“I did,” he told her, looking like the most accomplished lad in school. “Oversaw the stamping and bagging myself.”
She squinted. “They let you do that?”
“They didn’t want to,” he replied smugly, which made her grin.
“Sir Ambrose defeats the Royal Mail,” she sighed, enjoying the immediate way he tensed under her. “A gallant tale for the ages.”
“You didn’t putthatname on the invitations either,” he noted. “And for that I thank you.”
“You shouldn’t,” she said, pressing a little closer. “The next time we frolic, I intend to call you that during the act.”
“Ah, here in a few moments, then?” he said, raising his brows, his fingers tightening on the flesh of her thigh. “Or did you think you had finished your own duties for the night already?”
She faltered, her lips forming a littleoof surprise. “I didn’t request it,” she reminded him, but did not attempt to wriggle away.
“Oh, that was a one-time necessity, my love,” he told her, dragging her leg higher, making it clear that he was not in jest about his intentions. “The maiden voyage has departed now. Explicit requests are no longer required. But I shall not discourage you from making them, should the spirit move you.”
“It might,” she said, her voice thinning as her skin began to warm. “It wasn’t so bad, in the end.”
“Oh, wasn’t it?” he taunted, urging her further onto him, pulling her leg fully over his hip so that she would lie astride him. “You certainly acted like it was causing you immense pain.”
“It was,” she said, as flippantly as she could manage as she settled into place atop his body, shifting so she could look up at his face, her hands braced against his chest. “Until it wasn’t.”
“Fascinating,” he murmured, running his fingers down both sides of her back, tracing the dips of her waist. “That must be why you screamed the way you did. The suffering of it all.”
She shivered. “I did not scream.”
“You did,” he insisted, his voice a low purr. “And you will again.”
She narrowed her eyes, running her gaze over all that messy hair, glinting silver in the candlelight; over the smooth, unbothered brow; the relaxed gaze of his eyes; the soft lines of his mouth. “I should get up,” she said without moving, “and put that tray on the floor so that we do not spill water and grapes all over the bed.”
“You should,” he agreed, holding her firmly in place. “You’re not going to just yet.”
“But we will—” she protested, cutting herself off with a whimper at the shift of his hips.
“You could try to stay very still,” he suggested, twining her hair around his fingers, “just like you could try not to scream.”
She pressed her lips together, flashing her eyes at him in defiance and making him grin.
“There’s my girl,” he said approvingly. “We are going to have a lovely night.”
“Do your worst,” she breathed. “Sir Ambrose.”
CHAPTER 20
Ambrose found it rather mean-spirited, in the machinations of the universe, that now that he had reason to linger and enjoy his days, they passed by much more rapidly than he had ever known them to do before.
The days that had meant nothing at all had clunked and dragged and sometimes repeated a few times just to punctuate the torment, though of course, he couldn’t prove that. Now that his life sparkled with meaning and enjoyment and worthiness to cherish, they were flying past so quickly, he could barely get an anchor on one before the next had begun.
Such was just the way of things, he supposed. It was still better than it had been, in any event. Far, far better. But he would have liked to have lingered in the trappings of post-consummation bliss for another year or two, before the world came knocking, all the same.
Despite Ambrose’s most valiant attempts to slow the passage of time, the charity ball was almost upon them already. Donations had been gathered, flowers and food had been ordered, staff had been secured, and still there were a thousand things to do.
Vix intended to execute all one thousand things personally, of course, and Ambrose had simply taken it upon himself to follow her and watch it happen. He suspected she enjoyed his audience.
“Honestly, our house looks well enough that we might have hosted it ourselves if you’d given it another week,” he told his wife on the way to the home where the ball would be held, a handful of mornings before the event. “Do we have a ballroom?”
She cut a look at him across the morning haze and shook her head. “We do not.”
