"And gain more in return." With sly furtiveness, she found the buttons hidden inside the placket of his trousers and popped them free. His breath grew harsh as she raked her nails lightly along his impressive length. "Much more, I should say. You'll give me everything I want, darling, of that I have no doubt."
His eyes gleamed down at her. "So I'm to spoil you, is that it?"
"If the shoe—or in this case, the cock—fits …"
Her laughter spilled over as he caught her up in his arms and carried her to the hearth. He lay her on the pallet, the expression in his eyes as he undressed her making her feel like a queen. He shed his clothes, and then she knew she was the richest woman in the world. Firelight licked his lean physique, and she could scarce believe that this delicious male, this noble, loving man was all hers.
Yet as he stretched next to her, she saw the question lingering in his eyes.
"What is it, my love?" she said.
"When I overheard you and Lady Harteford earlier today, you said you couldn't make me any promises." He brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone. "What has changed?"
Lud. She'd forgotten all about Black.
Sliding Ambrose a look beneath her lashes, she said, "Promise you won't get angry."
"The fact that you're asking for that promise is not reassuring. Tell me, Marianne."
Reminding herself to begin as she meant to go on, she told him the truth of her bargain with Bartholomew Black.
"You what?" He stared at her in disbelief.
"There's no need to get overwrought," she said quickly. "All's well that ends well, as they say. My only obligation is to plan a wedding—a task so simple I could do it in my sleep."
He sat up, his features carved in granite. "That's not the point. Black could have demanded anything. How could you have been so reckless, so utterly irresponsible—"
She really wasn't in the mood for a lecture. So she rose on her knees and began to press kisses against his hard jaw, noting with interest how the muscle ticked there.
"Don't think you can distract me," he said, frowning.
"I love it when you get stern." She licked the hard bump of his throat.
"Your wiles aren't going to work this time. When I think of the danger you put yourself in, what might have happened—" His voice hitched. "Christ, woman, what are you doing?"
"Answering your challenge," she murmured. "Now are you certain this won't distract you ... or this?"
He groaned.
And the lecture was put off ... at least until the next time.
EPILOGUE
Protected from the chilly winter wind by his new greatcoat, Ambrose returned from visiting his family down the lane. He pushed open the garden gate to his own cottage; the creaking hinges reminded him that he'd have to oil them soon, and he smiled ruefully as a long list of other repairs ran through his mind. When Marianne had presented him with his wedding present—a cottage close to his family's in Chudleigh Crest—she'd given him the authentic thing, tumble-down charm and all.
He approached the snug abode he occupied with his wife and daughter during their frequent visits from the city. After the wedding, he'd adopted Primrose, and he loved her as he would his own flesh and blood. His family adored her as well, and tonight she was staying with them so she and his siblings could watch the constellations through Harry's new telescope.
Much as he loved Rosie, anticipation stirred in Ambrose's blood at the thought of having his wife to himself for the evening. Today marked the half-year anniversary of their marriage, and he couldn't recall a happier time in his life. There had been conflicts, of course—both of them being of strong will and independent mind—yet he and Marianne had managed to learn the art of compromise. In retrospect, their quarrels had led to growth and deepening intimacy between them. And the lovemaking after their rows?
Ambrose got hard just thinking about it.
To celebrate their months together, Marianne was planning a private supper. In and of itself, that was not cause for alarm. When she'd informed him, however, that she planned to cook the food herself, he hadn't been able to conceal his reaction.
"You needn't look so surprised," his wife had said in her adorably haughty way. "If I can shoot a man and rule the beau monde, surely I can toss a few things in a pot."
"But why would you wish to?" He'd been genuinely perplexed. The Marianne he knew was not acquainted with ordinary tasks. Her legion of servants served that purpose far better.
Her gaze had dropped in a distinctly un-Marianne-like way. Then she'd lifted her chin. "I daresay I can take care of you as well as any country wife."
