Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 26
She flipped over the cross and let her fingertips linger on the faded engraving, the hesitation in his voice touching her. The ever-so-confident Mr. George Lovelace was feeling uncertain.
She eased in a breath. “They’re beautiful. But as I said, I have nothing for you.”
“About that.” George took her free hand and dropped to one knee.
Willa gasped again, and the sound of her sniffing faded as she shuffled away, until the snick of the dressing room door silenced her.
“Sophie. Would you give me your hand in marriage?”
Marriage? Yes, her heart cried.
But her mind picked through the events of the last hour. And the last few days. And the last decade, while she accustomed herself to the notion that George Lovelace was offering her—impoverished, low-born, encumbered with children, Sophie Clark—marriage.
Not a romp, not a brief liaison, but a lifetime of…of what? Respect, and…passion, she hoped. And love?
She blinked back tears. He’d gone mad. They both had. And oh, how she wanted him.
She set aside the box, bent closer, and dropped a quick kiss on his lips.
Pulling away, she set her palm to his jaw and swept her thumb over the masculine stubble there. His eyes glittered up at her, sending more heat through her. “I’ve been longing to touch you here again.”
Chapter Twelve
Luminous eyes gazed down at him from a face otherwise shuttered. She was guarding herself again, and she didn’t need to. Not with him.
He stood and embraced her, reveling in the soft heat of her skin under the thin cotton. “Then say yes, you’ll marry me.” He fisted a lock of her fragrant hair and inhaled deeply. “But, first, hear me out. I need to be completely honest with you.”
She backed away and his gaze flew to the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips under the gown. Color swept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Honest about what?”
A drop of sweat ran down his cheek.
She pulled out a tail of his neckcloth and mopped his face. “Willa appreciates your mother’s supply of coal. Now, get on with your confession.”
“It’s not exactly a confession.” He captured her busy hands. “I learned something. Something that impacts you. And Arthur.”
Those beautiful eyes widened, searching his face.
“It’s potentially very good.”
She nodded. “Go on.”
“It has to do with right of way leases. One property we wish the line to cross has presented particular difficulties. The title changed hands irregularly. Perhaps as a lost wager? The old owner fled to the continent because of some scandal, and it’s taken a great effort to record the transfer. In short, the new owner is the Earl of Glanford.”
She let out a long breath. “That’s what those letters meant. And you learned this when?”
“Tonight. When I read the solicitor’s letter. The one you carried away last night before I could see it. But yesterday, I received a letter that made me wonder. My colleague discovered that the new owner was a minor whose mother was unwilling to allow the right of way.” He dropped her hands and mopped his forehead again.
“Take this off.”
Her slim hands tugged at his coat, bringing instant relief from the heat of the room, but not from the growing fire inside him.
She patted the back of an armchair. “Sit. Tell me more while I fetch you a drink.”
He remained standing, watching her glide into the shadow, wondering how his wooing had transformed into a discussion of business, and whether she minded. Liquid sloshed and she returned with a full glass.
“Only water, I’m afraid.”
He thanked her and took a head-clearing drink.
“Better?”
Better would be casting business aside and getting her into bed.
“Yes,” he said.
“Tell me more.”
“I can understand your objections, Sophie. Use of the land is not without inconvenience to the landowners. The Stockton and Darlington line had to be rerouted to avoid Darlington’s fox coverts. Assuming Artie doesn’t have fox coverts, there’s still the loss of farmland, resistance from tenants, concerns about the smoke and noise—we anticipate using steam engines—and the presence of workmen who are strangers.”
“You think I’ve objected?” There was an edge of irritation in her voice. “Did you not read my letters to Fitz?”
Her letters. Of course. “You didn’t know about it.”
She bit her lip and perched temptingly on the edge of the wide bed. “Are there tenants? If so, we shall have to hear their concerns.”
Hope grew in him, but he’d planned to be brutally honest, so he went on. “And as you so sagely pointed out two nights ago, there may be cost overruns and unexpected pitfalls.”
She smiled. “And there’s no guarantee the railway won’t fail, leaving behind ill will, a disrupted economy and miles of decaying tracks.”
Her smile cheered him and he unwound his neckcloth, tossing it aside and seating himself on the bed next to her. “My partners and I have made a solid business plan. We will undoubtedly encounter difficulties, but we will succeed. I won’t let you down. I won’t leave you penniless. There will be no Matilda Roses in our future. We both have dreams: my railway, your foundry on Glanford land. We can help each other achieve those dreams. We can be true partners. I believe we—you and I—can make a good marriage.”
