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When she was finally naked, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and spread her legs wide so he could admire every perfect, private fold. Stella being Stella, she didn’t squeal in ladylike horror, but arched her back in silent invitation. Silvester took in one ragged breath before he dropped to his knees and buried his head between her legs.

She tasted like sweet spice and honey. He meant to tease her into incoherence and then bring his cock into play, but watching desire chase ecstasy across Stella’s face kept him where he was, his hands wrapped around her thighs, fingers sinking into her yielding flesh.

He didn’t let go until she began gasping, pleading for more. Then he worked two broad fingers inside her tight, hot core, pumping into her until she sobbed with need, pushing back against his fingers, shivering at the stroke of his tongue, begging him to come inside her.

He held back, denying the ravaging desire to take his wife, until he had driven her into an orgasm so powerful that he felt her body clamp around his fingers.

When Stella settled, boneless and sweaty, Silvester had to fight not to come as he crawled over her on all fours. One touch of her hand and he would cover her breasts with his seed.

She opened her eyes, pleasure-drenched, and caught him by the shoulders. “You didn’t obey me. I wanted you.”

“No.” Silvester didn’t bother to tell her that he never would obey her in the bedchamber.

Stella gave him a mischievous grin and bent her knees, planting her feet and arching up until her slick, soft folds rubbed against his throbbing cock. “There’s more than one way to win,” she whispered.

A deep sound wrenched from his chest before he pushed her knees higher and sank into her heat. Her fingernails pricked his shoulders as she pulled him closer. Their lips met in a devouring kiss, stealing his ability to think, but he managed two words. “My. Wife.”

Sometime later, he was flat on his back, panting, drunk with pleasure, when Stella surprised him again. She had been lying beside him, eyes closed, a dreamy expression on her face that made him foolishly proud of himself.

Then she sat up and said, “I don’t want to be the duchess of the Grange, Silvester. I want to be the duchess here.”

Silvester was drifting, blood sparking as if he’d been hit by lightning. His cock had just made it known that it was preparing for another round. He was thinking about that, and the fact that the Dower House’s cook had not left for London but was down in the kitchen preparing a meal. He didn’t remember hiring a cook for the Dower House, but he was very glad she existed.

“Here?” he repeated. “In the country, you mean?”

“No, I want to be a dowager.”

“We’ve only been married two days,” he pointed out, running a hand down her arm. Her skin was silky smooth. “I’m not ready to shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“Hamlet,” Stella exclaimed. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not?”

She fidgeted. “It is ill-bred to show knowledge of a quotation. Clearly, you already knew the source, so I was simply trying to impress you.”

“Were you?”

Stella was turning a delicious shade of pink. “What?”

“Trying to impress me?”

“No. I just . . . I enjoy identifying things. Facts. It’s like a game, but an insufferable one, as my aunt has told me. I should keep useless facts to myself.”

“I like it,” he said lazily, taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth. “I was force-fed all sorts of ridiculous phrases as a boy, before I left for Eton, so I can keep you guessing. We couldn’t retain tutors—they wanted to be paid, the poor sods—so my father would read aloud at night and then quiz us the next day.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible,” Stella said. “I wish I had more memories of my parents.”

He turned her hand over and planted a kiss on her palm. “It was, and it wasn’t. One of my sisters can still recite most of Lady Macbeth’s lines, but as she pointed out, unless she marries badly or becomes unexpectedly familiar with royalty, her education had no purpose.”

“I never considered plays to offer patterns for living,” Stella objected. “Even if your sister did come to know His Majesty, she needn’t arrange for him to be murdered.”

“Exit, pursued by a bear,” Silvester offered. “That might be useful, if we take to leaving the front door of the Grange open. Or not. I found most of Shakespeare terrible tripe. What play is that from, wife?”

“The Winter’s Tale. No Bard for our children?” Stella asked teasingly.

The words shot through him like silver lightning. “We’ll have children, won’t we?”

She nodded, then leaned over and poked him. “Sooner rather than later, with the way we’re carrying on. I’m hungry. How about you?”