It's in His Kiss

  “Oh, m—Oh!” Her hips arched, and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to say.

  She didn’t know what to feel.

  “You’re perfect,” he said, pressing his lips to her ear. “Perfect.”

  “Gareth,” she gasped. “What are you—”

  “Making love to you,” he said. “I’m making love to you.”

  Her heart leapt in her chest. It wasn’t quite I love you, but it was awfully close.

  And in that moment, in that last moment of her brain actually functioning, he slid one finger inside her.

  “Gareth!” She grabbed his shoulders. Hard.

  “Shhhh.” He did something utterly wicked. “The servants.”

  “I don’t care,” she gasped.

  He gazed down at her in a most amused manner, then…whatever he’d done…did it again. “I think you do.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t. I—”

  He did something else, something on the outside, and her entire body felt it. “You’re so ready,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

  He moved, positioning himself above her. His fingers were still delivering their torture, but his face was over hers, and she was lost in the clear blue depths of his eyes.

  “Gareth,” she whispered, and she had no idea what she meant by it. It wasn’t a question, or a plea, or really, anything but his name. But it had to be said, because it was him.

  It was him, here with her.

  And it was sacred.

  His thighs settled between hers, and she felt him at her opening, large and demanding. His fingers were still between them, holding her open, readying her for his manhood.

  “Please,” she moaned, and this time it was a plea. She wanted this. She needed him.

  “Please,” she said again.

  Slowly, he entered her, and she sucked in her breath, so startled was she by the size and feel of him.

  “Relax,” he said, only he didn’t sound relaxed. She looked up at him. His face was strained, and his breathing was quick and shallow.

  He held very still, giving her time to adjust to him, then pushed forward, just a little, but it was enough to make her gasp.

  “Relax,” he said again.

  “I’m trying,” she ground out.

  Gareth almost smiled. There was something so quintessentially Hyacinth about the statement, and also something almost reassuring. Even now, in what had to be one of the most startling and strange experiences of her life, she was…the same.

  She was herself.

  Not many people were, he was coming to realize.

  He pushed forward again, and he could feel her easing, stretching to accommodate him. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to eliminate the pain completely, but by God, he would make this as perfect for her as he could. And if that meant nearly killing himself to go slowly, he would.

  She was as stiff as a board beneath him, her teeth gritted as she anticipated his invasion. Gareth nearly groaned; he’d had her so close, so ready, and now she was trying so hard not to be nervous that she was about as relaxed as a wrought-iron fence.

  He touched her leg. It was as rigid as a stick.

  “Hyacinth,” he murmured in her ear, trying not to sound amused, “I think you were enjoying yourself a bit more just a minute earlier.”

  There was a beat of silence, and she said, “That might be true.”

  He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Do you think you might see your way to enjoying yourself again?”

  Her lips pursed into that expression of hers—the one she made when she knew she was being teased and wished to return in kind. “I would like to, yes.”

  He had to admire her. It was a rare woman who could keep her composure in such a situation.

  He flicked his tongue behind her ear, distracting her as his hand found its way between her legs. “I might be able to help you with that.”

  “With what?” she gasped, and he knew from the way her hips jerked that she was on her way back to oblivion.

  “Oh, with that feeling,” he said, stroking her almost offhandedly as he pushed farther within. “The Oh, Gareth, Yes, Gareth, More Gareth feeling.”

  “Oh,” she said, letting out a high-pitched moan as his finger began to move in a delicate circle. “That feeling.”

  “It’s a good feeling,” he confirmed.

  “It’s going to…Oh!” She clenched her teeth and groaned against the sensations he was striking within her.

  “It’s going to what?” he asked, and now he was almost all the way in. He was going to earn a medal for this, he decided. He had to. Surely no man had ever exercised such restraint.

  “Get me into trouble,” she gasped.

  “I certainly hope so,” he said, and then he pushed forward, breaching her last barrier until he was fully sheathed. He shuddered as he felt her quiver around him. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him, demanding action, but he held still. He had to hold still. If he didn’t give her time to adjust, he would hurt her, and there was no way Gareth was going to allow his bride to look back on her first intimacy with pain.

  Good God, it could scar her for life.

  But if Hyacinth was hurting, even she didn’t know it, because her hips were starting to move beneath him, pressing up, grinding in circles, and when he looked at her face, he saw nothing but passion.

  And the last strings of his control snapped.

  He began to move, his body falling into its rhythm of need. His desire spiraled, until he was quite certain he could not bear it any longer, and then she would make a tiny little sound, nothing more than a moan, really, and he wanted her even more.

  It seemed impossible.

  It was magical.

  His fingers grasped her shoulders with a force that was surely too intense, but he could not loose his hold. He was seized by an overwhelming urge to claim her, to mark her in some way as his.

  “Gareth,” she moaned. “Oh, Gareth.”

  And the sound was too much. It was all too much—the sight, the smell of her, and he felt himself shuddering toward completion.

