Page 73 of The Lady’s Deception

His previous frenzy all but forgotten, he rose from the bed to shed the rest of his clothes, and she greedily studied the lean planes of his body. Then he urged her once more onto her knees so he could lift her shift over her head. In that moment of blindness, she heard his sharp intake of breath. At last, she laid down and he came beside her, nothing between them now.

“You’re perfection,” he said, his gaze roving over her. “I’m almost afraid to touch you.”

“Don’t be. I…” She didn’t have words for her desire.

But he understood her, all the same. His fingertips began their slow erotic journey in the hollow at the base of her throat. She watched the progress of his hand, mesmerized, as he brought her skin to life with his touch. Brushed the pad of his thumb back and forth across the tips of her pink-peach nipples until she whimpered. Trailed sparks over the curve of her belly and into the honey-brown curls between her legs. Light, playful touches, so different from the sensations that had brought her to a swift peak once before. Eagerly, she parted her legs, welcoming the glide of his fingers between her folds as he teased her nub, hearing her own wetness as he dipped a finger into her, slipping from one sensitive spot to the other, until she thought she might go mad with the pleasure of it.

As his hand explored her, his manhood nudged repeatedly against her thigh, hot and more than a little forbidding. But when he levered himself onto one arm and came over her, distracting her with soft, sweet kisses, she forgot to be nervous. He fitted himself to her with such care, entered her with such easy, gentle thrusts, that she felt no pain, just the agreeable ache of being stretched and filled at last. And all the while his clever thumb continued to work its magic on that little pearl. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle her panting cries.

“No.” It was almost a growl, and his eyes were fierce. Feverish. “Not this time. I want to hear you. I want to see you.” He thrust deeper, and her answering gasp escaped, mocking her feeble effort to muffle the sound. Giving up, giving in, she reached up to brush the hair from his damp brow instead. “Come to me, Roisín,” he pleaded.

She couldn’t deny him, couldn’t deny herself. Pleasure burst, then rolled over her in waves as his seed flooded her womb with heat.

Afterward, he rolled onto his back and she curled against his side. They lay, breathless, tangled in the sheets. She luxuriated in the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of his heart as it returned to a steadier pace. In all her wildest imaginings, she had never dreamed of such deep contentment, the certainty that their union would be stronger than the fragile pieces from which it had been made. Because she’d wanted a man who was good and loving and just, and she’d found him in an Irish rebel. Because she was prim and proper and English, and he was her perfect rogue.

A few minutes later, his palm began to rub circles over her bottom. “Oh.” To her amazement, her need surged again in response to his touch and she pressed herself eagerly against his hard thigh. “You were so quiet, I assumed you’d fallen asleep,” she said as she glanced up at his face.

But it wasn’t drowsiness that made his eyes heavy-lidded and warm. “It’s broad afternoon, Mrs. Burke,” he teased, smiling down at her. “And I’m not one bit tired. What say we make a little more noise?”

Epilogue

December 24, 1800

“Babies,” Daphne declared loftily as she peered over the edge of the crib, “are boring.”

“When they aren’t crying,” Bell agreed. “Or stinky.”

Arthur James Rowan Laurens, Marquess of Hawes, raised one tiny fist at his young aunts and scrunched up his face. His father swooped in to forestall the inevitable eruption. “Or hungry,” Tristan said, settling the baby in his mother’s arms.

Though the Duke of Raynham had lost the sunburnt color he’d first sported upon his return from the West Indies several months ago, Erica’s face was still more freckled than ever. Her husband didn’t seem to mind, however. He dropped a kiss on the ones scattered across the bridge of her nose as the baby began to emit greedy smacking noises.

“Come,” said Paris, shepherding his youngest sisters from the room before they began to complain again.

“If I were you,” Erica spoke after them, “I’d use this time to build my arsenal. Because once I’ve laid Arthur down for his nap, the snowball fight to end all snowball fights will begin.” Her voice had a newly soft, maternal note to it Paris hardly recognized, but the words themselves could belong to no one but his middle sister.

“I don’t see why they couldn’t have at least chosen one of the names from the list we sent her,” Daphne complained as he closed the door behind them.

“It’s traditional to give the heir a family name,” Paris explained. “Rowan to honor our papa, and Arthur James in memory of Tristan’s father.” The late duke had been an avid student of the Arthurian legends. Paris suspected, however, that the baby’s first name was equally a nod to Arthur Remington, Tristan’s secretary, who had demonstrated yet another surprising set of skills when the little marquess had insisted on making his appearance before the Seaflower could dock in Liverpool.

Daphne considered the matter, then shrugged. “Well, that means all the best ones are left. You and Rosamund can have your pick.”

“If the baby is a girl,” he pointed out. The list of names Daphne and Bell had labored over was predictably one-sided.

Bell frowned. “What else would she be?”

Paris laughed. In truth, he wanted a daughter—despite having grown up surrounded by sisters. Or perhaps because of it.

Cami met them at the bottom of the stairs holding a dark-haired toddler by either hand. The girls were dusted in white. Not snow, as he’d first thought, but flour. “Oh, there you are,” she said, sounding relieved. “Eileen chased Elf into the kitchen again, and surprised Mrs. Riggs in the middle of rolling out piecrust. Did I—?” There was flour in Cami’s hair too. “Did I hear something about you girls going outside?” she asked hopefully.

At almost two years of age, Lady Phoebe and Lady Chloe Finch, in addition to the decided advantage of being girls, could perform all sorts of tricks that boring babies could not. They ran and played pat-a-cake and babbled words that sounded suspiciously like “Daphne” and “Bell.” Or near enough that the young aunts were gratified by the attempt.

“Let’s make snow angels,” suggested Bell as she took one of the twins by the hand and the four trundled off to get into their wraps.

“Take Elf with you,” Cami called after them, sinking into the first chair she found, which happened to be in Paris’s study.

Since Paris and Rosamund’s marriage, the Burke family had continued to grow, while Tavisham Manor—a modest little house, just as Rosamund had once told him—had seemed to shrink. Now it was full to the point of bursting. Erica and Tristan had intended on making only a brief visit on their way from London to Hawesdale Chase, Tristan’s family estate, which they had not seen for more than a year. Paris’s parents and Daphne and Bell had been traveling northward with them, planning to return to Dublin. No one could have predicted the heavy snow. The same weather that had stranded the lot of them in Berkshire had also forced Cami and Gabriel and their daughters to take refuge before they could reach London, where they had been expected at an important event being hosted by Cami’s publisher in her honor.

“I’m sorry we all just descended on you like this,” Cami said, “especially at Christmas.”