She didn’t resist. There wasn’t a thought of it. One moment they were moving forward, and the next his hand was cupping her jaw and his mouth was on hers, open, hot, and claiming.
Harriet moaned, low and startled, and pressed up into him like she meant to devour him alive.
“Designed by a villain, was it?” he murmured into her lips, kissing lower with every word. “I have thought about unfastening this gown every damn day since I saw it.”
“You shouldn’t have sketched it so well,” she said, breathless, as his hands traced the slope of her hips through the silk. “You made it very easy to copy.”
He stilled for half a second, then huffed a dark laugh against her skin, equal parts pleased and ruined. “I knew you had stolen my sketch of it. You little thief.”
“You left it out.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Of course I did.”
He pressed her harder against the panelled wall, and she gasped—then laughed again, wicked and breathless.
There was a faint clatter as her elbow had knocked into a delicate pedestal stand, which juddered under the weight of an ornamental urn. Jeremy reached out blindly and righted it without breaking the kiss.
The man had excellent reflexes.
“Careful,” she whispered. “You’ll break something.”
“I intend to.”
Harriet felt a frisson of pleasure vibrate through her body at those words.
He kissed her again before she could respond—kissed her until her knees nearly gave out—and then took her hand and walked with her quickly, determinedly, down the corridor. His grip was firm and unrelenting, but not cruel. He didn’t rush her. He simply wouldn’t stop.
Her heel slipped slightly on the polished floor. He caught her by the waist and guided her around a narrow corner.
They passed the drawing room doors without slowing. Harriet barely glimpsed the tall windows, the pale blue curtains, the chaise near the fire. Jeremy pulled her through and into the next room, the one adjoining it, and shut the door behind them with a sharp, satisfying click.
The air in this space was cooler. Dimmer. It smelled faintly of charcoal and clean linen.
A single north-facing window let in a blade of light across the wooden floorboards. In its path stood a tall easel, bare. Nearby, a low stool, familiar in shape and repaired with care. A canvas leaned against the wall, blank. On a small table beside it rested a shallow bowl filled with painting paraphernalia and a folded cloth.
There was nothing else in the room.
She turned in a slow circle, taking it in.
“You… you did this?” she asked in awe.
“Well, Atkins helped with the windows,” he chuckled. “But yes. It is yours now. Ours.”
“It is… perfect.”
Jeremy reached for the first button at her back.
She turned before he could undo it.
“Lock the door first.”
His smile was crooked. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
“I’ve seen how you kiss. Do you really want us to be caught?”
“Would it be the worst thing? We are married now, after all,” he chuckled again.
