“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Bath was damp and cold, and the air was crisp with the promise of winter when Max arrived. He’d driven through the night, and it was midmorning. He took a suite of rooms at York House, the best hotel in Bath, and quickly shaved, bathed and changed his clothes before setting out in search of his beloved.
He called in at her lodgings, a respectable enough place, but faded, shabby. He vowed she wouldn’t be there for long.
The young ladies had already gone out, their landlady told him with a speculative look. He set off down Milsom Street, heading for the Pump Room in the lower part of town, then stopped dead. There she was, with her sisters, having an animated discussion in front of the window of a millinery shop.
She was in green. He liked her in green. He liked her in anything except that gray dress of hers. When they were married he’d burn that gray dress. And the cloak.
He approached quietly. The sisters were intent on their conversation. Abby wore a small confection that he supposed was a bonnet. It provided absolutely no protection from the misty rain. Tiny jewel-like droplets of mist clung to her hair, like a sprinkling of diamonds.
He stood for a moment, watching her tilt her head as she examined something in the window, then shake it in disagreement. His heart was pounding. Every gesture, every movement was familiar and dear to him. He’d almost lost her because of his own stupid stubbornness. The thought chilled him to his spine.
Never again.
On that thought he stepped closer. “Abby.”
She turned, her mouth forming a delicious O of surprise. She was pale, and her eyes, though beautiful, were a little heavy. He was not the only one who’d been losing sleep, then.
“Lord Davenham, how did you knmmph—” He kissed her right there in the street. At the first taste of her, a deep rush of hunger set his head spinning. He’d waited so long for this, for her. He thought he’d lost her, and now he’d found her.
“Max, what are you doinmmph—” He kissed her again, indifferent to the stares and muttering of the scandalized passersby. He’d feared he might never again hold her, taste her sweet, intoxicating . . . Abbyness.
“We need to talk,” he told her when he’d released her again. She looked so adorably flushed and confused it took all his strength not to snatch her back and carry her off, regardless of the audience. “Not here in the street, nor . . .” He glanced at her sisters. “Morning, ladies, you’ll forgive me if I take your sister back to my hotel.” It wasn’t a question.
“But if you take her to a hotel, won’t she be compromised?” Jane asked.
Max nodded. “I certainly hope so.”
Abby’s eyes widened. A delicious blush colored her cheeks, but she didn’t say a word.
Jane looked prepared to argue the point, until Daisy elbowed her firmly in the ribs. Ignoring Jane’s surprised look, the little cockney winked at Max, turned to Abby and said, “Well, go on then, Abby; run along and let the nice man compromise you. You know you want to.”
Max grinned. He’d always liked Daisy.
Abby spluttered with laughter, half shocked, half embarrassed. Oh, dear, was it so obvious? She’d tried so hard to hide her feelings.
And of course she didn’t want to be compromised. No respectable girl would.
“Trust me, Abby.” He slid his arm around her waist in a move guaranteed to set the Bath tabbies whispering again and pulled her hard against him. “Come with me.”
His strength, his warmth, his certainty were so appealing.
She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t . . . She knew it wasn’t possible.
She made no attempt to pull away
His hold on her tightened. “Ladies,” he said, inclining his head to her sisters, and together he and Abby walked back up Milsom Street.
It was just a walk, she told herself, a walk in public. Quite respectable . . . except for the arm that encircled her waist. She loved the feel of him, the firm, possessive way he drew her against him, the way their bodies brushed against each other as they walked, the way he adjusted his long stride to hers.
But she wasn’t going to any hotel with him.
The cobbles were damp, and the soot from the smoke of domestic coal fires that had covered the street was now, in the fine misty rain, collecting in the cracks, each wrinkle and crevasse etched in black. They walked in silence, hearts full, not knowing where to start because there was so much to say.
One question was at the forefront of her mind. “Henrietta Parsloe?”
“We caught up with them before they reached the border. It’s all sorted. I left Henrietta and her father planning the grandest wedding Manchester’s ever seen. She’s a cunning little minx—that placid surface had us all fooled—she’d had this planned for weeks.”
“I see.” Abby didn’t know what to say. An expression of sympathy was appropriate—he’d been jilted, after all—but her heart was singing. Oh, she had no right to be happy, no right even to think of possibilities. A connection with Abby would bring him worse disgrace and humiliation than mere jilting. Still, he was better off without Henrietta. He deserved a woman who loved and wanted him.
