes lit. Her breasts swelled on a swift breath. “Distractions are a violation of etiquette.”
His grin widened. “Violations of etiquette are my favorite sport.”
“Oh, heavens,” she sighed. “I do love you so.” Her hands settling on his new coat—the one Wallingham had given him as a wedding gift.
“And I you.”
“I still say I would have won.”
“Of course you do.”
“Perhaps we should go to our bedchamber now.”
“Luncheon starts soon. We should probably make an appearance.”
She looked more disappointed by this than she’d been over the game.
He kissed her and whispered, “Never fear, love. I’ll give you all the victories you can handle once we’re alone.”
When they were seated at Lady Wallingham’s table, the food was excellent and the company lively, but all Jonas could think about was the gift he planned to present to Hannah later that evening. It had been a week since the incident with Lynch, and the house party was drawing to a close. Most of the guests planned to depart over the following two days. He’d spent the past five talking to everyone from Lady Wallingham to Holstoke and Eugenia about the decisions he faced.
He’d wanted to gather his thoughts and give Hannah everything he could. She deserved a choice in her future. She’d had too few in her past.
He looked at her now, candlelight playing w
ith her raven hair. She leaned close to Eugenia, who said something to make her laugh. She drank lemonade and ate peach tarts while Lord Colin and his wife described her friend Biddy’s recent antics at the school. Her brother asked about her chess game with Jonas, and she told the tale of Humphrey’s destructive romp. All around the table were people who loved her, friends who supported her, connections she’d built over time.
He glanced to the head of the table, where Lady Wallingham held court. The old dragon likewise had built a vast fortress of friendships and connections. To be sure, she’d stored away the memories of her husband for when she needed them most. But her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren, along with the Huxley family were clearly at the center of her life.
Luncheon ended with a call for battledore and shuttlecock. Jonas instead waylaid his wife and murmured, “I’ve something to show you, love.”
Her eyes flared. Her lashes fluttered. “If it’s what I’m anticipating, I do hope you’ll do more than show me.”
Chuckling, he raised her hand to his lips. Felt the moon and stars brush his jaw. “Will you come for a ride with me?”
She smiled and nodded.
A half-hour later, he was watching his beautiful wife gallop along golden sand while a seaborne breeze played with the feathers in her hat.
She laughed as he fell behind, but she soon slowed until he came even with her. “Jonas! You must keep up!” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dancing.
“Come, love. Let’s walk while the horses rest.”
At her nod, they rode to a grouping of boulders where he helped her down and took her hand. Then, he led her to the farthest boulder, a flat, broad stone where they could rest and talk. Where he could show her their future.
“Do you remember when I told you about the house in my vision?”
She nodded. “Turrets, yes?”
He took his moon-and-stars box from his pocket and opened the lid. “It lived in my mind for a long time. Years and years.” He spoke as he started unfolding the sketches, smoothing them out and anchoring them on the flat stone surface with smaller rocks from the beach. “But always, that house was merely a representation. A symbol, in a sense.”
She smiled. “Of home.”
“Aye.” He held her eyes so she’d see the truth of his words. “But home for me is you. And wherever we live together is just a place. Could be anywhere, really. A grand castle by the sea or a cave named after a dead saint. So long as you’re contented, I’ll be the happiest man alive.”
She looked down. Her fingers came up to her lips. “What … I don’t understand.”
He pointed to the first sketch, which illustrated a small manor house with a tidy garden and a large oak. “This is a fine house in Suffolk, near Dunston and Wallingham. The land is good, particularly for livestock. Sheep and such. It would put us inland, but there’d be ample room for riding. Wallingham has promised us two horses to begin our own stables.”
Her eyes roamed across to the second illustration, a depiction of a beach very much like the one they were on. On the cliffs above lay another house, this one made of sandstone. It had a steep roof and dormers. It had a long drive that circled a fountain.
He leaned over and tapped it with his finger. “This one is here in Northumberland, south of Alnwick. The garden wants expanding, but Lord and Lady Rutherford tell me the land is excellent for wheat. And it’s near the sea. I know how you love the sea.”
“Oh, Jonas.”
“Holstoke has offered to help us with the gardens. He’s already suggested a few improvements you’ll no doubt enjoy. An orchard. A pond.”
He pointed to the third sketch, a half-timbered, large-scaled cottage with a thatched roof and rosebushes clustered around the entrance. “This is in Dorsetshire. It belongs to the Martin-Mace family, and according to Eugenia, it has all the charm of a cottage with all the elegance of a manor. It is but a few hundred yards from the Channel and less than an hour’s ride from Primvale. Holstoke assures me our crops would flourish and the rents are excellent due to its proximity to Weymouth.”
Her fingers trembled as she moved close and tucked into him. She reached for the fourth illustration, lifting it from the rock.
He watched her, his chest tight with love and hope.
A tear tracked down her cheek. “Wh—where is this one?”
