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For whatever reason, the Duke of Huntington was wild with desire for her. She sank into his kiss, swamped by need and the way Silvester’s hands were ranging up and down her back, slipping up to her breasts, shaping them in a rough caress that made her tremble.

But there was something she had to ask. “Why . . . Why the white horse?” she managed, once he shifted his mouth to her jaw.

“Horse?” Silvester’s voice was thick. He was licking the hollow at the base of Stella’s neck in a way that made her shift in his lap. His hands tightened, and a sound came from deep in his throat, next thing to a grunt.

“The horse,” Stella persisted. “The white velvet and gold reins?”

“Matched your veil,” Silvester said, his lips drifting down to the edge of her bodice. “Your lower lip is so plump and soft, Stella. I love your mouth.”

Stella shook off the sensual undertow of his voice, the way his wintery scent seemed warm and enticing up close. “It was a performance,” she insisted. “Why?”

“Had to silence that damned Lydia Pettigrew,” Silvester said, raising his head. “I can’t stand the woman.”

“You staged a production after our wedding because of Lady Lydia’s scorn? You needn’t have. I already made it clear to her that she was persona non grata.”

“No, because I’m your husband,” Silvester said.

Husband. The word knocked about in Stella’s head. She was tied, vowed to stay with Silvester.

She wiggled again, enjoying the way that Silvester’s body jerked in response. “Well, husband, are we not attending our own wedding breakfast?”

“No, because I kidnapped you from the church on my white steed.” He kissed her. “My mother and your aunt know, by the way.” One hand slid from her hip to her breast.

“Am I going to lose my virginity in this carriage?” she inquired.

“No.”

Stella was under the impression that Huntington Grange was at the very least a two days’ journey.

“We will sleep in The Swan tonight,” Silvester said, his lips running along her bodice. She had the distinct impression that any moment he would pull down that delicate silk so he could kiss her breast.

“No,” she said.

His eyes met hers, amused, impassioned. “No to The Swan?”

“No to whatever you’re planning to do to my bodice. I could not possibly enter a coaching inn wearing a ripped wedding gown.”

“We could do things that would keep your gown intact,” Silvester said, his hand running up her leg again.

“Are you referring to The Swan, not far from Notley Abbey?”

“Yes,” Silvester said, the word rumbling from his chest.

Once they cleared the city, The Swan would be only an hour’s drive outside London. It was a most elegant inn, graced with a French chef and surrounded by gardens of lavender and purple iris.

Stella clamped a hand down on Silvester’s, just as his fingers began to slip around her inner thigh. “I can’t enter The Swan with a crumpled gown either.”

Her husband threw her a mock mournful look.

She shook her head.

He laughed. Stella was shocked to hear the happiness in his voice. Silvester was . . . happy. Happy to be married to her.

She had never expected that from any man. She’d always pictured a husband choosing her because he needed her dowry or a hostess or just a wife. She hadn’t imagined happiness would be part of that picture.

Stella drew in a deep breath that she hadn’t known she needed. Then she scrambled off Silvester’s lap and seated herself opposite, winding her hair into a coil and putting it over one shoulder.

“I’m fairly sure that a woman addressed as Her Grace shouldn’t play the hoyden in a carriage, even with her new husband.”