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Reginald sighed. “Alas,” he replied, “my fantasies must remain unfulfilled for a little longer.”
Indeed, Reginald’s father approached them. The man’s lined face beamed at them. A new light seemed to have come over his whole expression, and he walked more confidently. All the damage caused by time and grief seemed to have been smoothed over in the past two years.
“My dear boy!” his father exclaimed.
Reginald uncurled his arm from Marcella’s and embraced his father. The older man was warm and smelled familiarly of sandalwood. “I’m glad to see you here,” Reginald muttered.
He was with his father more often, and in the past two years, Reginald had even managed to persuade his father to agree with some of his more unconventional ideas. Together, they were working on legislation to aid the poorest people in London.
“And I’m glad to see you,” his father replied. “Are you enjoying your first London Season in over a decade?”
“I am,” Reginald replied, dropping his arms and gazing at Marcella. “It helps that I have such excellent company.”
“Indeed!” Reginald’s father replied, bowing cordially to the lady. “I’ve heard that you’re now an author, My Lady. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
Roses bloomed over Marcella’s cheeks. “Thank you, Your Grace. That’s kind of you to say.”
“What is your book about?”
Marcella smiled slyly. “It’s about my husband and a bit about me. Our story. I know that might sound unoriginal, but it is my hope that I can inspire others with it, to improve the lives of everyone who needs a helping hand.”
“She was quite complimentary in her portrayal of me,” Reginald said.
And she’d admittedquitea few details. The bones of the story were true, though, that a lost nobleman had become a highwayman and returned home in the end to regain his title and the love of his new wife.
“I’m sure she is,” Reginald’s father replied, “but I also think there are many things worth complimenting in you, also. I’ll leave you to enjoy yourselves, though. I’m sure that you’ve many other people you’d rather be speaking with than an old man.”
Indeed, they did. Once his father left, Marcella took Reginald’s arm once more, and they slipped from the brightness and the excitement of the ball for the darkness and the quiet of the gardens.
“It reminds me of where we first met,” Reginald said.
“Me, too.”
Once they’d left the manor behind them, Reginald halted. His wife turned to face him, the very image of a beautiful, intelligent, and witty woman. “I never thought I would enjoy being a married man,” Reginald confessed, “and I can scarcely believe it’s only been two years. I feel as though I’ve spent my whole life with you.”
“You can, now,” Marcella replied.
She took his hands and with a wicked smile, moved them gently over her hips and down her thighs.
“Lady Rake,” Reginald teased, as he curved his hands around her rear. “How well you suit me.”
“How well we suit each other.”
With a coy smile, Marcella leaned with her back against a nearby tree. She arched her back, her hazel eyes gleaming in the starlight. Reginald went to her and placed his hands on her hips. He pulled her so suddenly flush against his chest that the lady gasped. Reginald grinned and plucked at the skirt of her gown, moving it up little by little and exposing her pale legs to the spring air and the cool, night breeze.
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Marcella asked, her voice shaking with anticipation. “Suppose some other couple wishes to defy convention and flees to the garden.”
Reginald pressed his forehead against hers. “The other couple will have to be courteous enough to look away,” he whispered huskily.
He curled his hands around Marcella’s thighs and lifted her, so her own delicate sex pressed against his manhood. Marcella wrapped her arms around his neck and gasped. She braced her back against the tree and rocked her hips. Marcella tipped her head back, the tree bark mussing her curls. A low moan tore from her throat.
Reginald smirked, scarcely able to contain himself. “I do enjoy you like this,” he whispered, “the beautiful, noble lady in such a compromising position in the gardens.”
Marcella’s cheeks pinkened, the change in her complexion apparent even in the dark of the gardens. “You are a most wicked man,” she said.
Marcella rocked her hips more insistently against his, releasing short groans with every movement. Her body grew more tense and her movements faster, and Reginald’s mind went to places which were best not spoken of in polite company. At last, Marcella’s body lost its tension, and she relaxed. Reginald held her still and watched as the lady’s chest heaved and sweat clung to her brow.
Reginald leaned forward and kissed her. “Now,” he said, “it’s my turn.”
The End?