“Not that it mattered to me,” he said, causing her to look up at him sharply.
“But I thought. . . I thought . . .”
“What did you think?” But he must have seen it in her eyes. “You thought I’d marry her anyway? Even though she’d run off?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Why did you go after her, then?”
“I owed it to her father to help. But there was no question of me marrying her. I’d already broken it off with Henrietta before she eloped—that’s why her father was so angry with me. He thought it was why she’d run off. He didn’t know—none of us did at that point—that she’d been planning it for weeks.”
Abby gasped and stood stock-still. “You broke it off? But I thought keeping your word was so important to you.”
“It is, but you’re much more important.” He brushed a lock of damp hair from her cheek.
“Me? But—” She stared at him, unable to think.
They’d reached York House. “All your questions shall be answered if only you’ll come inside. Come on, sweetheart, it’s started to rain and you’re getting wet.” He drew her into the doorway of the hotel.
Her heart thudding, she allowed him to lead her into the hotel. Further conversation was doused by the luxurious hush of the hotel lobby. She felt out of place, damp, bedraggled.
“How did you find us?” she asked as he led her up the stairs. It was not the question that tore at her but it was the easiest to ask in this lush environment.
He didn’t respond.
She looked up at him. “Lady Beatrice? She promised she wouldn’t betray me, but . . .”
He gave a small smile. “Betray you? Aunt Bea?”
“Then how did you know we were in Bath?”
“Featherby gave me your address.”
“Featherby?” Abby exclaimed, hurt. She would have sworn Featherby would have remained loyal.
“Only because I threatened to beat it out of him.”
She turned a shocked face to him. “You didn’t! Threaten to beat poor Featherby? But—”
He laughed at her expression. “Of course I didn’t. But Featherby knows where you belong better than you do, apparently. His last words to me were, ‘Bring Miss Abby home.’ And I intend to do just that.”
Abby bit her lip and turned her face away. It was a lovely thought, but it wasn’t her home. That letter had ensured she could never go back.
At the top of the stairs he produced and key and unlocked a door. “Come in and hear me out, Abby,” he said softly.
She hesitated. She shouldn’t go in there, shouldn’t be alone with him in his hotel room. There was no future for them, she knew it. She should leave, cling to what little respectability she still retained, return to her sisters. And yet . . . and yet . . .
What did he mean, saying she was more important to him than keeping his word?
For a moment Max was sure she was about to refuse, standing there in the corridor, her sweet face crumpled with doubt and indecision, her eyes troubled.
He took her hand and drew her inside, shutting the door behind them, shutting the rest of the world out.
“You wondered why I broke my engagement with Henrietta.” He was drowning in her gaze. “Because I’ve found the one woman in the world I can’t live without.”
Her mouth trembled. “Oh, Max . . .”
He didn’t wait. He couldn’t. He hauled her into his arms and kissed her. She was stiff in his embrace at first, then he felt a shiver run through her and she softened, pressing herself eagerly against him, winding her arms around his neck as she returned his kiss. She tasted of innocence and rain, a hint of woodsmoke, and warm essence of Abby.
Her lips parted beneath his, and without warning the kiss spiraled out of control as he plunged into her sweet depths, the taste of her entering his blood like wildfire.
He hadn’t planned for things to go this far, this fast.
“No, no—stop,” she said suddenly, and pushed at his chest. “We cannot. I cannot.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Max took several deep breaths, struggling for control.
“I can’t be with you. I can’t go back to London. There was a . . . a horrid letter.”
“Oh. Yes, I know.” Of course she was worrying about that. Stupid of him not to deal with it earlier. With an effort he forced his body to behave. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You know about the letter? Then you understand why I can’t go back—”
“Nonsense! Of course you can.”
“But I couldn’t bear it if you and Lady Beatrice suffered—”
“Nobody will suffer anything,” Max told her firmly. “Not that either Aunt Bea or I care two hoots what anyone says about us—or you and your sisters—but the man who wrote that poisonous letter is in gaol. Sit down and I’ll explain.” He didn’t trust himself to touch her again. He just wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss away all resistance and argument.
She removed the tiny piece of nonsense that passed for a bonnet, and placed it on the table. Her hair was damp from the misty rain; tiny dark tendrils spiraled along her nape and temple. He longed to touch them, to bury his face in her cool, tender neck. But she was a worrier, this little love of his, and when she came to him, he wanted it to be with a clear heart and no remaining doubts.
