“Merrick. What are you doing in here?” she asked, finding her voice at last. “If Dev finds out we are alone…”
Her brother had given her no less than three sermons on the subject of maintaining propriety, keeping a polite distance from Merrick for the duration of the house party leading up to their nuptials, and not spoiling any of her sisters’ marital prospects.
Merrick’s lips twitched into a wry grin. “He will not. He was the hoodman when I left.”
The thought of her massive, forbidding brother playing a parlor game was enough to win a relieved smile from her as well. The wonders Lady Emilia wrought upon him would never cease to amaze her. “Good. But that does not answer my question. What are you doing here?”
He stopped when he reached her, his intense gaze searing. “I saw you slip away, and I had a feeling I might find you here.”
After what they had shared together at The Angry Bull, being alone with him, in such proximity, seemed like a sin on its own. Her heart pounded. Warmth slid between her thighs where his tongue had played over her intimate flesh with such incredible dexterity…
But she must not think of it. Not now. Else she would launch herself into his arms.
She compressed her lips, staring at him, this man who was to be her husband in a fortnight’s time. How beautiful he was, how regal.
“Why did you follow me?” she asked.
“There is something I must tell you, Bea.” The grin fled his sensual lips. He was serious and contemplative, his eyes going hooded.
She tensed, preparing herself for a blow. Here it was. He had changed his mind. He wanted her to cry off, to end their betrothal. “Tell me then, Merrick.”
He reached out a hand, entreating, palm up. “Perhaps we ought to sit first.”
The foolish part of her wanted to place her hand in his, to feel the strength of his touch. But the rest of her just wanted whatever he had to say spoken. “Tell me now, if you please.”
“I…” The words he had been about to say trailed off. Instead, he stepped toward her in a rush, cupped her face in his gloved hands, and kissed her.
Perhaps, she thought dimly as his mouth moved with frenzied passion over hers, she had been wrong. But wrong had never felt more right. She forgot everything but him, kissing him back with everything in her, twining her arms around his neck and clinging to him as if she were ivy.
She breathed in his scent, already familiar and beloved. He surrounded her everywhere, his strong body pressed against hers, his tongue in her mouth, his lips claiming, moving with wicked persistence. All that mattered then was the promise in his kiss: possession, passion, pleasure.
By the time he drew back, her lips were tingling, and so was the rest of her. She was dizzied. Giddy. She could do nothing but clutch him, her heart pounding loud enough she swore he could overhear it.
“Forgive me, Bea,” he said wryly, his lips darkened from their kiss. “It felt as if it had been an eternity since I last tasted your lips, and I could not wait a moment more.”
Neither his actions nor his words were those of a man being forced against his will to the altar. But still, in spite of the hunger of his kiss, she could not let the matter die a quiet death. “It is not you who should be apologizing, but me. I am the reason you find yourself suddenly having to marry me. If I had not gone behind Dev’s back to aid Dr. Nichols, I never would have been left behind in London, and you never would have had to escort me here. My brother could not have coerced you into marrying me.”
“Bea.” He shook his head. “Your brother cannot force me into marrying you. I want to marry you. If anything, I would think that kiss proof of just how much.”
Her cheeks went hot. “Your gentlemanly protestations aside, I cannot shake the guilt, Merrick. For all I know, there is a lady you love, someone who shall make you happy.”
His expression was somber. “There is a lady I love, and I know she would make me a very happy man indeed.”
Her heart felt as if it had been held from the roof of Abingdon Hall and hurled to the gravel drive below. “It is as I feared, then. Can you not see, Merrick? I will not be the one to keep you from her.”
“Hush.” When she would have extricated herself from his gentle hold, he held her fast, kissing the corner of her lips, first the left, then the right. “You can only keep me from her if you refuse to marry me.”
She stilled, her mind struggling to comprehend what he had just said. “Me?”
He dropped a sweet kiss on the bridge of her nose. “You.”
Surely Bea had misheard him. “You are saying you…”
Somehow, she could not form the words, not in relation to herself. It seemed too unreal. Too impossible. Too wonderful.
He lifted his head, staring down at her with an expression of such tenderness, she could have wept. “I love you, Bea. Our courtship has been extraordinary, I will own. But I count myself the most fortunate man in England. Nothing will make me happier than being your husband, just as long as it is your wish too.”
He loved her.
Merrick Hart.
Loved.
Her.
At least a hundred different sentences gathered on her tongue at once, but she could not speak a word of one of them. All she could do was stare. Take in the magnitude of his revelation.
Revel in it.
This man, this strong, intelligent, fierce man, loved her.
And the strangest realization washed over her then, at first like the strains of an early spring rainstorm, and then a sudden torrent. Until she was drenched with the knowledge, soaked to the very marrow of her bones.
She loved him too.
“But you must tell me it is your wish,” Merrick prodded, his tone clipped, his jaw clenching. “Is…is there another gentleman you would prefer to take as your husband, Bea? I know I am no matrimonial prize. I worked in a factory until your brother saw fit to better me. I come to you with precious little. I could not blame you if you did not want me.”
