What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(80)

“Harry,” she gasped, her body arching against his. He could feel every curve through their clothing, and he had to—he couldn’t stop—

He had to feel her. He had to know her.

He said her name, barely recognizing his own voice, grown hoarse with need. “I want you,” he said. And when she moaned incoherently in response, her lips finding his earlobe as his had done hers, he said it again.

“I want you now.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

With a shuddering breath, he pulled away from her and took her face in his hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded.

But that wasn’t good enough. “Do you understand?” he asked, urgency making him sound almost strident. “I need you to say it.”

“I understand,” she whispered. “I want you, too.”

Still, he held off, unable to let himself cut that last thread of sanity, of propriety. He knew he was ready to commit his very life to her, but he had not sworn it in a church, before her family. But by God, if she was going to stop him now, she was going to have to stop him now.

She went very still; for a moment even her breathing seemed to stop, and then she took his face in her hands, the very same position he held with her. Their eyes met, and in her face he saw a love and a trust so big and so deep that it nearly paralyzed him with fear.

How could he possibly be worthy of this? How could he keep her safe and happy and make sure that every second of every day she knew how much he loved her?

She smiled. At first it was sweet, and then it grew clever, and maybe a little bit mischievous. “You’re going to ask me to marry you,” she murmured, “aren’t you?”

His lips parted with shock. “I—”

But she placed one of her hands against his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Just nod if it’s yes.”

He nodded.

“Don’t ask me now,” she said, and she looked almost serene, as if she were a goddess and the mortals around her were doing exactly what she asked of them. “This isn’t the time or the place. I want a proper proposal.”

He nodded again.

“But if I know that you plan to ask me, I might be convinced to act in a manner…”

It was all the permission he needed. He pulled her back for another searing kiss, his fingers finding the cloth-covered buttons at the back of her gown. They slipped easily through the buttonholes, and in seconds the fabric pooled and rustled at her feet.

She was standing before him in her chemise and corset, the pale fabric glowing softly in the moonlight filtering through the uncurtained upper half-moon of the room’s only window. She looked so beautiful, so ethereal and pure—he found himself wanting to stop and drink in the sight of her, even as his body burned for closer contact.

He shrugged off his own coat, then loosened the folds of his cravat. Through it all she just stood there, silently watching him, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. He undid the first few buttons on his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head and, with whatever last grasp on rational thought he had left, he laid it neatly on a chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. She let out a little giggle, clasping her hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“You’re so neat,” she said, looking almost embarrassed to be pointing it out.

He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. “There are four hundred people on the other side of this door.”

“But you’re ruining me.”

“I can’t do it neatly?”

Another snort of laughter burst from her mouth. She reached down, picked up her dress, and handed it to him. “Would you mind folding this as well?”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Wordlessly, he reached out and took it.

“If you are ever short of funds,” she said, watching him lay the dress over the back of a chair, “there are always opportunities for a conscientious lady’s maid.”

He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry salute. He tapped his left temple, close to his eye, murmuring, “Blind to color, if you recall.”

“Oh, dear.” She clasped her hands together, looking terribly proper. “That would be a problem.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes devouring her. “I might be able to make up for my lack with excessive devotion to my mistress.”

“Loyalty and fidelity is always prized amongst servants.”

He came close, very close, until his lips were almost touching the corner of her mouth. “And amongst husbands?”

“It’s very prized amongst husbands,” she whispered. Her breathing was growing erratic, and just the touch of it on her skin made his blood race.

His hand went to the ties of her corset. “I am very loyal.”

She nodded jerkily. “That’s good.”

He tugged on the ribbon, first undoing the bow, and then slipping his finger under the knot below. “I can say ‘fidelity’ in three languages.”

“Really?”

Really, and he didn’t care if she knew. He planned to make love to her in all three, but for the first time, he thought he would stick to English. Well, mostly.

“Fidelity,” he whispered. “Fidelité. Vyernost.”

He kissed her then, before she could ask more. He would tell her everything, but not now. Not when he was shirtless, and her corset was undone and sliding from her body. Not when his fingers were working the two buttons of her chemise, unhooking the straps that held it in place over her shoulders.