There was a decanter of something on the sideboard. He poured two glasses and handed one to her.
She received the glass absently. “You think Mort wrote the letter? But according to Daisy he can barely read, so I very much doubt—”
“Not Mortimer, someone else.” He took out the letter he’d removed from the hall table the day before. He’d read it in the carriage on the way to Bath. “My friend the magistrate wrote to fill me in on what has happened in the last few days. It seems Sydney Mortimer—Mort, as you call him—on realizing he will undoubtedly hang, decided to take his partners in crime with him. He’s been a fount of information, and as a result, a number of men—and some so-called gentlemen—are now in prison.” He handed her the letter. “See if you recognize any of the names.”
While she read, he sipped his wine, some kind of sherry. Not bad either.
She looked up in surprise. “Greevey? Sir Walter Greevey? But he’s one of the governors of the Pillbury Home!”
Max nodded. “That, and a number of other charitable institutions for girls. According to Mortimer, Greevey’s been personally selecting pretty orphan girls for abduction and sale to brothels for the last five years.”
“How dreadful. I can hardly believe it—I never met him, but Jane said he was always so nice.”
“The evidence is overwhelming. According to my friend, they discovered a pile of incriminating correspondence in his home. He’ll hang as well.”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t bear to think of it, all those poor girls . . . What he did was cruel and evil, such a betrayal of his position of trust.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You think he sent me the threatening letter?”
Max nodded. “It’s the same handwriting as that blank one that you got that day you were attacked. My guess is it’ll match that of the correspondence that was seized.”
“So he sent that man after me with a knife? But why? He didn’t even know me.”
Max had given it some thought. “You’re the reason Jane was able to escape the brothel—he mustn’t have realized she had a sister, let alone one in London. And so he needed to get both you and Jane out of the way; the link between you girls and the Pillbury—and his crimes—was too clear. Your evidence could hang him.”
“He arranged Jane’s position at the vicarage and sent the carriage to take her there,” Abby said. “It’s sickening even to think of it—we were so grateful to him for arranging it, and all the time . . .” She shuddered. “I even wrote to him and the vicar and to Mrs. Bodkin, saying that Jane was safe with me—”
“Which is how he traced you and sent that villain after you with a knife.”
“Mrs. Bodkin wasn’t involved, was she?”
“The matron of the home?” Max shook his head. “No, she’s now trying to trace every girl who ever left the Pillbury since he became involved—see, there.” He pointed to the part of the letter that mentioned the matron.
“Oh, I’m so glad.” She sipped her wine, grimaced and put it down. “It’s such a relief that the author of that beastly letter wasn’t anyone we know. It was so horrid wondering if any of our friends . . .”
Max slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Don’t think about it. It’s all behind you now.”
With a smile, she turned and, as natural as sunshine, lifted her face for his kiss.
He kissed her, lightly at first, then managed to say with some semblance of control, “Not yet. First there are things I need to tell you. Before we . . .” He swallowed and waved her back to her chair.
“What things?” She sat down, folding her hands like an anxious schoolgirl, so serious and pretty he wanted to kiss her again.
“The first and most important is that I love you and in a minute I’m going to ask you to marry me.”
“Oh, Max—” She rose and took a step toward him, but he held up his hand.
“I’m not finished yet.” He wanted to say it all, so there would be no misunderstandings before she accepted him. Or not. “First, I owe you an apology for not telling you back in London that I’d broken my betrothal to Henrietta. And after your sister was almost abducted, I should have explained to you what I was doing instead of rushing off.”
“But I know now—”
“I should have told you at the time, not let you find out afterward, from other people. And the other morning, I should have explained exactly why I was going with Henry Parsloe in pursuit of Henrietta and her lover—and that it was not because I wanted to marry Henrietta. I owe Henry Parsloe a great deal, not just because he lent me money nine years ago.”
Her eyes were shining. “Oh, Max, you don’t need to explain anyth—”
“I do need to explain, because I think I hurt you and I didn’t mean to. The thing is, I wanted to clear all the obstacles away first, so I could come to you free and clear. But I should have said—”
“Hush.” She put soft fingers over his lips, silky and cool against his burning mouth. “It doesn’t matter. And I think it’s lovely that you wanted to make everything right first—it’s one of the things I love about you, the way you always try to do things properly.”
“One of the things?” He swallowed. “You love me?” She loved him!
“Oh, Max, of course I do, with all my heart.” And she flung herself into his arms.