Realization had dawned, then, that she wished to … please him. Love and lust had surged over him, and he hadn't been able to resist gathering her in his arms and tossing her onto the bed. Her shrieks of laughter had turned into moans of pleasure as he'd showed her how utterly perfect a mate he found her.
To his secret amusement, she'd nonetheless spent the week cloistered in the kitchen with Emma. He'd been expressly forbidden to set foot inside the cottage during those meetings. Now, spotting the grey smoke wafting from the front door, he steeled himself. Whatever Marianne had prepared, he made a silent vow to eat it and say that it was the best he'd ever had. Ignoring the acrid scent tickling his nostrils, he stepped gamely inside.
God Almighty. A haze of smoke shrouded the front parlor.
Coughing slightly, he called out her name. When no response came, he set down the basket he'd been carrying and went to look for her. She wasn't in the kitchen, which looked like a small hurricane had blown through it. He winced; the cook maid would not be pleased on the morrow. He crossed the small dining room, where a table had been beautifully laid out with crystal and linens. Silver domes covered various dishes. He lifted one—and hastily placed it back.
Passing two cozy bedchambers, he reached the master suite. He paused at the closed door. Was Marianne upset? His selkie liked things to go her way; failure was not an option she was particularly fond of. His lips twitched. If she was put out by the supper fiasco, he knew just how to soothe her ruffled pride.
He knocked lightly.
Dulcet tones bade him to enter.
He stepped into the bedchamber, and his mind emptied. Most likely because the blood had plummeted from his head and landed straight in his groin.
"You're back earlier than I expected," his wife said from the bed.
He stood there, riveted. Backlit by the hearth's roaring flames, Marianne lay on her side on red satin sheets, her head propped up by one hand and her hair flowing in gleaming waves over her bare shoulders. She wore a prim maid's apron and, Christ's Blood, nothing else. Her creamy curves played peek-a-boo along the edges of the starched white cloth; the hem of the apron reached just below one of his favorite places on her body and showcased her long, shapely legs.
In his entire life, he'd never seen anything more erotic. His vision wavered, darkening with lust. He began to shed his clothes.
She smiled at him, so beautiful that the beast in him clawed to get closer. "I hope you're not hungry. As you may have surmised, the menu didn't go quite as planned."
"To hell with food." He tossed his boots aside. "Right now I've an appetite for something else."
She rolled onto her back, settling against the pillows in a provocative posture that made him yank so hard at his waistband that buttons skittered onto the floor. "Do you know what I've decided?" she said sultrily.
He mounted the bed, fully aroused, his cock straining toward her. "What, love?"
"It's too much trouble to be good at everything."
Despite the lust clouding his brain, he grinned. "Find it tiresome, do you?"
"I mean, one has to have priorities, doesn't one?" She twirled one tress around her finger. "So I've given some thought to mine."
"Have you now?" He crawled over her, their bodies not quite touching. Heat gathered and crackled in that sliver of space. He pressed one soft kiss to the curve of her neck, savoring her shi
ver of excitement. Drawing back, prolonging the desire while he had any control left, he said huskily, "What have you decided?"
"That I should focus my wifely energies on one room at a time. So what will it be? The kitchen, the drawing room, or"—her vibrant eyes held a knowing, loving sparkle—"the bedchamber?"
He lowered himself onto her, grounding his hips in answer.
She purred, and he sucked that sweet sound into his mouth. God, he loved the taste of her. He took his time kissing her, sipping on her sighs of pleasure. Then other delights called to him, and he tore himself from her lips to sample her neck, the smell of her perfumed skin igniting his senses. Desire pulsed in his blood, building with every breath, and when he couldn't reach the knot to remove the bloody apron, he rose on his knees and flipped her over in a smooth motion.
Christ. His nostrils flared at the sight of his wife's pretty backside.
Rubbing her cheek against the silk coverlet, she said throatily, "Is this how you fancy me tonight, Mr. Kent?"
"I'll have you anyway I can get you."
