Page 72 of The Lady’s Deception

As the dining and drawing rooms must already be familiar to him from their earlier celebration, she began on the opposite side of the wide central staircase, with her least favorite room. At Mr. Burke’s encouragement, she had ordered the walls repainted a soft rose color and the furniture recovered with cheery patterns, but it was still rather too easy to picture Mrs. Sloane seated at the large work table or pretending to doze on the sofa, like a watchful old bulldog waiting to sound the alarm at any sign of mischief.

Even now, Rosamund could not quite bring herself to cross the threshold. Nevertheless, she had already had her books and her needlework moved into the room; this was the lady’s parlor and it would be her proper place as the lady of the manor. From the doorway, Paris’s dark eyes took in every detail, though he made no comment.

Adjacent to that room, though not adjoining it, was the library, with its stout oak desk and dark paneled walls lined with bookshelves. She loved its masculine warmth, the deep leather chairs and the welcoming window nook, where she had often hidden herself to read for hours. But she loved Paris more, and when he’d sent two trunks of books and papers from Dublin, she’d placed them in this room with her own hands, eager to show him that he’d at last have a gentleman’s study of his own. “When the door is closed, you’ll have all the quiet you could want,” she told him as they stepped inside.

Again, he took it all in without speaking. Then, releasing her hand, he walked out the door, returning a moment later with his arms loaded: plump floral cushions, her workbasket, and a stack of novels. “There’s such a thing as too much quiet,” he said, as he distributed her things about the room. “I didn’t come here to be alone.”

“I love you.” The words rushed from her, and her own eagerness caught her off guard. She’d not spoken them before, though they were true and had been for quite some time.

His eyes danced with wry humor. She felt certain he was about to tease her. To say, “I know.” And it would be fair enough, for he’d known her, known her heart, even when she had been trying desperately to hide it from him.

But then his expression softened, and he took her hands in his and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered against her ear. “But I shall endeavor to be worthy of you, my dear. Now,” he said, straightening, “what about the upstairs?”

“It’s just bedchambers.”

“Yes.”

The heat of her blush would have taken the chill off the house, if any had remained. He threaded her arm through his and together they climbed to the floor above, which contained another four rooms. Rosamund had always been relegated to the smallest of them, which overlooked the privy. The master’s suite—or at least, the room which Charles had commanded whenever he had deigned to visit—had an expansive view of the gardens at the back of the house. This room she was ready to reclaim.

Her fingers trembled only slightly as she opened the door and they stepped inside. Mrs. Coats, the housekeeper, had made everything fresh after last night’s visitors—the crisp white bed linens had already been turned down, and the two large windows had been left open to invite the spring breeze. “This is where we’ll be tonight,” she explained, and blushed again.

Paris nudged the door shut with the toe of his boot. “Must we wait?”

Sunlight filled the room, filtered through the bright green leaves of a spreading oak tree just outside. “But it’s broad afternoon!” No cover of darkness to cloak them, no softening haze of candle or hearth.

He lifted one hand to trace the curve of her heated cheek. “There’s no shame in it, Mrs. Burke.”

Mrs. Burke. She’d never grow tired of hearing it, though she supposed a part of her might always be prickly Miss Gorse.

He’d sensed her hesitation. “But it’s just as you please.” The same words of reassurance he’d spoken that night at Laurens House. The promise that the choice would always be hers.

Twisting, she brought herself against him and reached up for a swift kiss. Yes, he’d see every inch of her in this sun dappled room. But she would see every inch of him, too. “Oh, Paris. I’ve missed you so.”

“I’ve missed you too.” He spoke between kisses, as if he needed to learn her lips all over again. One strong arm curled around her waist, one hand cradled her head. “Do you need me to call your maid to help you undress?”

“I haven’t a maid,” she confessed breathlessly. Sally, who swept and dusted and made up the fires, would doubtless find it odd to be summoned at this hour. “I can manage.”

He caught up her hands and kissed them. “Let me.” With nimble, careful fingers, he unpinned her new dress of china blue muslin and slipped it from her, then gently turned her away from him to unlace her stays. When they fell away, he swept his hands up her arms and over her hips, taking in every lightly-clad curve with an appreciative murmur.

Not to be undone, she turned and slid her palms over his chest, pausing to feel the pounding of his heart. Hungrily, she pushed his coat over his shoulders and let it join her gown on the floor, then set to work on the too many buttons of his gold waistcoat. At her hiss of frustration, he took up the task and made swift work of it, while she proceeded to tug his shirttails free from the band of his breeches.

“Here,” he grunted, bending and lifting her in his arms. “I forgot about the threshold bit. This will have to do.” Softly, he laid her in the center of the bed before removing her shoes and stockings. Now, only her embroidered cambric shift shielded her from his dark gaze.

When he leaned his backside against the mattress to shed his boots, she knelt and reached around to unwind his cravat, then slid her hands down to the buttons of his fall. “I’ve been thinking about that night at your sister’s,” she whispered into his ear before nipping at his earlobe. “And I wondered…”

“Yes?” he hissed as the first button slipped free with a soft pop.

“Can a lady”—pop-pop—“please a gentleman”—pop-pop—“as you”—pop-pop-pop—“pleased me?”

His breeches slid to his ankles and he kicked free of them before turning to face her. “I believe I’m supposed to say that a gentleman would never ask a lady—to say nothing of his wife—to perform such a lewd, lascivious act.” With every few words, he prowled closer, and she scooted backward beneath the force of his gaze, until she lay beneath him, pinned to the mattress by his welcome weight and delicious heat.

“But you didn’t ask,” she pointed out. She’d never felt so marvelously naughty in all her life. “I did.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, withholding the promised pleasure of his lips to say, “Then by all means.” She opened herself to his plundering kiss, clinging desperately to fistfuls of his shirt and canting her hips to meet his.

By degrees, he gentled the pressure of his mouth, eased his weight from her. “But not just now,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I want—ah, love. Will you let me come inside you?” The tiniest flutter of nervousness traveled from her chest to her belly. Had he felt it? Softly, he kissed her again. “I’ll be so gentle, love. I just need—”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “I need it too.”