Don’t stop!
Her body was burning up, so taut she felt like she would snap, and then with a gasp he sent her hurtling over the precipice, falling into a smothering ocean of pleasure. Her body convulsed, wave after wave of glorious release.
“Will!”
His big body surged against her and he let out a groan that reverberated from his chest into her own. With one last thrust, he pulled out of her, and Lucy held him as he shuddered and bucked, spending himself in the rumpled fabric of her skirts.
It seemed to take forever for her breathing to return to normal. Will lay sprawled, completely boneless, on top of her, and she relished the feel of his weight, pressing her down. She stroked his nape, playing with the hair that curled above his cravat, and with a spurt of amusement she realized that they were both still fully clothed.
Will finally pushed himself upright with a satisfied groan. He tucked his shirt back into his breeches, buttoning his falls with the ease of long practice, then took her damp dress from the back of the chaise and used it to wipe the evidence of his climax from her skirts.
A smile curved his lips as he glanced up at her, and he reached out and flicked her flushed cheek with his fingertip.
“I love it when you blush, Lucia. It makes me think of all the things I can do to make you even pinker.”
Lucy let out a shaky exhale and pressed her hand to her bodice where her heart still hammered against her breastbone. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
His low chuckle liquefied her insides. “Oh, challenge accepted.” His eyes held hers, and his expression sobered as he lowered himself to one knee beside the chaise. He reached out and took her hand.
“You, Lucy Montgomery, have been the bane of my life—and my greatest desire—from the first moment I ever set eyes on you.”
Lucy opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a silencing hand.
“I know that’s hard to believe, considering my past behavior, and I’m no good at making pretty speeches. I’m a soldier, not a poet. But there’s a bit from Hamlet that says it far better than I ever could;Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.”
“Polonius says that,” Lucy said softly. “In act two.”
“I know how much you love Shakespeare,” he said. “But it can’t possibly be as much as I love you. Please say you’ll marry me.”
Lucy sat up and straightened her skirts. “Yes, I’ll marry you, you scoundrel.”
His smile warmed her from the inside out. “Because you love me too?”
She rolled her eyes at his persistence. “Yes, my Lord Phantom. I love you too. With or without your mask.”
CHAPTER10
The Phantom of Drury Lane’s last public appearance occurred during the final performance of Hamlet.
People were already gossiping about the fact that the chandelier above box number four had been lit—in clear contravention of his orders—and many were hoping he’d make a dramatic protest, when his tall, masked figure stepped to the front of the box.
A ripple of speculation fluttered through the crowd. A few people slipped out of the auditorium and headed for the stairs to the upper boxes, hoping to claim the hundred pounds reward, but the majority simply craned their necks and waited with bated breath to see what, if anything, the Phantom would do.
Even the actors on the stage paused mid-fight scene, and squinted upwards.
Those seated in the closest rows saw the Phantom’s lips curve into a smile beneath his mask, and there was a collective intake of breath as he stretched his arm behind him, toward the back of the box, as if summoning someone.
An audible gasp echoed around the theater as afemalefigure stepped forward and took the Phantom’s hand.
The mystery lady wore white, the perfect foil for his darkness, a shimmering, ethereal dress that looked like it could have belonged to the tragic French Queen Marie Antoinette. A matching white mask covered the top half of her face, obscuring her features from the rapt and speculative gazes, and her upswept hair was powdered white and threaded with pearls.
No sound emerged from the box, but the entire audience watched, spellbound, as the Phantom lowered himself to one knee and pressed a kiss to the back of his lady’s hand in a silent, but very obvious, proposal.
For one suspended moment, they were a couple out of time. A shadowed Hades proposing to a sunlit Persephone. A highwayman begging for the hand of a fairy princess.
Fans fluttered in breathless anticipation as the lady in white pressed her free hand to her chest, to cover her racing heart. Then she reached forward to caress the Phantom’s clean-shaven jaw in a gesture of loving affection.
The Phantom rested his cheek in her palm, his adoration plain, and when she nodded her acceptance, he stood in one graceful movement and took her in his arms.