“And a good railway?” She reached for the top button of his waistcoat. “I’m not a natural pessimist, George. The railway will bring more work, more goods for purchase, and faster, safer transportation.”
She was, without a doubt, the woman for him. “All of that.” And what of my proposal?
“After London,” she said, pushing his waistcoat off, “you and I shall travel to Lancashire, see this land, and speak to the people there.”
When she smoothed her hand over his clammy shirt, his privy counsellor stirred mightily.
“George, I must ask: did you tell Fitz to give me power over Artie’s affairs because you planned to offer marriage and get control anyway?”
“No. Yes—that is, I had—have—no idea whether you will say yes.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “No. I’ve said I’ll be completely honest. I’d planned to wait to ask for your hand. To give you time to take charge of your responsibilities—and they will be your responsibilities, though I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I’d hoped to have time to convince you of my love, and that our marriage would be different to your marriage with Glanford. Money will perhaps be tight while you rebuild the estate and I build the railway, but we can make our own fortune, together, as well as see to Artie’s and Ben’s futures.” He touched the warm, silky skin of her bare arms, drinking her in. “I’d planned to wait, but I learned tonight someone else intended to offer for you.”
“There are only Fitz and…oh heavens.”
Sophie howled and clapped a hand over her mouth, and his heart lifted.
“Cartwright is far richer than I am. I can’t offer you a house in town and a country estate—”
“We have a country estate, at least until Artie marries, and then I’ll persuade him to give us use of the dower house.”
Yes. She was saying yes.
Before he could kiss her, her palm flattened against his chest. “Since we are being completely honest…” She reached for a garment he hadn’t noticed and handed it to him.
“Stays.”
A husky laugh rippled out of her. “The look on your face, George—let me get scissors.”
He fingered the lumpy boning and yellowing fabric, still warm with her heat and her scent, and followed her to the table.
“Feel this.” She dragged his finger along the nubby ridge of boning.
“You must order new ones in town. Surely these are paining you.”
“It’s a reassuring discomfort.” She snipped a hole and reached into the casing, drawing out an inch of gold chain.
Gold chain…lumps…Sophie had hidden her jewels.
“I’m not entirely penniless. I know a jeweler in the East End, an old friend of my father’s. I shall visit him first thing in London.”
She moved the candle closer. Light twinkled and shimmered on one stone, and another, and then another, and a whole string of diamonds until George lost count. “These were my father’s gift on the news that I was increasing, that I had fulfilled the Clark commitment to the marriage contract. I hid them from Glanford, and later from creditors, and from the steward. Only Willa knows of them. I would keep them a secret from Fitz, as well.”
“Whatever you wish. They are yours.”
“There are two more strands like this one. I separated the chains when I hid them. They might bring enough to pay off the loans Fitz is holding.”
He squeezed her hand. She’d spared these for so long, he couldn’t ask her to part with them now. “We’ll work out a payment scheme with Fitz. I’d much rather see you wearing these.”
“That might raise a few questions from him,” she teased. “As well as from a host of others who settled Glanford’s debts for less than they were owed.”
“Would you wear them for me in private then?” He picked up the strand and held it to her neck watching her breasts move up and down with sudden emotion, teasing the soft skin with his thumbs. “May we move onto another matter of business?”
“That being?”
“Will you agree to marry by Special License?”
“I…” She swallowed.
“In London?”
“London?”
“This week?”
“George, I—”
Setting the jewels aside, he drew her in for a kiss, one hand holding her, the other loosening the drawstring on her chemise and finally, finally cupping her bare breast.
He would wait, he could wait. If he must. But if he could convince her that sooner was better…
The heat of the room was nothing to the fire unleashed within her.
And yet…
Her chemise eased down, and George bent to suckle her, his hand traveling to her rucked-up hem, muddling her mind.
Marry? Next week? In London?
Her first vows had come posthaste, by common license in a church full of strangers, a mere ten days after her compromise. The repenting had gone on for ten years.
She pushed him away and stood, gathering her bodice and covering herself.
George popped up, disheveled, stunned, and…fully aroused. Not angry though. Desire swept through her, and sudden tears swarmed.
He wanted honesty, didn’t he? So did she. One more issue must be addressed.
