AT THE TOP of the elegant staircase, James didn't walk Juliana through the library and into the gorgeous room with the lion head chairs. Instead, he took her the opposite direction.
"Um, James? Isn't the Painted Room the one with all the marriage scenes? The one where I gave you the Richmond Maids of Honour and—"
She broke off, thinking this might not be the best time to remind him she'd come to apologize for tricking him. To remind him she'd thought he was in love with her friend and hadn't known he'd once had a wife.
Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice the abrupt, awkward pause. "I thought I'd show you another room. Mine, to be precise. Though it will be ours very soon." Stopping by an open door, he gave her a quick kiss, a kiss that left her wanting more. "Close your eyes," he said, "and wait here."
The room beyond was so dark she couldn't see anything anyway. "Why do I have to close my eyes?"
"Just do it," he said. "Humor me, please."
So she did. She closed her eyes and waited. She heard some rustling, a dull thud, and finally a rush that she guessed was a fire coming to life. And then she waited a little longer, listening to him walk around, doing who knew what, until finally he came back to her.
"All right," he said, "You can open your eyes."
So she did. He was waiting on the threshold, the sheer size of him blocking her view. "I cannot see past you," she said.
Appearing to be holding his breath, he nodded and stepped aside. "What do you think?"
Beyond him, the room now glistened with light. On the tables, atop a bureau, on the nightstands, candles flickered. At least a dozen, or maybe more.
"Dear heavens," she breathed, "it's splendid." His bedroom looked nothing like the rest of the house; there was nary a hint of gilt and nothing ancient or ornamental. The furniture was all matched, modern Hepplewhite, the height of fashionable style, carved of light satinwood in lines that were gracefully curved and distinctive. The red and yellow fabrics all looked silky and sumptuous. Even the walls were covered with silk, wide stripes above enameled white wainscoting. Arranged before a white-manteled fireplace—the fireplace he'd lit on this cold, rainy night—sat a love seat and two plush chairs, upholstered with narrower stripes.
And then there was the bed. Covered in solid red damask and heaped with plump yellow pillows, it had slender, towering posts and positively dominated the room.
The very sight of it weakened her knees. Just realizing that someday—someday soon—she'd be in that bed with James, made her pulse start pounding, made her skin prickle with sudden, heated awareness.
She sipped some of the port in her glass, hoping the heady sweet wine might calm her. "It's the most beautiful bedroom I've ever seen."
Releasing a tense breath, he bent to press a warm kiss to the top of her head, a kiss so cherishing it made her insides clench. "I'm so glad you like it."
She turned and gazed up at him. "Everything looks brand-new."
"It is. I had it redecorated especially for you. For us. My favorite color is red, and you do like yellow, don't you?"
She sipped again, using her free hand to smooth her yellow skirts. "It's my favorite color." Her head swam with confusion. "But how…I mean…dear heavens, however did you redecorate it so fast?"
"I've known for weeks that I wanted to marry you, Juliana." His low, chocolatey voice seemed to vibrate right through her. "I'm only sorry it took me so long to tell you. We could have avoided so much heartache."
Tears sprang again to her eyes. Honestly, she was turning into a veritable waterworks. "I should have realized," she admitted, swallowing a lump in her throat. "But I was so sure you'd never love me. I was so set on marrying the duke and having you marry Amanda in place of Lord Malmsey."
"We both made mistakes, love. But everything's going to be fixed now."
Yes, they'd both made mistakes. She wasn't perfect; nobody was. She was human like everyone else, and the past few weeks had proved it.
It was disappointing in a way, but in another way she knew it had always been inevitable. And she was so, so thankful that everything was turning out all right. "Oh, James, I don't think I've ever, ever been so happy." Her heart was swelling so much she feared it might burst. "I can hardly wait to climb into that bed with you."
"Oh, my love." Putting the arm that held his wineglass around her, he pulled her close and cupped her chin in his free hand. And then he kissed her, his mouth hot, his tongue plunging deep. Her senses spun, and she knew it had nothing to do with the wine.
But the caress was over all too quickly.
He drew away, a captivating smile curving his lips. "I was hoping you'd say that." He grabbed her free hand and began pulling her into the room.
"What?" He couldn't mean to climb into the bed here and now. "Your mother is in the house!"
"Yes, and she's ill and no doubt sleeping soundly, and her bedroom is way down the hall." When she planted her feet and stopped going with him, he reversed direction and tugged her back into the corridor. "See? That very last door. There's not a chance in hell she'll hear us, sweetheart. No matter how loud I make you moan."
She blushed furiously, wondering if he'd ever made her moan before. Honestly, she couldn't remember, but she wouldn't be surprised. For all she knew, she could have been moaning thirty seconds ago. That kiss had certainly stolen her breath. If there was one thing James was proficient at, it was making her lose her head.
