Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(84)
I did not answer his silent question, but when Penelope and Meagan retired to bed, still giggling—I wonder what girls find so amusing these days—I opened my bedchamber door and simply waited to see if he’d come. He did so, quietly, slipping down the hall and into my room. Before I could feel shy or awkward, he closed the door and kissed me, and then …
Well, my pen hesitates to describe every detail, but needless to say, I did discover that he is indeed quite well-muscled all over his body. He is lovely and firm and well-formed. Other bits of him are also well-formed if one can write such things without a blush.
In the morning, I thought Michael would pretend it had never happened—men enjoy casual encounters, leaving poor women to break their hearts—but to my joy he smiled at me and let me know by word and deed that he thought tenderly of me and enjoyed our little secret. I cannot write the joy I feel—it buoys my entire body until I think I am seventeen again. Good gracious, how I love him!
Michael walked with me into the breakfast room, where our daughters waited, still giggling, the silly girls. Then Michael began to blush, and I realized they were laughing over us. I thought to scold or be haughty, but alas, I thought of how Michael had rather groaned the night before, and I fell into a fit of giggles myself. Michael laughed, never minding, bless the man.
Michael smiled at the memory of leading Simone to breakfast the morning after they’d become lovers, believing they’d been so clever and discreet. And there his daughter had sat, laughing at the absurdity of her elders, her eyes moist. Penelope had tried to shush her, not very successfully hiding her own mirth.
Michael turned to the last entry Penelope had marked for him, which was dated two days before Damien arrived.
I love hi., I love him desperately. I never thought I’d come to such a pass, losing my heart so! But Michael is kind, bless him, never minding my featherheadedness, always knowing what to say or do when I blunder. He’s said he loved me, and oh what exquisite bliss to be loved by such a man!
He has spoken of marriage but hesitates because he does not want to ruin Penelope’s chances. A baronet’s widow, you see is a bit higher than a plain Mrs. Tavistock, even though my wretched husband left me next to nothing on which to exist. But Michael feels his status might impede things; sweet man, he is so humble.
I do believe my daughter longs to be a spinster, which I try to explain is foolish, because no matter how miserable the marriage, the world takes much kinder to a married lady than it ever will to an unmarried miss.
But what would marriage be to Michael? Not a misery but unending joy, every day a wonder. We are lovers now, but how exquisite to be with him as a wife! I could mend his shirts, even though I’m not much good at it, and kiss him when I came in for breakfast. I could wake up every morning by his side, and stretch out beside him every night, and not be miserable at all. Oh, for such a state!
It is already a joy to be his friend and lover, and I blush to think how shamelessly I touch him. His—what shall I call it—perhaps rod will do—in any case, it is the most pleasing thing I’ve ever seen, and to have it near me sends me into transports of joy before he even touches me.
And when he does touch me …
Michael stopped reading. He shut the book and remained seated, pressing his thumbs into his forehead as he lost himself in thought.
* * *
Not long later, Lady Trask opened her bedchamber door, a bit impatiently, assuming her very trying butler, Mathers, had come to complain again about the Nvengarians.
Her mouth popped open when she beheld Michael, his shirt unlaced, his hair hanging across his forehead in the fetching way it did. She stilled, her heart pounding.
“Michael,” she managed to say.
He held up a worn book that looked like her journal. Panic filled Simone when she realized that, oh dear, it was her journal.
She snatched it from his hand. “Good heavens, whatever are you doing with that?”
“Penelope lent it to me,” Michael said quietly.
“Penelope?” Simone’s eyes widened, and she flushed in mortification and confusion. “Wretched girl, what on earth did she do that for?”
“Simone.” Michael’s voice held warmth and a hint of amusement. He gently guided her into the room and followed her there, closing the door behind them.
“Michael?”
Michael smiled, his brown eyes dancing with mirth. “Simone, you wrote about my rod?”
Simone’s face burned and she hugged the journal to her chest. “You cannot blame me. It is so very intriguing, and quite adept.”
Michael framed her face with his hands. “You beautiful, wonderful woman.”
Simone dragged in a breath, hope filling her heart. “You have forgiven me? I blunder about, I know I do, but I never, ever meant to anger you, or …”
“Hush.” Michael brushed her hair back, pressed a light kiss to her lips. “I love you, Simone. Marry me.”
Simone gasped, her knees suddenly weak. Then she gave a squeal of joy and threw her arms around him. “Good gracious, Michael. Yes, yes, yes! Oh you dear man, how I love you.”
Michael kissed her, the kiss growing deep and interesting—he had such skill in kissing. He pulled her close, his arms both strong and gentle, then he reached behind him and turned the key in the lock.
* * *