“I was…” She cleared her throat. “A disappointing lover. As you know. Nor did I learn to enjoy…” She squeezed her eyes shut. Bed sport, Fitz had called it.
A calloused finger tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and stroked down over her neck, the touch gentle.
“What you said that day, George…I know it was perhaps a lack on my part too.”
Strong arms came around her then, pressing her face to the soft linen shirt and the hard muscles under it, filling her senses with the spice of his cologne and his own musky male scent. His large hand stroked her back, the touch soothing, reassuring…arousing.
When he set her back from him, he was wearing his businessman’s face. “Glanford is dead. You’re alive. And I guarantee, you are not disappointing me. What you don’t know, I will very much enjoy teaching you. It won’t be a chore for me, Sophie, and it won’t be for you, if you want me. That is the question, is it not? Do you want me? Am I wrong in thinking that you do?”
The deep midnight blue of his eyes promised everything. But could she be sure?
For years, she’d shoved down her anger and…her disappointment. She loved her boys but she’d never enjoyed the breeding of them. Might it be different with George?
A gasp escaped her. It was already different. “You aren’t wrong.”
“Then I will begin as I mean to go on—with a well-educated and well-satisfied wife.”
She set her palm to his chest, the hard muscle making her shiver.
But they must discuss everything. “I’m older than you.”
His smile was wicked. “I know. It doesn’t matter. Let me prove it to you.”
Finding the air to speak was impossible.
“We won’t anticipate our vows.” His grin widened. “Not entirely.” And then he kissed her and without breaking the kiss, pushed the chemise down and let it fall to her waist, stepping back.
“Like Botticelli’s Venus.” Laughing, he picked her up and settled her onto the bed. In moments he was shirtless and shoeless and stretched on the bed next to her, all wide shoulders and lean-muscled chest, with a sprinkling of dark hair leading down to—
“What are you grinning about, my lady?” The tip of one calloused finger swept down from her neck, between her breasts, over her belly, down, down until pleasure jolted her.
When his hand moved, her mind turned to mush.
She smiled, and then laughed as he suckled her breast. Pleasure sparked through her, melted her inside, built in her as it had never before done. She’d heard whispers about the pleasure of coupling. Late to the effort, Glanford had tried, making sure she knew it was always an effort he didn’t enjoy. Her greatest pleasure had always been him leaving her bed.
“How does that feel, my love?”
George was watching her, his hot gaze making her blood leap.
His love. Her love. Love made the difference.
“Don’t stop.”
He grinned and resumed his ministrations, and moments later her world exploded.
She came back to earth in his arms and found him eying her, a smug smile softening his features.
“You’re still dressed.”
“Half-dressed.”
“And unsatisfied.”
“I am in heaven.” His finger lazily circled her breast, sending another jolt of pleasure through her. “Your pleasure, my lady, brings me pleasure.”
“I fear…oh.” He’d touched a particularly sensitive spot. “Oh, George. I fear you were wrong all those years ago.”
“What idiotic thing did I say?”
“You said, ‘It takes a woman more than a minute to liven up’.” She rolled onto her side and set her hand atop his. “But you were wrong. It only takes the right man.”
“And am I the right man?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Most certainly.”
Early Christmas morning, George slipped on his shoes and shirt and carried his coats back to his bedchamber. Quickly washing, shaving and changing into fresh clothing, he made his way to the nursery, which was already abuzz. The maids were busy wrangling the two youngest into their clothes, while the three half-dressed older boys stretched on the playroom floor engaged in the Battle of Waterloo.
“Not dressed yet?” George said. “You’ll want breakfast before church.”
Arthur clambered to his feet. James groaned, rising also.
“Church,” Edward grumbled.
“No church, no gifts. Now go on, Lovelaces, and finish dressing. Arthur, stay a moment. I would speak with you.”
He closed the connecting door to the bedchamber and drew Arthur to the far corner of the playroom, directing him to a stool, and crouching before him.
“I have something to discuss with you—to ask you, really, and I don’t want those nodcocks interfering.”
Arthur’s eyes widened, and he nodded.
“Arthur, I’ve grown to love and respect your mother. I’ve asked her to marry me. She has said yes. And I know she’ll talk to you, but I wanted to speak to you first. If my mother were to remarry, I’d want to have a say in it. Now, I want to know any objections you might have.”
