“How do you want it to be done?” she whispered.
His eyes grew hot. “I want to remove every last scrap of your clothing myself.”
She shivered.
“And then I want to lay you down on the bed so I can see you.”
Her heart began to pound.
“And then,” he said, his shirt falling to the floor as he took a step toward her, “I think I might kiss every inch of you.”
She stopped breathing.
“If you don’t mind,” he added with a wicked, one-sided smile.
“I don’t mind,” she blurted out, then turned beet red as she realized what she’d said.
But Ned only chuckled as his hands covered hers and gently eased her bodice down. Charlotte held her breath as she was bared to him, unable to tear her eyes off his face—or to contain the rush of pride she felt when she saw his expression.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, and his voice held a touch of reverence in it, a tinge of awe. His hands cupped her, testing the weight and feel of her, and for a moment he almost looked as if he were in pain. His eyes closed, and his body shook, and when he looked at her again, there was something in his face Charlotte had never seen before.
It went beyond desire, past need.
He nudged her gown from her body, then picked her up and laid her on the bed, stopping briefly to remove her stockings and slippers. Then, in less time than ought to have been possible, he’d stripped himself of the rest of his clothing and had covered her body with his.
“Do you know how much I need you?” Ned whispered, groaning as he pressed his hips intimately against hers. “Could you possibly understand?”
Charlotte’s lips parted, but the only word she managed was his name.
He let out a ragged breath as he ran his hands along her sides to her hips, and then underneath until he could squeeze her bottom. “I have been dreaming of this since the moment I met you, wanting it so desperately even when I knew it was wrong. And now you’re mine,” he growled, moving his face so that he could nuzzle her neck. “Forever mine.”
He trailed his lips down the elegant line of her throat to her collarbone, then to the gentle swell of her breast. With one hand he cupped her, nudging her flesh until her nipple rose in the air. It was soft and pink, and thoroughly irresistible. He forced himself to stop, just to look at her and savor the moment, but then he could hold back no longer. He captured her in his mouth, stopping only to smile when she let out a squeal of surprise.
She was soon whimpering with pleasure, and squirming beneath him, obviously eager for something she didn’t even understand. Her hips were pushing up against his, and every time he moved his hands, squeezed, touched, caressed, she moaned.
She was everything he’d ever dreamed a woman could be.
“Tell me what you like,” he whispered against her skin. He grazed her nipple with the palm of his hand. “This?”
She nodded.
“This?” This time he took her entire breast in his hand and squeezed.
She nodded again, her breath coming fast and urgent over her lips.
And then he slid his hand between them and touched her intimately. “This?” he asked, turning his face so she wouldn’t see his wicked smile.
All she did was let out a little, “Oh!”
But it was a perfect, “Oh!”
Just as she was perfect in his arms.
He touched her more deeply, easing one finger inside of her to prepare for his entry. He wanted her so badly; he didn’t think he’d ever felt this particular intensity of need. It was more than lust, deeper than desire. He wanted to possess her, to consume her, to hold her so close and tight that their souls melded to one.
This, he thought, burying his face against the side of her neck, was love.
And it was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was more than he’d hoped, bigger than he’d dreamed.
It was perfection.
Beyond perfection. It was bliss.
It was hard to hold back, but he held his desire in check until he was certain she was ready for him. And even then, even though his fingers were moist with her passion, he still had to be sure, had to ask her, “Are you ready?”
She looked at him with questioning eyes. “I think so,” she whispered. “I need…something. I think I need you.”
He hadn’t thought he could want her more, but her words, simple and true, were like a jolt to his blood, and it was all he could do not to plunge recklessly into her then and there. Gritting his teeth against this all-consuming need, he positioned himself at her entrance, trying to ignore the way her heat was beckoning him.
With carefully controlled motions, he pushed forward, a back and forth slide, until he reached the proof of her innocence. He had no idea if he was going to hurt her; he suspected he might, but if so, there was no way to avoid it. And since it seemed foolish to warn her of pain—surely that would just make her anxious and tense?—he simply plunged forward, finally allowing himself to feel her fully around him.
He knew he should stop to make sure she was all right, but by the heavens above, he couldn’t have stopped moving if his very life depended on it. “Oh, Charlotte,” he moaned. “Oh, my God.”
Her answer was equal in desire—a thrust of her hips, a gasp on her lips—and Ned knew that she was with him, awash in pleasure, any pain all but forgotten.