“No,” she denied swiftly, unable to keep from cradling his face in much the same fashion he had hers. The coarse, golden stubble of his jaw pricked through her gloves, and she absorbed his heat and the beat of his heart. “There is no other man I want, Merrick. There never has been for me. There has always been only…you.”
“Are you certain, darling?” His eyes searched hers.
“I love you,” she told him. “I was afraid, so very afraid, you did not want me. That you were being pressured into marrying me. But I have never been more certain of anything else.”
“Thank God for that,” he murmured, before kissing her again.
When at last their lips parted again, Bea caught her breath, asking the other question which had been dogging her with rather relentless tenacity over the last sennight. “What of my work with Dr. Nichols, Merrick? Will you forbid it?”
His answer was swift and sure. “I will never forbid you from anything, Bea. I do not want to tame you, but to watch you thrive. I will, however, insist you refrain from attending births anywhere you may be in danger. And you must also promise to always let me know where you shall be and when. Only the brawniest and most trustworthy of servants will accompany you on your excursions to keep you safe.”
Gratitude poured over her. “Thank you.”
“No,” he said firmly, his deep-blue eyes boring into hers. “Thank you, Bea. Thank you for entrusting me with your future, your heart, and your love.”
“The choice has never been mine.” Love for him welled in her heart. “I have always wanted you to be my own, Merrick Hart.”
“I am yours, Bea,” he whispered. “Forever.”
And then he sealed the promise with a kiss.
And then another.
And another.
As it turned out, it was rather a long time before either of them found their way back to the game of hoodman blind. But no one seemed to notice, and if they did, Bea did not care one whit. Her heart sung with the quiet knowledge she had somehow, ag
ainst all odds, found her own winter miracle.
Chapter Eleven
Becoming Mrs. Merrick Hart was the culmination of three weeks of agonizing waiting. But it had been worth it, Bea decided as she awaited her new husband in her chamber.
The knowledge he was now her husband, and that propriety—and her stubborn, overprotective brother—could no longer keep them at a proper distance, was worth it.
Tonight was Christmas Eve, and Abingdon Hall had been ablaze with much merriment. She and Merrick had married in the morning, then presided over a tremendously sumptuous breakfast attended by all the guests. The afternoon had been spent in decorating the stairway and mantels with greenery and more mistletoe, along with singing carols and the large log thrown on the fire in the old great hall.
In all, it had been a wondrous day.
But she had a feeling it was about to get rather a lot more wondrous.
A subtle knock at the door heralded Merrick’s arrival. Unable to squelch her excitement, she padded to the door in her bare feet. Her lady’s maid had already helped her into a nightdress and her dressing gown. Her hair was unbound, falling in heavy waves down her back.
A tinge of nervousness swept over her until he stood before her at last. The door had scarcely closed behind his back when she was in his arms. She could not be certain if she leapt upon him, or if he hauled her against him, or if they moved as one, urged by the same goal, the same instinct, the same driving need.
All she did know was that he held her in his arms, ravishing her lips, and she ravished his right back. For the last fortnight, they had behaved in scandalous fashion in spite of Dev’s edicts, finding each other whenever they could, hiding where they may, exchanging kisses and caresses. Touching and tasting and bringing each other to wild crescendos of pleasure.
But this night was different.
This was the night she would truly become Merrick’s in body, deed, and heart.
Forever.
His tongue was in her mouth. Her hands were in his hair. He caught her waist and lifted her—effortlessly, it seemed—holding her wrapped in his strong arms, his mouth never ceasing its sensual torture.
He did not stop kissing her until they reached her bed, and he set her gently back on her feet. She mourned the loss of his lips as she drank in the sight of him, so perfect, so hers.
“I love you,” she told him, because the words would not be contained any more than her desire could.
He smiled, kissing her again, lingeringly, before drawing back once more. “And I love you, my darling wife.”
She smiled back at him. “I find I rather like the sound of that.”
“My darling,” he repeated, before his mouth was upon hers once more.
Just a gentle kiss, and unhurried this time.
When it ended prematurely, she made a soft sound of frustration. “Tell me again, Merrick.”
He sobered, the smile leaving his lips. His gaze was dark, like the deep blue of the sky as the sun went down, and there was so much feeling, such affection burning within it, she felt humbled.
“I love you, my darling wife,” he told her.
She framed his face in her hands, and without gloves to keep her from his skin, his heat branded her. How wonderful to hold and touch him, to kiss him, to love him, after weeks of waiting.
After years of longing.
Hers. He was finally hers.
“Kiss me,” she breathed.
She did not need to make the request twice, for his lips slammed down on hers. It was a kiss that claimed, a kiss that bruised, a kiss that broke her open and set her free all at once. His hands were everywhere, nimble fingers plucking the knot on her dressing gown open and sending it to the floor. Then her nightgown was revealed, a simple white affair she had spent the last week embroidering with an H and two hearts intertwined.
His fingers brushed tenderly over her work. “Your hand, Bea?”
“Yes.” She was two left hands when it came to needlework. But she had wanted to please him, and so she had suffered much frustration and at least half a dozen stabbed fingers. “Do you like it?”