Arthur’s eyes pinched together in a frown much like his mother’s. “You would be my stepfather.”
“That is the way of it. And my brothers, even the two nodcocks you’re rooming with, would be your uncles; my sisters, your aunts; my mother, your grandmother.”
He worried his lip chewing over those facts.
“You will all be marrying into a great noisy family. I’ll treat your mama well, I promise you. You and Ben, also.”
“May I go to school with James and Edward?”
George smiled. “Yes. With your mother’s approval, which I will do all in my power to obtain. Do I have your blessing?”
Arthur’s answering grin displayed a mouthful of healthy white teeth. George shook his hand. “Now, go and get dressed. Your new grandmother expects everyone down for breakfast.”
“What’s going on here?” Sophie asked from the doorway.
“Mama.” Arthur flung himself into her arms. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”
She hugged him and glanced over, her eyes glistening. “Mr. Lovelace has spoken to you?”
He nodded.
“And?”
Arthur’s grin had frozen in place.
Like his own, he realized.
“You have my blessing, Mama. But may I please go to school with James and Edward?”
“We will talk.”
“Mr. Lovelace said he will do all in his power to get your approval.”
She tousled his hair and smiled fondly. “Then we shall certainly find a way. Mr. Lovelace can be quite convincing. Now go and finish dressing and I will see you downstairs.”
George escorted her out and down the stairs, pausing at the landing and pointing up.
“Oh you.” She smiled and rose up on her toes for a kiss that went on, and on, and on.
Epilogue
5 January, 1823
“Mama.”
Ben burst through the door of Sophie’s bedchamber.
His brother snagged his coattail. “You’re supposed to knock,” Artie said.
“Don’t rumple your mama’s fine dress,” Willa called.
Sophie bent to receive her boys. Attired in coats loaned from the nursery wardrobe, they both looked very fine. “My, but you both are so handsome today.”
“So are you, Mama,” Artie said.
She ruffled his hair and glanced in the cheval mirror, holding the vision she saw there in her heart. The three of them together—she wished she could capture this in a portrait. Her boys looked well, and so did she. The gown, cream muslin with lace points and scalloped trim, shimmered in the soft morning light. Willa had dressed her hair into intricate coils held with Lady Loughton’s pearl-studded combs and laced with blue ribbon.
She eased in a breath. “They’re beautiful. But as I said, I have nothing for you.”
“About that.” George took her free hand and dropped to one knee.
Willa gasped again, and the sound of her sniffing faded as she shuffled away, until the snick of the dressing room door silenced her.
“Sophie. Would you give me your hand in marriage?”
Marriage? Yes, her heart cried.
But her mind picked through the events of the last hour. And the last few days. And the last decade, while she accustomed herself to the notion that George Lovelace was offering her—impoverished, low-born, encumbered with children, Sophie Clark—marriage.
Not a romp, not a brief liaison, but a lifetime of…of what? Respect, and…passion, she hoped. And love?
She blinked back tears. He’d gone mad. They both had. And oh, how she wanted him.
She set aside the box, bent closer, and dropped a quick kiss on his lips.
Pulling away, she set her palm to his jaw and swept her thumb over the masculine stubble there. His eyes glittered up at her, sending more heat through her. “I’ve been longing to touch you here again.”
Chapter Twelve
Luminous eyes gazed down at him from a face otherwise shuttered. She was guarding herself again, and she didn’t need to. Not with him.
He stood and embraced her, reveling in the soft heat of her skin under the thin cotton. “Then say yes, you’ll marry me.” He fisted a lock of her fragrant hair and inhaled deeply. “But, first, hear me out. I need to be completely honest with you.”
She backed away and his gaze flew to the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips under the gown. Color swept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Honest about what?”
A drop of sweat ran down his cheek.
She pulled out a tail of his neckcloth and mopped his face. “Willa appreciates your mother’s supply of coal. Now, get on with your confession.”
“It’s not exactly a confession.” He captured her busy hands. “I learned something. Something that impacts you. And Arthur.”
Those beautiful eyes widened, searching his face.
“It’s potentially very good.”
She nodded. “Go on.”
“It has to do with right of way leases. One property we wish the line to cross has presented particular difficulties. The title changed hands irregularly. Perhaps as a lost wager? The old owner fled to the continent because of some scandal, and it’s taken a great effort to record the transfer. In short, the new owner is the Earl of Glanford.”
