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It made her feel a little wistful for a moment, but only a moment, because kissing when two naked bodies were pressed together, when two naked people wanted each other, in love or not, there was no room for brooding, Laurel found.
Giles was gentle but sure, not giving her time to fret that she did not know what to do. Her body seemed to understand the fundamentals in any case, she thought hazily as his weight came over her and she instinctively raised her knees to cradle his hips and pressed back when she felt the blunt pressure nudging at her entrance.
She was expecting it to hurt, but his fingers insinuated themselves between their bodies, worked the magic as they had in the summer house and when he pushed into her she was crying out with pleasure, not with pain.
It felt a little strange, then a little sore and then very wonderful, as she came back to herself, to feel Giles within her, joined with her. She opened her eyes and saw the concentration on his face, the hard lines of his tense neck and throat, saw his eyes close for a second, then he opened them, his gaze fierce on her face, his expression almost one of pain before he cried out, something in a language she did not know, and collapsed against her, his face buried in the angle of her neck and shoulder.
The weight of a fully grown, completely relaxed man was more than she had expected and Laurel found herself sinking into the Grillon’s luxuriously soft feather mattress.
I am being swallowed by clouds, she thought, then had to stifle a little gasp of laughter against Giles’s shoulder at the thought of being squashed into a cloud by an angel, because this was surely heaven.
‘Do you find my lovemaking amusing?’ a muffled voice enquired, vibrating against the skin just above her right breast.
‘It was heaven and now I feel as though I am sinking into a very fluffy cloud under the weight of a rather large angel.’
Giles levered himself up on braced forearms which had the interesting effect of pressing his lower body tight against hers. ‘I have no idea what size angels are supposed to be, so I am not sure whether to be insulted because you are saying I am fat.’
He was smiling down at her, that errant lock of hair falling across his forehead. He looked formidable and very male and, at the same time vulnerable because he had surrendered himself, lost himself, with her, just as she had been lost with him. ‘Now I come to think of it, aren’t angels supposed to be sexless? Yes, I am insulted.’
Laurel gave an experimental wriggle. If she did that... Oh, yes. ‘I really do not think you can be an angel after all.’
‘What a relief.’ Giles slid down her body, his tongue exploring as he went.
‘Giles? Giles! What are you...? Oh, Giles, yes.’
Her husband, wickedly reducing her to a quivering mass of delight, said nothing.
* * *
Giles leaned back in his father’s great carved chair in the study and surveyed the post neatly stacked on the worn green leather of the desktop. Back to reality. He picked up a pen and jotted Employ secretary on a blank piece of paper. If this much had accumulated while they had been gone for only two days at Grillon’s, then there would be considerably more when news of his return to London spread more widely.
He picked up the top item, then sat, contemplating the first two days—and nights—of married life. When his eyes finally focused on his reflection in the glass doors of the bookcase opposite he saw he was smiling fatuously. Moonling, he mouthed at himself.
That first day and night had been so good that at breakfast the next morning he had suggested staying for another night. The sight of Laurel curled up at the end of the bed, her nightgown slipping off one shoulder as she ate fingers of toast and honey that he was making for her, removed the slightest desire to go back to St James’s Square and deal with the real world.
When a drop of honey dripped from the toast and into Laurel’s cleavage, making her laugh, he dropped the knife, threw off his robe and devoted himself to licking her clean of honey. That took at least an hour, what with having to spread more on her body and then check there was none behind her ears, or her knees, and having to respond to wriggling and giggling and bold exploration of any parts of his anatomy that came within reach of her fingers or the honey spoon.
‘We may as well stay for luncheon,’ he’d said and then the afternoon had slipped away with bathing and sleeping and lazily making love and talking of this and that and nothing very much until it was time for dinner and it became much easier to simply stay where they were for the night.
At three that afternoon he had carried Laurel over the threshold once more and she had retired upstairs, primly informing him she had things to attend to in her wardrobe, which he strongly suspected meant that she was taking a nap. Something that he felt in need of himself, if he was honest. He must be getting old, he thought, shaking his head as he broke the seal on the first piece of correspondence. Although perhaps making love, on and off, for forty-eight hours, was some excuse.
Most of the correspondence was business, but there were at least a dozen letters welcoming him back to England and congratulating him on his marriage. Several included invitations and he set all the social correspondence to one side to look through with Laurel later.
So far, Giles had to admit, married life was proving far better than he had hoped. It was surprisingly easy t
o make love to Laurel without feeling guilty about it. Perhaps he ought to feel guilty about not feeling... He gave himself a brisk mental shake. Not feeling guilty at all would be preferable. But he would have to stop himself speaking Portuguese in the throes of passion.
Laurel had been a delight. Responsive, sensual and brave, she seemed to have overcome whatever qualms a virgin might have about the marriage bed and, Giles suspected, he was going to enjoy himself keeping up with her demands and her imagination.
She also kept her sense of humour in the bedroom. That nonsense about angels and clouds still made him smile. If he could not marry for love—and finding love must be a total gamble—then he could not think of a better bride. He only hoped he could make Laurel happy because she deserved to be, she had brought him so much.
Downing opened the door. ‘This has just come by royal messenger, my lord.’
‘From the Palace?’
‘From Carlton House.’ He extended a silver salver with a thick folded envelope in the centre, its heavy red seal exuding importance.
‘Is he waiting for a reply?’
