The Ideal Bride

Chapter 16

In the end, the problem wasn’t convincing Caro to go, but convincing Edward to stay.

“If you don’t,” Caro warned, “then Elizabeth will come, too—even if I don’t take her, she’ll invent some excuse to come up and stay at Angela’s or Augusta’s. She has open invitations in case she needs to shop, and she now has sufficient acquaintances in town to convince Geoffrey to let her go up, no matter what we might say when we leave. So!” She paused for breath; arms folded, she halted in her pacing and looked sternly down at Edward, still seated in the chair. ‘You, Edward dear, must remain here.“

“I’m supposed to be your bloody secretary.” Edward’s jaw was set. He looked to Michael, something he had thus far managed not to do. “You must see my duty is to remain with her—it would be better if I come up to town and help you keep an eye on her.”

He doggedly refused to look at Caro, refused to notice her narrowing eyes.

Michael sighed. “Unfortunately, I agree with Caro.” He pretended not to see the startled look Caro threw him. “Given the potential danger, we really can’t have Elizabeth involved. She’s known as Caro’s niece; it’s obvious Caro is fond of her.” He paused, held Edward’s gaze. “As Caro’s secretary, it’s your job to aid her, and in this instance, strange though it may seem, you really can help best by keeping Elizabeth out of London.”

Edward’s determination wavered; Michael quietly added, “With the vital clue—whether it’s in Camden’s papers or in his will—in London, we cannot afford to give whoever’s been pursuing Caro an avenue through which to coerce her—we don’t need to give them any hostage to fortune.”

The prospect of Elizabeth as a hostage tipped the scales. Michael had known it would; he understood Edward’s dilemma, also his decision.

“Very well.” Distinctly grim, Edward conceded. “I’ll remain”—his lips twisted, briefly cynical—“and endeavor to keep Elizabeth distracted.”

Caro began packing immediately. Michael remained for dinner to assist in excusing her whirlwind departure, sans Edward, to Geoffrey.

As expected, once apprised of Michael’s intention to accompany Caro, having business to attend to in the capital himself, Geoffrey accepted the arrangement without quibble.

Michael took his leave as soon as the covers were drawn; he had to pack and ensure matters he’d expected to be at home to oversee were appropriately delegated. Caro, off upstairs to finish her own packing, saw him into the front hall. She gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”

Her fingers felt so delicate in his; raising her hand, he placed a quick kiss on them, then released her. “At eight. Don’t be late.”

She smiled a very feminine smile and turned for the stairs.

He watched her climb them, then walked out and around to the stables.

Three hours later, he retraced his steps.

Quietly. It was close to midnight; the house was dark, silent under the fitful shadows thrown by the large oaks along the drive. Staying on the grass, he skirted the forecourt, circling to the west wing and the room at its end.

Caro’s bedchamber. He’d learned its location on the day of her ball when she’d sent him traipsing through the house.

He’d finished packing an hour ago. He’d intended to go to bed and sleep; instead, here he was, slinking through the shadows like some lovelorn Romeo, and he wasn’t even sure why. He was hardly a callow youth in the throes of his first romance, yet when it came to Caro, the feelings she evoked left him, if not in quite the same giddy and reckless state, then certainly compelled to actions and deeds his rational, experienced brain knew to be rash—and potentially far too revealing.

That that knowledge held no power to stop him was a revelation in itself. The risk of revealing too much, of leaving himself exposed and therefore vulnerable, barely registered against his need to know, not logically or rationally but physically via the immediate fact, that she was safe.

After hauling her out of the currents of the weir, after discovering the neatly sawn posts, he wasn’t going to get any sleep unless she lay beside him under his hand.

Night, gently cool, engulfed the scene, settling, soothing; other than the rustle of some small creature foraging through the bushes, no sound disturbed the stillness. He’d left Atlas in the nearest paddock, left his saddle slung over the fence beneath a tree.

Rounding the west wing, he paused. Through the shadows, he studied the narrow balcony that the French doors of Caro’s room gave onto. The balcony served only her room; built above the parlor’s bay window, it could only be reached from this side.