And it was a very long corridor, she conceded silently as she sipped more port. She'd noticed a door inside James's bedroom, which probably led to a sitting room or a dressing room. Or both. Doubtless his study was on the other side of those, and then his mother's dressing room before her bedroom, and maybe a sitting room for her besides. And perhaps some guest rooms in between. Stafford House was enormous.
But all of that was beside the point. "We cannot go to bed with your mother sleeping down the hall. Not before we're married. It's not the thing, James—it's highly improper."
"You've never worried about being improper before. As you pointed out to Aunt Aurelia just two days ago, we've been in private together more than once." His voice went even deeper, more seductive. "At Vauxhall, and the Panorama, and the Physic Garden…"
She blushed again, remembering all those times. Remembering the greenhouse in Chelsea especially. Remembering all those feelings he'd aroused in her. "But we weren't in a bed." She gulped more port.
"Do you really think a bed makes a difference, my love?" Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them. "I've kissed you before without a bed," he reminded her, edging her toward a table. He took her wineglass and set them both down. "If you'd prefer, I will kiss you right now without climbing into the bed. All right?"
And he did. He drew her against his hard, muscled form, and he kissed her, a kiss invitingly warm and deep. A kiss persuasive and divine. He tasted of lust and sweet wine and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.
Slowly, very slowly, he inched her toward the bed, and she moved with him, her arms going up and around him, her fingers plowing into his unruly hair. His hands wandered her back and worked their way down to her bottom, still moving her, pressing her closer, so close she felt the proof of his desire straining against her. It made answering emotions rush through her, made heat pool in that place between her legs that ached whenever he touched her.
And all the while, he kept inching them toward the bed.
Before she knew it, they were on the bed.
"It's only a bed," he murmured. "It really doesn't make a difference." And it didn't, not really. She knew that. "It's more comfortable here," he whispered, a whisper so raspy it made her melt.
It was more comfortable. There had to be a featherbed under the covers, because she sank right into it. He rolled closer, and closer still, until his body covered hers, pressing her farther into the plush, sensual mattress. It cradled her, cocooned her, and still he kept kissing her.
He felt warm on top of her, and heavy, but not too heavy; he had to be supporting himself somehow, because he was just heavy enough to feel deliciously exciting. And she wanted him to kiss her forever. She knew she shouldn't allow him to do anything else, but just the feel of his mouth on hers was enough to satisfy her every desire.
But then he abandoned her mouth to kiss her throat, finding an especially sensitive hollow. She moaned…oh, yes, he could make her moan. Thank heavens his mother was so far down the hall, because James was so excessively proficient at making her lose her head, there was no way on earth she could help herself. She moaned again, and her breath came faster, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.
And then he kissed the wide expanse of skin framed by her low neckline, fluttery little kisses that went everywhere, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever. And he kissed the tops of her breasts, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.
And then he worked a hand beneath her body, just long enough to unfasten a few buttons. And drew her bodice and chemise down, exposing her breasts.
He paused, his chocolate eyes going hazy with hunger. "Do you want me to kiss you here?" he asked in that raspy, heartrending whisper.
Her breasts tingled, and he hadn't even touched them yet. They tingled, and he was just looking. Their tips were puckering and making her squirm.
"Oh, yes," she breathed, and he kissed her there. One breast and then the other. And then back to the first, and his mouth opened, drawing her in, and the sensation was hot and so exciting that the aching place between her legs began to pulse.
And suddenly, remembering how he'd made her feel when he touched her there that one time, it wasn't enough to satisfy her every desire.
She wanted more.
"Oh, James," she breathed, "kiss me more."
He lifted his head, his warm breath wafting over her bare skin. "Should I kiss you here?" he asked, indicating her other breast.
"Oh, yes."
He did, and it felt even better, more amazing. Her blood was rushing, and her breath was coming in little panting bursts. Wanting to give him the same pleasure, she touched him everywhere she could reach. His springy, curly hair, the curve of his head underneath, the roughness on his cheeks. His hard, sculpted shoulders. The smooth, muscled expanse of his back beneath his clothing.
He felt wonderful, marvelous, but she couldn't reach any lower. Her arms simply weren't long enough. "More," she whispered. "Kiss me more." Thinking he would return to her mouth, thinking he would move up her so her hands could reach farther down, she breathed, "More. Kiss me more."
But he moved down instead of up. He kissed her through her thin yellow dress, down her middle and across her belly. And a hand went lower still, pulling off her slippers. And stealing beneath her skirts.
And skimming up her legs. And untying her garters and rolling her stockings down and off, a slippery, tingly slide of silk. And then his fingers danced up her calves, and over her knees, and around and behind them, teasing a ticklish place on the back. And higher, between her thighs, spreading her legs a little.
