At Last Comes Love

18

/A WONDERFUL day/! /Had/ it been?

It had certainly had its high points, Duncan conceded. If it had not restored him to complete favor with the /ton/, at least it had allowed him back into the fold. No one could attend his wedding today and then refuse to receive him tomorrow, after all.

It had certainly delighted his mother. He could not remember seeing her as genuinely happy as she had been today. It had restored the belief he had taken for granted as a boy, before his father died, that she loved him totally and unconditionally. Perhaps he had been right then and wrong more recently to think her merely vain and shallow.

And today had brought his grandfather out of Claverbrook House. He had looked quite his old self too – older, it was true, and just as fierce as he had ever been, but with that indefinable look in his eyes that was almost, but not quite, a twinkle. He had never used to be a recluse.

Duncan wondered suddenly if his running off with Laura and abandoning Caroline had had anything to do with making him into a hermit. Perhaps he had done more than disappoint his grandfather on that occasion – perhaps he had crushed his spirit. Perhaps his grandfather loved him after all.

Perhaps tomorrow morning, his grandfather's birthday, he should tell him at least as much about that elopement as he had told Maggie. Perhaps he should tell his mother too. A promise made to Laura was one thing. His family – and their bruised love for him – was another. /Make sure you cherish her/, his grandfather had said when he was leaving. /… cherish …/ And that brought him back to the original thought – /a wonderful day/. He had not married her in order to cherish her. And of course he felt guilty about that even though he had been almost completely frank with her about his motives. What he had /not/ told her – what he had deliberately withheld – did not really matter.

Even so, he felt guilty, for there /was/ more to tell. And she was his wife. /I wanted the whole world to look at me and rejoice with me/.

Those words had given him a nasty jolt.

And now he was jolted again when Smith cleared his throat. "Do you want a nightshirt, then, m'lord?" he asked. "Or just your dressing gown?" Duncan gave him a hard look. He supposed he possessed a nightshirt or Smith would not have offered it. But when had his valet ever known him to wear one? "The dressing gown," he said. "The new one, m'lord?" Smith asked. "Of course the new one," Duncan said, getting to his feet and checking his jawline to make sure his face was smooth – not that Smith ever left any stubble behind when he shaved him. "Do you think I bought it just to sit in a wardrobe until the moths get at it?" He was feeling irritable, he realized as he pushed his arms into the sleeves and then slipped out of his breeches and drawers. Irritable and lusty. Irritable /because/ he was lusty. It did not seem right somehow.

One ought to feel more than just lust for one's bride. /Did/ he? He searched hopefully in his mind for some tender feelings and discovered with something bordering on relief that indeed there was /something/ there. He had grown to rather like her as well as admire her. He could perhaps grow fond of her if he tried – and try he must and would.

If the truth were told, he had felt something like a lump in his throat when she had spoken those words earlier – /I wanted the whole world to look at me and rejoice with me/. He had wanted to gather her up into his arms – rather as he always did whenever Toby, during his insecure moments between play and mayhem, tugged at his breeches and asked him if he really, /really/ loved him. "I'll see you in the morning," he told his valet, his voice abrupt and still sounding irritable as he left the dressing room and made his way back along the corridor to Maggie's bedchamber.

He was certainly feeling lusty. Guilt had not affected him there. She was delicious even when she did not taste of wine. But when she did – as she had in the drawing room a short while ago – she was quite intoxicating. He did not suppose she realized how close she had come to being tumbled on the drawing room carpet when /she/ had kissed /him/ and traced the seam of his lips with her tongue.

He had not been expecting it. He had always found her rather inhibited, even prudish, sexually. The typical and perfect lady, in fact. But she had kissed him downstairs, and it had been a definite invitation.

Dash it all, he hoped she would not live to regret this marriage.

He was going to have to see to it that she did not, was he not? He owed her that much. And even apart from that, he could not really contemplate a marriage that he made no effort at all to make into a decent one. He had not wanted to marry, it was true, but he had done it and now he must live accordingly.

He was still feeling that curious mingling of irritability and lust as he tapped on her door and let himself in – it would be mildly absurd, he thought, to wait for her to answer his knock.

She was standing at the foot of the bed, hugging the bedpost. She was wearing a white nightgown, which shimmered in the light from two candles and looked somehow more gorgeous than the most elaborate of ball gowns.

And – oh, Lord! – her hair was loose down her back, and it reached almost to her bottom. It was dark and thick and shining. And that gorgeous nightgown, though perfectly decent, did absolutely nothing to hide her even more gorgeous curves.

He fought the advent of an early arousal. "The canopy will not stay up without your assistance?" he asked.