  He gritted his teeth. Not yet. Not when she was so close.

  “Gareth!” she gasped.

  He slid his hand between their bodies again. He found her, swollen and wet, and he pressed, probably with less finesse than he ought but certainly with as much as he was able.

  And he never looked away from her face. Her eyes seemed to darken, the color turning almost marine. Her lips parted, desperately seeking breath, and her body was arching, pressing, pushing.

  “Oh!” she cried out, and he quickly kissed her to swallow the sound. She was tense, she was quivering, and then she spasmed around him. Her hands grabbed at his shoulders, his neck, her fingers biting his skin.

  But he didn’t care. He couldn’t feel it. There was nothing but the exquisite pressure of her, grabbing him, sucking him in until he quite literally exploded.

  And he had to kiss her again, this time to tamp down his own cries of passion.

  It had never been like this. He hadn’t known it could.

  “Oh, my,” Hyacinth breathed, once he’d rolled off her and onto his back.

  He nodded, still too spent to speak. But he took her hand in his. He wanted to touch her still. He needed the contact.

  “I didn’t know,” she said.

  “Neither did I,” he somehow managed.

  “Is it always—”

  He squeezed her hand, and when he heard her turn to him, he shook his head.

  “Oh.” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Well, it’s a good thing we’re getting married, then.”

  Gareth started to shake with laughter.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  He couldn’t speak. All he could do was lie there, his body shaking the entire bed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He caught his breath, turned and rolled until he was back on top of her, nose to nos
e. “You,” he said.

  She started to frown, but then melted into a smile.

  A wicked smile.

  Good Lord, but he was going to enjoy being married to this woman.

  “I think we might need to move up the wedding date,” she said.

  “I’m willing to drag you off to Scotland tomorrow.” And he was serious.

  “I can’t,” she said, but he could tell she half wished she could.

  “It would be an adventure,” he said, sliding one hand along her hip to sweeten the deal.

  “I’ll talk to my mother,” she promised. “If I’m sufficiently annoying, I’m sure I can get the engagement period cut in half.”

  “It makes me wonder,” he said. “As your future husband, should I be concerned by your use of the phrase if I’m sufficiently annoying?”

  “Not if you accede to all of my wishes.”

  “A sentence that concerns me even more,” he murmured.

  She did nothing but smile.

  And then, just when he was starting to feel quite comfortable in every way, she let out an, “Oh!” and wriggled out from beneath him.

  “What is it?” he asked, the question muffled by his inelegant landing in the pillows.

  “The jewels,” she said, clutching the sheet to her chest as she sat up. “I completely forgot about them. Good heavens, what time is it? We have to get going.”

  “You can move?”

  She blinked. “You can’t?”

  “If I didn’t have to vacate this bed before morning, I’d be quite content to snore until noon.”

  “But the jewels! Our plans!”

  He closed his eyes. “We can go tomorrow.”

  “No,” she said, batting him on the shoulder with the heel of her hand, “we can’t.”

  “Why not?’

  “Because I already have plans for tomorrow, and my mother will grow suspicious if I keep pleading headaches. And besides, we planned on this evening.”

  He opened one eye. “It’s not as if anyone’s expecting us.”

  “Well, I’m going,” she stated, pulling the bedsheet around her body as she climbed from the bed.

  Gareth’s brows rose as he pondered his naked form. He looked at Hyacinth with a masculine smile, which spread even farther when she blushed and turned away.

  “I…ah…just need to wash myself,” she mumbled, scooting away to her dressing room.

  With a great show of reluctance (even though Hyacinth had her back to him) Gareth began to pull on his clothing. He couldn’t believe she would even ponder heading out that evening. Weren’t virgins supposed to be stiff and sore after their first time?

  She stuck her head out of the dressing room door. “I purchased better shoes,” she said in a stage whisper, “in case we have to run.”

  He shook his head. She was no ordinary virgin.

  “Are you certain you wish to do this tonight?” he asked, once she reemerged in her black men’s clothing.

  “Absolutely,” she said, pulling her hair into a queue at her neck. She looked up, her eyes shining with excitement. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Really?” She looked at him with open curiosity. “I feel quite the opposite. Energized, really.”

  “You will be the death of me, you do realize that.”

  She grinned. “Better me than someone else.”

  He sighed and headed for the window.

  “Would you like me to wait for you at the bottom,” she asked politely, “or would you prefer to go down the back stairs with me?”

  Gareth paused, one foot on the windowsill. “Ah, the back stairs will be quite acceptable,” he said.

  And he followed her out.

  Chapter 15

  Inside the Clair House library. There is little reason to chronicle the journey across Mayfair, other than to make note of Hyacinth’s wellspring of energy and enthusiasm, and Gareth’s lack thereof.

  “Do you see anything?” Hyacinth whispered.

  “Only books.”