He squinted at the wall to the left. His memory hadn’t lied; a creeper grew there, thick and old. The west-facing wall caught the sun; over the years, the creeper had grown to the roof—past the balcony.

Quitting the dense shadows beneath the trees, he carefully crossed the path circling the house. Picking his way through the plants in the garden bed, he reached the creeper.

The base was over a foot thick, gnarled and solid. He looked up at the balcony, then sighed, wedged his boot into a suitable fork, and prayed the creeper was strong enough to take his weight.

Caro was on the brink of sleep when a muffled curse floated through her mind. It wasn’t one she normally used… puzzled, her mind refo-cused, turning from the billows of slumber to wonder…

A scrape reached her ears. Followed by another muffled curse.

She sat up and looked across the room to where she’d left the French doors to her balcony open to let in the elusive breeze. The lace curtains drifted, nothing looked amiss… then she heard a crack—a twig or branch—followed by a soft oath she couldn’t make out.

Her heart leapt to her throat.

She slid from the bed. A heavy silver candlestick a foot tall stood on her dressing table; she reached for it, hefted it, taking comfort from its weight, then glided silently to the French doors, paused, then moved out onto the balcony beyond.

Whoever was climbing up the old wisteria was going to get a surprise.

A hand slapped onto the balustrade; she jumped. It was a male right hand, reaching, grabbing hold. It tensed, tendons shifting, muscles bunching as the man gripped, and pulled himself up—

Raising the candlestick, grimly determined, she stepped forward, intending to bring the heavy base down on the man’s hand—

A gold signet ring winked in the weak light.

She blinked, peered, bent, and from a foot away looked more closely…

A vision flashed into her mind—of that hand, with that gold ring on the little finger, cupping her bare breast.

“Michael?” Lowering the candlestick, straightening, she stepped to the balustrade and peered over. Through the shifting shadows, she saw his head, the familiar set of his shoulders. “What on earth are you doing?”

He muttered something unintelligible, then more clearly said, “Stand back.”

She took two steps back, watched as, both hands now locked on the balustrade, he hauled himself up, then swung a leg over the wide sill and sat astride.

Catching his breath, Michael looked at her, staring, not surprisingly bemused, at him, then he noticed the candlestick. “What were you intending to do with that?”

“Give whoever was sneaking up to my balcony a nasty surprise.”

His lips twisted. “I didn’t think of that.” Swinging his other leg over, he stood, then leaned back against the balustrade as she stepped near and peered over.

“You didn’t plan awfully well at all—wisteria isn’t very strong.”

Grimacing, he relieved her of the candelestick. “So I discovered. I’m afraid it took rather a beating.”

“How am I supposed to explain that to Hendricks—Geoffrey’s gardener?” Caro looked at him, found his gaze tracing down her body.

“You won’t be here for him to ask.” The words were vague; his gaze was still traveling down. It reached her feet; he hesitated, then slowly started upward again.

“And how would it have looked if you’d got caught? The local Member of Parliament climbing to a lady’s window…” She stopped, intrigued. Waiting with feigned patience until his gaze returned to her eyes, she arched a brow.

His lips eased. “I’d imagined you as a demure cotton buttoned-to-the-throat type.”

Raising both brows haughtily, she turned and walked back into her room. “I used to be. This”—she gestured to the delicate silk negligee gracing her curves—“was Camden’s idea.”

Following in her wake, Michael tore his gaze from the filmy confection that floated, flirted, a translucent sop to modesty, about her transparently naked form. “Camden?”

Even through the dimness, he could make out her peaked nipples, the arousing curves of breast and hip and the long lines of her thighs. Her arms were bare, as was most of her back, the ivory silk shifting provocatively over the globes of her bottom as she led him into her bedchamber.

Camden must have been a glutton for self-punishment.

“He said it was in case the embassy caught on fire and I had to rush out en deshabille.” Halting, Caro faced him, met his eyes. “But I think it was more a case of what the servants would think. More a matter of protecting my standing than his.” Her lips quirked self-deprecatingly. “After all,” she murmured, fingers flicking the gown, “he never saw them.”

Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. Then bent his head. “More fool him.”

He kissed her, and she kissed him back, but then, one hand on his cheek, drew back to look into his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Closing his hands about her hips, he drew her nearer. “I couldn’t sleep.” The truth, if only part of it.

She searched his eyes; her lips curved teasingly. She let him settle her hips against him, then seductively shifted. “And you expect to sleep in my bed?”

“Yes.” From now until forever. He shrugged. “Once we’ve indulged”—bending his head, he pressed a kiss beneath her ear, murmured even more softly—“once I’ve slaked my lust for you and sated my appetite”—lifting his head, he looked down at her—“I’ll sleep perfectly well.” With you lying sated beside me.

Brows high, she studied his eyes, then the curve of her lips deepened. “We’d better to get into bed then.” Pushing back in his arms, her gaze dropped to his chest; her hands slid down from his shoulders. “You’ll have to take off your clothes.”

He caught her hands before she could embark on any fiendish— and doomed to be short-lived—game. The sight of her in her excuse for a negligee—and it seemed likely all her nightwear was of similar ilk, a point he didn’t at that moment wish to dwell on—let alone the feel of her sinking, then sliding against him, had teased him from mere arousal to throbbing rigidity. He didn’t need further encouragement. “I’ll undress while you take off that creation—if I touch it, I’m bound to tear it. Once we’re both naked, we can start from there.”

Her laugh was sultry. “If you’re sure you don’t need any help?”

“Quite sure.” He released her. She stepped back. Dragging in a breath, he moved to the end of her bed; leaning against it, he reached for his boots.

Hands rising to the shoulder clasps anchoring her nightgown, Caro murmured, “I’d always assumed these garments were designed so a man could remove them quickly.”

“Those garments”—boots off, he straightened, hands rising to his cravat; his tones were distinctly strained—“were designed to drive men into a heightened state of lust in which, beyond the reach of sanity, they rip said garments off.”

She laughed again, amazed that she could, that her heart felt so light even while her nerves were tightening. Two clicks and her negligee was free; the silk slithered down her body, pooling at her feet. “Well, you’re in no danger now.”

Shrugging out of his shirt, he glanced at her. “Much you know.” His gaze felt like flame, caressing, burning. Emboldened, she bent and scooped the negligee up, tossed it on her dressing stool.

He looked away, flung his shirt aside, then, as if desperate, stripped off his breeches. Sending them spinning to join the rest of his clothes, he turned and reached for her.

She went into his arms, all laughter fading as their skins touched, and she felt his heat, felt his need—without thought gave herself up to it. To him.

Gave him her mouth and exulted when he took, sank into him, gloried in his ravenous, ravishing response. His hands roamed, not gentle but with undisguised yearning, with a heated hunger she shared.

That grew with every breath, with every gasp, every wickedly evocative caress.

Burying her hands in his hair, she clutched, arched against him, was only dimly aware when he lifted her and laid her on her sheets; she was caught in the flames, overwhelmed by their greedy heat, empty, aching, wanting.

His weight as he moved over her was a giddy relief, then he parted her thighs, pressed between, and entered her.

Thrust deep and joined with her.

Her gasp shivered through the night, a silver echo about them; eyes locked with hers, he thrust deeper still, then he bent his head, sealed her lips with his, and moved within her. Powerfully.

Unrestrained yet controlled, he whirled her into the dance her body and senses craved, that some part of her ached for. That her long-buried needs and wants, at last free, longed for. He wrapped her in dreams of hot skin slickly sliding, tongues sensuously tangling, muscled hardness and flushed softness supplely and intimately twining.

She arched beneath him, her body straining against his; he held her down and drove deeper, harder. Faster as she rose on the crest of that familiar wave, reaching higher, further, until it broke.

With a cry that he drank, she tumbled from the peak into his waiting arms.