She let out a long breath. “That’s what those letters meant. And you learned this when?”
“Tonight. When I read the solicitor’s letter. The one you carried away last night before I could see it. But yesterday, I received a letter that made me wonder. My colleague discovered that the new owner was a minor whose mother was unwilling to allow the right of way.” He dropped her hands and mopped his forehead again.
“Take this off.”
Her slim hands tugged at his coat, bringing instant relief from the heat of the room, but not from the growing fire inside him.
She patted the back of an armchair. “Sit. Tell me more while I fetch you a drink.”
He remained standing, watching her glide into the shadow, wondering how his wooing had transformed into a discussion of business, and whether she minded. Liquid sloshed and she returned with a full glass.
“Only water, I’m afraid.”
He thanked her and took a head-clearing drink.
“Better?”
Better would be casting business aside and getting her into bed.
“Yes,” he said.
“Tell me more.”
“I can understand your objections, Sophie. Use of the land is not without inconvenience to the landowners. The Stockton and Darlington line had to be rerouted to avoid Darlington’s fox coverts. Assuming Artie doesn’t have fox coverts, there’s still the loss of farmland, resistance from tenants, concerns about the smoke and noise—we anticipate using steam engines—and the presence of workmen who are strangers.”
“You think I’ve objected?” There was an edge of irritation in her voice. “Did you not read my letters to Fitz?”
Her letters. Of course. “You didn’t know about it.”
She bit her lip and perched temptingly on the edge of the wide bed. “Are there tenants? If so, we shall have to hear their concerns.”
Hope grew in him, but he’d planned to be brutally honest, so he went on. “And as you so sagely pointed out two nights ago, there may be cost overruns and unexpected pitfalls.”
She smiled. “And there’s no guarantee the railway won’t fail, leaving behind ill will, a disrupted economy and miles of decaying tracks.”
Her smile cheered him and he unwound his neckcloth, tossing it aside and seating himself on the bed next to her. “My partners and I have made a solid business plan. We will undoubtedly encounter difficulties, but we will succeed. I won’t let you down. I won’t leave you penniless. There will be no Matilda Roses in our future. We both have dreams: my railway, your foundry on Glanford land. We can help each other achieve those dreams. We can be true partners. I believe we—you and I—can make a good marriage.”
“And a good railway?” She reached for the top button of his waistcoat. “I’m not a natural pessimist, George. The railway will bring more work, more goods for purchase, and faster, safer transportation.”
She was, without a doubt, the woman for him. “All of that.” And what of my proposal?
“After London,” she said, pushing his waistcoat off, “you and I shall travel to Lancashire, see this land, and speak to the people there.”
When she smoothed her hand over his clammy shirt, his privy counsellor stirred mightily.
“George, I must ask: did you tell Fitz to give me power over Artie’s affairs because you planned to offer marriage and get control anyway?”
“No. Yes—that is, I had—have—no idea whether you will say yes.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “No. I’ve said I’ll be completely honest. I’d planned to wait to ask for your hand. To give you time to take charge of your responsibilities—and they will be your responsibilities, though I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I’d hoped to have time to convince you of my love, and that our marriage would be different to your marriage with Glanford. Money will perhaps be tight while you rebuild the estate and I build the railway, but we can make our own fortune, together, as well as see to Artie’s and Ben’s futures.” He touched the warm, silky skin of her bare arms, drinking her in. “I’d planned to wait, but I learned tonight someone else intended to offer for you.”
“There are only Fitz and…oh heavens.”
Sophie howled and clapped a hand over her mouth, and his heart lifted.
“Cartwright is far richer than I am. I can’t offer you a house in town and a country estate—”
“We have a country estate, at least until Artie marries, and then I’ll persuade him to give us use of the dower house.”
Yes. She was saying yes.
Before he could kiss her, her palm flattened against his chest. “Since we are being completely honest…” She reached for a garment he hadn’t noticed and handed it to him.
“Stays.”
A husky laugh rippled out of her. “The look on your face, George—let me get scissors.”
He fingered the lumpy boning and yellowing fabric, still warm with her heat and her scent, and followed her to the table.
“Feel this.” She dragged his finger along the nubby ridge of boning.
“You must order new ones in town. Surely these are paining you.”
“It’s a reassuring discomfort.” She snipped a hole and reached into the casing, drawing out an inch of gold chain.