Her kiss was sweet and wild and slightly off-center in her enthusiasm. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him, exploring the mystery of her, reveling in the graceful sinuousness of her body—the pure marvel of her, offering herself to him—as his mouth joined with hers in a dance as old as time. Abby.
His body ached for total possession but he forced himself to put her gently aside. His pulse was racing. He took a ragged deep breath, stepped back and produced the emerald ring from his pocket. “As you know, I like to be thorough in everything I do, so before we go any further . . .” He went down on one knee in front of her. “Abigail Chantry Chance Chancealotto—”
It surprised a choke of laughter out of her.
“Under whatever name you choose, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? For I love you dearly and cannot imagine life without you by my side.”
“Oh, Max. . . Oh, Max.” Her eyes misted. “I’d be honored to. I love you so very much, so if you’re sure . . .” He slid the ring onto her finger, rose to his feet, pulled her into his arms and kissed her again.
He stepped back almost immediately, putting two feet of space between them. It felt like a chasm. A cold gap that needed to be bridged immediately.
He was hard as a rock and aching with desire. “And now, I think you’d better leave, my love, before I do more than compromise you.”
There was a short silence, and then a blush rose on her cheeks. Her gaze dropped. A tiny smile began to play on her lips. “Would you like some help with those buttons?”
His heart gave a lurch. As did other parts of his body. “Are you sure, love? I can wait until we’re married.”
“I can’t.” Her eyes were shining.
“You trust me?”
“Oh, Max, with all my heart.” She reached for his waistcoat buttons. With fingers that tried not to tremble, she undid the buttons one by one—cloth buttons, hard to undo. Beneath the fine cloth she could feel his warmth, his strength, smell the dark, familiar scent of him. Smoke-dark eyes watched every move she made. She could not meet his gaze. She was not bashful, but emotions were swelling within her, and she felt so . . . exposed. They threatened to burst from her, like a sausage splitting its skin. It was not a pretty thought. So inelegant, at a time when she most wanted to be beautiful.
She wished she were more poised, more skillful, less ignorant, not such a fumbling fool. She wanted it, wanted him, more than she could ever believe possible. A consummation devoutly to be wished .. . So where did these nerves come from?
“Would it be easier if I did this?” He leaned forward and brushed his mouth across her lips. Her fingers instantly became thumbs.
“Or this?” He trailed kisses along the line of her jaw. Like a cat she raised her face to give him better access, and shivered deliciously as he laved her skin with his tongue.
All she could do was to clutch feebly at the fabric of his waistcoat and give herself up to the luscious, shimmering sensations that washed through her with every touch.
She had never imagined it could be so with a man.
He nibbled her behind the ear. She shuddered and arched against him and felt him smile against her skin.
“Come, let us move to the bedchamber.” He took her hands and she stood and took a couple of wobbly steps; her legs felt strange, as though her knees were about to dissolve.
With a swift movement he swung her into his arms. She gasped and wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her into the bedchamber—carried her. She hadn’t been carried since she was a child, but there was nothing childlike in this. She felt entirely womanly, desired and desirous.
He laid her down on the bed like some precious gift, then stepped back and, keeping his burning-ice gaze on her, he quickly stripped off his waistcoat and neck cloth. He bent and pulled off his boots and she admired the lean, elegant line of his thighs and the firm masculine buttocks in the tight buff breeches.
He turned and caught her looking, and she blushed furiously, but could not help but smile at the same time.
It felt deliciously wanton to be lying on a man’s bed, admiring his person so blatantly, knowing she had every right to look as much as she wanted. He loved her. Loved her. All the lonely years . . . and now . . . this glorious, wonderful, magnificent man. Her man.
She watched as he unfastened the fall of his breeches and pushed them down his legs. He was still wearing his shirt, so all she could see was long, bare, well-muscled legs. Her face was so hot, it was just as well.
“Now you,” he said, and, feeling tongue-tied and self-conscious, she sat up and moved to unfasten her dress but he knelt before her and slipped off her shoes, one by one. Then his hands slid up her calves, seeking the ties of her garters. He undid them by feel alone, his hands hidden, moving under her skirts, an oddly erotic sight. His long, strong fingers were deft and quick as he dealt with the ties, then slowly rolled off her stockings one by one, brushing down her bare legs, stroking her, gently caressing her feet with his big, warm hands. With every movement, tiny shivers of pleasure arrowed to the core of her. She was melting under his touch.
