Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(74)

“The reverend is waiting,” she reminded, gasping when his hand closed over one breast.

“He can wait. All damn night if need be,” Griffin muttered.

Astrid gave a small yelp as he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. “I, however,” he added, “can’t wait another moment. You love me.” His blue eyes glinted down at her. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re my wife.”

Running a hand along his square jaw, she waited for the whispers in her head, the ones that had always been there, calling for duty and restraint, to remind her that people waited downstairs, no doubt talking about them, speculating…

And yet nothing. Nothing could be heard save the beating of her heart, the hum of her blood rushing in her ears. All for love. For Griffin. For living and loving freely for the first time in her life.

Griffin stopped at the bed, his arms cradling her tightly against him. She could feel the thud of his heart against her side, matching the rhythm of her own.

“Astrid?” he murmured and her gaze slid up to his, reading the silent question there…the patience and understanding in the pale blue depths.

He would do whatever she wished. Restrain himself, save his passion, deny spontaneity, and stow away his desire for later. He would pull away, take her downstairs and properly wed her before he touched her again. For her. Because he loved her.

The old Astrid would have taken the offer. And felt the correct, respectable lady for it. Whether true or not, she would have cloaked herself in the fa?ade and never surrendered to passion, to him, herself.

Glancing down, she slid her fingers beneath his vest, caressing the firm chest through his shirt. “Are we still wearing our clothes?”

Grinning, he dropped her on the bed. “Not for long. Not for long.”

Epilogue


“How long are we going to sit here?” Griffin asked, his voice warm as a summer breeze sweeping through her. Especially welcome considering that Yorkshire was almost as cold as the Highlands this early in spring.

Griffin glanced out the window. “The servants are likely wondering at the carriage sitting in the drive.”

“Hmmm,” Astrid murmured with a nervous tilt of her head, fingers tapping her lips anxiously as she glanced out the part in the curtain and considered the impressive home of the Earl of Moreton.

“Forever, then?” he asked at her continued silence.

Astrid shook her head vigorously, smoothing gloved hands over her muslin skirts. “Just a bit longer.”

She had taken great pains with her wardrobe this morning. Rising early, she had left Griffin asleep, naked and tangled enticingly in the bed linens at the nearby inn where they had taken lodgings.

Griffin smiled indulgently and moved across the carriage to sit beside her. He plucked her hand from her lap and ran his thumb over the back of her glove. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes. I do.” With a deep, bracing breath, she nodded and allowed him to escort her from the carriage. The front door opened before they knocked, the butler’s ready gaze telling them that their presence had long been known.

Moments later, they found themselves led into a well-appointed drawing room. Astrid glanced around, contented to see that Portia lived in such comfort.

“I will inform Lady Moreton of your presence.” Bowing, the butler left them. The moment the door clicked shut, she sagged against a chintz-covered sofa.

Griffin sank down beside her, his eyes meeting hers in concern. “You’re certain you want to do this?”

“It’s long overdue.”

“I don’t think you have anything to be sorry about.” He tapped her nose fondly. “As far as I’m concerned, you couldn’t be more perfect.”

She snorted and shook her head. “You must really love me.”

He leaned over her, lips brushing hers in several nibbling bites. “I must.”

Her fingers curled into his jacket as he deepened their kiss, their tongues mating in a feverish kiss.

The click of the drawing room doors registered dimly. Shoving at his broad shoulders, she wiggled out from beneath him and rose to greet her sister-in-law.

“Astrid,” Portia murmured, blue eyes blinking in astonishment.

Bertram’s sister had matured into every inch the elegant lady, her once waifish appearance long gone. With her jet tresses arranged elegantly atop her head and her gown of deep blue, she looked the perfect countess.

“Hello, Portia,” she murmured, resting a hand on Griffin’s arm. “This is my husband, Griffin Shaw MacFadden.”

Griffin stood tall at her side, inclining his head ever so slightly, a polite smile on his lips, but in his eyes lurked a wariness, a readiness to pounce and defend if Astrid were in any way affronted. She slid her fingers down his arm to lightly encircle his wrist, letting the simple touch stay his impulse to shield her.

“Your husband?”

Flushing, Astrid realized she had not even shared the news of Bertram’s demise. With fumbling fingers, she pulled Bertram’s signet ring from her reticule and handed it to Portia.

Portia accepted the ring, studying it.

“I’m sorry, Portia.” She fought to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat. “Your brother is dead. Buried in a churchyard in Dubhlagan, Scotland.”

A deep sigh rattled loose from Portia’s chest. “I can’t say I’m surprised. If anything, I would have thought Bertram met his end long ago. He certainly did nothing to promote a long, prosperous life.”