by Julia Quinn
One of his hands moved to her hips, burning through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Then it stole around to her bottom, squeezing and cupping, and there was no more space between them. She felt herself sliding down, and then they were on the bed, and she was on her back, his body pressed against hers, the heat and the weight of it exquisitely male.
She felt like a woman.
She felt like a goddess.
She felt like she could wrap herself around him and never let go.
“Gregory,” she whispered, finding her voice as she twined her fingers in his hair.
He stilled, and she knew he was waiting for her to say more.
“I love you,” she said, because it was true, and because she needed something to be true. Tomorrow he would hate her. Tomorrow she would betray him, but in this, at least, she would not lie.
“I want you,” she said, when he lifted his head to gaze into her eyes. He stared at her long and hard, and she knew that he was giving her one last chance to back out.
“I want you,” she said again, because she wanted him beyond words. She wanted him to kiss her, to take her, and to forget that she was not whispering words of love.
“Lu—”
She placed a finger to his mouth. And she whispered, “I want to be yours.” And then she added, “Tonight.”
His body shuddered, his breath moving audibly over his lips. He groaned something, maybe her name, and then his mouth met hers in a kiss that gave and took and burned and consumed until Lucy could not help but move underneath him. Her hands slid to his neck, then inside his coat, her fingers desperately seeking heat and skin. With a roughly mumbled curse, he rose up, still straddling her, and yanked off the coat and cravat.
She stared at him with wide eyes. He was removing his shirt, not slowly or with finesse, but with a frantic speed that underscored his desire.
He was not in control. She might not be in control, but neither was he. He was as much a slave to this fire as she was.
He tossed his shirt aside, and she gasped at the sight of him, the light sprinkling of hair across his chest, the muscles that sculpted and stretched under his skin.
He was beautiful. She hadn’t realized a man could be beautiful, but it was the only word that could possibly describe him. She lifted one hand and gingerly placed it against his skin. His blood leaped and pulsed beneath, and she nearly pulled away.
“No,” he said, covering her hand with his own. He wrapped his fingers around hers and then took her to his heart.
He looked into her eyes.
She could not look away.
And then he was back, his body hard and hot against hers, his hands everywhere and his lips everywhere else. And her nightgown—It no longer seemed to be covering quite so much of her. It was up against her thighs, then pooled around her waist. He was touching her—not there, but close. Skimming along her belly, scorching her skin.
“Gregory,” she gasped, because somehow his fingers had found her breast.
“Oh, Lucy,” he groaned, cupping her, squeezing, tickling the tip, and—
Oh, dear God. How was it possible that she felt it there?
Her hips arched and bucked, and she needed to be closer. She needed something she couldn’t quite identify, something that would fill her, complete her.
He was tugging at her nightgown now, and it slipped over her head, leaving her scandalously bare. One of her hands instinctively rose to cover her, but he grabbed her wrist and held it against his own chest. He was straddling her, sitting upright, staring down at her as if…as if…
As if she were beautiful.
He was looking at her the way men always looked at Hermione, except somehow there was more. More passion, more desire.
She felt worshipped.
“Lucy,” he murmured, lightly caressing the side of her breast. “I feel…I think…”
His lips parted, and he shook his head. Slowly, as if he did not quite understand what was happening to him. “I have been waiting for this,” he whispered. “For my entire life. I didn’t even know. I didn’t know.”
She took his hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing the palm. She understood.
His breath quickened, and then he slid off of her, his hands moving to the fastenings of his breeches.
Her eyes widened, and she watched.
“I will be gentle,” he vowed. “I promise you.”
“I’m not worried,” she said, managing a wobbly smile.
His lips curved in return. “You look worried.”
“I’m not.” But still, her eyes wandered.
Gregory chuckled, lying down beside her. “It might hurt. I’m told it does at the beginning.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care.”
He let his hand wander down her arm. “Just remember, if there is pain, it will get better.”
She felt it beginning again, that slow burning in her belly. “How much better?” she asked, her voice breathy and unfamiliar.
He smiled as his fingers found her hip. “Quite a bit, I’m told.”
“Quite a bit,” she asked, now barely able to speak, “or…rather a lot?”
He moved over her, his skin finding every inch of hers. It was wicked.
It was bliss.
“Rather a lot,” he answered, nipping lightly at her neck. “More than rather a lot, actually.”
She felt her legs slide open, and his body nestled in the space between them. She could feel him, hard and hot and pressing against her. She stiffened, and he must have felt it, because his lips crooned a soft, “Shhhh,” at her ear.
From there he moved down.
And down.
And down.
His mouth trailed fire along her neck to the hollow of her shoulder, and then—
Oh, dear God.
His hand was cupping her breast, making it round and plump, and his mouth found the tip.
She jerked beneath him.
He chuckled, and his other hand found her shoulder, holding her immobile while he continued his torture, pausing only to move to the other side.
