Page 98 of Wild Lily
He sucked her and she held her breath. His two fingers deep inside her, he imitated the act of love he longed to show her and she whimpered. Then she broke apart.
His beauty. His wife.
The woman he loved despite his best intentions.
Julian had debated simply skipping the rest of the festivities and spending the night making love to his wife in the big broad bed provided by his cousin.
But Lily had been appalled and demanded they return to the ballroom.
“If we retired, we’d be a scandal,” she said as they hurried around their suite attempting to repair the damage done in the garden.
He had changed his trousers, the knees of his first pair woefully grass-stained.
She had giggled and clamped a hand to her mouth. “I should call for Nora to iron my skirts.”
“You look fine,” he told her, tracing the line of her naked shoulder with his lips, his hands covering her breasts. “You were magnificent.”
She hooted and twirled in his arms. “As I recall you were the one who was magnificent. I was your passive partner in crime.”
He pecked her on the nose. “Not so passive, my darling.”
She tossed him a narrowed-eye challenge. “You should congratulate me that I didn’t howl like a cat. They would have thought that scene delicious fodder.”
He was reminded how Lily had hated the cartoons of her in the London broadsheets. This tale would be quite different. He arched a brow. “Shocking that a man and wife could actually find pleasure in each other.”
“For years to come,” she joked.
They’d laughed like children and headed back to the ball.
No sooner there, than George Pinkhurst approached with his fiancée, Priscilla Van de Putte. Julian put aside his hope to waltz once more with his wife.
“May I have this dance, Lady Chelton?” Pinklehurst asked Lily.
It was only polite for Julian to offer his hand to Priscilla in turn. He wasn’t fond of her. She’d been the one to stalk him so bluntly last season that he’d sworn off Americans and heiresses.
Julian laughed to himself. That was what he’d thought then. Now? He was a changed man. A happy one. A ridiculously giddy one. Eager for his wife at her smallest smile.
But not just yet. He could bear to take Priscilla out for a few circles of the floor.
“How is your wife getting on with running your household, my lord?”
Dear God, the woman was forward. His Lily was not so brash. “She does well. Very well.”
They took another round and Priscilla beamed at him, her tiny crooked teeth putting him in mind of Josephine Bonaparte whom histories said never fully smiled at anyone because her teeth were uneven and black. Lily’s teeth were white and straight. Her smile was far more beautiful than anyone’s.
“I hope I can adjust to living in the country,” Priscilla said, making a moue, petulant as ever. “I’ve always lived in the city.”
“There is much to keep you busy on an estate. Lord Pinkhurst, I’m sure, will help you with the duties.”
“I’ve never run servants. My mother always did.”
Must I listen to this?One did notrunservants.“Staff know their duties. A good housekeeper can be your best ally.”
She thought about that for a few seconds. Tipping her blonde head, she dismissed the idea with a wrinkle of her nose. “All of that is so boring.”
Why was this woman telling him this? Sympathy was not one of his strong suits. Not for a spoiled girl who complained so readily to a mere acquaintance.
“Is your wife agreeable?”