The place between them ached so badly and pulsed so persistently, she thought she might go out of her mind. But she knew she shouldn't let him touch her there again, not until they were married. She couldn't ask him to touch her. "More, James," she whispered instead. "Kiss me more."
And he did. He drew up her skirts, and he kissed her knees, swirling his tongue in tantalizing strokes. And he drew her skirts higher and kissed her thighs, all over and between them, little kisses that were melting her, melting her heart, melting her resolve. And then he drew her skirts higher still, higher and higher, until they were pooled around her middle. Without lifting his head, while he was still kissing her, he bared her all the way up to her waist.
She knew she should stop him, but she was moaning, and she couldn't seem to help herself. Though she knew she was wanton, she didn't care. And then he lifted his head and, using his hands to ease her legs wider, he looked at her there…and she knew it was wicked.
But she'd never experienced anything better or more exciting. Ever.
"Should I kiss you here?" he rasped.
She'd never heard of such a thing. Never even imagined it. But she wanted him to kiss her there more than she'd wanted anything in her life.
That place wasn't just pulsing now—it was throbbing.
"Should I?" he asked, and his hot breath made it throb more. "Should I kiss you here?"
She couldn't bring herself to say yes. She couldn't bring herself to agree to something so wicked. Even though she wanted him to kiss her there so badly that tears pricked in her eyes.
He lowered his head, but he didn't kiss her. His hair had flopped over his forehead, those dear, unruly curls, and she couldn't see his eyes. But she knew he was looking, and that knowledge made the throbbing mount unbearably.
"Should I?" he whispered, and his breath was hotter than ever, so hot it made her hips lift right off the bed.
"Yes!" she cried. "Oh, yes!"
And he kissed her there. He kissed her there over and over and over, his tongue finding that sweet spot that made her throb even more. It felt hot, slippery hot, little slippery hot strokes. She wanted to touch him more than ever, but she couldn't reach him anywhere, so her fingers curled into the damask beneath her instead. And he stroked and stroked until that slippery heat sent her flying into oblivion.
She had never, ever felt anything like it in her life. Not even in the greenhouse. She moaned. She moaned until James crawled up her body and captured the moans in his hot, talented mouth.
She thought she might calm then, like last time, but the opposite was true. His kisses were devouring her, making the ache build all over again. She tasted not only James now, not only lust and wine and James, but also the faintest hint of herself. A combination that proved the most delicious, most incredible, most arousing flavor ever.
It wasn't enough. She wanted that flavor forever, she wanted him to kiss her forever, but it wasn't enough.
And then he lifted his head and looked at her for a moment. Just looked at her. And kissed her again and lifted his head again and just looked at her again.
The expression in his eyes, the devotion and the love, was almost more than she could stand.
"Can I come inside you?" he whispered in that raspy, heartbreaking tone. "I swear, Juliana, I want you more than I want to breathe. More than I want my own life. Sweetheart, can I come inside you?"
She moaned again, but it was a silent moan, only a moan in her head. Why couldn't he just take her? Why did he always have to ask? Why did he make it her decision as much as his, make it so she couldn't claim he'd ever taken advantage, not even to herself?
Why, why, why?
But she knew why. It was because he was honorable. Because he was the best man she'd ever known. Because he was everything she'd ever wanted all along, even before she'd known herself enough to know it.
She loved him. She loved him more than she'd known it was possible to love another human being. And he was waiting. He was still waiting for her to answer. Waiting to hear she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Patiently waiting, his heart in his chocolate brown eyes.
How could she deny him? How could she deny herself? They'd be married soon anyway, and if anyone deserved to hear the words he was waiting for, if anyone deserved to know she wanted him with all of her heart, it was James.
She drew in a breath. And, "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, please. Please make me yours."
He froze. He didn't move; he didn't even breathe. "Are you sure, love?"
Why did he have to ask?
But she knew why. "I'm sure. I want you more than I want my life."
He didn't ask her again. He rolled off of her, leaving her wanting, but only to rip off his cravat and tailcoat and waistcoat. And unbutton his shirt. And pull it off over his head. And then, while she drank in the mouthwatering sight of his firm, bare torso, his fingers went to the buttons on his falls, and she realized, somewhere in her hazy, love-drenched mind, that all this time he hadn't even unbuttoned. He'd kissed her and caressed her and sent her to oblivion without even unbuttoning.
He unbuttoned now, and before she knew it, he was naked. Dear heavens, he was magnificent. She wanted him even more, much more than she'd thought possible. He fell on her then, and took her mouth with his, and she could hardly wait to have him inside her. He kissed her, and kissed her, and—
"James? Are you home?"
It was his mother, out in the corridor.
"James, is that you?"
"Bloody hell," he gritted out and leapt off of Juliana. Muttering obscenities the likes of which she'd never heard, he stalked to the new Hepplewhite wardrobe and slammed the door open. And yanked out a red silk dressing gown. And shrugged into it so violently she feared he might rip it.
