He gently lowered his body to hers, letting her adjust to the weight and feel of him. Giving her time to understand how they fit together, belonged together. How softness encouraged hardness, and the reverse. He sighed, and her breasts cushioned the lift and fall of his chest.
As they lay intertwined, he kissed her--the way he'd been wanting to kiss her for ages. Slowly, deeply. As though they had all the time in the world. Every girl deserved this from her first lover--an unhurried session of pure worship, in the form of gentle nibbles and exploratory licks. A long, lazy mingling of breath and lips and skin. She tasted good everywhere. Her hair smelled like paradise.
In time, she began to kiss him back, tracing her lips along his jaw and down the tendon of his neck. She licked and kissed in imitation. He gave her shoulder a gentle bite, wanting her to know even this was acceptable. That he wouldn't mind if she went a little wild, sinking her teeth into his shoulder at the moment when--
When.
He froze, lips pressed to her pulse, trying to recover his patience. Too late. It was gone. He had to have her, and he had to have her now.
He shifted his weight, nudging her thighs apart with his hips. "Are you ready?"
She nodded bravely.
"Tell me so. I need to hear it, love. I need . . ." He dropped his head, pressing his brow to her shoulder. "I don't want you to regret this."
"I won't." She stroked his shoulders. "You've always been right about me, Harry. I love to dance, to laugh. I love the warmth of the sun on my face and the feel of my unbound hair gliding across a cool pillow. I love to touch your body." Her hands slid down his back. "And I'm going to love the feel of you inside me."
He pushed forward, driving into her softness. Yes. She was so tight, so sweet.
"Darling Eliza." After a few deepening thrusts, he forced himself to pause. "Are you in a great deal of pain?"
"Not a great deal. Not anymore. Actually, Harry . . . despite all your warnings, this"--she made a soft, gratifying gasp--"isn't so bad."
"No?" He withdrew, gliding out of her almost to the tip, then reversing course to sink back into her heat.
"I'm finding it all"--she sighed as he slid deep--"rather lovely."
"You're lovely. So . . . very . . . exquisitely . . . lovely." He punctuated each word with a slow, gentle thrust.
She clutched him tight and whispered a single word in his ear.
"Faster."
Harry laughed, even as a bolt of pure, erotic heat shot to his groin. God, he loved her. He couldn't imagine anything better than a lifetime of this. Making love to her, laughing with her. Both at the same time, as often as it could be managed.
But they didn't have a lifetime--what they had was tonight.
He obliged her plea, moving faster. And harder, when her arching hips demanded that. He dug deep with his hips, giving her friction where he knew she needed it.
Her arms wrapped around him, and her fingernails bit into his shoulders and back--frantic, clawing, demanding. She was fierce and beautiful in her pursuit of pleasure.
And then she gasped and arched her back. Her face tightened into that beautiful frown of ecstasy, and she gave a soft, pleading cry.
"Yes," he urged. "Come for me."
As the climax surged through her body, convulsing in tight waves around his cock, Harry felt a surge of triumph unlike anything he'd known before.
She was pleased. She was his.
She was tighter than ever.
And slick. So slick and hot and lovely and his.
He thrust wildly now, blind to her comfort or pleasure. When a sharp tingle in his spine told him he couldn't last a moment longer, he withdrew from her tight sheath and spent himself against her thigh. Sheer bliss pulsed through him in wave after white-hot wave.
At last, he collapsed beside her, drained and breathless.
"Harry." She turned to him, wide eyed and flushed, glistening with perspiration. "Harry, that was so good."
"That's"--he worked for breath--"so gratifying to hear."
"But it wasn't supposed to be good. Did you underestimate your own prowess?"
He chuckled. "I'm a man of many bad habits, but underestimating my prowess isn't typically one of them. However, it wouldn't be the first time I've been surprised by you."
He kissed her tenderly, then reached for his discarded shirt and wiped her body clean with one sleeve, saving the other to mop his perspiring brow. He stretched himself alongside her, keeping his legs twined with hers and drawing her close in his arms.
"I don't want you to go," she said in a small voice, snuggling tight against his chest.