He made quick work of the apron strings and tossed the fabric aside. Reverently, he ran his palm along the smooth length of her spine, past the elegant dip, and over her sweetly rounded bottom. Would he ever stop marveling at all the grace notes on her person? Without a doubt, he was one lucky bastard.
"Mrs. Kent," he said gravely, "have I told you lately how much I adore your ass?"
She sent him a coy look. "Aren't you afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities with such language, sir?"
"If you're offended by that, I shudder to think what you'll think of this." Reaching for a pair of pillows, he tucked them under her hips. Elevating her thus gave him delightful access. He fingered her delicate pink crease, a growl rising in his throat. "I love how wet you get for me, sweetheart."
She hummed with bliss. "Mmm. That feels so nice." When he continued to gently pet her, however, she grew impatient. Cheeks flushed, she said, "Oh, do stop playing now. I'm awash already—hurry."
"You know I'm a patient man," he chided her, "and never one to rush my pleasures. And you are mine, aren't you, love?"
"Ambrose."
At his wife's threatening tone, he hid a grin and bent to taste her honey. His name left her lips again, only this time it was a keening cry. He licked her slit up and down, her addictive flavor making him want more. Spreading her with his thumbs, he entered her with his tongue. Moaning, she began to wriggle, pushing back against him, craving even that small penetration. As he stabbed his tongue in a steady rhythm, he reached beneath, plucking and rolling her swollen pearl.
She came apart against his mouth, and he almost came, too, from the joy of seeing his wife go over. Breathing harshly, he moved onto his knees between her quivering thighs and notched his cock to her opening. He loved to watch her pussy spread for him, the primal delight of seeing her flesh blossom around his veined beast. Flames licked his spine as he sank in, seating himself to the last inch. With her snug heat pulsing around him, the angle impossibly deep, it took everything he had to hold still.
"Alright, love?" he rasped.
"I'm not certain." The languid twitch of her hips nearly undid him. "You'll have to fuck me so I can decide."
With a laughing groan, he acquiesced to her demand. He withdrew and pushed inside, each thrust building his hunger. Her sighs urged him on as he began pounding into her, his mate, his love. His vision blurred, his body melting in her fire. There was nothing like this in the world—nothing to compare with the heat, need, the unending desire.
"I love you." The words tore from his chest, his soul. "With all that I am, Marianne."
She twisted to look at him, and her glowing eyes affirmed all that was in his heart. He lost himself in their hot intimacy, in the wet, rhythmic slap of his bollocks against her sex. He played with her knot as he fucked her, and when her moans soared in a sweet, familiar crescendo, his dew-slickened finger searched out her shy, puckered hole, sliding in deep and true, in the way that never failed to summon his wife's bliss.
She cried out instantly. She pulsed around his cock, his finger, and shuddering, he crammed himself as deeply inside her as he could before her contractions overtook him. Her release milked him, suctioning the seed from his cock with violent, ecstatic force. Panting, he collapsed onto the bed and pulled her close.
He didn't know how long they dozed, but he was awakened some time later by the unladylike growling of his wife's stomach. Smiling, he ran a possessive hand over her hip.
"Hungry, love? Emma packed a basket for us."
"Thank goodness for the dear," Marianne said ruefully. "I'm starved."
Ambrose went to fetch the basket, and they had a midnight picnic upon the bed. Feasting on roasted chicken, garden vegetables, and fresh baked bread, they reminisced about the past and talked of the future. Earlier this month, Ambrose had given his notice at Wapping. To his surprise, he'd grown tired of being a soldier—he now wanted to march to his own drum. With Marianne's encouragement, he'd decided to open a private investigation agency.
"By the by," Marianne said, "I have something for you."
"I thought we agreed on no gifts for our anniversary," he said with faint alarm.
'Twas one of the few sticking points between them. Marianne enjoyed showering him with ... things. While he appreciated the thought, he felt wholly inadequate at returning the favor. When it came to trinkets, his wife had expensive tastes, and since he refused to touch her money, he was left with few options. He'd stuck with poesies and the like and though Marianne always had stars in her eyes when he bought her anything, privately he wished he might give her more.