His motions gained rhythm, and soon his every muscle was focused on not allowing himself release until he could be sure that she too reached a climax. It wasn’t common for a virgin, he’d been told, but this was his wife—this was Charlotte—and he didn’t know if he could live with himself if he didn’t ensure her pleasure.
“Ned,” she gasped, her breath coming faster and faster. She looked so beautiful it brought tears to his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes unfocused, and he couldn’t seem to stop thinking, I love her.
She was nearly there; he could see it. He didn’t know how much longer he could possibly hold out against his own body’s raging need, and so he slipped a hand between them, his fingers finding her most sensitive nub of flesh.
She screamed.
He lost all control.
And then, as if in a perfectly choreographed dance, they both tensed and arched at the same precise moment, motion stopped, breathing stopped until they simply collapsed, weary and spent….
And blissfully content.
“I love you,” he whispered, needing to say the words even if they were lost into the pillow.
And then he felt, more than heard, her reply. “I love you, too,” she whispered against his neck.
He propped himself up on his elbows. His exhausted muscles protested, but he had to see her face. “I will make you happy,” he vowed.
She offered him a serene smile. “You already do.”
He thought to say something more, but there were no words to express what was in his heart, so he lay back down on the mattress, gathering her against him until they were two nestled spoons.
“I love you,” he said again, almost embarrassed by his desire to say this once every minute or so.
“Good,” she said, and he could feel her giggling against him.
Then she flipped over quite suddenly, so that they were face-to-face. She looked rather breathless, as if she’d just thought of something quite astonishing.
He quirked a brow in question.
“What,” she asked, “do you suppose Rupert and Lydia are doing right now?”
“Do I care?”
She smacked his shoulder with the heel of her hand.
“Oh, very well,” he sighed, “I suppose I do care, given that she is your sister, and that he did save me from marrying her.”
“What do you think they are doing?” she persisted.
“Much the same as us,” he said, “if they’re lucky.”
“Their lives will not be easy,” Charlotte said soberly. “Rupert hasn’t two pennies to rub together.”
“Oh, I don?
??t know,” Ned said with a yawn. “I think they shall make out just fine.”
“You do?” Charlotte asked, closing her eyes as she settled deeply into the pillows.
“Mmmm.”
“Why?”
“You’re a persistent wench, has anyone told you that?”
She smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Why?” she asked again.
He closed his eyes. “Don’t ask so many questions. You’ll never be surprised.”
“I don’t want to be surprised. I want to know everything.”
He chuckled at that. “Then know this, my dear Charlotte: You have married an exceedingly clever man.”
“Have I?” she murmured.
It was a challenge that could not be ignored. “Oh, yes,” he said, rolling until he was once again looming over her. “Oh, yes.”
“Very clever, or just a little bit clever?”
“Very—very—clever,” he said wickedly. His body might be too spent for a rematch, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t torture her.
“I might need proof of this cleverness,” she said. “I—oh!”
“Proof enough?”
“Oh!”
“Oh.”
“Ohhhh.”
Epilogue
One week later
“Here you are, Mrs. Marchbanks!”
Lydia smiled dreamily as Rupert carried her over the threshold of Portmeadow House. It wasn’t as grand as Thornton Hall, which actually wasn’t very grand itself, and it wasn’t even theirs, at least not until Rupert’s elderly uncle finally passed on.
But none of that seemed to signify. They were married, and they were in love, and as long as they were together, it didn’t matter if they were in a borrowed home.
Besides, Rupert’s uncle wasn’t due back from London for another week.
“I say,” Rupert said, narrowing his eyes as he set her down. “What’s this?”
Lydia followed his gaze to a brightly wrapped box sitting on the table in the front hall. “A wedding gift, perhaps?” she murmured hopefully.
He shot her a wry look. “Who knows we’re married?”
“Just about everyone who had come to watch me marry Lord Burwick, I imagine,” she replied. They had already heard the news of his marriage to Charlotte in her stead. Lydia couldn’t even imagine what the gossip must be like.
Rupert’s attention, however, was already on the box. With careful motions, he tugged an envelope free of the ribbons and slid a finger under the sealing wax. “It’s expensive,” he commented. “A real envelope. Not just a folded piece of paper.”
“Open it,” Lydia urged.
He stopped just long enough to shoot her a peevish expression. “What do you think I’m doing?”
She snatched it from his hands. “You’re too slow.” With eager fingers, she tore the envelope open and removed the paper inside, unfolding it so that they could read the contents together.
’Tis with this note that I give thee thanks
And promise that you may avoid all banks.
