Even if he was.
A foolish part of Spencer wished he had more to offer her. She was not the self-centered flirt he had once imagined her to be, and he knew that now. It was not lost upon him how astute she had been during his conflict with Harry earlier when he had been yearning to plant a fist in his brother’s jaw to stem the flow of unwanted revelations. He well understood why Harry would be jealous that he had Boadicea all to himself, but his bitter words had been almost unforgivable. Yet, through it all, his fierce wife had held fast, her palm pressed to his back to give him strength, never wavering from her championing of him.
He was humbled.
Gratified.
Hell, he didn’t know what he was. What he did know was that he had finished two fingers of whisky, he had just married the most beautiful, desirable, vexing, stubborn minx in England, and she was even now only separated from him by wood and precious little distance.
Here, at least, was something he could freely give her: his body.
He could not wait another moment more. Need, primitive and all-consuming, pulsed through him. More than anything, he wanted to burst through her door, take her up in his arms, and carry her to the bed where he would lick her everywhere and then plant himself so deeply inside her that she would feel his possession forever.
And she was his now. His wife. He had married Boadicea Harrington, impetuous, reckless, stubborn, outspoken, ridiculously maddening Boadicea Harrington.
He stalked toward the door.
It swung open.
Wide, blue eyes met his. There she stood, glorious and wild, her auburn hair unbound and falling in a curtain to her waist. She wore a white silken dressing gown, her bare feet peeping from beneath the hem. She was bloody beautiful, even more than she had been earlier in her ivory gown with its elaborate skirts and cluster of satin roses.
He had never seen a fucking lovelier sight. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Everything else—the tension between them, the trials of the day, his interfering mother and angry brother, his past and all his fears—fell away. There was only her, and a fresh wave of need slid through him.
“I could not wait,” she said, her voice husky, a hesitant smile on her lush lips.
Thank Christ. She had come to him. Of course she had. He should have expected nothing different from the bold, fearless woman he had married. She was the same woman who had stood before him nude without a crumb of shame, who had kissed him that day in his library. He found himself, as he savored the sight of her now, in awe of her tenacity.
He realized belatedly that he was gawping at her like a callow youth, as though she was the first beautiful woman he had ever seen. Whether it was the tender expression on her face or the hesitant way she lingered at the threshold—the only sign that her bravado had a hairline crack—he was pleased that she was his. Pleased that she had come to him. That she had wanted to. They had both been a ragged bundle of nerves for most of the day, and he had not been sure what to expect from her this evening.
“I am glad you did not,” he admitted finally, his tone rough and raw with need and pent-up desire. It had been a month since he had last touched her with anything other than polite courtesy. A month since she had been naked beneath him, and he had relived the delirious joy of that day each night since, alone in his bed with only his bloody hand for solace.
At long last, his wait was over.
“You were dawdling.” Her daring was firmly back in place as she walked toward him, and he could not be certain if it was her intention or if it was the natural way she glided across the floor, but the sway of her hips was going to be the death of him.
“I was being a gentleman.” Drawn to her, he moved, helping to close the unwanted distance between them. Three strides was all it took. He inhaled deeply.Jasmine. His cock went painfully stiff. “I wished to give you ample time to ready yourself.”
“I am ready,” she said, a becoming flush tingeing her cheekbones.
He wondered if she would be wet if he pulled aside her dressing gown and pressed his fingers into the warm folds of her cunny. Would she be dripping? Lord God, he had to stop or he would not last the next ten minutes, let alone the night.
Instead of touching her there, he traced the backs of his fingers over her jaw, and her skin was every bit as soft and perfect as he remembered, like fresh whipped cream that he longed to devour.
“I have a gift for you. Two gifts, actually,” he elaborated, wanting to give them to her before he lost his mind and himself inside her.
Her smile deepened, and his heart almost stopped. He swore she grew more beautiful by the minute. “I have a gift for you as well. I nearly forgot. Wait here whilst I fetch it.”
Before he could protest, she spun away from him, hurrying back across the thick Axminster and disappearing into the duchess’s chamber. Although he knew it was a temporary loss, that she would return momentarily, he felt it like a physical ache. She had filled the room, and both the space and he were emptier for her absence.
Bloody hell. What ailed him? Perhaps it was that he was sorely in need of relief. All the blood in his body had been diverted to his straining, erect cock. Yes, he decided. That was precisely what was making him as witless as a March hare.
He forced himself to retrieve the box containing her wrapped gifts, wondering at the wisdom of his second gift, which he had purchased on a whim and against his every sense of reason and fine judgment. But before he could think better of it, she had returned, clutching a small parcel, hips sashaying, mouth smiling, eyes gleaming.
Damn, she was lovely. He cleared his throat, feeling unaccountably nervous and more than just a bit silly, and thrusted the box toward her. “Here you are.”
She accepted it with one hand and gave him the package she had retrieved. “And here you are, husband. Open yours first, if you please. I went to great lengths to find it, so I do hope you will not be disappointed.”
He almost told her that he could never be disappointed by anything she saw fit to give him—particularly if it was herself—but he held his tongue and opened the box instead. His heart thumped in his chest as he spotted a gleam of silver in the glow of the lamps.