She watched, mesmerized, as he laid the stockings neatly on the chair, side by side.
He straightened. “Do you need a hand with that?” His voice was deep and a little husky, and she realized she hadn’t done a thing to remove her dress, she’d been so taken up with the way he’d removed her stockings.
Hurriedly, breathing in quick, small gasps, she plucked at the fastenings of her dress.
“Let me,” he said, and in a few movements her dress started to fall away from her shoulders. “I like this dress,” he told her as he seized the hem and pulled it up. “Lift your bottom.” It was almost prosaic, except that her dress was whisked over her head and was gone. He shook it out and draped it carefully over the chair. While his back was turned she hurriedly undid her stays.
And then there was just him in his shirt and Abby in her chemise. Should she take that off too? She was suddenly frozen with anxiety. She wasn’t very . . . womanly. What if he found her disappointing? She folded her arms across her breasts, trying to disguise her lack.
“You are beautiful,” he said softly, and bent to take her mouth with his, and she forgot everything else, all her small, pointless worries burned to ash under the onslaught of his mouth against her senses.
She couldn’t think, only react, only feel. She tasted desire, and hunger and a bone-deep loneliness in him that some long-buried part of her recognized instinctively. She wrapped her arms around him, returning each kiss, each caress. She buried her fingers in his thick, closely cropped dark hair, and briefly wished he were still her wild, long-maned Viking.
Through her chemise he caressed her breasts, her belly, her limbs. Everywhere he touched, the abrasion of hands over fabric left her melting and quivering with pleasure.
And all the time he gazed at her, making love to her with his eyes, his smoke-hot, mist-dark eyes. How had she ever thought him cold?
He pulled off his shirt and a moment later her chemise went the same way, without apology, without regret. She hardly noticed she was naked and exposed; she was eating him up with her eyes. So beautiful, so strong.
And when he worshiped her breasts with lips and tongue and hands and the masculine abrasion of his jaw, she almost burst with the pleasure of it. Lacking? She felt powerful, helpless, beautiful. Triumphant.
She pressed herself hard against him, her limbs twining around him like a vine. The sensation of body against body, skin to skin, was exhilarating. His strength, his power, the fierce intensity of his desire ignited her. She felt lit from within.
She gloried in the hard, strong planes of his chest, running her palms over his skin, exploring the tiny male nubbins with delicate fingers, caressing, possessing and learning how it pleased him. So much pleased him.
He arched and writhed beneath her touch, growling his pleasure, telling her she was his love, his beauty, his soul. And all the time he was kissing her as if he would never, could never stop. He kissed her as she were the water of life itself, and he dying of thirst. And she blossomed beneath his touch.
He nudged her legs apart and caressed her there, his long, strong fingers insistent, knowing, skillful. She writhed restlessly beneath his ministrations, shivering with pleasure, aching and desperate for something, but not knowing what.
She was melting; she was strung as tight as a violin wire; she was shaking with need.
She looked at him, at his hard masculine part that jutted out so forcefully. It was strange; it was magnificent. She reached for it to give him the same pleasure he’d given her. And the same frustration.
“No,” he said, catching her hand before she could touch him. “Not this time, my love. I’ll explode if you touch me.”
“You too?” she wailed.
He smiled, though he was gritting his teeth as if in pain. “Not much longer.”
He moved, pressing her down into the bed with his body. The weight of him crushed her, but, “Yes, yes,” she muttered. This was it, what she wanted, some part of her recognized. She wrapped her legs around his waist, wanting to pull him closer, hold him tighter. She felt the hard heat of him nudging at her entrance and gasped as it pushed against her.
“It’s not going to fit,” she panted.
“It is.” He didn’t move.
She stiffened, wanting suddenly to shove him off her. She pushed at his chest, but in the same instant he entered her in a long, slow thrust that left her rigid with discomfort. The burst-sausage image came to mind again.
“I told you it wouldn’t fit!” But even as she spoke the words, she felt her body softening around him, adjusting to fit him, and suddenly she wasn’t quite so uncomfortable. It felt strange, and there was a slight stinging, but that was all.
He started to move and she stiffened in preparation for more discomfort, but no . . . It was all right. He was moving more rhythmically now, and she was almost . . . feeling . . . something. . . . She strained for . . . whatever it was, and then his fingers slipped between them and sensation arced through her like a flame, like a meteor.
