Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(72)

She smiled.

“We cannot make love again after today,” he told her, his voice quiet and reasoned. “Not unless we are to marry. I understand that you can’t be a duchess, Diana. I do understand. If I didn’t have to be duke, I would throw you in a carriage and take you to Gretna Green.”

“What would we do after that?” she whispered.

“Would you care to travel?”

“I would love to.”

“I would take you and Godfrey to Greece and Italy. I had planned to take a Grand Tour, but I was needed at home. Now my aunt is managing the estates.” His hands had slowed; they were tracing patterns on her inside thighs and made her want to squirm.

“After a few years, we would come home. Perhaps we’d have a baby by then. I would rent a house while choosing land to build the house I had designed for you.”

Diana could scarcely breathe. Her heart felt so full she thought it might burst.

“We would have many babies and cheerful nursemaids, unlike Mabel.”

“She’s not terrible,” Diana objected. “She just doesn’t like her work.”

“Since we wouldn’t go to London for the Season, Ophelia and my father could leave Artie with us.”

“We might keep a flock of peacocks,” Diana suggested. His fingers kept coming closer to the heart of her and then sliding away. She couldn’t keep herself from squirming, her knees pressing outward against his legs like a wanton.

“May I touch you, Diana?” he whispered.

“Please,” she said, gulping air.

Just as his right hand slid between her legs, his left splayed over her breast, and two fingers trapped her nipple. She turned wetter than water, and her moan was echoed by the groan that came from his throat as he caressed her.

“I can’t, oh, I can’t,” she panted.

“Watch,” he commanded, and Diana watched his sun-bronzed hand caress her breast, roughly enough to make her arch toward his fingers. His other hand covered her most private part, one broad finger . . .

“Oh,” Diana whispered.

Because she could.

And she did.

The aching sensation unfurled inside her the way a rose does in the morning sun, streaks of heat spreading languidly down her legs, up her belly. Her head fell back on his shoulder and she clenched around his finger, squeaks coming from her throat that might have been embarrassing, except his breathing was harsh in her ear and there was no place for embarrassment between them.

North loved the way Diana was rubbing her arse against his cock, pleading for more. Her eyes were soft and unfocused. When she finally lay bonelessly in his arms, he washed her hair and rinsed it carefully before he lifted her from the bath, toweled her off, and pushed her gently down on her stomach over the side of the bed.

Diana didn’t have time to ask questions, because North’s hands settled on her hips and then—

And then.

They made love for hours, and it wasn’t until the end that she really understood it was for the last time.

“Condoms aren’t perfect,” North said, propped on his side looking down at her. Her hair had dried in crazy corkscrews and kinks. It was all over the pillow and he kept winding his fingers through her curls.

Diana felt drugged by the times he’d pushed her into making that leap of joy; her mind foggily sorted through his sentence.

“We can’t make love after today, or you might end up with child. And Diana, no child of mine is going to be born out of wedlock.” His voice wasn’t angry, or even sad. Just accepting.

“I understand,” she said, knowing that was the truth. North would set her free, but not under those circumstances.

His gentle caress down her arm was like a lullaby promising a bedtime story. “I keep thinking about the night we met.”

“My mother was exuberant on the carriage ride home,” Diana said, sighing.

North had that imperturbable expression again, as if nothing she could say would shock him. Perhaps it wouldn’t. He’d been the heir to a dukedom for years, after all. He knew the schemes of marriage-minded mothers.

If anything, his eyes were sympathetic.

“You asked me to dance,” she continued, because she wanted him to know the truth. “My mother had found out that you had bought a horse earlier that day. I asked you about the lineage of Arabian horses. We knew that you are very close to your brothers, but did not enjoy hearing lavish adoration of Lord Wilde’s books. I managed to inform you that I had heard of your brother, but had not read his books.”

His thumb stopped its caress and the side of his mouth quirked up again. “That is thorough.”

“Thorough is the fact that my mother didn’t allow me to read Lord Wilde’s books, both in deference to you as his brother, and in case she decided to target the famous explorer instead. She thought he would never marry a lady who had read his books or had seen the play about him.”

A full smile now. “My sister-in-law Willa had not read the books, because she disliked the sound of them. She thought Alaric made up his adventures.”

“My mother believed that ignorance of his work would prove irresistible to Lord Alaric.”

“What did she think would be irresistible to me? Surely not simply ignorance of my brother’s books.”

“No.”