She gazed blankly at him for a moment, looked at the bedpost to which she clung, glanced up at the canopy over the bed, and smiled as she dropped her arms to her sides. Then she laughed and looked more vibrantly beautiful than ever. "I daresay it will," she said. "Perhaps it was I who could not stay upright without the bedpost's assistance. I /did/ drink that glass of wine." "I thought," he said, "that perhaps you would be fast asleep from its effects." "Oh." She laughed again. "No." "I am delighted," he said. "Are you?" He was delighted that she was awake so that he could bed her, though he had not really expected she would be asleep. Was he also delighted to be here with his wife? With the woman who would be his companion for the rest of their lives? Was he delighted that tomorrow morning, his lust sated, he would not simply walk away from her and forget her but would take her with him to Woodbine and into the future?

Would he ever be able to forget her even if he were free to do so? Now /that/ was an interesting question. "What is it?" she asked, and he realized that he had been standing there staring at her for several silent moments. "You are almost too beautiful to touch," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "But not quite, I hope." "Do you hope so?" he said, and he walked closer to her and set his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arms' length while his eyes roamed over her. "But you /are/ beautiful, Maggie. I am a fortunate man." He lowered his head and kissed her at the base of her throat.

She tipped back her head and sighed softly. "I am not embarrassed any longer," she said. "It is so foolish to be, is it not? This is the most natural thing imaginable. I want it, Duncan. I want it more than anything else in the world, in fact." He wondered what the words had cost her in courage. Though he could tell from the heat radiating off her body that she did mean them.

He slipped his thumbs beneath the shoulders of her nightgown and moved them partway down her arms. He kissed one bare shoulder and moved his mouth over the swell of her breast, lowering the nightgown further as he reached the nipple and took it lightly into his mouth. He touched it with the tip of his tongue and felt her shiver. With heat.

He stood back a little and released his hold on the nightgown. She was pressing it against her stomach with both hands and could have kept it there if she had chosen. Instead, she let her arms fall to her sides and let the flimsy garment slither and slide downward to pool at her feet.

Her cheeks flamed and her eyes held his – until he looked away to see all of her.

Full breasts with rosy tips, small waist, curvaceous hips, long, slim, shapely legs – if there was any imperfection in her, he could not see it.

She was every man's sexual dream come true.

Then one of her arms lifted from her side and pulled on the sash of his dressing gown until it came loose. The garment fell open and she pushed it off his shoulders so that it too fell to the floor.

He was surprised – at her nakedness, at his own. He had been prepared to be far more … what? Decorous? Considerate? Gentle? She was not a virgin, it was true, but if his guess was correct – and he would wager on it – she was as close to being a virgin as it was possible to be without actually being one. "More beautiful than ever," he murmured. "Duncan." She set her hands on his shoulders and moved them down his arms, looking him over frankly as she did so. "You are beautiful too. Is that an inappropriate word? I am sorry if it is. But it fits. You /are/ beautiful." He took her hands in his and wrapped them about his waist, bringing her full against him as he did so. /God in heaven/!

He touched his lips to hers, opening her mouth with them as he did so and thrusting his tongue deep inside. She moaned and arched in harder against him. His erection pressed against her belly.

So much for gentle discretion. "May we lie down?" she asked against his lips when he withdrew his tongue. "I don't think my legs will hold me up much longer." He bent and picked her up and carried her the short distance to the bed.

He lay her down on the bottom sheet and kissed her openmouthed again.

She still tasted of wine. She smelled of lavender soap. Siren and lady all rolled into one. "Do you wish me to blow out the candles?" he asked her. "I would prefer to leave them burning – I want to watch what we do. But it will be as you wish." Watching them have sex by candlelight had not been part of his original plan either, by Jove.

Her eyes opened and widened. "Oh," she said. "Leave them burning by all means, then." He lay down beside her, slid one arm beneath her back, and moved the other hand over her body in a light caress, tracing her curves, feeling the soft heat of her skin, breathing in lavender and wine. He really must /slow down/. His hand roamed over her breasts and lifted one in his palm, feeling the soft, firm, magnificent weight of it as he rubbed the nipple with the pad of his thumb and lowered his head to take it into his mouth again. This time he sucked firmly.

She inhaled slowly and audibly, and her fingers twined tightly in his hair. "Oh, please," she said, but did not elaborate.

He moved on top of her and pressed his knees between her thighs, pushing them wide until he could kneel between them. He gazed down at her with half-closed eyes. She was gazing back at him, her hair a riot of dark glory over her shoulders and breasts.

Candlelight flickered over her face.

She lifted her arms and spread her hands over his chest before moving them in slow circles there, her fingers bent back, smoothing the light hairs with her palms in one direction and ruffling them again in the other. She looked back into his face and smiled.

