Page 34 of When Hearts Are Wylde
“What if she doesn’t?” he asked, low. “We rushed into all of this—with lust-fueled impetuousness. There is no guarantee that her feelings are the same.”
Hermione’s heart twisted. He truly didn’t see it. “If she didn’t love you then what you said to her that night would not have mattered. It would have altered nothing between you.”
His eyes flickered with suspicion. “How did you know that I’d spoken to Felicity of my duties and obligations?”
She almost laughed at the question. “Women never keep secrets about such things, Phinneas. Not from one another. I am her friend. And the only person of her acquaintance with whom she can speak freely about the more intimate aspects of your marriage, such as the fact that she has locked you out of her bedchamber. Charity, Benny, and Cordelia would be mortified or of absolutely no help.”
He looked thoroughly discomfited now, and she allowed herself a brief, wicked satisfaction. “Exactly how detailed are these conversations?” he demanded.
Hermione laughed outright. “Not that detailed. There are things I do not wish to know and things she does not wish to say. Your dignity and modesty have been preserved in all things.”
His eyes narrowed. “And have you discussed Hartley with her?”
Her smile faltered, as it always did at that name. “As much as I will discuss him with anyone. Not everyone, brother, is intended to have a happy ending. You are. You must simply be brave enough to take it. Now, I advise you to muster your courage, humble yourself, and grovel. It would be nice, also, if you could do it before the ball tonight. The tension in this house is palpable, and your guests will surely notice. Also, if you haven’t gifted her with some very expensive jewelry, you should.”
She saw the smallest flicker of relief in his face, as though she’d handed him a rope in deep water.
“I’ll see what I can do. I have never groveled before,” he admitted.
“You’re a married man,” Hermione told him with brisk affection. “My advice would be to grow accustomed to it.”
Chapter Nineteen
They were giggling like school children, sneaking along the corridors and trying not to wake the servants. That was the very last thing they needed. Not that his servants weren’t discreet, of course, but no one liked being disturbed in the wee hours.
Leo began humming a jaunty tune and then sweet her into a series of intricate dance steps as they made their way along the corridor. “What are you doing?” She demanded. “We’ll be caught!”
“Are you worried about your reputation?” He teased, giving up any pretense of dancing as he pulled her close. “You surely should have thought about that before taking up with a reprobate like me.”
She couldn’t stop smiling. “Surely, if you’re truly a reprobate, you’d be stilling kisses instead of dances.”
With that, he maneuvered them toward the wall adjacent to his chamber door. “And if I intend to steal much more than dances or kisses?”
“You can’t steal what is freely given… and I give you everything, Leo. All of me. My heart, my body, my very soul if you should required it.”
“You heart, most definitely,” he said, his lips trailing along her cheek to her ear. “And your body… In turn, I’ll give you all that I am. All that I have. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Then take me to bed… make love to me.”
He reached past her and opened the door ushering her inside. “I intend to make love to you, Hermione… and this isn’t simply a few stolen moments. It will not be rushed or hurried. And when we are done, I intend to hold you not just till the dawn, but throughout it/This is the first night of the rest our lives together and we will watch the sun rise on our future.”
With that, he took her hand and drew her into his room—their room—in a hush of anticipation, the heavy door closing behind them with a quiet thud that seemed to seal them away from the rest of the world. Leo did not immediately claim her lips again; instead, he stood still, his hands resting lightly at her waist, his gaze locked upon hers as though committing every detail of her face to memory. The intensity of that look nearly stole her breath, and she reached up instinctively, her fingers brushing along the firm line of his jaw.
He kissed her then, slow and lingering, a tender claiming that deepened by degrees until her lips parted beneath his and his tongue brushed hers with deliberate sweetness. When he drew back at last, it was only to press reverent kisses along her brow, her temple, the delicate curve of her cheek. Each touch sent a shiver spiraling through her, a reminder that this was no fevered tryst, but a communion of something far greater. And far more lasting.
He unpinned her hair, letting the glossy strands tumble down over her shoulders, running his fingers through the silken weight as if savoring the privilege. “Beautiful,” he murmured against the curve of her neck, his voice husky with wonder. She arched against him as his hands began to wander lower,caressing the swell of her hips, drawing her closer until her body aligned perfectly with his.
When he began to undress her, it was done with reverence, each button and tie released as though it were a sacred act. Her gown slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, followed by her chemise, leaving her bare to his gaze. Hermione flushed, her instinct to hide warring with the knowledge that he would not let her—nor did she truly want him to. His eyes darkened, his breath catching, and then he touched her, his palms gliding over her curves with exquisite gentleness.
She reached for him in turn, tugging at his cravat, sliding the coat from his broad shoulders, unbuttoning the fine linen of his shirt. Her hands trembled, yet determination steadied her as she revealed the planes of his chest, the play of muscle beneath sun-bronzed skin. She pressed her lips there, tasting him, breathing him in. His answering groan vibrated against her mouth, low and unrestrained.
At last, when they were both stripped of all barriers, he guided her toward the bed. He laid her down with infinite care, covering her body with his own in a slow descent that ended in another kiss—deeper now, edged with hunger but softened by the love shining in his eyes. Their movements were unhurried, an intricate dance of caresses and sighs, each touch a promise, each kiss a vow. She felt not simply desired in those moments, but cherished as hee worshiped her with his hands, with his lips, with the steady strength of his body. And when he finally entered her, slowly and tenderly, he rocked against her with a soft, easy rhythm that left her breathless not simply from the pleasure but from the depth of emotion, from the love he conveyed with each touch. With seeming endless patience, he drove them both toward that perfect moment of release and she could do nothing but cling to him.
“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered against her ear, pressing soft kisses to her skin. “Always.”
She smiled through the tears brimming in her eyes, drawing him closer with her legs twining around him. “And I love you, Leo. I think I always have.”
At some point, they drifted to sleep. She only stirred when she felt the bed shifting beneath his weight as he climbed back into it. “Where did you go?”
