Page 37 of To Wager with Love

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Jasper forced his eyes open again and stared at her, dazed with pleasure. “Like heaven. Like nothing on earth but you, Harry.” He thrust deeper, and she gave a startled little cry. He stopped at once. “It hurts?”

Harriet shook her head. “No, at least… only for a moment. It’s… strange, that’s all.”

“And now?” he asked, withdrawing and sliding inside her again.

“It’s fine,” she said, closing her eyes as he did it again. “Fine…. Oh.”

He smiled at that little oh of pleasure and kissed her forehead as he slid a hand between them and found the secret place that had loved his tongue so very much.

“And now?” he asked, touching her so very gently.

“Oh, yes,” she said, sighing and wrapping her arms about him, pulling his head down and seeking his mouth. “Yes, yes,” she whispered.

From the point of view of a man who believed himself an experienced lover, it was an embarrassingly short time before Jasper felt his own body tighten.

“Harry,” he said, staring down at her.

“Yes,” she said, staring up at him and smiling, actually smiling at him, such a soft look in her eyes that his heart soared. “Oh, yes.”

He shuddered as waves of pleasure crashed over him, holding Harriet to him and crying out, unable to contain his joy in the moment as he said her name.

“Harry, oh, yes, Harry. I love you. I love you.”

Chapter 11

My dear Miss Hunt,

I do hope that you are well and no worse the wear for your exposure to the inclement weather this morning. I should be glad to have my physician attend you should you have need of him.

My ankle is sprained, as suspected, but I can report there is no permanent or serious damage. I inform you only to save you the trouble of enquiring, as I have no doubt you were about to do. I should not like you to worry yourself unduly on my behalf.

Happily, Rhaebus was recovered, unharmed.

I predict the next time we cross paths—or swords—will be no less dramatic. In anticipation…

M

―Letter from The Most Honourable, Lucian Barrington, the Marquess of Montagu to Miss Matilda Hunt.

The night of the 31st August 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

“Argh!” Matilda crumpled the note in her hand and was on the brink of tossing it in the fire but found herself compelled to uncrumple it and read the blasted thing again.

“As I have no doubt you were about to do,” she read bitterly, before adding, “Over my dead body.”

Of all the smug, irritating, self-important….

Grrrrr.

She paced her bedroom, beside herself with frustration. If only she were at home and could pick a suitable missile to hurl across the room and vent her feelings. He knew as well as she did that she hadn’t had the slightest intention of enquiring after his bloody ankle. Whether or not she’d wanted to, it would have been quite inappropriate… especially as no one knew about their meeting. Her friends had clearly gained the notion that something had gone on, though. That was beside the point, however. The very idea that she was fretting herself to death on his behalf was laughable.

Admittedly, she had wondered if he was well, but only so she could enjoy the vague hope he’d broken the blasted bone. Oh, that wasn’t true either, but neither had she been worrying herself unduly.

The note had been slipped under her door and she’d found it after dinner when she’d returned to her room. She had no idea how he’d done it, or rather, had arranged for it to be done. She wasn’t about to contemplate the possibility of Montagu creeping about Holbrooke House to deliver her a note, even if his ankle wasn’t damaged. No doubt he had trusted servants to do such sneaky work for him.

I predict the next time we cross paths—or swords—will be no less dramatic. In anticipation…