"James?" His mother knocked on the door.
"I'm coming, Mother."
Juliana had enjoyed seeing him without the dressing gown much more than with it. Looking furious, he tied the belt and tied it again, and knotted it with a jerk, and went to the door and opened it just enough to slip through—so his mother wouldn't see her inside, thank heavens—and shut it behind him.
And then Juliana lay there on the red damask, shaking, listening to their conversation.
"Oh, James, I thought I heard you. How are you feeling, dear?"
"Tired. I was sleeping."
"Poor dear." There was a pause, during which Juliana imagined Lady Stafford ruffling James's hair, even though he was much too old to have his hair ruffled. "I'm so sorry about everything that's happened. I so wanted you to marry Juliana."
"I know." She heard James sigh. "It may still happen."
"What do you mean?" Lady Stafford sounded very excited. "What do you mean, it may still happen?"
"I'm very tired, Mother, and I don't want to explain it now. Can we talk about this in the morning? How are you feeling?"
"Better. Much better. I think I'll be able to attend your wedding tomorrow."
"I'm hoping there won't be a wedding." His voice was getting fainter. "Let me take you back to bed, Mother. We'll talk in the morning."
"I really don't want to wait until morning to hear this, James," Juliana heard very faintly.
And then she heard nothing. He must have been walking his mother back to bed. It took him a very long time to return, and at first Juliana figured that was because it was a very long corridor, but when he took even longer, she figured he was probably explaining everything to his mother. Lady Stafford was rather persistent, after all. Most mothers were. Juliana figured she'd probably be a rather persistent mother herself. If she ever got to be a mother.
Dear heavens, what if everything didn't work out?
At last James hurried back into the room and shut the door behind him. His fingers went to the knot in his belt.
She sat up on the edge of the bed, pushing her skirts down and pulling her bodice back up. "What are you doing?"
"Getting out of this damned dressing gown." He seemed to be having trouble. Apparently he'd knotted the belt too tightly when he'd jerked it. "Getting back to what we were doing."
"We cannot do it, James."
"What?" He looked up, his fingers still working the knot. Or rather, not working it. It didn't look like it was going to budge. "Whyever would you say that? I realize you've probably cooled off some while I was talking to my mother, but I'll soon have you warm again, sweetheart. I'll have you moaning in no time—"
"What if everything doesn't work out?"
"What do you mean, what if everything doesn't work out?"
"I heard you, James. I heard you tell your mother it may still happen. I heard you tell her you're hoping there won't be a wedding tomorrow."
His fingers slipped on the knot, but he bent his head and resumed fighting with it. "I was just trying to get her back to bed. I didn't want to stop and explain everything. I didn't want to have a discussion. I wanted to get back to you."
"We cannot go back to doing that. What if everything doesn't work out? We cannot make love if you're going to marry Amanda."
He stopped working the knot and looked at her. "I'm not going to marry Lady Amanda. You read Castleton's note. Everyone is in agreement."
"Her father isn't."
"He isn't even her father!"
"That doesn't signify. He's legally her guardian. He might have another objection."
James plopped to sit on the bed beside her. "What could he possibly come up with now? Who could he possibly claim slept with whom in order to make Lady Amanda and Castleton's marriage impossible?"
"I don't know. All I know is we all thought he couldn't possibly have a valid objection before, and it turned out he did. So he could have another objection. Or someone else could have an objection. We don't know, James." She rubbed his back through the red silk, thinking he felt very tense and looked very frustrated. Well, she was frustrated, too, but that didn't change anything. "We're going to have to wait. It won't kill us. It won't be long."
"Damn right it won't be long. As soon as we straighten everything out, we'll be wed tomorrow. I was planning to get married tomorrow, anyway."
Despite her frustration, despite everything, she couldn't stop a soft laugh from escaping her throat. "Don't be ridiculous. We cannot get married tomorrow."
"Why not? It was ridiculously simple to get the special license to wed Lady Amanda—all it took was money. I can get another license with your name on it tomorrow with no trouble."
"We need more than a license, James. I need a wedding dress. And we have to deal with the whole mess regarding Amanda's parentage tomorrow, and I have to deliver the baby clothes. The Governors are expecting me at the Foundling Hospital tomorrow afternoon, with two hundred and forty items."
Thank heavens they were finished. The women James had hired had only needed to make twelve more. Everything was going to work out.
She hoped.
"All right," he said dourly. "We'll get married the Saturday after that. Can I kiss you now?"
"Yes, you can kiss me. And then we need to go let Amanda know what's happening."
He kissed her and he kissed her again, and all the while, all the time she had her arms around his neck and was kissing him, she was crossing her fingers and hoping everything would work out.