“Now, there’s a funny story, love.” He leaned back against the rock and gathered her against him, looking down upon the illustration she held. “It seems this house once belonged to Lady Wallingham’s family before her marriage. Her family fell upon some difficulty, and her father was forced to sell the property to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge. Earl Bainbridge was his title then. Lord Bainbridge planned to use it for hunting and as a residence for his mistresses. He was a young man, not yet married. But Lady Wallingham—Lady Dorothea Penworth, at the time—was outraged that her ancestral home might be so defiled. She took up a campaign of correspondence with him, bent on dissuading him from his course.”
Hannah smiled beneath her fingers and shook her head. “I can only imagine he felt besieged.”
“Hmm. Their first meeting was months later when she and her sister, Lady Margaret, traveled to London for their first season. I gather things went poorly. She accused him of turning her home into a brothel.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Dorothea thought him ‘handsome and silent as a decorative vase, and approximately as useful.’ But he was heir to a marquisate, and she had a profound determination to regain her home. So, in her usual fashion, she devised a plan.”
Hannah grinned. “She would marry him.”
“Aye.”
“That is what all the letters were. She was trying to seduce him with her cleverness.”
“It appears so.”
She traced the lines of the illustration with her finger. “They fell in love.”
“I expect the process was a bit more complicated, but yes, that was the result. They were utterly devoted to one another. According to Wallingham, their marriage was fraught with trials—lost babes, difficulties in producing an heir, her interventions in matters political—but nothing could pry them apart.”
“She was so certain he never took mistresses.” Hannah looked up at him. Stroked his cheek. “He must have loved her very much.”
He brushed the illustration with his knuckle, his fingers stroking his wife’s. “This was their home together for the first few years of their marriage. When he became the thirteenth Marquess of Wallingham, they moved to Grimsgate. But they kept this place. Lady Wallingham said if she could have fit it into her trunk, it would be there beside her slippers and sandalwood soap.”
A tear coursed down her cheek as she regarded the illustration. “Did you draw this from her description?”
“I didn’t draw it, love. She sent it to me with her letter soliciting my services. Offered the property as a bounty for locating her trunk and the man who stole it.”
“Oh, Jonas. How can it be?”
“I don’t know. But it surely brought me galloping here without delay.”
She traced the twin turrets marking the front of the manor, the weeping willow tree beside a small pond. “This is your house.”
“No, love. It is hers. It shall only be ours if you wish to make it so.”
“Where is it?”
“Somersetshire. A half-day’s ride from Lord and Lady Colin, several hours from Primvale. It is inland. No sea, I’m afraid. But excellent land. Woodlands. Vast acreage. Fruitful.” He paused, gauging her expression. “Lady Wallingham gave me a choice—either the property or an equivalent sum to purchase another. So, you see, love, we may live wherever we’d like.” He laid a kiss upon her palm. “Wherever you would be happiest, for your happiness is mine.”
More tears spilled onto her cheeks. She ran her thumb across his lips. Glowed her love up at him through extraordinary eyes. “And yours is mine, Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn.” She turned in his arms. Reached for the box with the moon
and stars. Folded the fourth illustration and placed it reverently upon white satin. Then, she slid the box into his lowest pocket, slipped her arms around his waist, and smiled up at him with heart-melting tenderness. “Your dreams are mine. Your heart is mine. Your house is mine.” She stood on her toes and beckoned a kiss.
He couldn’t resist her, his moonlight and rosebuds, midnight and rain. His everything beautiful.
“You are mine,” she whispered. “Always.”
*~*~*
EPILOGUE
“Come along, Humphrey. Let us ramble through the garden together and remember how beautiful everything is while it blooms.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, on a lovely September morning.
His dream was fragranced with thyme. Squares of the herb cushioned his boots, sending up a green, spicy scent to tease and delight.
It was lit with September-rich sunshine streaming through soft morning mist.
It was dappled with laughter—childish and sweet. A boy’s shouts to a new pup. A girl’s squeals of half-fright, half-excitement.
It was accompanied by humming. Snowfall in summer. Soft and warm.
It was painted in green. Draping willow branches caressed the surface of a pond. High hedges formed a backdrop for white roses and ivy-laden urns.
It was shared by the woman who cradled his third babe. The strongest, most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
The pup darted between the willow branches, his brown, pendulous ears flopping. A black-haired girl wearing a red-ribboned hat giggled and chased after him. A gray-eyed boy with a roguish grin tempted the pup with a bone.
“Lady Wallingham intends to spend the week with us,” said his wife. “Phineas and Eugenia will be bringing her with them tomorrow.”
“Griffin, too?”
She smiled, a twinkle of affection in her eyes, then glanced toward the squares of their oversized chessboard, visible from where they sat in the southeast corner of the garden. “All their children, but yes, you and Griffin may play a rematch after your previous stalemate.”
