Page 95 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
There was more thanlustin the way he held her—there waslove. That elusive piece that had long been missing, evident in the tenderness of his kiss, in the hitch of his chest with each breath, in the hushed murmurs her ears could hardly catch. And suddenly shedidknow what would be said of him if they were caught—that he was a man desperately and unfashionably in love with his wife.
It came tumbling out of him as he angled his hips and slid inside her at last. “My God, I love you,” he groaned, unable to contain it. “I love you,” he murmured again against her temple, no doubt mussing her hair. “My Lizzie. My wife.”
Yes, she thought, and breathlessly she sought his lips, pulling his head to hers to smother her gasp as he moved at last, pressing deeper. Her back arched until she felt the imprint of leather-bound book spines pressed between her shoulder blades, and tiny sounds eked past the seal of their lips—all hers; helpless and wanton.
“Shh,” he murmured, and she tasted the knowing smile on his lips. “Or we’re going to beveryscandalous, you and I.” He swallowed her broken cry as he found the perfect angle, sparking a delicious pleasure that coursed through her veins like honey, thick and strong. He moved in deep, hard lunges, a low groan rumbling in his chest as the fingers of her right hand caught a fistful of his hair.
Books jostled upon their shelves, impelled forcefully back against them with the power of his thrusts, and she was certain she was louder than she had meant to be—louder even than he probably realized. She wished she could feel the play of muscles beneath the gloved tips of her fingers, but there was only the thick wool of his coat. Wished she could press her lips to the skin that she knew would be misted with sweat beneath the layers of clothing that separated them.
Wished they were at home, in their bed, and she could enjoy him at her leisure. It was impossible to do more than writhe within the restriction of his arms, but the friction of each maddening stroke drove her toward an incandescent culmination that hovered just out of her reach. “Luke,” she whimpered against his lips, hearing the plaintive sound of her own voice. “Luke, please—”
“Yes.” He said it exultantly, as if he had won something infinitely precious from her. The control he had exercised slipped its leash, and his thrusts swiftly grew wild, intemperate, propelling them both toward satisfaction. “Come with me now.”
Her body obeyed as if it had been an order, the bow of her back pressing her breasts tightly to his chest. Every muscle constricted, tightened, during that moment in which they strained together, bodies locked, limbs grasping, and then—release. It was through sheer dint of will alone that she did not scream, for Luke took absolutely no measures to prevent it. The abrupt splintering of the tension that had gathered between them spilled out into deep shudders; the pulse of his body and hers, joined in bliss. Sighs traded between them, kisses drawing out into tender touches, replete with satiation, with joy, with love.
The music outside in the ballroom had ceased, and the growing murmur of voices suggested that the ball was winding down to its inevitable conclusion. It was a struggle simply to stir herself enough to care that sooner or later—probably sooner—they would be missed. “Take me home,” she said at last, pressing her lips to his chin. “You’re wearing entirely too many clothes,” she added impishly.
“You wicked girl,” he said in an approving murmur. “Your wish is my command.Although,” he mused, a hint of suggestion in his voice, “you’d be surprised at how quickly I can undress and redress in a carriage.”
A laugh trickled up merrily between them, far too loud, far too reckless. Considering he had just made love to her in a deserted library during the course of a ball, she certainly wouldnot.
∞∞∞
The Talbot household was in chaos once again. The twins—who had so tearfully reunited onlyhoursago—were embroiled in a fierce battle, waged exclusively in Latin, which Luke rather thought Jo was winning, much to Georgie’s consternation. Willie had chased the kitchen staff from the pantry, since they had, in his exalted opinion, made a damned mess of it. Imogen was making a sport of sending her husband running for every tiny little thing she could think of, and Wycombe, to his credit, seemed delighted to humor her.
A peaceful Christmas, Luke reflected, was apparently not something one could achieve when one’s family was comprised primarily of Talbots. But there was a comfort in the chaos of it. Dinner had been a pandemonium of flying food and laughter, of lively conversation and kicked shins beneath the table. Breakfast would no doubt proceed in a similar vein, and from the scandalized expressions flung around by the staff, they were all due an increase in their wages.
There would be no end of the trouble the Talbots would cause him—but it was the good sort. The sort that had drawn a man on the precipice of disaster back down into the world once again. That sort that had made himwantto be a part of their family, unruly as it was. That sort that had warmed a heart frozen over for too many years.
“We should retire,” Lizzie whispered in his ear. “Let the children bicker. Willie will send them up to bed when it’s time.”
No one noticed as they slipped out of the room toward the stairs—one of the benefits of a large, gregarious family, he supposed. They could slip away more or less unseen, up the stairs and to the master’s chamber, which had been refinished along with the rest of the house.
“I’ve no idea how you accomplished so much,” Lizzie said with a gesture of her hand, meant to encompass the whole of the house, he assumed, which had been restored to its former grandeur once more.
He’d managed to unknot his cravat, but he let it hang loose a moment in favor of helping Lizzie with the buttons running down the back of her gown. “Time and money,” he said. “That’s all it was.”
“But it looks like a home now,” she said, divesting herself of her gown, pulling the material up over her head and draping the garment over a chair.
“It was always a home. I only made it livable again.” The laces of her stays were next. “We should spend every Christmas here, at least until Georgie comes of age,” he said. “I’ve missed it.”
Lizzie shimmied out of her stays, chemise, and petticoats, perching upon the end of the bed to slide her shoes and stockings off. Her dark hair hung over one shoulder, shining strands glinting in the firelight, and for a long moment he simply stood there, arrested by the sweet picture she made, naked and beautiful.
She glanced up, catching him in the act of staring—an act for which he had no shame whatsoever, and a slow smile crept upon her face. She opened her palm to reveal the coin secreted within it, and cast it up in a graceful arc, whereupon it landed once more in the palm of her hand. “Come to bed,” she said, popping up to scramble beneath the covers.
An order he was pleased to obey. Lizzie had settled in on her side of the bed by the time he joined her, but they had long established a comfortable routine of chatting before bed, and he settled his arm in its familiar spot in the dip of her waist.
The coin flipped again, landing just at the edge of her pillow. “A kiss,” she murmured.
“You never have to bargain for that,” he said, and obliged.
“No. But it’s quite fun.” Thepingof the coin. “Another.” Her leg crept between his as she snuggled close.
“Greedy this evening,” he chided, and dropped the requested kiss upon the soft place where her shoulder sloped into her neck, which elicited a giggle.
“No,” she said. “Only waiting to be unlucky.”
“I beg your pardon?”
