Because of Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #1)(90)

“I’m told it will hurt,” he said regretfully, “but not for long.”

She nodded, and she must have tensed up, because he once again crooned, “Relax.”

And somehow she did. Slowly he pushed inside. The pressure was stranger than it was great, and even when she felt a light stab of pain, that was overshadowed by her need to keep him close, then closer.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded again.

“Thank God,” he groaned, and he moved forward, entering her more deeply.

But she knew he was holding back.

He was gritting his teeth and holding hard, and she would swear he looked like he was in pain. But at the same time he was moaning her name as if she were a goddess, and the things he was doing to her – with his member and his fingers, with his lips and his words – were stoking a fire that consumed her.

“George,” she gasped, when the tightness within seemed to grab her from the inside out. “Please.”

His movements grew more frenzied, and she pushed back, the need to move against him too overwhelming to ignore. “Billie,” he groaned. “My God, what you do to me.”

And then, just when she was certain she could take no more, the strangest thing happened. She grew stiff, and she shook, and then the moment she realized could no longer so much as draw a breath, she shattered.

It was indescribable. It was perfect.

George’s movements grew more frenzied, and then he buried his face in the crook of her neck, muffling his hoarse cry against her skin as he plunged forward one last time within her.

“I’m home,” he said against her skin, and she realized it was the truth.

“I’m home, too.”


Chapter 24


W
hen George went down to breakfast the following morning, he was not surprised to learn that Billie was still abed.

She had not, he thought with some satisfaction, had a restful evening.

They had made love three times, and already he could not help but wonder if his seed was taking root within her. It was odd, but he’d never given much thought to having children before. He’d known he must, of course. He would one day inherit Manston and Crake, and he had a sacred duty to provide the earldom with an heir.

But even with all that, he had never imagined his children. He had never pictured himself holding a child in his arms, watching him learn to read and write, or teaching him to ride and hunt.

Or teaching her to ride and hunt. With Billie as their mother, his daughters would surely insist upon learning all the same skills as their brothers. And while he’d spent his childhood thoroughly annoyed by Billie’s insistence upon keeping up with the boys, when it came to his daughters…

If they wanted to hunt and fish and shoot a pistol like a marksman…

They would hit the bull’s-eye every time.

Although he might draw the line at jumping hedges at the age of six. Surely even Billie would now accept that that had been absurd.

Billie would be the best mother, he thought as he walked down the hall to the small dining room. Her children would not be trotted out once a day for her inspection. She would love them the way her own mother loved her, and she would laugh and tease and teach and scold, and they would be happy.

They would all be happy.

George grinned. He was already happy. And it was only going to get better.

His mother was already at the breakfast table when he entered the room, glancing at a recently ironed newspaper as she buttered her toast.

“Good morning, George.”

He leaned down and kissed her proffered cheek. “Mother.”

She looked at him over the rim of her teacup, one of her elegant brows set into a perfect arch. “You seem in an exceptional mood this morning.”

He gave her a questioning glance.

“You were smiling when you entered the room,” she explained.

“Oh.” He shrugged, trying quell the bubbles of joy that had had him nearly hopping down the stairs. “Can’t explain, I’m afraid.”

Which was the truth. He certainly couldn’t explain it to her.

She regarded him for a moment. “I don’t suppose it would have something to do with your untimely departure last evening.”

George paused briefly in the act of spooning eggs onto his plate. He had forgotten that his mother would surely require an explanation for his disappearance. His presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing she’d asked of him…

“Your presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing I asked of you,” she said, her voice sharpening with each word.

“I beg your forgiveness, Mother,” he said. He was in far too good a mood to spoil it by quibbling. “It won’t happen again.”

“It is not my forgiveness you must obtain.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I would like to have it.”

“Well,” she said, momentarily flustered by his unexpected contrition, “it is up to Billie. I insist that you apologize to her.”

“Already done,” George said unthinkingly.

She looked up sharply. “When?”

Damn.

He took a breath, then returned to fixing his plate. “I saw her last night.”

“Last night?”