He sighed with bittersweet gratitude. She didn't want him to go. But neither would she try to hold him here. She was brave, and she understood his need to do something.
He stroked her hair. "Will you think less of me if I admit to some fear? Not great shuddering sobs of it, you know. Just a modest, manly amount."
"I wouldn't think less of you at all. I'd be glad of it. Staying afraid means staying alive." She lifted her eyes to his and placed a hand to his cheek. "And you must stay alive, Harry. I don't care if you come back changed or wounded, just so long as you come back. I'll wait for you."
He shook his head sternly. "Don't say that. Don't wait for me, Eliza. You're young and lively and beautiful, and once this house emerges from mourning, every unmarried buck in London will be vying for your attention. I want you to have your youth, even if you never have that debut. When I'm cold and shivering a thousand miles away, it would kill me to think of you waiting. I want to think of you dancing. Laughing. Driving wild and fast through the park."
"But--"
"Hush." He touched her face, glancing his fingertip over her brow, her nose, her chin. "It's no good, darling. England's been battling Napoleon since we were children. This war could take years. What's more, I'm an enlisted man. Even if we finish Bonaparte off, I could be sent anywhere, from India to Canada. It could be years before I return to England, and even then I've no money until I inherit. Perhaps I've had my arguments with the duke, but I'm not villainous enough to wish death on the man. So you must understand . . . I'm in no position to marry. We can't have a future."
She was quiet for a long time, her eyes luminous with disappointment. "I'm glad we have tonight."
His heart made a wrenching twist in his chest.
She bent her head and pressed light kisses to his neck. "I think you'd better make love to me again. I know we covered the toes . . . but aren't there other parts of me you meant to suckle?"
"Yes." Laughing softly, he drew her earlobe into his mouth. "Yes, my dear. There most certainly are."
AN INVITATION TO A WEDDING
Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Cade request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of their daughter.
St. George Hanover Church
April Thirtieth, 1814
Eliza waited in the church vestibule, clutching a bouquet of orange blossoms in one hand and smoothing the front of her silk gown with the other. Just a few minutes before the wedding now. Everything was ready.
Everything, that was, except the bride.
She blew out a slow breath. Well, a lady was allowed a bit of tardiness on her wedding day, wasn't she? After all, this had come about so soon. From proposal to ceremony, just within the last few weeks.
With sudden, shocking violence, a man crashed through the church doors, wild eyed and dark. Eliza jumped and turned, lifting the bouquet of orange blossoms in defense. They wouldn't be much defense at all, unless this intruder were the sort to sneeze helplessly around flowers. But it was what she had.
When he saw Eliza, the man doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. "Don't."
She bent her head and studied the crazed stranger. The recent news of Napoleon's surrender in France had taught her to hope, despite all her best intentions not to. That dark hair and raspy voice made her heart flutter. It had been nearly a year, but this man almost looked like . . . even sounded like . . .
> "Harry?"
"Don't." He sucked in a breath and pleaded with the carpeting. "Marry. Don't. Eliza."
Harry.
"Oh my goodness." She went to his side. "Harry, what is it? Do you need a doctor? Are you having some sort of attack?"
He shook his head. He put a hand to the wall for support, and his breathing slowed a bit.
"Ran," he said. "Ran all the way from your house in Grosvenor Square." He finally managed to stand tall. His gaze swept over her hair and gown. "What the devil are you doing?"
Eliza shrugged and lifted the bouquet in her hands. "I'm--"
He plucked the flowers from her grasp and heaved them against the wall. Petals exploded in silent bursts, like muted, fragrant fireworks.
"That was unnecessary," she said.
"I disagree. I think it was imperative." His eyes flashed with anger and hurt. "This is a wedding. What happened to, 'I'll wait for you, Harry'?"
"What happened to, 'Don't wait for me, Eliza'?" She stared at him, wide eyed with amazement. "You told me you'd never marry me. You said we had no future."
"Yes, but you weren't supposed to believe me. In all the years of our acquaintance, when have I ever given you cause to believe a word I say?"