Michael caught her, held her close, spread her thighs wider and sank deeper into her scalding heat, driving faster, harder, until her body claimed him and he followed her into sweet oblivion.

Later, he lifted from her; slumping beside her, relaxed, every muscle boneless with sated languor, he realized in the instant before sleep overcame him that his instincts had been right.

This was where he’d needed to spend the night—in Caro’s bed, with her asleep beside him. One arm slung over her waist, he closed his eyes.

And slept.

He had to scramble the next morning to avoid the maids, both at Bramshaw House and the Manor. Returning to Bramshaw as he’d promised at eight o’clock, he found Caro’s traveling carriage waiting in the forecourt, the team between the shafts restless and ready to go.

Unfortunately for them all, while Caro herself was ready, the packing and stowing of her numerous boxes and valises had only just begun. Michael had had his groom drive him over in his curricle, his two cases strapped on behind; directing the two insignificant cases be placed alongside the mountain of Caro’s luggage, he strolled to where she stood on the porch in conference with Catten and her not-so-young Portuguese maid.

Catten bowed in welcome; the maid bobbed, but the glance she threw him was severe.

Caro beamed, which was all he truly cared about.

“As you see”—she gestured to the footmen ferrying her luggage to the carriage—“we’re ready—almost. This should take no more than half an hour.”

He’d expected as much; he returned her smile. “No matter—I need to speak with Edward.”

“He’ll be supervising Elizabeth’s piano practice, I expect.”

With a nod, he turned away. “I’ll find him.”

He did, as predicted in the drawing room. A look summoned Edward from the piano; Elizabeth smiled, but continued to play. Edward joined him as he crossed the drawing room; at his intimation, they walked out onto the terrace.

He halted, but didn’t immediately speak. Edward stopped beside him. “Last-minute instructions?”

Michael glanced at him. “No.” He hesitated, then said, “More in the nature of forward planning.” Before Edward could respond, he went on, “I want to ask you a question to which I would obviously like an answer, but if you feel you can’t, for whatever reason, divulge the information, I will understand.”

Edward was a skilled political aide; his “Oh?” was noncommittal.

Hands sunk in his pockets, Michael looked out over the lawn. “Caro’s relationship with Camden—what was it?”

After Caro’s explanation of her negligees, he had to know.

He’d chosen his words carefully; they revealed nothing specific, yet made clear that he knew what that relationship hadn’t been.

Which, of course, raised the question of how he knew.

Silence stretched; he let it. He didn’t expect Edward to reveal any-thing about Caro or Camden readily, yet he hoped Edward would allow for the fact that while Camden was dead, Caro wasn’t.

Eventually, Edward cleared his throat. He, too, looked out over the lawn. “I’m very fond of Caro, as you know…” After a moment, he continued, his tone that of one reporting, “It’s common practice for all pertinent information about an ambassador’s life, including his marriage, to be passed from each ambassadorial aide to his replacement. It’s considered the sort of thing that might, in certain circumstances, be vital to know. When I took up my post in Lisbon, my predecessor informed me that it was common knowledge among the household that Caro and Camden never shared a bed.”

He paused, then went on, “That situation was known to have been the case more or less since their marriage—at least from the time Caro took up residence in Lisbon.” Again he paused, then more reluctantly went on, “The suspicion—and it was never voiced as more than that— was that their marriage might never have been consummated.”

Michael felt Edward’s quick glance, but kept his gaze on the lawn.

After a moment, Edward continued, “Be that as it may, Camden had a mistress throughout the years of his marriage to Caro—just one, a long-term relationship that had existed prior to their wedding. I was told Camden returned to the woman within a month or so of his marriage to Caro.”

Despite his training, Edward hadn’t been able to keep deep disapproval from coloring his words. Frowning as he digested them, Michael eventually asked, “Did Caro know?”

Edward snorted, but there was sadness in the sound. “I’m sure of it. Something like that… she’d never have missed it. Not that she ever let on, not by word or deed.”

A moment passed; Edward shifted, glanced at Michael, then looked away. “As far as I or any of my predecessors knew, Caro never took a lover.”

