The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(69)

The sun had not yet set. They stood on the doorstep of her home, so newly completed that he could still smell the clean scent of sawn boards. He had his arm around her, refusing to let go for fear that she might come to her senses and leave at any moment.

“I’m off to London,” Lady Amanda was saying to Free. She had been one of their witnesses. “I had planned to go down early for the demonstration, and, well…” She glanced at Edward, and shrugged her shoulders. “All the more reason for me not to change my plans. I’m just here to get my bag.”

“Are you still speaking to Genevieve tomorrow?” Free asked.

Lady Amanda flushed faintly. “Yes.” She glanced over at Edward again, and then looked away. But even though the glance she cast him was suspicious, she didn’t say a word.

He appreciated Lady Amanda’s silence, even though he didn’t deserve any circumspection. There would be time enough for Amanda to tell Free what he was.

God, it was sweet to hold Free, to think of her as his wife. The brilliant smile she angled up at him was the sweetest yet. It was a shame it wouldn’t last the week.

“Shall I carry you over the threshold?” he asked, once Amanda had retrieved a valise by the doorway and taken her leave.

She smiled. “It’s my house. Maybe I should carry you.”

“Don’t.” He touched his gloved hand to her cheek. “I’d hate to break you this early in the evening. I have plans for you.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, and he reached out to her.

It seemed impossible that he should have her. But he did, temporary though the state was. She rested her cheek against his hand and smiled up at him, her eyes glowing.

“One of these days,” she said, “you’ll learn that I don’t break.”

“I already knew that.” He slid his arm around her, brought her close. “Now, my most lovely Free.”

He could tell her now. Tell her that he’d lied to her all this time, that the man she’d married was both Edward Clark and some other long-gone fellow by the name of Edward Delacey. He could tell her that on the morrow, he was going to change everything.

But that light in her eyes shone for him. She stood on tiptoes, her hands resting on his shoulders, her lips breathing warmth against his jawbone.

“Now, Edward,” she said, and he was lost.

He wrapped his arms around her, picking her up and taking her into her house. He shut the door behind him with a final thump.

Tell her now.

That was his conscience speaking. He would have thought the fool thing would have learned its lesson by now. He kissed her instead, taking her head between his hands as if he could pin her in place beside him not just for the moment, but for every instant that followed, and every one after that.

“Yes,” she said against his mouth, her hands on his chest. “I can tell you’re no gentleman. You’re far too well put together.”

“The better to hold you against a wall with, my dear.” He leaned down and kissed her again, as if he could steal her breath away.

But he didn’t need to steal it; she gave it to him willingly, her arms wrapping around him, her lips melding with his, her body pressing to his without any hint of shyness.

No, Free didn’t need to be coaxed into marital relations. Her hands explored him, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, untucking the tails of his shirt. Her fingers were cool at first against the muscles of his abdomen—but he still hissed, and a jolt of lust went through him at her touch.

The way he felt about her, she should have fit perfectly against him. But she was too short by inches to kiss in comfort. That discomfort made it impossible for him to forget himself, as if the strain in his neck, the tension in his lower back as he bent down to her, was recompense for every last lie he’d given her. Kissing her was both punishment and pleasure.

“I’ve wanted you in bed for far too long,” Free said against his lips.

“Ah, God.” It ached everywhere to pull her close, to feel the curve of her waist in his hands. Not just in his tightening muscles, not only in the throb of his erection, but somewhere deep inside him.

Her lips were soft, her breath was sweet, and at least for tonight, she was his.

She took his hand in hers. Her fingers curled around his. For a moment, he felt like an innocent youth. There was nothing between them but shy, sweet desire. Nothing but want, distilled by months of aching. It was easy to follow her down the corridor, easy to open the door to her bedchamber. The curtains were open, and the sunset spilled red over the floor. Enough illumination that he could see her expression, the lovely line of her chin, the color of her hair warring with the sunset.

He slid his finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. “I want your hair down.”

She let out a shaky breath. A small smile grew on her mouth, and she shut her eyes as if she were savoring the sound of him. But when she spoke, her voice was steady.

“I have nineteen pins in my hair. You have hands. You seem perfectly capable of finding them yourself.”

“So I am.” He took off his left glove and set it on a chest of drawers. “So I am.”

The first was easy to discover; just a little bit of metal glinting above her ear. Knowing that one was there, he looked for its mate on the other side. He found it hidden behind a curl. Number three was thrust through the braided knot of hair at the back of her neck; he slid it out, leaning down so that he could place a kiss against her neck. She shivered in response. He didn’t want to let her think, and so he nibbled at her ear as his hands found numbers four through twelve. She sighed as he kissed her, leaning into him. He held her braid in place as he took out the pins. It was almost a game, to make sure never to tug on her hair, never to cause her the slightest bit of pain.