  She gave him a frustrated glare but decided not to chastise him for his lack of enthusiasm. Such an argument would only distract them from the task at hand. “Do you see,” she said, with as much patience as she could muster, “any sections which seem to be composed of scientific titles?” She glanced at the shelf in front of her, which contained three novels, two works of philosophy, a three-volume history of ancient Greece, and The Care and Feeding of Swine. “Or are they in any order at all?” she sighed.

  “Somewhat,” came the reply from above. Gareth was standing on a stool, investigating the upper shelves. “Not really.”

  Hyacinth twisted her neck, glancing up until she had a fairly good view of the underside of his chin. “What do you see?”

  “Quite a bit on the topic of early Britain. But look what I found, tucked away on the end.” He plucked a small book from the shelf and tossed it down.

  Hyacinth caught it easily, then turned it in her hands until the title was right side up. “No!” she said.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  She looked back down again. Right there, in gold lettering: Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

  “Perhaps you should take it home to my grandmother. No one will miss it here.”

  Hyacinth opened to the title page. “It was written by the same author as Miss Butterworth.”

  “It would have to be,” Gareth commented, bending his knees to better inspect the next shelf down.

  “We didn’t know about this one,” Hyacinth said. “We’ve read Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel, of course.”

  “A military tale?”

  “Set in Portugal.” Hyacinth resumed her inspection of the shelf in front of her. “It didn’t seem terribly authentic, however. Not, of course, that I’ve ever been to Portugal.”

  He nodded, then stepped off his stool and moved it in front of the next set of shelves. Hyacinth watched as he climbed back up and began his work anew, on the highest shelf.

  “Remind me,” he said. “What, precisely, are we looking for?”

  Hyacinth pulled the oft-folded note from her pocket. “Discorso Intorno alle Cose che stanno in sù l’acqua.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Which means…?”

  “Discussion of inside things that are in water?” She hadn’t meant to say it as a question.

  He looked dubious. “Inside things?”

  “That are in water. Or that move,” she added. “Ò che in quella si muovono. That’s the last part of it.”

  “And someone would wish to read that because…?”

  “I have no idea,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re the Cantabridgian.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I wasn’t much for the sciences.”

  Hyacinth decided not to comment and turned back to the shelf in front of her, which contained a seven-volume set on the topic of English botany, two works of Shakespeare, and a rather fat book titled, simply, Wildflowers. “I think,” she said, chewing on her lower lip for a moment as she glanced back at several of the shelves she’d already cataloged, “that perhaps these books had been in order at some point. There does seem to be some organization to it. If you look right here”—she motioned to one of the first shelves she’d inspected—“it’s almost completely works of poetry. But then right in the middle one finds something by Plato, and over on the end, An Illustrated History of Denmark.”

  “Right,” Gareth said, sounding a bit like he was grimacing. “Right.”

  “Right?” she echoed, looking up.

  “Right.” Now he sounded embarrassed. “That might have been my fault.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was one of my less mature moments,” he admitted. “I was angry.”

  “You were…angry?”

  “I rearranged the shelves.”

  “You what?” She’d have liked to yell, and frankly, she was rather proud
of herself for not doing so.

  He shrugged sheepishly. “It seemed impressively underhanded at the time.”

  Hyacinth found herself staring blankly at the shelf in front of her. “Who could have guessed it would come back to haunt you?”

  “Who indeed.” He moved to another shelf, tilting his head as he read the titles on the spines. “The worst of it was, it turned out to be a tad too underhanded. Didn’t bother my father one bit.”

  “It would have driven me insane.”

  “Yes, but you read. My father never even noticed there was anything amiss.”

  “But someone must have been here since your little effort at reorganization.” Hyacinth looked down at the book by her side. “I don’t think Miss Davenport is more than a few years old.”

  Gareth shook his head. “Perhaps someone left it here. It could have been my brother’s wife. I imagine one of the servants just tucked it on whichever shelf possessed the most room.”

  Hyacinth let out a long exhale, trying to figure out how best to proceed. “Can you remember anything about the organization of the titles?” she asked. “Anything at all? Were they grouped by author? By subject?”

  Gareth shook his head. “I was in a bit of a rush. I just grabbed books at random and swapped their places.” He stopped, exhaling as he planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “I do recall that there was quite a bit on the topic of hounds. And over there there was…”

  His words trailed off. Hyacinth looked up sharply and saw that he was staring at a shelf by the door. “What is it?” she asked urgently, coming to her feet.

  “A section in Italian,” he said, turning and striding to the opposite side of the room.

  Hyacinth was right on his heels. “They must be your grandmother’s books.”

  “And the last ones any of the St. Clairs might think to open,” Gareth murmured.

  “Do you see them?”

  Gareth shook his head as he ran his finger along the spines of the books, searching for the ones in Italian.

  “I don’t suppose you thought to leave the set intact,” Hyacinth murmured, crouching below him to inspect the lower shelves.

  “I don’t recall,” he admitted. “But surely most will still be where they belong. I grew too bored of the prank to do a really good job of it. I left most in place. And in fact—” He suddenly straightened. “Here they are.”