Until now. Michael wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything. He let the silence stretch, then looked at Edward. Met his gaze and nodded. “Thank you. That was, in part, what I needed to know.”

It explained some things, but raised new questions, ones whose answers it seemed only Caro would know.

They turned back into the drawing room. “You will send for me,” Edward said, “if there’s any trouble in London?”

Michael considered Elizabeth, still engrossed in a concerto. “If you can better serve Caro there than here, I’ll let you know.”

Edward sighed. “You probably know this, but I’ll warn you anyway. Keep a close eye on Caro. She’s totally reliable in many respects, but she doesn’t always recognize danger.”

Michael met Edward’s gaze, then nodded. Elizabeth sounded the last, triumphal chords; smoothly donning his politician’s smile, he crossed to bid her farewell.

They rolled into London in the late afternoon. It was humid; warmth rising from the paved streets, the westering sun reflected from windows, its heat from high stone walls. In late July, the capital was half deserted, many spending the warmer weeks in their country house or farmhouse. The park, host to only a few riders and the occasional carriage, lay like an oasis of green in the surrounding desert of gray and brown stone, yet as the carriage turned into Mayfair, Michael was conscious of a quickening of his pulse—a recognition that they were reentering the political forum, the place where decisions were formulated, influenced, and made.

Politics, as he’d told Caro, ran in his blood.

Beside him, she shifted, straightening, glancing out of the window; with a flash of insight, he realized she, too, reacted to the capital—the seat of government—with a similiar focusing of her attention, a more keenly anticipatory air.

She turned to him. Met his gaze and smiled. “Where should I set you down?”

He held her gaze, then asked, “Where were you planning on staying?”

“At Angela’s in Bedford Square.”

“Is Angela in residence?”

Caro continued to smile. “No—but there’ll be staff there.”

“A skeleton staff?”

“Well, yes—it is the height of summer.”

He looked forward, then said, “I think it would be infinitely wiser for us—both of us—to stay with my grandfather in Upper Grosvenor Street.”

“But—” Caro glanced out as the carriage slowed. She glimpsed a street sign; the carriage was turning into Upper Grosvenor Street. The notion of having been an unwitting accomplice in her own kidnapping assailed her. She looked at Michael. “We cannot simply descend on your grandfather.”

“Of course not.” He sat forward. “I sent a messenger this morning.”

The carriage slowed, then halted. He met her eyes. “I live here while in town, and Magnus rarely leaves—the house is fully staffed. Believe me when I say that both Magnus and his staff will be delighted to have us—both of us—stay.”

She frowned. “It’s stretching the proprieties for me to reside under your grandfather’s roof while only you and he are in residence.”

“I omitted to mention Evelyn, my grandfather’s cousin. She lives with him and runs the house. She’s seventy if she’s a day, but then”—he met her gaze—“you’re a widow—I’m sure the proprieties will remain unruffled.” His voice gained in decisiveness. “Quite aside from all else, there’s not a gossipmonger in town would dare suggest anything scandalous took place under Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby’s roof.”

That last was unarguable.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You had this in mind all along.”

He smiled and reached for the carriage door.

She wasn’t convinced it was a good idea, but unable to think of any solid grounds on which to resist, she allowed him to hand her down, then conduct her up the steps.

A very large butler opened the door, his expression benevolent. “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Hammer.” Michael handed her over the threshold. “This is Mrs. Sutcliffe. We’ll be staying for the next week or so while we attend to a number of matters.”

“Mrs. Sutcliffe.” Hammer bowed low; his voice was as deep as he was large. “If there’s anything you require, you have only to ring. It will be our pleasure to serve you.”

Caro smiled charmingly; regardless of her reservations, she wouldn’t allow them to show. “Thank you, Hammer.” She waved at the carriage. “I’m afraid I’ve saddled you with rather a lot of luggage.”

“It’s of no moment, ma’am—we’ll have it up in your room in no time.” Hammer glanced at Michael. “Mrs. Logan thought the Green Room would be suitable.”

