Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(39)

Until he jerked his mouth from hers and gasped, his head arching back, his eyes squeezed shut. She could feel heat pulsing into her even as he cried out her name.

She watched him, wanting to remember this moment forever.

She. She had brought him this pleasure.

At last he slumped atop her and his weight seemed to press her into the bed.

Not that she cared. She rather liked holding him, all warm and lax, her husband.

He yawned suddenly and levered himself up and off her, rolling to the side of the bed and rising.

She watched as he walked, splendidly naked, to the chest of drawers, where a plain white pitcher and bowl stood. He poured some water in the bowl, wet a cloth and came back to the bed with it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her. “Good evening, Lady Blackwell.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And good evening to you as well, Lord Blackwell.”

A smile threatened to disrupt his solemn expression, but he controlled it. “I trust our congress met with your approval?”

She nodded regally. “Oh, indeed. So much so that I hope you’ll repeat it on the morrow.”

His lips quirked at that before he smiled. “Tomorrow and every day thereafter, my darling, if I have my way.”

“Henry,” she whispered, suddenly serious, her hand reaching to cup his cheek.

“Here,” he said, offering the damp cloth. “If you wish to clean yourself before we sleep.”

She took the cloth and he turned back to the washbasin to perform his own ablutions.

Mary supposed she should feel embarrassed at this personal act performed in front of another, but Henry wasn’t just any other person.

He was her love.

And this small, homely intimacy was…nice. She’d never had a confidant so close to her heart. So close to her.

He returned and took her cloth to put away and then blew out the candles before climbing into the bed with her.

He pulled her close, her back to his front, and curled his legs so that her feet rested on top of his. The coverlet was pulled up over their shoulders, and then they were in their own warm world.

“Good night, Lady Blackwell,” she heard him murmur into her ear.

She smiled, catching his hand and pulling it close to her belly. She had her husband, and the coming day was the beginning of all their tomorrows.

Together in love.





About the Author




Elizabeth Hoyt is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty lush historical romances, including the Maiden Lane series. Publishers Weekly has called her writing “mesmerizing.” She also pens deliciously fun contemporary romances under the name Julia Harper. Elizabeth lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with three untrained dogs, a garden in constant need of weeding, and the long-suffering Mr. Hoyt.



The winters in Minnesota have been known to be long and cold, and Elizabeth is always thrilled to receive reader mail. You can write to her at PO Box 19495, Minneapolis, MN 55419, or e-mail her at [email protected].



You can learn more at: ElizabethHoyt.com

Twitter @elizabethhoyt Facebook.com/ElizabethHoytBooks





THE SIZZLING MAIDEN LANE SERIES CONTINUES...

An excerpt from

Duke of Desire

follows.





April 1742

Considering how extremely dull her life had been up until this point, Iris Daniels, Lady Jordan had discovered a quite colorful way to die.

Torches flamed around her on tall stakes driven into the ground. Their flickering light in the moonless night made shadows jump and waver over the masked men grouped in a circle around her.

The naked masked men.

Their masks weren’t staid black half masks, either. No. They wore bizarre animal or bird shapes. She saw a crow, a badger, a mouse, and a bear with a hairy belly and a crooked red penis.

She knelt next to a great stone slab, a primitive fallen monolith brought here centuries ago by people long forgotten. Her trembling hands were bound in front of her, her hair was coming down about her face, her dress was in a shocking state, and she suspected that she might smell—a result of having been kidnapped over three days before.

In front of her stood three men, the masters of this horrific farce.

The first wore a fox’s mask. He was slim, pale, and, judging by his body hair, a redhead.

The second wore a mask in the likeness of a young man with grapes in his hair—the god Dionysus if she wasn’t mistaken, which, oddly, was far more terrifying than any of the animal masks. He bore a dolphin tattoo on his upper right arm.

The last wore a wolf’s mask and was taller by a head than the other two. His body hair was black, he stood with a calm air of power, and he, too, bore a dolphin tattoo. Directly on the jut of his left hipbone. Which rather drew the eye to the man’s penis.

The man in the wolf’s mask had nothing to be ashamed of.

Iris shuddered in disgust and glanced away, accidentally meeting the Wolf’s mocking gaze.

She lifted her chin in defiance. She knew who this group of men was. This was the Lords of Chaos, an odious secret society composed of aristocrats who enjoyed two things: power and the rape and destruction of women and children.

These…creatures might kill her—and worse—but they would not take her dignity.

Although right now she rather yearned for her dull life.