Louisa delighted in watching what he did to her. Her fingers curled over the back of the red brocade sofa. Her other hand crowned his head, fingernails snaking through his hair. She watched his tongue lap between her legs, his breath puffing fast and hot over her slick, pebbled flesh.
Lord Granborough’s moans matched her own. He gripped her hips and rode the wild, wanton movements she made. She was powerless beneath the pressure of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the gentle bite of his teeth as he nipped her.
Every motion stoked her higher until she grew mindless and restless. “Oh, Giles!” She panted and chanted, over and over again. “Oh, oh…”
Her head tossed against the pillows. Her spine squirmed against the cushions. Louisa strained and reached for her pinnacle, finding climax with one last, wicked lash of her husband’s tongue. She trembled against his lips, moaning his name as waves of bliss washed over her.
Sweaty and sated, Louisa collapsed in His Lordship’s arms, barely registering when he hauled her limp body from the brocade sofa and carried her to bed.
She had never felt more treasured.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
He awoke with her head on his chest. Giles stroked his hands through her silky, tousled hair, marveling at its softness. How nice to wake with one’s wife, intimate and unhurried! He felt glad to have her with him, here in his arms, sharing his bed.
Yet even in such bliss, he fretted over what to do about Venia, who expected him to abandon Louisa in Granborough before returning to London. How would she understand that his marriage vows had suddenly grown sacred?
Giles had promised his life, body, and the protection of his name to one woman, and could no longer stomach the thought of infidelity. Louisa was his wife in the eyes of God, the law, and now—he feared—his heart.
He would write Venia an explanation, he decided, and return the photograph to her, as he had no further use for it. He intended to post the letter as soon as they put into port. As for his debts, he’d find a way to settle with the Herberts. He must save Louisa from the disgrace of paying off her husband’s ex-mistress.
From this day forward, he vowed to be a good and faithful husband, for he did not wish to become entangled in the same plots, schemes, and manipulations as before. Giles longed to start afresh with Louisa.
She stirred drowsily in his arms and turned her naked body into his, for he too was warm, and cozy, feeling loverly. He pressed a languid kiss to her lips, claiming her thoroughly—as he had done last night when they had brought one another to the heights of pleasure.
“Good morning, Louisa,” he said, softly.
She smiled like a lazy, sated house cat. For once, she did not balk at his closeness or shy away from his touch. “Good morning, Giles,” she said, instead.
They were on very good terms today.
Louisa climbed out of bed, donned her wrapper, and peered from the porthole window, frowning. “Is that England out there?”
He rose and joined her at the window, spying the first glimpses of verdant, green countryside on the horizon. “Ireland, probably. We call at Queenstown to drop the mail and likely some passengers, as well.” He sought his dressing gown before ringing for breakfast, which was soon delivered. The steward arrived with the usual fare of coffee, pastries, and jam. Anything more substantial was served in the dining saloon.
It was far more pleasant to dine privately in the sitting room as man and wife, Giles decided as he sank onto the sofa cushions with a cup of coffee and a slice of hot, buttered toast slathered in marmalade.
Louisa sat beside him, doubtless blushing at the memory of all they’d experienced on this very sofa. She had been bold last night, and their coupling had been unbelievably erotic. He’d never imagined that one’s wife could behave so wantonly, or that she would welcome his attentions out of sheer sensual satisfaction.
Yes, he knew that womenwanted. He knew they felt desire and craved climax. He simply never believed that Louisa would need or even expect to be treated as a lover. He never thought she would wanthim.
His wife regarded him over the rim of her coffee cup, asking, “What are your plans for the future? What do you hope to accomplish at Granborough?”
He owed her some degree of truth. “I hope to put your money to good use. The house needs a new roof, not to mention the drains. The coal bill alone is £1,000 a year.” With reluctance, he admitted, “Things have got so bad that I’ve shut up the east wing and washed my hands of it.”
Louisa looked shocked. “I had no idea things were so dire.”
“It’s this damned industrialization,” he said. “Everyone is moving to the cities for work. In my grandfather’s day, there wasn’t an empty farm in the county.”
The very thing that had destroyed him—industrialization—was the thing that saved him, for he would use her money from the carpet mill to restore his estate.
That harsh reality passed unspoken between them.
“We’ll tackle things together,” she said at last. “I want to bring modernity to England, or at least to Granborough. Why shouldn’t your tenants have electricity and running water? They have no one to make their tea or draw their baths, and might appreciate these labor-saving amenities.” She nibbled her slice of toast, adding, “I really do want to order one of Mr. Perry’s electric kettles. I think it sounds very handy…”
A week ago, he would’ve been incensed. He would’ve denied the suggestion outright, and then seethed over her brash, American audacity to interfere with hundreds of years worth of tradition. Now, he endeavored to see the matter from her point of view, though he didn’t necessarily agree.
Giles sought to tease her with a modicum of the truth. “Oh, yes, you’ll need to be ‘handy’ when the servant classes revolt because you and Philip Sheridan Perry have modernized them out of a job.”