He could feel the soft smoothness of her inner thighs against the outsides of his legs. He could see the heavy fullness of her breasts. He could smell lavender and wine and woman.

And his erection was so taut that if he did not bury it inside her soon, something very embarrassing was going to happen. "Forgive me," he said, lowering his head and kissing her lips, "I cannot wait any longer." "Good," she said, still smiling. "Neither can I." He could have stretched out on top of her then and taken her with swift, urgent strokes. He would feel that whole lovely, curvaceous body beneath his, and the feeling would further ignite the fire in his loins.

She had said she was ready.

But to her their wedding day had been wonderful. This, the consummation, was the culmination of the wedding day. He would not let it be a disappointment to her.

It was the least he could do.

He spread his knees, lifting her legs over them until she twined them about his. And he slid his hands beneath her buttocks, lifted her and held her firm, positioned himself at her entrance, and pressed firmly inside.

He both watched and listened to her inhale slowly, her eyes fluttering closed until he was deeply embedded in her. He held still.

Lord God, she was all wet heat and soft sheath and clenching muscles.

And he –

He clamped his teeth together for a few moments. He would /not/, by Jove, give in to pure instinct.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He slid his hands from beneath her, moved them up her sides, pressed them beneath her breasts, and brushed his thumbs over her nipples. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no, it is too much, Duncan. It is too much." "Is it?" He settled his hands on her hips and withdrew from her and pressed in again and withdrew and thrust, beginning a deep and steady rhythm, gritting his teeth against too early an ejaculation.

He looked down to watch what he did. And he glanced up to see that she watched too, with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips – until her eyes drifted closed and her hands, spread on the bed on either side of her, pressed into the mattress and her head tipped back against the pillow and her inner muscles clenched hard about him and she breathed in labored gasps.

He took her hands in his and raised them above her head, straightening his legs and bringing his whole weight down on top of her as he did so.

He quickened and deepened the rhythm, pumping hard into her until she cried out, shuddered convulsively against him, and fell limp and relaxed beneath him.

Her hands were hot and slick with sweat. So was the rest of her body.

The blood pulsed through him, hammering in his ears, thundering in his chest, making his erection an agony. He worked her swiftly until the climax came, and then he sighed against the side of her face and relaxed.

He listened to his heartbeat return to normal, perhaps drifted off into a sort of sleep while it did so, and marveled at the feel of her beneath him – and at the realization that she was a woman of great passion. "Duncan," she whispered, "are you awake?" "Mmm? No," he said. "Am I heavy?" "Yes," she said, "but you need not move yet. It was lovely. Thank you." The prim lady again – lying naked and sweaty beneath him and all twined about him.

He propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her. "It was," he said, "and thank /you/, Maggie. But it might grow a little tedious if we feel we must thank each other every time." She cupped the free side of his face with one hand. "I am not sorry," she said. "That I married you, I mean. I am really not." As if she had thought she might be.

Because of Dew? It had been a little disconcerting to see the man at their wedding breakfast – to see her talking with him, to see him take her hand.

He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind. "I am not sorry either," he said. "However, if there is to be any more to this wedding night, Maggie, I am going to have to get some sleep, I'm afraid." "Oh," she said – and smiled.

He disengaged from her body, rolled to one side of her, and lifted the bedcovers up over them. He looked across at her and realized that, just like that, she was asleep.

He lay beside her, looking at her for a while until sleep overtook him too.

Tomorrow they would be on their way to Woodbine and the rest of their lives. Within a few days Toby would join them. He was to live with them, just as if he were a normal, regular child – as he was, of course.

He would, Duncan thought, forever be grateful to her for that.

His heart ached with longing.

Daylight was making a bright square of the window behind the curtains when Margaret woke up. She stretched tentatively, remembering instantly – how could she forget? – and was aware of her unfamiliar nakedness between the sheets.

She felt wicked and wonderful – and amused by the former.

She turned her head, smiling. The bed was empty beside her, the covers thrown back.

She had slept through his getting up and leaving the room? She could scarcely believe it. She had always been a light sleeper and an early riser. Of course, it /had/ been a busy night.

They intended making an earlyish start this morning, though they had promised to wait until her family and his mother came to wave them on their way. And they were to call at Claverbrook House.

It was his grandfather's eightieth birthday.

Oh, goodness, what if everyone was already downstairs waiting for her to wake up and dress and make herself look respectable? Whatever would they /think/ of her? What sort of a wedding night would they imagine she had just spent?

Would they guess the truth? But /of course/ they would.

Oh, dear, she would die of mortification.