Mentally locating that room in the huge house, Michael nodded. “An excellent choice. I’m sure Mrs. Sutcliffe will be comfortable there.”

“Indeed.” Caro caught his eye, tried to see past his mask to what was going on in his head—and failed. She turned to Hammer. “My maid’s name is Fenella—she’s fluent in English. If you could show her my room, I’ll be up shortly to bathe and change for dinner.”

Hammer bowed. Inclining her head gracefully, Caro turned to Michael and slid her hand onto his arm. “Now you had better present me to your grandfather.”

Michael led her toward the library, his grandfather’s sanctum. ‘You have met him, haven’t you?“

“Years ago—I’m not sure he’d remember. It was at some Foreign Office function.”

“He’ll remember.” Michael felt sure of that.

“Ah—Mrs. Sutcliffe!” Magnus boomed the instant Caro entered. “Do forgive me for not rising—demmed gout, y’know. It’s a trial.” Seated in a huge wing chair angled before the empty hearth, his swaddled foot propped on a stool, Magnus fixed her with a sharp, shrewd blue gaze as she walked across the room to greet him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, m’dear.”

He held out a hand; determinedly serene and unshakable, she placed her fingers in it and curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, sir.”

Magnus glanced at Michael, his gaze, shaded by thick overhanging brows, penetrating. Meeting that searching glance, Michael merely smiled.

Clasping her hand, Magnus patted it lightly. “My grandson tells me we’re to have the pleasure of your company for a week or so.”

Releasing her, he sat back in his chair, his attention fixing on her.

She inclined her head. “If you’re so disposed, of course.”

A fleeting smile touched Magnus’s lips. “My dear, I’m an ancient, and only too thrilled to have my declining years enlivened by the presence of wit and beauty.”

She had to smile. “In that case”—sweeping her skirts about her, she sat on the chaise—“I’ll be delighted to accept and enjoy your hospitality.”

Magnus studied her, taking in her self-confidence, her calm, unruffled serenity, then he grinned. “Right then, now we’ve got the social niceties out of the way, what’s this all about, heh?”

He glanced at Michael. Pointedly, Michael looked at her.

Understanding that he was leaving the decision to include Magnus entirely to her, she realized with faint astonishment that since they’d resolved to come to London, she hadn’t had time to dwell on their reasons.

Refocusing on Magnus, considering his vast experience, she met his gaze. “Someone, it seems, is not well disposed toward my continuing existence.”

Magnus’s brows lowered; after a moment he barked, “Why?”

“That,” she informed him, pulling off her gloves, “is what we’ve come to London to discover.”

Between them, she and Michael explained; it was reassuring to find Magnus reacting much as they had. His experience of their world was profound; if he thought as they did, they were most likely correct.

Later that night, when Fenella had finally left her, Caro stood before the window in the elegant bedchamber decorated in shades of green, and looked out as the night wrapped London in its sultry arms. So different from the country, yet she was equally at home here, the constant if dim sounds of nighttime activity as familiar as the deep stillness of the countryside.

After speaking with Magnus, she’d retired to bathe and refresh herself, then they’d dined in semiformal state. Later, in the drawing room, with Magnus nodding in acquiescence, she and Michael had made plans to retrieve Camden’s papers and her copy of Camden’s will from Half Moon Street; she’d agreed that the mansion in Upper Grosvenor Street, under the constant eye of Magnus’s considerable staff and with the old gentleman himself almost always present, would be a safer repository than the uninhabited Half Moon Street residence.

Their way forward on that matter was clear; she felt no qualms, no hesitations about their approach to unmasking and metaphorically spiking the guns of whoever now wished her harm.

On that score, she felt assured.

However, on the subject of what was developing between her and Michael, she was far less confident. She’d set out for the cottage intending to reach some conclusion; fate had intervened, setting in train a succession of events that subsequently had dominated her time.

Now, however, when at last she could return to consider that subject, it was only to realize she was no further along; Michael’s continuing desire for her—all that she was discovering flowed from it, both from him and from her, such as his unexpected appearance by such a fanciful route in her bedchamber last night—was still so new to her, so enthralling, she couldn’t yet see past it.