When you stole my bride, you did me a favor
And gave me a wife that I may savor.
In this box you’ll find French brandy
And a selection of the finest candy.
But my true gift to you lies in this verse
So you may avoid money’s worst curse.
The deed to a home, not five miles away
That you may call your own, both night and day.
And a modest income, yours for life
Because when you eloped, you gave me my wife.
I wish you happiness, health and love
(My wife assures me this rhymes with dove.)
—Edward Blydon, Viscount Burwick
A full minute passed before Rupert or Lydia could speak.
“How very generous of him,” Lydia murmured.
Rupert blinked several times before saying, “Why do you suppose he wrote it in verse?”
“I couldn’t begin to imagine,” Lydia said. “I had no idea he was so addled in the brain.” She swallowed, and tears pricked her eyes. “Poor Charlotte.”
Rupert placed an arm around her shoulder. “Your sister is made of stern stuff. She shall overcome.”
Lydia nodded and allowed him to lead her to the bedroom, where she promptly forgot she had any siblings at all.
Meanwhile, at Middlewood…
“Oh, Ned, you didn’t!” Charlotte clapped a horrified hand to her mouth when he showed her a copy of the note he’d sent to Rupert and Lydia.
He shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“It’s very generous of you,” she said, trying to appear solemn.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he murmured. “You shall have to demonstrate your gratitude, don’t you think?”
She pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “I had no idea,” she said, desperately trying to maintain an even expression, “that you were such a talented poet.”
He waved a hand through the air. “Rhyming isn’t so difficult once you put your mind to it.”
“Oh, really?”
“Indeed.”
“How long did it take you to compose that, er, poem?” She looked down at the sheet of paper and frowned. “Although it does seem terribly unfair to Shakespeare and Marlowe to call it such.”
“Shakespeare and Marlowe have nothing to fear from me—”
“Yes,” she murmured, “that much is clear.”
“—I have no plans to write more verse,” Ned finished.
“And for that,” Charlotte said, “we all thank you. But you never did answer my question.”
He looked at her quizzically. “You asked me a question?”
“How long did it take you to write this?” she repeated.
“Oh, it was nothing,” he said dismissively. “Only four hours.”
“Four hours?” she repeated, choking on laughter.
His eyes twinkled. “I wanted it to be good, of course.”
“Of course.”
“There’s little point in doing anything if you’re not going to be good at it.”
“Of course,” she said again. It was all she could say, since he had wrapped his arms around her and was now kissing her neck.
“Do you think we could stop talking about poetry?” he murmured.
“Of course.”
He nudged her toward the sofa. “And maybe I could ravish you here and now?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
He pulled back, his face serious and tender all at once. “And you’ll let me love you forever?”
She kissed him. “Of course.”
About Lisa Kleypas
LISA KLEYPAS is the bestselling author of seventeen historical romance novels that have been published in twelve languages. In 1985, she was named Miss Massachusetts and competed in the Miss America pageant in Atlantic City. After graduating from Wellesley College with a political science degree, she published her first novel at age twenty-one. Her PerfectBound e-books include: When Strangers Marry (originally published as Only in Your Arms); Only with Your Love; Then Came You; Dreaming of You; Someone to Watch Over Me; Suddenly You; Lady Sophia’s Lover; Worth Any Price; and the collaboration Where’s My Hero?
About Kinley MacGregor
Multi-published, romance author, SHER-RILYN KENYON knows men. She lives outside of Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband and three sons. Raised in the middle of eight boys, and currently outnumbered by the Y chromosome in her home, she realizes the most valuable asset a woman has for coping with men is a sense of humor—not to mention a large trash bag and a pair of tongs.
Writing as KINLEY MACGREGOR and Sherrilyn Kenyon, she is the bestselling author of several series including, The Dark-Hunters, Brotherhood of the Sword and The MacAllisters.
About Julia Quinn
New York Times-bestselling author JULIA QUINN has written twelve Avon romance novels, and is best known for the Bridgerton Series: The Duke and I, The Viscount Who Loved Me, An
Offer from a Gentleman, Romancing Mr. Bridgerton, and To Sir Phillip, With Love. She is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. Please visit her at www.juliaquinn.com.
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(Coming February 2004)
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Against the Odds copyright © 2003 by Lisa Kleypas Midsummer’s Knight copyright © 2003 by Sherrilyn Kenyon
A Tale of Two Sisters copyright © 2003 by Julie Cotler Pottinger
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition September 2003 eISBN 9780061756030
First Avon Books paperback printing: September 2003
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