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“Roland?”
He lay against her and closed his eyes as she wrapped her arms around him. “Say it again,” he whispered.
“Roland,” she answered, his name a caress that sent shivers across his flesh, across his very soul.
“My Harriett,” he murmured into her neck, giving the sensitive flesh at her shoulder a little nip that made her suck in a quick breath. The sound was more erotic than anything he’d ever heard, and it made him ache anew. “My fierce, passionate Harriett—tell me you belong to me and that this is not a dream.”
“I am yours, as you are mine,” she husked against the corner of his mouth. “Now make love to me, husband.”
Her throaty command inspired an unparalleled rush of desire. Unable to contain his passion any longer, he abandoned himself to it. Withdrawing almost completely, he sank back into her with uninhibited joy. Again and again, he buried himself in her.
“I love you,” she gasped at his ear, just as her passage clenched around him.
Shuddering, he pressed into her to the root of his shaft, her words along with her complete embrace bringing a profound stillness to his entire being. Over and over, she convulsed beneath him, her sheath spasming in time with the climax that robbed her of breath and coherence. He savored her release along with her surrender.
While her body was yet in the throes of pleasure, he again began to move, and this time he held nothing back. All too soon, his crisis came over him, drawing upon his vitals in a sudden, unendurable tightening before releasing that tension in a blinding wave of pleasure. Over and over again, it blazed through him as his hot seed burst forth.
The woman in his arms was his, now and forever.
But then, she had been for some time now, he realized as his breathing finally slowed. That night at the Hospital, she’d chosen to give him her heart along with her body. Him. No one else. Not William, not Russell. Him. He was the one she wanted.
An anxiety he hadn’t realized he had vanished. For the first time in his life, true contentment filled him. He’d been searching for something, and now he knew what it was. He’d never been wanted, had never really belonged anywhere. He looked down at Harriett, his Harriett, who still drifted on the tides of pleasure, pleasure he had brought to her.
Now he knew. Right here was where he belonged.
Twenty Three
Accustomed to rising early, Harriett awoke as dawn’s rose-tinted light began to seep in around the edges of the heavy drapes covering the windows of her new bedchamber. The contentment that suffused her was such that it was hard to even imagine moving. She lay there for a while, staring at the room her husband had so thoughtfully appointed to suit her taste, drinking in the warmth and security of his embrace.
His arm lay across her waist, its corded strength a lure for her palm. As she indulged herself, his hand moved to cup her breast, startling her.
“You rise early, Lady Manchester.”
The gravelly quality of his voice coupled with his gentle touch elicited a sharp pang of want. Turning in his arms, she looked into his smiling eyes. He was so handsome all tousled and unshaven like this. “And here I thought you a lazy aristocrat who never deigned to rise before the noon hour,” she teased, stroking the sandpaper roughness of his cheek with a fingertip.
Without warning he shifted, pulling her atop him. “As you can see, I am no such creature. You’ve taught me the merits of being an early riser.”
His wicked chuckle made her ears grow hot. The rest of her heated, too, as the hard, silken column of his manhood pressed against her belly. Her embarrassment, however, was quickly forgotten in the wake of desir
e.
“Rising early has its rewards, my lord husband,” she replied, levering up onto her knees to straddle him and put his errant member in its proper place.
Later as they breakfasted, a servant entered bearing a tray of messages. One was an urgent missive from her father.
“Not even a single day’s peace before it begins,” she muttered, breaking the seal. Her brows rose as she read. “Ours is not the only scandalbroth brewing. Nanette’s eavesdropping has already borne fruit.” Roland had told her of the incident on the way back to London. “According to Papa, she wasted no time in bringing Russell news of my defection.”
“And?”
Irony lifted the corners of her mouth. “Apparently, he was so greatly distressed that she was obliged to take rather drastic measures to prevent him taking himself off to the nearest bridge and diving off it. They were caught in the act by several witnesses.”
“No doubt by her specific design.”
“No doubt whatsoever,” she agreed. “Their wedding is in two weeks.” She tossed the letter aside with a satisfied sigh. “With that to look forward to in addition to our elopement and Cat’s wedding, no one will even notice Arabella’s return. We should send our congratulations to the happy couple.”
“Mm. We should. But before we do, I should like to place a wager at White’s—in your favor, of course.”
She laughed and continued to peruse the pile of letters. To her surprise, Elizabeth, too, had sent felicitations. She was in London to help Cat prepare for the wedding and had heard the news from Papa. That she did not inquire after Arabella’s health or whereabouts was a mark of her continued resentment. Presumably, Elizabeth preferred to pretend their errant sister no longer existed.
