Helen arched a brow. “You want a written invitation?”
“I don’t want to crash a private family affair.” It was a pathetic excuse, but he had to try.
Her expression sharpened. “He didn’t forbid it, Nic. And you know it. If you need me to ask him to formally extend the invitation, I will.”
He grimaced. “No, no. That won’t be necessary.”
“So you’ll come?”
He groaned and dropped his head back toward the stars. “Fine. I’ll come. I’ll charm your uncles and endure the cold stare of Steward Jacob. And I’ll wear that ridiculous brocade waistcoat.”
Her smile was triumphant. “The one I love.”
“Of course. I live to suffer for your affection.”
She laughed and leaned in, brushing her lips against his. “Good. Then suffer a little more.”
With no warning, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her effortlessly into the air. She squealed, laughing as her skirts billowed around them. He caught her lips with his and carried her back to the quilts, kissing her until they were both breathless again.
“Nic,” she murmured between kisses, “I just got dressed...”
He grazed her neck with his teeth. “That was a mistake.”
She laughed, gasping as he slid his hands up under her skirts. “You are impossible.”
“You love me—impossible.”
“Clearly,” she moaned as he laid her down and parted her thighs with his hands and knees. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he whispered, pressing into her with a groan.
The stars above shimmered wildly as they moved together—fast, fevered, full of pent-up ache. Helen clutched at him, arching as she cried out his name, her pleasure crashing over them both in waves.
“I love you,” Nic breathed against her neck, again and again, as he spilled himself into her warmth.
They clung to each other afterward, trembling, hearts pounding like the drums of battle and victory.
Nic rolled over in his bed with a groan. His eyes were still gritty with sleep, and the cold morning air nipped at his bare arms. He cracked one eye open. The window was pale with early light—not full dawn, but close enough.
Damn, if only he could have a few more hours...
From across the room came the creak of a dresser drawer. Uriah was already up, moving around with deliberate noise. A shirt was shaken out, followed by the heavy thunk of the drawer slamming shut.
“What time did you get home last night?” Uriah muttered through a yawn.
Nic grunted, dragging the quilt over his head. He didn’t have the strength for conversation. Not this early. Not today.
“You smell like wine,” Uriah added.
“I smell like triumph,” Nic replied, his voice muffled by blankets.
Uriah snorted. “Mother’s going to smell it.”
That got Nic moving—reluctantly. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. The scent of Helen lingered on his skin, faint but distinct, and it sent a confusing wave through him—pleasure tangled with unease, the sweetness of the night already shadowed by the burden of the workday ahead.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, Uriah was already seated at the table, chewing noisily on a hunk of day-old bread.
“Where’s Father?” Nic asked, reaching for the tealeaves.