Thank God for his mother's ring. 'Twas one thing he'd given Marianne that he knew she adored, for she never took it off. The emerald winked at him now as she handed him a box the size of a pack of cards.
"It's not a gift for our anniversary," she said. "Open it."
Resigned, he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. An elegant silver calling card case gleamed in a nest of tissue. He took the case out, his thumb brushing over his engraved initials.
"It's very fine," he said. "Thank you."
"Look inside," she said.
The case contained thick ivory calling cards, with his name, the direction to his new office, and the words "Enquiries Welcome" embossed in black.
"I hope I had enough made. You're going to be such a smashing success," she said confidently.
Emotion tightened his chest. He didn't know what he'd done in his life to deserve such a woman. Putting the box down, he leaned over and kissed her with everything he had been, was, and hoped to become.
"You're very welcome," she said breathlessly, moments later.
He caressed her cheek. "You've given me so much, Marianne. It shames me to say that I haven't anything to offer in return."
"As a matter of fact, that is untrue."
"I mean any material thing," he clarified. "You must know that my heart and my soul are yours."
"That's comforting to know, of course," his wife replied, "but in addition you have recently given me a rather substantial and undoubtedly material gift."
He gave her a puzzled look. "My mother's ring? I gave that to you months ago."
"Guess again, darling."
"That volume of poetry I gave you last week was hardly substantial," he muttered.
She peered at him from beneath her lashes. "Do you need a hint, Mr. Kent?"
Perplexed, he nodded.
"Now this gift has not yet arrived, but I believe you made an initial deposit during our stay with the Hartefords. In the solarium?"
His mind raced back two months. They'd spent Christmas at the Hartefords' country estate, where Marianne had orchestrated the wedding of Black's daughter. And alone in the solarium one midnight, beneath the twinkling stars, they'd—
His jaw dropped. "You're … increasing?"
"Bull's-eye, Mr. Kent." Her eyes lit with laughter. "On all accounts."
With h
ands that shook slightly, he framed her face. "How are you feeling, love? Is there anything you need? Anything I should do—"
"Just love me, Ambrose," she said simply. "Love our family. That's all I need."
"To the end of my days," he said.
To seal his vow, he kissed her. She kissed him back. The wealth of their love flowed through him, and he knew that whatever their future held, it would be rich indeed.
THE END
Dear Reader,
Thank you for spending time in the world of Mayhem in Mayfair! I hope you had a lovely visit, and please consider leaving a review. I also love to hear from my readers, so feel free to drop me a line at [email protected]. For updates on my books, prizes, and giveaways, please click on the link below to sign up for my newsletter.
Cheers and happy reading!
XOXO Grace
Sign up for my newsletter: http://www.gracecallaway.com/newsletter-signup/
OTHER BOOKS BY GRACE CALLAWAY
To purchase "Her Husband's Harlot" (Mayhem in Mayfair #1), please click here.
Not Quite a Wife
After a disastrous wedding night, proper Lady Helena Harteford fears for the fate of her new marriage. Disguised as a doxy, she tracks her husband down at a bawdy house to reason with him ... and instead discovers the thrill of forbidden passion. An innocent ruse turns into a risky deception; how far will this once-wallflower go to win her husband’s love?
Unfit to be a Husband
Orphaned at an early age, Nicholas Morgan escapes his violent beginnings to become a successful merchant—only to discover that he is the legitimate heir of the Marquess of Harteford. His transition to the ton is rocky and made rockier when he marries above him. Torn between guilt and lust, he tries to protect his sweet, innocent wife from the demons of his past. But can he safeguard her from his own raging desires?
Caught between Past and Present
When a dangerous nemesis rises from Nicholas' past, husband and wife must work together in order to survive. From the drawing rooms to the stews of Regency London, they find themselves caught in a game of passion and seduction. Will true love prevail? Or is Helena destined to remain ... Her Husband's Harlot?
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 33