She was about to throw back the covers when the door opened. "If I were a proper lady's maid," Duncan said, stepping inside the room, carrying a tray, "I suppose I would have anticipated the exact moment of your waking and would have had your chocolate steaming beside your bed and your curtains drawn back so that you could see it when you opened your eyes. I am not a proper lady's maid." He set down the tray on the table beside her bed. It held two cups of chocolate and four sweet biscuits on a plate. "I would hire you anyway," she said, drawing the covers up to her chin, "but Ellen would be out of employment and I would miss her. I daresay you cannot dress hair as well as she does, anyway." He sat down on the side of the bed. He was dressed, but only partially – in pantaloons and a shirt that was open far enough to reveal the light dusting of hair on his chest. His hair was damp. He was freshly shaved. He was looking solemn and black-eyed – but he had joked with her. And she had joked back. And he had brought her chocolate and biscuits.

They were such little things, but they warmed her heart on this, the first day of her marriage. The wedding day was over. So was the wedding night. "I feared I had slept half the morning away," she said. "Which," he said, "would have been a marvelous compliment to my skills.

But instead, you are awake and it is still early." Oh, he was still joking with her. It felt so very strange to have a man in this room, into which even Stephen had scarcely ever set foot.

Her husband. It had a new reality today. Yesterday he had been her bridegroom and she had viewed him through all the euphoria of the nuptial celebrations.

Today he was simply her husband.

They had had relations three separate times during the night. The second time must have lasted an hour or more. She had had no idea that the female human body had so many places that could be aroused almost to madness. She had had no idea that the marriage act could consist of more than just preliminary kisses and the entry and the swift ride to release – to the man's release, that was.

She had had no idea that a woman could find release too – a total and mindless abandonment to … Well, to pleasure. There were actually no words to describe the experience. "A penny for them," he said. "For my thoughts? Oh, nothing," she said, but her cheeks were hot, and she knew she was blushing. Per haps within the next few days she could become very blasГ© about all this. "If you are going to lie there," he said, "with the covers clutched to your chin, you are not going to be able to drink your chocolate, Maggie.

That would be a shame. It smells delicious. You are shy this morning?" "No, of course not," she said.

But he looked at her and cocked one eyebrow, and she really had no choice now but to prove it by lowering the covers to the tops of her breasts. But if she sat up … And then he did what he had done in the drawing room last night. He laughed deep in his eyes while his face remained perfectly serious.

She lowered the covers to her waist and turned her head to look at the tray. The chocolate really /did/ smell good. "This is most unfair," she said. "You have had time to dress." "You had an equal opportunity," he said. "But you did not take it. Do you want me to wander into your dressing room in search of a dressing robe? They are probably all packed. Or shall I remove my shirt?" Oh, this was a very different Duncan this morning. This was – perhaps this was the intimacy of marriage. Perhaps things would always remain like this between them. Perhaps … "And your pantaloons too," she said.

He pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it to the floor beside the bed. He stood up and moved his hands to the buttons at his waist. "Only if those covers get pushed the rest of the way down," he said.

She threw them off, and he dropped his pantaloons and then his drawers.

Oh, goodness. /Oh, goodness/! "Are we supposed to drink our chocolate now?" she asked.

He raised both eyebrows. "What if Stephen comes home?" she asked. "Or Nessie and Elliott? Or your mother?" "It is seven in the morning, Maggie," he said. "And even if any of them should take it into their heads to come here at such an ungodly hour, I seriously doubt any of them are going to come bursting into your bedchamber." She opened her arms to him.

It was all breathtakingly swift and deep and fierce after that – and every bit as satisfying as any of the more lengthy sessions during the night.

She was sore, she realized when they were finished. She had been sore even before they started, but that fact had not diminished her pleasure one little bit. "I will wager," he said against her ear, "that that chocolate is still warm. I believe we were running a race that time. Shall we try it and see?" And so they sat side by side, naked in her bed, propped against the banked pillows, and ate sweet biscuits and drank chocolate that was still a little bit better than lukewarm. "I think, Maggie," he said, "I am going to tell my mother this morning what I told you before our wedding. Will she keep the secret, do you think?" "If you ask it of her," she said, "I am quite perfectly sure she will, Duncan. She loves you." "And I am going to tell my grandfather," he said. "I owed my loyalty to Laura while she lived, but I think I owe something to my family now.

Would you not agree?" "I /would/ agree," she said. "Your grandfather loves you too, you know." "Yes," he said. "I believe he does. But that love will be put to the test again." She took his free hand in hers and curled her fingers about it. Oh, /this/ part of marriage felt very good indeed. This talking and confiding in each other, this asking for advice of each other. "I think love is always being put to the test," she said. "It bends, but it never breaks. Not if it is real. Your grandfather and your mother really love you." And perhaps, she thought, she would too.

Perhaps soon. "I think," she said, "I ought to go and get dressed." "A pity" he said. "I like what you are wearing now." She turned her head and laughed at him.