He grabbed her wrist before she could do more than stroke him. “Are you certain?”
She slid from his lap in order to undo the other side of his fall, then swung her leg round to straddle him. “I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”
“Me either,” he whispered.
Inch by inch, she lowered herself onto his shaft until he completely filled her. He took her breasts in his hands, touching, suckling, making the sting of pain disappear into a renewed whirlwind of desire.
Slowly, she rocked against him, picking up speed and rhythm until they were both gasping for air as he gripped her hips and brought them both over the peak and sent them soaring into the heavens together. When she collapsed against him, she could still feel the occasional pulse of pleasure, as if her body was not quite ready to let his go.
“Marry me,” he murmured into her neck. “Say you will.”
She lowered her head to kiss him. “There’s nothing I want more.”
“Wife.” He held her as if they would never have to part again.
She rested her cheek against his hair and held on tight. “Husband.”
This was more than love. He was everything she had ever wanted. A part of her soul.
Chapter 25
Heath might or might not be the most fortunate man alive, but he was certainly the happiest. He smiled to himself as he slowed his landau in front of his town house. Soon, he would not be returning to an empty home, but one filled with love and laughter. In the future when he came home, it would be toNora.
Three weeks of banns seemed like an eternity.
Before his groom could arrive to take the reins, the door to the town house burst open and one of Heath’s footmen raced down the walkway to the carriage.
“Got a name,” Larkin said as he fumbled for something deep in his pocket.
Heath’s head was still so full of Nora’s kisses and smiles and heated touch that at first the words did not make sense.
“A name?” he queried, trying to look like he was paying attention.
“The caricaturist.” Larkin dug in a different pocket. “Or at least his emissary.”
The caricaturist.
Heath’s mind cleared at once and all his senses immediately focused on his footman. “Don’t tell me you found the name andlostit.”
“Win-something,” Larkin muttered as he abandoned his coat pockets in favor of his waistcoat pocket. “Winston? Winslow? Winfield?”
Winfield.
All the air emptied from Heath’s lungs.
No. It was a coincidence. Nora would have nothing to do with such a terrible thing.
“Here it is!” Larkin squinted at a scrap of parchment. “The sketches arrive to the intermediary courtesy of a Mr. Carter Winfield of the West Midlands.”
Mr. Carter Winfield of the West Midlands. It was not a coincidence.
It was a conspiracy.
“This Winfield fellow isn’t the actual artist,” Larkin continued. “He never divulged the name, but one of the letters I glimpsed mentioned a ‘she.’ If you wish to send me to the West Midlands, I’m certain I can ferret out who ‘she’ is.”
Ice filled Heath’s veins.
He reached for the parchment. “No, Larkin. Such a mission won’t be necessary.”
