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Chapter Nineteen
Worth Everything
Marlow and Rosalind emerged from Maitland Glen’s west meadow, smiling at one another as they walked the horses into the grassy clearing. She’d challenged him to a race and easily won, which he complained about until she reminded him that he still always won at cards.
Their families and friends picnicked near the house. She took in the pastoral tableau—the ladies in their hats, the men sprawled back on blankets, the children running about with biscuits and lemonade. Sylvie crawled back and forth between her doting grandparents. Soon she’d be walking.
“Oh, Marlow.” Rosalind sighed. “Maitland Glen is so pretty in the spring.”
“Prettier with you here, my lady. I never loved it so much before.”
They were hosting their first house party now that he was fully recovered from the previous year’s ordeal. In a bit of poetic justice, Brittingham had been transported to the colonies for ten years as punishment for his criminal schemes. He’d thought his powerful connections might save him, but Marlow’s connections were more powerful in the end.
Now those connections lounged on their lawn—generations of titled friends.
“Did she beat you again?” called Townsend.
Marlow shook his head. “Yes. Such a rider. I don’t stand a chance.”
“Come have luncheon,” said Rosalind’s mother, beckoning.
Her parents doted on Marlow now, partly because he’d given them a grandchild they adored, and partly because he’d exposed Brittingham as an unprincipled fraud. They were not too proud to admit they’d been wrong about whom their daughter should marry.
She and Marlow claimed space on a picnic blanket and dug into the many delicious offerings in the baskets. Sylvie accepted tidbits from her fingers, then fell into her papa’s arms, clinging to his shoulders and tugging his hair. Sylvie loved her papa, or poppop as she called him. Marlow was a natural father—a fun companion when she was wound up and wanted to play, and a soothing lap to slumber upon when she was worn out. Yet another reason Rosalind was assured she’d chosen her husband well.
When the food and fresh air had the younger children yawning for afternoon naps, Marlow helped carry Sylvie upstairs to the nursery. Rosalind looked on fondly as he tucked her into her crib.
“What now?” she whispered as Sylvie snuggled into her blankets.
“I want to show you something.”
Rosalind felt a moment of thrilling unease. She never knew what her adventurous husband would “show her.” A new implement hidden in the oak trunk in their bedroom? Or a new piece of furniture in their country home’s secret punishment room? She took his hand. She was always willing, whatever he had in mind.
He took her to a relatively innocent place: Maitland Glen’s spacious greenhouse. “Are you going to give me some flowers?” she teased, flirting.
“I’ll give you more than that.”
He led her to the back corner, past roses and lilies and, oh dear, a patch of ginger. “I wanted to show you this.” He pointed triumphantly to a lemon hanging from the small tree he’d imported in the fall.
“Oh, look at it. Our lemon tree is bearing fruit,” she said, clapping her hands.
He took those hands and clasped them between his, and kissed her hard. It seemed an age ago that he’d kissed her beneath the lemon tree in Townsend’s greenhouse, just after a rabbit’s funeral. That tree had been larger, more established. Full and fruit-laden enough to hide them from the world, but they didn’t have to hide now.
His lips captured hers, reminding her how strong he was, how wonderfully intense he could be. When he let her hands go, she used them to outline the width of his shoulders and breadth of his muscular chest. She wanted to take off his coat and waistcoat and slip her hands up underneath his shirt, but the greenhouse didn’t afford them much privacy. Instead, they used these moments of solitude to embrace and whisper naughty things to one another.
“You’re mine. All of you is mine,” he said, rubbing his palm against her pussy, right through her layers of skirts.
“I want you so badly right now.” She squirmed, whimpering. With a house full of guests, they didn’t have as much time for erotic activities as they were accustomed to. “I wish you could fuck me right here.”
It had taken time for her to get used to using coarse language, but it excited Marlow, so she’d learned not to be coy. He called it love talk and said there was nothing coarse about desiring one’s partner. She became bolder, running her hand up and down his stiff pole, which seemed barely contained by his light trousers. His kiss deepened, became nearly violent. Their tongues pushed and dipped together. “When can I have you?” she pleaded, her quim aching.
“By God, you shall have me now.”
“Now? Here?”
“When you are so wantonly appealing, you give me little choice.”
He was undoing his falls, releasing his thick member. She gripped it, looking about. “What if someone comes?”