“Gregory,” Lucy whimpered, because she did not know what else to say. She was lost to the sensation, completely helpless against his sensual onslaught. She couldn’t explain, she couldn’t fix or rationalize. She could only feel, and it was the most terrifying, thrilling thing imaginable.
With one last nip, he released her breast and brought his face back up to hers. His breathing was ragged, his muscles tense.
“Touch me,” he said hoarsely.
Her lips parted, and her eyes found his.
“Anywhere,” he begged.
It was only then that Lucy realized that her hands were at her sides, gripping the sheets as if they could keep her sane. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then, amazingly, she began to laugh.
One side of his mouth curved up. “We’re going to have to break you of that habit,” he murmured.
She brought her hands to his back, lightly exploring his skin. “You don’t want me to apologize?” she asked. When he joked, when he teased—it made her comfortable. It made her bold.
“Not for this,” he groaned.
She rubbed her feet against his calves. “Ever?”
And then his hands started doing unspeakable things. “Do you want me to apologize?”
“No,” she gasped. He was touching her intimately, in ways she didn’t know she could be touched. It should have been the most awful thing in the world, but it wasn’t. It made her stretch, arch, squirm. She had no idea what it was she was feeling—she couldn’t have described it with Shakespeare himself at her disposal.
But she wanted more. It was her only thought, the only thing she knew.
Gregory was leading her somewhere. She felt pulled, taken, transported.
And she wanted it all.
“Please,” she begged, the word slipping unbidden from her lips. “Please…”
But Gregory, too, was beyond words. He said her name. Over and over he said it
, as if his lips had lost the memory of anything else.
“Lucy,” he whispered, his mouth moving to the hollow between her breasts.
“Lucy,” he moaned, slipping one finger inside of her.
And then he gasped it. “Lucy!”
She had touched him. Softly, tentatively.
But it was she. It was her hand, her caress, and it felt as if he’d been set on fire.
“I’m sorry,” she said, yanking her hand away.
“Don’t apologize,” he ground out, not because he was angry but because he could barely speak. He found her hand and dragged it back. “This is how much I want you,” he said, wrapping her around him. “With everything I have, everything I am.”
His nose was barely an inch from hers. Their breath mingled, and their eyes…
It was like they were one.
“I love you,” he murmured, moving into position. Her hand slid away, then moved to his back.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, and then her eyes widened, as if she were stunned that she’d said it.
But he didn’t care. It didn’t matter if she’d meant to tell him or not. She’d said it, and she could never take it back. She was his.
And he was hers. As he held himself still, pressing ever so softly at her entrance, he realized that he was at the edge of a precipice. His life was now one of two parts: before and after.
He would never love another woman again.
He could never love another woman again.
Not after this. Not as long as Lucy walked the same earth. There could be no one else.
It was terrifying, this precipice. Terrifying, and thrilling, and—
He jumped.
She let out a little gasp as he pushed forward, but when he looked down at her, she did not seem to be in pain. Her head was thrown back, and each breath was accompanied by a little moan, as if she could not quite keep her desire inside.
Her legs wrapped around his, feet running down the length of his calves. And her hips were arching, pressing, begging him to continue.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, every muscle in his body straining to move forward. He had never wanted anything the way he wanted her in that moment. And yet he had never felt less greedy. This had to be for her. He could not hurt her.
“You’re not,” she groaned, and then he couldn’t help himself. He captured her breast in his mouth as he pushed through her final barrier, embedding himself fully within her.
If she’d felt pain, she didn’t care. She let out a quiet shriek of pleasure, and her hands grabbed wildly at his head. She writhed beneath him, and when he attempted to move to her other breast, her fingers grew merciless, holding him in place with a ferocious intensity.
And all the while, his body claiming her, moving in a rhythm that was beyond thought or control.
“Lucy Lucy Lucy,” he moaned, finally tearing himself away from her breast. It was too hard. It was too much. He needed room to breathe, to gasp, to suck in the air that never quite seemed to make it to his lungs.
“Lucy!”
He should wait. He was trying to wait. But she was grabbing at him, digging her nails into his shoulders, and her body was arching off the bed with enough strength to lift him as well.
And then he felt her. Tensing, squeezing, shuddering around him, and he let go.
He let go, and the world quite simply exploded.
“I love you,” he gasped as he collapsed atop her. He’d thought himself beyond words, but there they were.
They were his companion now. Three little words.
I love you.
He would never be without them.
And that was a splendid thing.
Twenty
In which Our Hero has a very bad morning.
Sometime later, after sleep, and then more passion, and then not quite sleep, but a peaceful quiet and stillness, and then more passion—because they just could not help themselves—it was time for Gregory to go.