She shrieked, arching and bucking beneath him, and he thrust and thrust, and she was moving with him and oh, it was glorious, and suddenly she was teetering on the edge of unbearable ecstasy, and it built and built until, with a loud groan, he gave one final thrust and shuddered deeply as she shattered gloriously around him.
When Abby woke, she was tucked into bed, curled against something big and warm and hard. She stretched luxuriantly, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin.
She didn’t feel at all like a burst sausage; she felt like a flower that had split open its plain, hard gray case and opened tender new brilliantly colorful petals to the sun. She felt safe; she felt warm; she was loved.
“Abby?” A deep, anxious male voice rumbled in her ear. “Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes and found herself confronting a worried smoke-gray gaze. A most beloved gaze.
She smiled, feeling full of joy, yet at the same time close to tears. She blinked them back, knowing he wouldn’t understand happy tears. “That was . . . I had no idea . . .”
“You’re all right?”
She snuggled against him, laying her cheek against his bare chest and wrapping her arms around him. “Just wonderful.” She sighed happily.
His arm circled her and he kissed her lightly. “It will be better the next time, I promise.”
She smiled against his skin. “I don’t see how it could be, but I’m happy to let you convince me.”
He gave a quiet huff of amusement and she felt him relax. He stroked one arm lazily, his long, clever fingers evoking delicious trails of remembered sensation. She hadn’t expected what passed between a man and a woman to be so. . . emotional, and at the same time, so very . . . animal. And yet so right.
She lay curled against him, in a half-awake, dreamy state, listening to him breathe, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under her cheek.
It was so intimate, lying here in this quiet room, skin to skin with the man she loved.
Outside it started to rain, cold pellets beating against the windowpanes. A leaden gray light filled the room. It was early afternoon, but it felt like nightfall. The room filled with shadows and Abby wondered whether they should dress and return to her sisters. She didn’t want to go anywhere.
“I’ll get us some light.” With a surge of blankets he rose from the bed and, naked, padded to the fireplace where a fire had been laid. He took down the tinderbox and set about making a flame. He seemed entirely unself-conscious.
Abby had never seen a fully naked man before. At first she felt as though she should avert her gaze, but then. . . he was to be her husband. And he was already her lover. It was silly to be shy. She watched him, admiring the ripple of corded muscle across his back, the line of his spine, his taut buttocks, his long, hard thighs. Male to her female. Her Viking.
He set tinder to the fire and soon bright flames danced in the grate. With a long sliver of burning kindling he lit half a dozen candles. She stared, unable to look away when he turned and she saw the full masculinity of him, the part that had been inside her. Sensation rippled through her body at the sight of him.
Such a magnificent man. Emotion filled her throat. What had she done to deserve him?
Seeing her watching him, he smiled, and the smile told her he understood she was still a little shy, and that he liked it, and more than liked her. It warmed her to her toes.
He loved her.
He crossed the room and drew the curtains against the cold light outside. Rain beat on the cold glass panes; inside it was warm and bright and cozy as Max slipped back into bed.
“You don’t want to leave yet, do you?” he murmured and when she shook her head, he took her in his arms once more.
And if the first time they made love was a hungry claiming of frantic, aching flesh, this second time was slower, deeper . . . surer.
It was a vow.
Afterward they lay twined together in the warm light, talking in murmurs to the sound of crackling fire and rain outside. He told her of the mess his uncle had left him, of his first trip to sea and the desperate misery of seasickness.
In turn she told him about her parents and the places they’d lived, and how they died.
And of Laurence. He’d held her tightly then and later told her of the woman he’d had a long-term liaison with, a Chinese widow who had no desire to marry again.
Later the talk turned to their plans for the future. He told her about Davenham Hall, his property in the country, and how he’d managed to keep it—just—out of all the properties his uncle had owned. It would need a lot of work to rebuild the estate, and he had no idea what condition the house was in.
“Would you mind living in the country for a good part of the year?” he asked her. “I know a lot of people don’t like—”
“Mind? The opportunity to create my very own home? Don’t you know how precious that would be for me?” Her eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink them away. “I’ve never had a home of my own before.”
His embrace tightened. “I haven’t either,” he said, his voice husky. “Not really.”
Abby thought of the small boy who’d waited and waited to be collected from school, and never was, the boy who, when he’d finally been invited to his uncle’s house, had found it cold and formal, despite the warmth of his aunt. He might own the house in Berkeley Square, but he’d bought it for his aunt, and it was furnished with her things.
“We’ll create a home together,” she promised him. “For us and for our children.”