Chemistry of Magic: Unexpected Magic Book Five (Unexpected Magic #5)(32)

Perhaps it was just his perverse desire to prevent his cousin Peter from inheriting, as slim as that chance might be. It was the kind of gamble he enjoyed.

Dare set the trunk down in the dressing room while she examined the wardrobe and dressers. “Did James leave you any space?”

“He very neatly divided everything in half,” she said with one of those rare smiles he craved because they made him feel special. “I’ll have Bessie clear the wardrobe in the smaller chamber for my gowns. I have a great many, I fear, even if I do not wear them often.”

“There is so much I’d like to learn about you.” Knowing it was early yet and that she probably had a list of tasks as long as his, Dare traced his finger down her peach-soft cheek. A blush rewarded him. “Have you given any thought to our discussion about an heir?”

She blushed deeper. “Is there. . . I mean, I know it’s unlikely, but. . .” She looked frustrated at her inability to phrase the question.

“Would you like to write out your query as a botanical theory?” he asked in amusement. “I can explain birds and bees, but not plants so much.”

“Birds and bees spread plant pollen,” she said crossly. “It’s a nonsensical phrase referring to pollination. It is not at all the same for people.”

Dare had a hard time not laughing. Intellectual discussions caused his bride no problem in speaking. “Is there a logistical problem I should be aware of?” he asked, doing his best to use impersonal phrases.

“Several,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I had not really anticipated. . . Well, men usually aren’t interested in me.”

There was an opening he could use. Dare tugged at the fine muslin chemisette adorning the neckline of her bodice. “I believe we have already established that I am not just any man. I am a man of rare perception with the ability to see past your shyness to the intelligent, beautiful woman you conceal.”

“I am not shy,” she said irritably, but she didn’t stop his marauding fingers. “I simply have no patience with flapping eyelashes and coy titters.”

“A fact I admire more and more,” he said with relish, leaning over to kiss her heated cheek, while whisking off the muslin, leaving her shoulders bare. “Wind gusts from flapping lashes send me fleeing every time.”

She laughed a little and bless all that was holy, began toying with his neckcloth. Just her proximity had his cock primed. Her touch would soon turn him into a drooling imbecile. When he was more coherent, he would write into his will that he wished to be buried with her scent of lavender.

“Nursemaids,” she muttered insensibly, unknotting his linen. “Are they costly?”

Nursemaids—babies—conjugal rights: he worked backward to determine her meaning. “I will indenture my sisters, if you would be so kind as to bear my child.”

She poked his chest to show she understood he jested, then set to work on his waistcoat. “Did no one warn you that Malcolm women seldom bear sons? I did not think to say since I did not think as far as sharing a bed.”

“Whereas, that’s all I thought about,” he said fervently, finding the fastenings of her gown. Hope slammed against his ribs. He was ready, if she was willing. “And right now, I cannot say that infants are on my mind at all.”

She untied his shirt and pressed a kiss to his chest that had his heart galloping.

“If I may have nursemaids and you do not mind about an heir. . .” She took a deep breath, stepped back, and met his gaze with determination. “Then I see no reason why we should not be truly man and wife.”





Chapter 10





Emilia did not know what to expect of her agreement to share Dare’s bed. Her husband had seemed very calm and pragmatic in discussing her concerns. He’d made her believe that he wanted her—not an easy task given her experience.

To her astonishment, at her agreement to share his bed, Dare hooted—literally hooted—with joy and lifted her into the air as if she were a mere wisp.

His reckless joy wiped away all her thinking. It was as if he cast aside the heavy burden of her gift, dispelled all her fears, making her feel lighter and more carefree than she could ever remember being. He encouraged her ecstatic buoyancy by swinging her in a circle, then carrying her out of the dressing room and back to their bedchamber, fervently covering her face and hair with kisses.

“I need to put a dozen years of lovemaking into every night,” he declared.

She didn’t warn him that his lungs were already overworked, and this exercise had exacerbated the problem—that was the fear talking. Instead, she daringly held her hand to his chest and experienced the warning prickles, then the hot shock of energy transferring from deep inside herself to him. Her excitement buffered the pain, creating a risk that she wouldn’t cut off the healing connection in time. But sometimes the desire to heal was so magnetic, it was hard to stop—rather like kissing.

Wrapped up in his lust, Dare didn’t even seem to notice. While she clung to his linen, he set her feet back on the floor and eagerly dragged her bodice off her shoulders. He kissed her breast above her corset—creating a hot river from her breast to her womb. That sufficiently distracted her enough to break the connection.

All the blood left her brain, and she nearly passed out from sensation. She grabbed his arms, whispering, “Slower, please. It is hard. . . I can feel. . .” That had always been the problem—she felt too much. How could she explain?