It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(107)

She shook her head. “I was a bit tired before, but now I’ve gotten my second wind. I couldn’t possibly sleep.”

For some reason that made him laugh.

His body lifted away from hers. She thought at first that he meant to move to the other side of the bed, but then she felt the hem of her nightgown being raised. Her bare legs tingled as the cool air brushed over her skin. Her breath quickened. The thick cotton was drawn higher, higher, until her br**sts were exposed, the tips hardening. His mouth was soft and hot as it descended to her skin, searching and nuzzling, finding places of unexpected sensation; the ticklish place at the side of her ribs, the velvet undercurve of her breast, the delicate rim of her navel. When Lillian tried to caress him, her hands were gently pushed to her sides, until she understood that he meant her to lie completely still. Her breaths turned even and deep, the muscles in her stomach and legs quivering as pleasure chased like drops of quicksilver over her body.

Marcus nibbled and kissed his way to the secret dampness between her thighs, and her legs spread easily at his touch. She was open and utterly vulnerable, every nerve sizzling with aching excitement. A high, faint sound escaped her throat as he licked into the dark triangle, bolts of delight running through her with each stroke of his tongue along the rosy, slippery-soft skin. His tongue danced and tickled and opened her, and then he settled in for minutes of sweetly rhythmic teasing, until sensation weighted her limbs and her breath came in weak cries. Finally he slipped his fingers deeply inside her, and she groaned, struggling, cl**axing, shuddering as if she might come apart from pleasure.

Dazed, she felt him pull down her nightgown. “Your turn now,” she mumbled, her head settling on his shoulder as he gathered her against him. “You haven’t…”

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll have my turn tomorrow.”

“I’m still not tired,” she insisted.

“Close your eyes,” Marcus said, his hand moving to her bottom in a circling caress. He brushed his mouth over her forehead and her fragile eyelids. “Rest. You’ll need to regain your strength…because once we’re married, I won’t be able to leave you alone. I’ll want to love you every hour, every minute of the day.” He nestled her more closely against him. “There is nothing on earth more beautiful to me than your smile…no sound sweeter than your laughter…no pleasure greater than holding you in my arms. I realized today that I could never live without you, stubborn little hellion that you are. In this life and the next, you’re my only hope of happiness. Tell me, Lillian, dearest love…how can you have reached so far inside my heart?” He paused to kiss her damp silken skin …and smiled as the wisp of a feminine snore broke the peaceful silence.

Epilogue

To the Right Honorable the Countess of Westcliff Marsden Terrace, Upper Brook Street, no.2 London

Dear Lady Westcliff,

It was both an honor and a delight to receive your letter. I beg to offer congratulations at the glad tidings of your recent marriage. Though you have modestly professed that the match with Lord Westcliff is all to your advantage, I must take the liberty of disagreeing. Having had the fortune of making your acquaintance, I can attest that the advantage belongs to the earl in winning the hand of such a charming and accomplished young lady—

“C harming?” Daisy interrupted dryly. “Oh, he knows you so little.”

“And accomplished,” Lillian reminded her in a superior tone, before turning back to the letter from Mr. Nettle. “He goes on to write…‘Perhaps if your younger sister were more like you, she might also find someone to marry.’ “

“He did not write that!” Daisy exclaimed, leaping over an ottoman and making a grab for the letter, while Lillian defended herself with a shriek of laughter. Annabelle, who sat in a nearby chair, smiled over the rim of her teacup as she sipped the brew in hopes of settling her stomach. She had already confided her intention to tell her husband about her pregnancy that evening, as it was becoming more and more difficult to conceal her condition.

The three of them sat in the parlor of Marsden Terrace. A few days earlier, Lillian and Marcus had returned to Hampshire from their “blacksmith’s marriage,” as such affairs were called in Gretna Green. She had been silently gratified to find that the countess had indeed been spirited off the estate, with all traces of her presence removed. Dowager countess, Lillian corrected herself, rather unnerved every time she realized that she was now the Countess of Westcliff. Now Marcus had taken her to London, where he was visiting the locomotive works with Mr. Hunt and attending to other necessary business. In a matter of days the Westcliffs would leave for a hastily arranged honeymoon in Italy …and as far away as possible from Mercedes Bowman, who had not yet ceased complaining about having been robbed of the large society wedding she had intended for her daughter.

“Oh, do get off me, Daisy,” Lillian cried good-naturedly, shoving at her younger sister. “I admit it, I made up that last part. Stop it, you’ll rip the thing to shreds. Now where was I?” Assuming an expression of dignity befitting an earl’s wife, Lillian held up the letter and continued importantly. “Mr. Nettle went on to deliver a number of lovely compliments, and wished me well with the Marsden family—”

“Did you tell him that your mother-in-law tried to dispose of you?” Daisy asked.

“And then,” Lillian continued, ignoring her, “he answered my question about the perfume.”