“Yes,” she whispered, surprising herself with the truth of it. “I am ready.”
He began slowly, drawing back only a little before easing in again, watching her closely. The discomfort faded, replaced by a rising pleasure that grew with each careful thrust. When he increased the pace slightly, her breath broke in a soft moan, and she lifted her hips in involuntary response.
He groaned, low and hoarse. “If you do that again, I will disgrace myself very quickly.”
“What am I doing?” she managed, dazed.
“Meeting me,” he said, his voice nearly a growl. “Wanting me.”
A tremor went through her at his words. She met his next thrust, then the next, a small, instinctive movement that made pleasure coil hot and deep within her. He adjusted his angle, and suddenly each stroke sent sharp, molten pleasure flickering through her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.
“That is it,” he murmured raggedly. “Let go. Let it come.”
The release rushed through her in a cascade of sensation so powerful she cried out, her body clenching around him. He followed her with a broken sound, thrusting once, twice, and then shuddering as he spilled into her, his arms tightening around her.
He collapsed against her, bracing his weight carefully, breath ragged. She clung to him, overwhelmed, trembling with aftershocks as he eased them both down.
After a long, quiet moment, he lifted his head and brushed her hair from her face. “Are you truly well?” he asked softly.
She nodded, flushed and breathless. “Better than well. Overwhelmed, enitrely,” she admitted,
Relief softened his features. He gathered her close, rolling to his side and tucking her against his chest. Her limbs tangledwith his, her head resting beneath his chin, and she felt the slow return of her breath to something like normal.
“We are truly married now,” he murmured into her hair. “Without interference. Without schemes. Just… us.”
“Just us,” she echoed, letting her fingers trace the steady beat of his heart. “And whatever comes next.”
He kissed the top of her head, holding her closer as the winter light faded. “Whatever comes,” he said, “we face it together.”
She drifted toward sleep with a faint smile, warm and safe in her husband’s arms, knowing that scandal had never felt so much like liberation.
Chapter
Sixteen
It was just shy of the dinner hour. The day was clear enough to permit them to return to Fairhaven before nightfall. That return should have felt triumphant—or at least resolved—but as the familiar shape of the estate rose from the winter haze, Jillian felt something coiled low in her stomach. Not quite dread. Not quite defiance. Something far more complicated, sharpened by the knowledge that she and Miles had crossed a threshold that could never be uncrossed.
She sat beside him in the carriage, their hands loosely twined on the seat between them. The intimacy of York still clung to them in subtle ways—the warmth of his shoulder brushing hers whenever the carriage hit a rut, the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth whenever she caught his eye, the soreness lingering in her body that reminded her with startling clarity of what they had done.
But the closer they drew to Fairhaven, the more she could feel society—its expectations, its scrutiny, its malice—stirring awake around them.
And waiting.
The carriage rolled to a halt before the house, where the front doors stood flung wide and half the household seemed gatheredon the steps. Jillian saw Helena at once, her face a mixture of worry, outrage, and unmistakable sisterly judgment. Behind her loomed Beatrice, shaking with excitement like a hound who had caught the scent of romance. Henry looked prepared to provide gallant resuscitation with fainting salts for anyone who might require the cure. Several guests hovered with appalling interest.
And there—like a pair of vultures—stood Arabella and her mother.
The moment Jillian stepped from the carriage, a cacophony erupted.
“Where have you been?—?”
“Do you have any idea?—?”
“Gone since dawn?—!”
“Entirely unchaperoned?—!”
“As a general rule,” Miles stated with impervious aplomb, “married couples do not require a chaperone to travel together.”