Gold chain…lumps…Sophie had hidden her jewels.
“I’m not entirely penniless. I know a jeweler in the East End, an old friend of my father’s. I shall visit him first thing in London.”
She moved the candle closer. Light twinkled and shimmered on one stone, and another, and then another, and a whole string of diamonds until George lost count. “These were my father’s gift on the news that I was increasing, that I had fulfilled the Clark commitment to the marriage contract. I hid them from Glanford, and later from creditors, and from the steward. Only Willa knows of them. I would keep them a secret from Fitz, as well.”
“Whatever you wish. They are yours.”
“There are two more strands like this one. I separated the chains when I hid them. They might bring enough to pay off the loans Fitz is holding.”
He squeezed her hand. She’d spared these for so long, he couldn’t ask her to part with them now. “We’ll work out a payment scheme with Fitz. I’d much rather see you wearing these.”
“That might raise a few questions from him,” she teased. “As well as from a host of others who settled Glanford’s debts for less than they were owed.”
“Would you wear them for me in private then?” He picked up the strand and held it to her neck watching her breasts move up and down with sudden emotion, teasing the soft skin with his thumbs. “May we move onto another matter of business?”
“That being?”
“Will you agree to marry by Special License?”
“I…” She swallowed.
“In London?”
“London?”
“This week?”
“George, I—”
Setting the jewels aside, he drew her in for a kiss, one hand holding her, the other loosening the drawstring on her chemise and finally, finally cupping her bare breast.
He would wait, he could wait. If he must. But if he could convince her that sooner was better…
The heat of the room was nothing to the fire unleashed within her.
And yet…
Her chemise eased down, and George bent to suckle her, his hand traveling to her rucked-up hem, muddling her mind.
Marry? Next week? In London?
Her first vows had come posthaste, by common license in a church full of strangers, a mere ten days after her compromise. The repenting had gone on for ten years.
She pushed him away and stood, gathering her bodice and covering herself.
George popped up, disheveled, stunned, and…fully aroused. Not angry though. Desire swept through her, and sudden tears swarmed.
He wanted honesty, didn’t he? So did she. One more issue must be addressed.
“I was…” She cleared her throat. “A disappointing lover. As you know. Nor did I learn to enjoy…” She squeezed her eyes shut. Bed sport, Fitz had called it.
A calloused finger tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and stroked down over her neck, the touch gentle.
“What you said that day, George…I know it was perhaps a lack on my part too.”
Strong arms came around her then, pressing her face to the soft linen shirt and the hard muscles under it, filling her senses with the spice of his cologne and his own musky male scent. His large hand stroked her back, the touch soothing, reassuring…arousing.
When he set her back from him, he was wearing his businessman’s face. “Glanford is dead. You’re alive. And I guarantee, you are not disappointing me. What you don’t know, I will very much enjoy teaching you. It won’t be a chore for me, Sophie, and it won’t be for you, if you want me. That is the question, is it not? Do you want me? Am I wrong in thinking that you do?”
The deep midnight blue of his eyes promised everything. But could she be sure?
For years, she’d shoved down her anger and…her disappointment. She loved her boys but she’d never enjoyed the breeding of them. Might it be different with George?
A gasp escaped her. It was already different. “You aren’t wrong.”
“Then I will begin as I mean to go on—with a well-educated and well-satisfied wife.”
She set her palm to his chest, the hard muscle making her shiver.
But they must discuss everything. “I’m older than you.”
His smile was wicked. “I know. It doesn’t matter. Let me prove it to you.”
Finding the air to speak was impossible.
“We won’t anticipate our vows.” His grin widened. “Not entirely.” And then he kissed her and without breaking the kiss, pushed the chemise down and let it fall to her waist, stepping back.
“Like Botticelli’s Venus.” Laughing, he picked her up and settled her onto the bed. In moments he was shirtless and shoeless and stretched on the bed next to her, all wide shoulders and lean-muscled chest, with a sprinkling of dark hair leading down to—
“What are you grinning about, my lady?” The tip of one calloused finger swept down from her neck, between her breasts, over her belly, down, down until pleasure jolted her.
When his hand moved, her mind turned to mush.
She smiled, and then laughed as he suckled her breast. Pleasure sparked through her, melted her inside, built in her as it had never before done. She’d heard whispers about the pleasure of coupling. Late to the effort, Glanford had tried, making sure she knew it was always an effort he didn’t enjoy. Her greatest pleasure had always been him leaving her bed.
