His midnight eyes searched hers for a long moment, as though he wanted to memorize every detail of this moment. As though he remembered how hard it had been to walk away. “I was going to say, I never expected you to forgive me. But I don’t know you have.” His lips flattened. “If you even can.”
She slid her hands down, his beard rough against her palms, and looped her arms around his neck. “I could send you away again, but you’d never really leave me. You never did.”
His breath escaped in a rush, and he leaned down to capture her mouth with his, sending electric sparks tingling over her skin. “And I never will. How can I prove it to you?”
“You don’t have to prove it,” she whispered. “I’ve already forgiven you.”
Chapter 16
“Itmustbesacrilegiousto say a prayer while undressing my wife.”
Philip’s words sent a shiver down Lily’s spine, and she shifted on her feet, desire chasing each brush of his fingers as he unbuttoned her dress.
“Perhaps we should consult the vicar,” she managed. On another day, she would hate the breathy quality of her voice, how it weakened her. But she had no need for that worry now. Her walls had fallen, at least for her husband.
Her husband.
Philip chuckled and bussed his lips against her shoulder blade. “With it being Christmas Eve, I suspect he’s otherwise occupied. I’ll just have to worship at the altar of my wife and beg forgiveness later.”
“I’ve forgiven you.” The words lifted yet another layer of grief from her shoulders, stripping her bare as he was with her clothing.
He pressed his lips against the side of her neck, pausing to breathe her in. “Say it again.”
“I forgive you,” she breathed. “I love you.”
He shifted the fabric of her sleeves down her arms, and the scarlet silk slipped to pool at her waist. With a low hum, he cupped her hips over her chemise, his wide hands making her feel impossibly slight. “No corset, love?”
She shook her head. “No need with this dress. And I despise corsets.”
“I despise them, too.” His palms moved around her ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. “This is much better.”
Her nipples pulled into hard peaks, and she barely suppressed her needy moan. The poise and control that had defined her life for the past eight years fled her entirely, and now she wanted nothing more than to throw Philip on the bed and ride him until she found relief. No, this was more than mere desire, though her lust was chasing all rational thought from her mind. She wanted nothing between them—no secrets or shame, no distance or misplaced anger.
He released the tapes holding her petticoat in place, and it fell into a pile with her dress at her feet, leaving her in the delicate chemise she’d worn for the express purpose of seeing Philip’s reaction to it.
She wasn’t disappointed. A growl rumbled from his chest, over her ribcage, and he ground his erection against her backside. He lifted one gossamer-thin strap from her shoulder and ran his finger beneath it. “What is this delightful thing?”
Heat crawled up her chest and neck. “I thought it was pretty.”
When he moved away, she whimpered at the loss of his warmth. But he caught her hand as he stepped around her and sat on the side of their bed. Pulled her forward between his spread thighs. “It’s more than pretty.” His gaze raked over the nearly sheer lawn, the delicate bobbin lace edging that brushed against her breasts as her breath sawed in and out. “You’re more than pretty. You’re the answer to my prayers, Lily.”
Her throat burned as emotion climbed from her chest. But now, she didn’t fear appearing weak or broken. Her shattered pieces were falling back into place, and it wasn’t a time for sorrow, but joy. For the love she’d missed for so long, a love that had continued to grow, albeit at a distance. Her period of mourning—for the marriage she wanted, for the man she loved—had finally ended with a rebirth, a chance to capture what they’d been missing.
Philip exhaled in a rush. “You’re so strong,” he breathed, and she choked on a smothered bark of laughter.
“Strong?”
He nodded, his palm gliding over the swell of her shoulder, then her bicep. “I noticed your legs earlier, when I…” He cleared his throat as a self-satisfied smirk spread across his lips. “You’ve worked hard at your stables, and it shows.”
She bit her lower lip, wishing she could escape the potency of his gaze. “It’s not feminine to be muscular.”
His expression was murderous. “Who told you that?”
The brush of his lips against her shoulder pulled the breath from her lungs. “Every dressmaker I’ve met. Hence my preference for shirtwaists and breeches.”
“I can’t imagine anything more feminine than this.” His exploring hands left her arms and now held her waist, skimmed down over the curves of her bottom, and pulled her closer. The solid weight of his thighs kept her steady, something she was grateful for as her own legs had turned boneless. “Strength used to help others,” he murmured, “to create something wonderful. Strength to keep going.”
She rested her arms on his shoulders and stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. How she’d missed the silky slide of his dark locks through her fingers, and her heart swelled with the knowledge she’d be able to do this whenever she wanted. “You were strong, too.”