Couldn’t see where it was leading her. Or him.

The house had fallen silent; she heard his muffled footfall an instant before the doorknob turned, and he entered.

She turned to watch him cross the room to her; she let her lips curve, but kept most of her smile within. She’d wondered if he would come—had donned another of her diaphanous nightgowns just in case.

He’d undressed; he appeared to be wearing nothing more than a long silk robe, loosely belted. As he walked unhurriedly to her, his gaze perused her form, absorbing the effect of the all-but-transparent gauze sheath rendered barely acceptable by three cleverly positioned ap-pliqued roses—two buds, one full bloom.

Reaching her, he halted, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “You do realize, don’t you, that such gowns on you deprive me of all ability to think?”

Her smile deepened, a sultry chuckle escaped her. He reached for her and she went into his arms, lifting her own to drape them about his neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes on hers. The heat in his gaze assured her his comment was close to the literal truth. Then he lowered his head, his arms tightened—

Pressing a hand to his chest, she stayed him.

He stopped, met her gaze. Locking her eyes with his, she sent her hand skating down, found and tugged the tie at his hips free, slipped her hand between the edges of his robe, and found him.

Hard, hot, fully engorged, aroused with desire for her.

She still found it amazing, felt her lungs contract, her heart soar. Wanted to share her joy, her pleasure. Closing her hand, she squeezed, then stroked, watched his eyes blank, then close, his features ease of all expression, then tighten with surging desire.

With her other hand, she slid the silk gown from his shoulders, thrilled to the shush as it fell away. She pressed closer, placed a kiss at the center of his chest, then, one hand still wrapped around his rigid erection, used her other spread on his body to steady herself as she slid slowly down, her lips tracing down, until she was on her knees.

Boldly, she put out her tongue, with the tip delicately traced the broad head, then, urged on by the shudder that racked him, she parted her lips, and gently, smoothly, took him into her mouth.

His fingers slid through her hair, clenched as she lightly sucked, licked, then experimented. Fingers sinking into his buttocks, she held him tight as, tracking his response, his reactions—his tensing fingers, his increasingly ragged breaths—she learned how to minister to him.

Learned how to tighten his nerves as he had so often tightened hers—on, and on…

Abruptly, he hauled in a huge breath, closed his hands about her shoulders, and urged her up. “Enough.”

The word was tortured; she obeyed, releasing him, leaning both hands on him, tracing them both upward as she allowed him to draw her upright.

His eyes, when they met hers, burned. “Take off the gown.”

Holding his gaze, she lifted her hands to her shoulders, snapped open the clasps.

The instant the gauze hit the floor, he dragged her to him, kissed her ravenously—poured heat and fire down her veins until she was burning, too—then he lifted her.

She wrapped her arms about his neck, locked her legs about his hips, gasped, head falling back as she felt him nudge into her. Then he drew her down, slowly, steadily impaling her inch by inexorable inch, until he was fully seated within her, high and hard and oh so real.

Then he moved her upon him; she looked down, met his eyes, let him capture hers, draw her into the dance until she merged fully with him, one in thought, in deed, in desire. At some point, their lips found each other’s again, and they left the world, stepped into another.

One where nothing mattered beyond this simple communion, this melding of bodies, of minds, of passions.

She gave herself up to it, knew he did the same.

Together, they soared and touched the sun, fused, melted, then, inevitably, returned to earth.

Later, wrapped in his arms, collapsed on her bed, she murmured, ‘This is probably scandalous—it’s your grandfather’s house.“

“His, not mine.”

The words reached her as a rumble, vibrating through his chest on which she’d pillowed her cheek. “Is this why you wanted me to stay here?”

“One of the reasons.” She felt his fingers toy with her hair, then they stroked and cupped her nape. “I have this trouble with insomnia I knew you could cure.”

With a gurgle of laughter, weak but content, she settled her head.

Closing his eyes, Michael smiled and, equally content, surrendered to slumber.