Eliza raised a hand to her mouth and quietly laughed behind it. She couldn't help it. He was so adorably confounded, with his jaw defiantly set and his brow scrunched up in anger.
And he was here--alive and whole, if a little leaner. The red uniform wore so well on him, delineating his strong shoulders and setting off his brilliant green eyes. His roguishly handsome face was brown from the sun, and a few new wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. He hadn't shaved.
Darling man. How I've missed you.
"Harry, please. Let me explain."
"I'm a fool. That's all the explanation I need." He paced away, pushing a hand through his chronically disheveled hair. "I should have asked for your hand before I left. But I stupidly wanted you to enjoy yourself while I was away. To live life, as much as your circumstances allowed it. To go dancing and driving and be courted by a score of listless gentlemen, none of whom could compare to me. You were supposed to have your fun flirting and grow bored of it."
"I did grow bored of it. Almost as soon as it began."
"I suppose that's why you're here, then." He stopped next to the sanctuary entrance. "Who is he, anyway?" With exaggerated caution, he turned his neck and peered around the doorjamb. "Oh, no. Not Merrivale. The man's decrepit. Forty, if he's a day. You thought me too old."
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Perhaps I've grown to appreciate maturity in a gentleman."
"I hope you don't want children, because I've heard the man's equipment is--"
She shook her head. "You can't play that trick on me twice. After Peter Everhart, I'm wise to your games."
He glared down the aisle again. "He can't possibly be the husband you deserve."
"Colonel Merrivale is a good man."
"Yes, that's just it. You're as vivacious and sparkling and intoxicating as champagne, and he's . . . he's barley water. He's boring."
"I wish you'd stop speaking ill of him."
His green eyes met hers, direct and open. "Do you love him?"
"No," she answered honestly. "No, Harry. I don't. I could never love any man but you."
He approached and placed his hands on her shoulders. As he caressed her bare skin, his thumb trembled.
That same tremor affected his husky voice. "Eliza."
"I love you, Harry." Her heart shivered with joy. It felt so good to say aloud. "I've loved you for the longest time."
His hands slid to her face. "I loved you first."
"You did not."
"I did. I adored you that very first night in the morning room."
A broad smile stretched her cheeks, and his thumbs found her dimples. "Oh, really. Was it my tigress growl or my late-blooming bosoms?"
"It was the snails."
"The snails?"
"You said something about Sir Roland mating slower than a snail. And that you'd watched. I thought to myself, any girl who makes the effort to observe snails mating is a girl I want to know." He seized her hand. "You know why I couldn't allow Brentley to marry Philippa. But do you never wonder why I encouraged Everhart to pursue her instead?"
She lifted her shoulders. "I assumed you did it simply to vex me."
"Well, that was an ancillary benefit. I don't deny it. But chiefly, I had other motives in mind."
"What were they?"
"I wanted Philippa out of your way. And Peter Everhart out of mine. I didn't expect you truly loved him, but I wasn't taking any chances." He winced a little. "Can you imagine, Eliza--I even scraped together what coin I had and made a pledge to the Ceylonese Mission Society. Just to ensure whey-faced Timothy didn't return all tanned and brawny and ready to grope you properly."
She laughed. "Oh, Harry."
"But I knew you'd never rest until you had that debut. And I wanted you to have it. After we met at Alice's christening, I decided to give you six weeks--perhaps four--to grow tired of balls and beaux and flirting, and then I'd cut in. But after that damned business with Lessing, I knew it was useless. Your sister needed you. It would be months before I could court you, if not years. I didn't know how to bear it, except to launch myself into some bloody, violent endeavor that would occupy me body, mind, and soul. And I thought . . . perhaps I'd come out of it a better man. The sort of man you deserve."
She touched his ruffled hair. "But I fell in love with the scoundrel."
"Eliza." He pulled her into a close, dangerous embrace. Silk bunched between their bodies.
"My gown . . ."
"Damn the gown." He yanked her closer, fisting his hands in the crumpling fabric. "Curse this ceremony. Merrivale can go to the devil. You're coming away with me. Right now."
