Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(84)

“Ah, my poor Anna,” he murmured. “So hot, so beautiful. There was no way not to hurt you, you see. But only this time. Not next time or ever again. It is my promise to you.”

She touched him. She set her hands on either side of his waist—hard, firm muscled, so unlike her own. And she moved them to his back, along the column of his spine, down to rest lightly over tight buttocks. He drew slowly out of her, muscles relaxing beneath her hands, and she did not want to let him go. And then the muscles tightened and he came in again, hard and firm and deep. He turned his head to rest beside hers on the pillow and took some of his weight onto his elbows and forearms, though his chest pressed against her breasts and his shoulders held hers to the bed. He moved into her and out of her with a firm, steady rhythm. There was sound—a wet suck and pull, a slight squeak of the bed, labored breathing, laughter from a distance down the street. There was sensation, weight pinning her to the bed, heat, the slight coolness of air coming through the window and finding its way through or past the curtains, the hardness of him inside her, smooth, wet, not quite painful. She did not want it to end. She wanted it to go on forever.

Forever lasted a long time and no time at all. The rhythm broke and he pressed hard into her until there was no deeper to come, and while he murmured something unintelligible against her ear, she felt a gush of liquid heat inside and knew that it was finished. His full weight relaxed down onto her then and she wrapped her arms about his waist and untwined her legs from about his to set her feet flat on the bed. After a few moments he sighed against her ear, withdrew from her, and rolled off her to recline beside her, his head propped on one hand.

“Wedded and bedded,” he said. “Anna Snow no more or even Anastasia Westcott. My wife, instead. My duchess. Is it such a terrible fate, Anna?”

There was something very like wistfulness in his voice.

“No,” she said, and she smiled. “My duke.”

He got off the bed then, picked up one of the keys he had dropped onto the dressing table, unlocked the dressing room door, and went inside. He came back a few moments later, a small towel in his hand. He locked the door again and got back into bed, drew the upper sheet and one blanket over them, and slid an arm beneath her shoulders to turn her onto her side facing him. He slipped the towel between her thighs, spread it, and held it gently against her before removing his hand and leaving the towel where it was. It felt soothing. He arranged the covers over them and drew her closer. Within moments he was asleep.

How could he possibly sleep? But she supposed it had not been nearly as momentous for him as it had been for her. She did not want to think of other women, but she did not doubt there had been many. He was thirty-one years old, and he did not seem like the sort of man who would deny himself anything he wanted. The thought did not trouble her, she realized. Not as it applied to the past, at least.

She had hardly slept last night. Indeed, she would have believed she had not slept at all if she had not kept waking from bizarre dreams. She had been up well before dawn. She had been in Hyde Park with Elizabeth before there was full daylight by which to see. She had lived through all the terror and strangeness of that duel. Then she had returned home and, instead of dropping back into bed, had had an early breakfast with Elizabeth and then written a long letter to Joel. After that there had been her wedding and then the visit of her family and now the consummation of her marriage. Could all that possibly have happened within so short a time?

Exhaustion hit her rather like a soft mallet to the head. And also the knowledge that she was warm and comfortable, that her body was against his, that the soft sound of his breathing was both soothing and lulling, that she was . . . happy.

She slept.





Twenty




“It is good to have you home again, Lizzie,” Alexander said at dinner that evening. “I have missed you. Mama has too.”

“It does feel good,” she admitted, “though I enjoyed my weeks with Anna. I like her exceedingly well.”

Their mother was regarding Alexander with slightly troubled eyes. “Do you mind dreadfully, Alex, that she has married Avery?” she asked. “You more or less offered for her yourself yesterday, and I believe she might have been persuaded to accept if he had not been there.”

“No,” he said, picking up his glass of wine and leaning back in his chair. “I do not mind, Mama. Netherby saved me from the temptation to persuade Anastasia to take the easy way out of both our problems.”

“But you are a little sad anyway?” she asked.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted after hesitating for a moment. “But only for a despicable reason. I could have restored Brambledean to prosperity without having to cudgel my brains further over how it is to be done.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” she said. “You would have been good to Anastasia too. I know you better than to believe you would have cared only for the money and not for the bride who brought it to you.”

“I am going to have to marry for money anyway,” he said. “I have come to that conclusion. Brambledean cannot recover from years of neglect as Riddings Park did, just with some hard work and careful economies. But I have the title and dilapidated property to offer a rich wife in return.”

“Ah,” she said, reaching out to pat his free hand on the table. “I did not expect ever to hear you bitter or cynical, Alex. It hurts my heart.”