It was the most difficult thing he had ever done, and yet he was still able to do it with joy in his heart because he knew that this was not the end. It was not even goodbye; it was nothing so permanent as that. But the hour was growing dangerous. Dawn would arrive shortly, and while he had every intention of marrying Lucy as soon as he could manage it, he would not put her through the shame of being caught in bed with him on the morning of her wedding to another man.
There was also Haselby to consider. Gregory did not know him well, but he had always seemed an affable fellow and did not deserve the public humiliation that would follow.
“Lucy,” Gregory whispered, nudging her cheek with his nose, “it is near to morning.”
She made a sleepy sound, then turned her head. “Yes,” she said. Just Yes, not It’s all so unfair or It shouldn’t have to be this way. But that was Lucy. She was pragmatic and prudent and charmingly reasonable, and he loved her for all that and more. She didn’t want to change the world. She just wanted to make it lovely and wonderful for the people she loved.
The fact that she had done this—that she had let him make love to her and was planning to call off her wedding now, the very morning of the ceremony—it only showed him how deeply she cared for him. Lucy didn’t look for attention and drama. She craved stability and routine, and for her to make the leap she was preparing for—
It humbled him.
“You should come with me,” he said. “Now. We should leave together before the household wakes.”
Her bottom lip stretched a bit from side to side in an oh dear–ish expression that was so fetching he simply had to kiss her. Lightly, since he had no time to get carried away, and just a little peck on the corner of her mouth. Nothing that interfered with her answer, which was a disappointing “I cannot.”
He drew back. “You cannot remain.”
But she was shaking her head. “I…I must do the right thing.”
He looked at her quizzically.
“I must behave with honor,” she explained. She sat then, her fingers clutching the bedclothes so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She looked nervous, which he supposed made sense. He felt on the edge of a brand-new dawn, whereas she—
She still had a rather large mountain to scale before she reached her happy ending.
He reached out, trying to take one of her hands, but she was not receptive. It wasn’t that she was tugging away from him; rather, it almost felt as if she was not even aware of his touch.
“I cannot sneak away and allow Lord Haselby to wait in vain at the church,” she said, the words rushing out, tumbling from her lips as her eyes turned to his, wide and imploring.
But just for a moment.
Then she turned away.
She swallowed. He could not see her face, but he could see it in the way she moved.
She said, softly, “Surely you understand that.”
And he did. It was one of the things he loved best about her. She had such a strong sense of right and wrong, sometimes to the point of intractability. But she was never moralistic, never condescending.
“I will watch for you,” he said.
Her head turned sharply, and her eyes widened in question.
“You may need my assistance,” he said softly.
“No, it won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can—”
“I insist,” he said, with enough force to silence her. “This shall be our signal.” He held up his hand, fingers together, palm out. He twisted at the wrist then, once, to bring his palm around to face him, and then again, to return it to its original position. “I shall watch for you. If you need my help, come to the window and make the signal.”
She opened her mouth, as if she might protest one more time, but in the end she merely nodded.
He stood then, opening the heavy draperies that ringed her bed as he searched for his clothing. His garments were strewn about—his breeches here, his shirt remarkably over there, but he quickly gathered what he needed and dressed.
Luc
y remained in bed, sitting up with the sheets tucked under her arm. He found her modesty charming, and he almost teased her for it. But instead he decided just to offer an amused smile. It had been a momentous night for her; she should not be made to feel embarrassed for her innocence.
He walked to the window to peer out. Dawn had not yet broken, but the sky hung with anticipation, the horizon painted with that faint shimmer of light one saw only before the sunrise. It glowed gently, a serene purplish-blue, and was so beautiful he beckoned to her to join him. He turned his back while she donned her nightgown and then, once she had padded across the room in her bare feet, he pulled her gently against him, her back to his chest. He rested his chin on top of her head.
“Look,” he whispered.
The night seemed to dance, sparkling and tingling, as if the air itself understood that nothing would ever be the same. Dawn was waiting on the other side of the horizon, and already the stars were beginning to look less bright in the sky.
If he could have frozen time, he would have done so. Never had he experienced a single moment that was so magical, so…full. Everything was there, everything that was good and honest and true. And he finally understood the difference between happiness and contentment, and how lucky and blessed he was to feel both, in such breathtaking quantities.
It was Lucy. She completed him. She made his life everything he had known it could someday be.
This was his dream. It was coming true, all around him, right there in his arms.
And then, right as they were standing at the window, one of the stars shot through the sky. It made a wide, shallow arc, and it almost seemed to Gregory that he heard it as it traveled, sparking and crackling until it disappeared from sight.
It made him kiss her. He supposed a rainbow would do the same, or a four-leafed clover, or even a simple snowflake, landing on his sleeve without melting. It was simply impossible to enjoy one of nature’s small miracles and not kiss her. He kissed her neck, and then he turned her around in his arms so that he could kiss her mouth, and her brow, and even her nose.