He kissed her middling handiwork reverently. “I love it, Bea. Two hearts linked, like yours and mine, from this day forward.”
She could not seem to find the appropriate words through the emotions clogging her throat, so she did the reasonable thing. She tugged his head back to hers. Their mouths met and clung. The kiss quickly deepened, turning carnal, nothing but tongues, teeth, and need.
Boldness overcame her, and she found the belt of his dressing gown in turn, working the knot free. It too slid from his shoulders. Beneath it, he wore a nightshirt of thin lawn. Her hands investigated the breadth of his shoulders, the well-muscled sinews of his arms, the hardness of his chest, his heat searing her all the while.
Finally, he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers. “I promised myself I would go slowly tonight, my love. But if you keep touching me like that, I will have you on your back in the next three seconds.”
She did not stop. Could not stop. The more she touched him, the more she ached, and the more she ached, the more she knew only he could cure her of what ailed her. “I do not want slow, Merrick. All I want is for you to make me yours. Now.”
Damn.
All the blood in Merrick’s body had rushed to his cock, he was sure of it, upon Bea’s husky confession. He was reasonably confident he had never been this hard in his entire life, not even when he had been a randy youth who had discovered his hand for the first time.
He was incapable of speech. So he did the only thing he could do. He removed the last of the barriers keeping him from his wife. Her nightgown was first, because he could not wait to see her naked again. He had been afforded tantalizing glimpses over their stolen moments in the last fortnight. But the sight of her creamy curves and soft skin, her pert, pink nipples and full breasts, the nip of her waist and the mouthwatering juncture at the apex of her thighs…
He had to bite his lip in hopes the pain would keep him from spilling his seed then and there. It did. Barely. Someone hauled his nightshirt over his head. He supposed it was him, but the rational part of his mind was gone. In its place was a ravenous need that would no longer be denied.
Nor did it need to be denied any longer.
“Sit,” he told her, managing to somehow speak.
She did as he asked, her expression turning shy even as her gaze traveled over his body. Her eyes widened when she reached his straining erection, and he could not blame her for her reaction. Though she had touched him, it had always been through his breeches, and he had been able to exert more control over his body’s reactions.
Though he was desperate to be inside her at last, there was something else he was more desperate for—the sweet taste of her cunny. He sank to his knees before her. His entire body was awash in a furious glut of sensations. The woolen carpet was thick and sumptuous beneath his bare legs. Though the night was incredibly cold, he was hotter than a flame. His heart was pounding. Her exotic scent drifted over him, along with a faint trace of something else—her essence.
He placed his hands on her knees, caressing her there, where she had pressed them together for modesty’s sake. “Let me bring you pleasure, Bea,” he said. “I want you on my tongue.”
“Merrick,” she whispered, her eyes going wider still.
For a moment, he could not tell if she would offer a maidenly protest. But then, she opened to him. He devoured her with his eyes first, before caressing her inner thighs slowly. Carefully. Reverently. Pink and pretty just as he remembered, she blossomed for him. She was glistening.
Fuck.
He could not resist. He dipped his head, licked up her seam. Just one swipe at first. Then another, his tongue parting her folds. He found her pearl and sucked until she was writhing against him. He bit lightly, testing her sensitivity, and a flood of pleasure rolled down his spine when she moaned and her fingers sank into his hair.
He circled his tongue over her
clitoris in slow little licks, then worked his way down to her entrance, where she was drenched. His ballocks tightened at the proof of how much she wanted him. He fluttered his tongue there, over her channel in a tease of what he would soon do with his cock. Shallow thrusts, not enough to break the barrier of her maidenhead, but enough to make her hips buck until her legs were spread even wider.
He lingered there until he knew she was on the edge, and then he ran his tongue back to the swollen bud of her sex. He licked over her, then sucked. One more nip of his teeth, and she was crying out, shaking against him, her fingers tightening in his hair as the pleasure consumed her. When the last tremors of her desire eased, he rose to his feet.
“Lie on the bed,” he told her.
He had no more ability to woo. No pretty phrases. He was ruled by need now, as it thundered and raged through him. His mouth was filled with the sweet musk of her cunny, his lips still wet, and his cock was raging to drive home inside her.
She settled herself in the center of the bed, naked and glorious and all his. Her nipples were hard. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were dark, her pupils immense, her expression one of a woman who had just been well-loved.
But this was not over yet.
He joined her on the bed, running his hands over her. Her skin was so smooth, so soft, so delicate and yet so strong at the same time. As he caressed her, he suckled one of her pouty nipples. One long draw. Then another.
His fingers settled between her thighs, sliding through her folds with ease. She was still sodden, and when he stroked over her pearl, she jerked against him. He released her nipple with a lusty-sounding pop and then moved to the other, biting it. She moaned again, her body bowing from the bed.
She was close. So close.
He made her spend again, just because he could. Just for the feeling of her losing herself, for the way she cried out, the low, keening moan torn from her. As she coated his fingers, he buried his face in her neck, kissing over the frantic beating of her heart.
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