“How does that feel, my love?”
George was watching her, his hot gaze making her blood leap.
His love. Her love. Love made the difference.
“Don’t stop.”
He grinned and resumed his ministrations, and moments later her world exploded.
She came back to earth in his arms and found him eying her, a smug smile softening his features.
“You’re still dressed.”
“Half-dressed.”
“And unsatisfied.”
“I am in heaven.” His finger lazily circled her breast, sending another jolt of pleasure through her. “Your pleasure, my lady, brings me pleasure.”
“I fear…oh.” He’d touched a particularly sensitive spot. “Oh, George. I fear you were wrong all those years ago.”
“What idiotic thing did I say?”
“You said, ‘It takes a woman more than a minute to liven up’.” She rolled onto her side and set her hand atop his. “But you were wrong. It only takes the right man.”
“And am I the right man?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Most certainly.”
Early Christmas morning, George slipped on his shoes and shirt and carried his coats back to his bedchamber. Quickly washing, shaving and changing into fresh clothing, he made his way to the nursery, which was already abuzz. The maids were busy wrangling the two youngest into their clothes, while the three half-dressed older boys stretched on the playroom floor engaged in the Battle of Waterloo.
“Not dressed yet?” George said. “You’ll want breakfast before church.”
Arthur clambered to his feet. James groaned, rising also.
“Church,” Edward grumbled.
“No church, no gifts. Now go on, Lovelaces, and finish dressing. Arthur, stay a moment. I would speak with you.”
He closed the connecting door to the bedchamber and drew Arthur to the far corner of the playroom, directing him to a stool, and crouching before him.
“I have something to discuss with you—to ask you, really, and I don’t want those nodcocks interfering.”
Arthur’s eyes widened, and he nodded.
“Arthur, I’ve grown to love and respect your mother. I’ve asked her to marry me. She has said yes. And I know she’ll talk to you, but I wanted to speak to you first. If my mother were to remarry, I’d want to have a say in it. Now, I want to know any objections you might have.”
Arthur’s eyes pinched together in a frown much like his mother’s. “You would be my stepfather.”
“That is the way of it. And my brothers, even the two nodcocks you’re rooming with, would be your uncles; my sisters, your aunts; my mother, your grandmother.”
He worried his lip chewing over those facts.
“You will all be marrying into a great noisy family. I’ll treat your mama well, I promise you. You and Ben, also.”
“May I go to school with James and Edward?”
George smiled. “Yes. With your mother’s approval, which I will do all in my power to obtain. Do I have your blessing?”
Arthur’s answering grin displayed a mouthful of healthy white teeth. George shook his hand. “Now, go and get dressed. Your new grandmother expects everyone down for breakfast.”
“What’s going on here?” Sophie asked from the doorway.
“Mama.” Arthur flung himself into her arms. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”
She hugged him and glanced over, her eyes glistening. “Mr. Lovelace has spoken to you?”
He nodded.
“And?”
Arthur’s grin had frozen in place.
Like his own, he realized.
“You have my blessing, Mama. But may I please go to school with James and Edward?”
“We will talk.”
“Mr. Lovelace said he will do all in his power to get your approval.”
She tousled his hair and smiled fondly. “Then we shall certainly find a way. Mr. Lovelace can be quite convincing. Now go and finish dressing and I will see you downstairs.”
George escorted her out and down the stairs, pausing at the landing and pointing up.
“Oh you.” She smiled and rose up on her toes for a kiss that went on, and on, and on.
Epilogue
5 January, 1823
“Mama.”
Ben burst through the door of Sophie’s bedchamber.
His brother snagged his coattail. “You’re supposed to knock,” Artie said.
“Don’t rumple your mama’s fine dress,” Willa called.
Sophie bent to receive her boys. Attired in coats loaned from the nursery wardrobe, they both looked very fine. “My, but you both are so handsome today.”
“So are you, Mama,” Artie said.
She ruffled his hair and glanced in the cheval mirror, holding the vision she saw there in her heart. The three of them together—she wished she could capture this in a portrait. Her boys looked well, and so did she. The gown, cream muslin with lace points and scalloped trim, shimmered in the soft morning light. Willa had dressed her hair into intricate coils held with Lady Loughton’s pearl-studded combs and laced with blue ribbon.
