Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(77)

“I have to tell you something,” she gasped. He paused, heart pounding. “I love you,” she said simply. “I love you just the way you are.”

“I know.”

“Modesty, much?”

He grinned. And kissed her again. And wanted this to be the moment that lasted forever. Because someone loved him not for his station or status, or any favor he could bestow. It wasn’t about money or manners or popularity . . . none of that. She encountered the raw, flawed, aching parts of him and loved him anyway. He knew that she also saw the sacrifices he’d made for those he loved. And accepted them.

It made his heart pound hard in his chest.

Darcy slid his fingers though her hair, cradling her head and kissing her deeply. And she sighed and wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close so that he was hard against her soft, luscious curves, and then he forget about what else might transpire this evening. There was only this moment, with the woman he loved in his arms, sighing with pleasure.



Bridget had said it once: I love you. She had said it again: I love you just the way you are. She wanted to say it again and again—-but later. Because this kiss . . . oh, this kiss! A girl could get lost in this moment. She could forget the impossible bargain, forget that hundreds of people were just down the hall, forget that this could ruin her.

It would be worth it. This kiss, the feel of his hands caressing her, the heat in her belly, the weakness in her knees . . . it was all worth it.

“I want you to know, no matter what happens tonight . . .” he said, and her heartbeat slowed. It pounded in her breast, heavy and slow, as if bracing itself for bad news. “. . . I think you are beautiful.”

Oh, she sighed. He kissed her neck. Oh, she moaned.

“You are kind, and funny and wonderful. You are just what I need.” His voice was rough. Bridget started to worry that this wasn’t a romantic speech but goodbye. She tightened her grip on him, grabbing a handful of his shirt fabric. It would be wrinkled horribly and everyone would see it. Good. She didn’t want to let him go, not even a little, not at all, and especially not when he whispered, “I love you.”

In the dark, they fumbled, finding each other for another kiss.

This kiss was fierce and urgent from the very first second their lips touched. She just knew, from the way he gasped and tasted her and pulled her against him, that he had wanted this, and wanted her, for a long time now. That feeling of being so wanted set her afire.

“I love you,” she gasped. “I wish I could tell you all the time.”

What a gift that would be, to be able to tell someone that you loved them any time, whenever the mood struck: at the breakfast table, in the afternoon, late at night, and later still, then early in the morning. And stealing kisses here and there, in the corridor or in the carriage, before calling hours or late at night after a ball. That was what she wanted.

And if she couldn’t have it—-even now, she still feared she couldn’t have it—-then she would revel in this moment when the whole world was shut away and there was nothing but her and the man she loved. She knew him to be a good man, but it so happened that he was more than a little bit wicked after all.



God, he had her up against a door. A public door with a few hundred people on the other side of it. In a house that didn’t belong to him. Darcy was reminded of this when the sound of someone twisting the knob interrupted them. Even though he had locked it, he pulled Bridget away, darker in the shadows. She tripped on the carpet and stumbled into his chest. Her hands curved around his biceps. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her flush against him.

She writhed a little against his hard cock and he groaned. From there it was the matter of a few stumbling steps before she was lying on the settee and he was gazing down at her.

One more kiss, just on her lips, turned into a dozen more, each one lower and lower. He kept waiting for her to say no, or stop, or some nonsense about ladylike behavior. But the only sounds she made were soft sighs of pleasure.

He tugged down her bodice. She threaded her fingers though his hair, holding him close. Her breasts were gorgeous, full and . . . That was the first crack of his self--control. He teased the centers of her breasts until they were stiff peaks and then he teased her with his tongue until she was writhing and whispering, Darcy yes, Darcy more.

His self--control cracked a little more.

He shifted lower still, pushing aside blasted skirts and petticoats, skimming his hands along silk stockings, past her garters and higher still. And then he kissed her at the soft part between her thighs. She gasped. Then she moaned. And then he kept going.



Oh God. Oh my God. Bridget had never imagined this pleasure. With his tongue he teased her, taunted her. Darcy—-Darcy!—-was doing the most wicked things with his mouth to her most achingly sensitive place.

He slid one finger inside; her core tightened and her breath caught. She couldn’t breathe. Yes, this. She wanted so much, so badly. Her hips moved of their own volition, finding a rhythm and moving with him. And the sounds she made—-she didn’t recognize them.

None of it compared to sensations building within her. There was the heat in her belly, an unrelenting tension. There was pressure—-ever increasing, spiraling almost out of control pressure. The things he did with his mouth . . . his hands . . . his fingers . . . She arched up off the settee, crying out.

And that was only the beginning.