"But I couldn't," she protested. "Everything's arranged. They're all waiting on me."
"My phaeton's still at the mews. We'll head north immediately and be wed in Scotland. I'll even let you drive, from time to time. It will be the first of our many adventures."
"I like the thought of adventure." She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. "But I don't want to elope. Ever since I was a girl, I always dreamed of a grand church wedding. I've already missed my debut. I can't give that up, too."
His expression was wounded. "I can't believe it. You'd choose the wedding of your dreams over the man you love?"
She smiled. "No, no. I want the wedding of my dreams to the man I love. I keep trying to explain to you, this isn't what you think. Harry, I'm not--"
"Eliza?" A light voice floated from the adjoining room. "Is something wrong? I thought you were bringing my flowers."
"I was, dear," Eliza called in a loud, clear voice, holding Harry's gaze all the while. "I was bringing you your flowers, for your wedding to Colonel Merrivale." She gave Harry a sly wink. "But Mr. Wright must explain what happened to them."
She probably shouldn't have taken so much satisfaction in watching Harry's face go from determined to absolutely blank. But he'd gotten the better of her so many times. Turning the tables this once was immensely satisfying.
"This isn't your wedding?" he asked slowly, looking about the church with new eyes, as though he'd just awoken in a strange location and had no idea how he'd landed there.
"No. This isn't my wedding."
"When I stopped by your town house and asked for you, they told me everyone had gone to the church for Miss Cade's--"
"Miss Cade's wedding. And so we did, yes. Georgie is the eldest unmarried sister. She's still Miss Cade, and I'm still Miss Eliza. For the next quarter hour, that is."
"Georgina?" He glanced toward the anteroom. "That's her in there? I thought she was brokenhearted after her beau died. Resolved to never love again."
"She was, the poor thing. But time did its part in helping heal her wounds. Colonel Merrivale's attention was a balm, as wel
l. He's a good man, Harry. Very steady and kind, and that's what she needs now. I'm so happy for her. And I'm . . ." Happy was too weak a word. " . . . overjoyed to see you here. Home safe. Won't you kiss me, please?"
"Gladly."
He pulled her into a kiss that started out tender but quickly became urgent. Their lips and tongues reveled in the joy of reacquaintance. Desire swelled between their bodies; she felt it settling to a tense, familiar ache in her breasts and between her thighs. Images of their night together flashed vivid in her memory. She recalled every taste, every touch, every heated glance and word.
His hoarse groan told her he remembered, too.
"Marry me today," he said. "We can secure a license in a trice and have a double wedding. Surely your sister won't object to a small delay while we--"
Eliza shook her head. "I would object. This is Georgie's wedding, Georgie's day. I want her to have that. And enough of my selfish younger self remains that I want to have that, too--a wedding day just for us, even if it's not so lavish."
"Why couldn't our wedding be lavish?"
"Because you're penniless, of course." When he opened his mouth to speak, she shushed him with a quick, tender kiss. "I don't mind, Harry. Truly, I don't. I've come a long way from a young girl who wanted new gowns for every day of the week and a carriage drawn by four white ponies."
"I don't know about the ponies, but I believe I can manage a new gown or two. I'm certainly not penniless."
"Did you reconcile with the duke?" She scanned his expression, trying not to show her irrational hopes on her face. She knew it would mean so much to him if his public reputation could be restored.
"Not reconciled, precisely. He purchased me a commission. It's a ceremonial office, mostly--diplomacy, not combat. Apparently it galled the old duke to think of his heir serving as a lowly enlisted soldier."
"Or perhaps he cares about you, Harry. You know--in a disapproving, distant, duke-ish way." Eliza threw her arms about his neck and hugged him tight. "I'm so relieved for you."
"Don't get too excited. The income will be enough to support us, but it won't be an extravagant lifestyle."
"I don't need extravagance."
"Good. A modest house in Town is likely all we can manage. No grand tour of the Continent or palatial country estate just yet. But I can promise you a new frock twice a year, and we'll be able to give the children meat on Sundays."
She gave his shoulder a light punch. "Stop joking."