Think, Lydia. What other concessions would you have him make?
“If I am to marry, I would hope that my husband could be my friend. That we would look after each other. Help each other. Respect each other.” She paused, thinking of the sort of marriages common to theton, the sort she did not wish for herself. “If you cannot meet these requirements, tell me now. I would sooner be a companion than accept anything less.”
“Freckles.”
The way he said her name answered a hunger deep within her.
She could not look away from that burning gaze. “Yes?”
“I agree to each one of your demands, my lady pirate.” He paused, a wicked grin curving his lips. “Now, will you consent to be my duchess?”
The time had come to make her choice, and it was not at all how she had imagined it would be. For she knew instinctively that a marriage with Warwick would be unlike anything she was prepared for. He was sensual and dangerous, and so very different from her other suitors, who seemed somehow bland and tepid in comparison. Her other suitors were the safe perch atop a hill in the midst of flood waters. Warwick was the flood.
But something within her whispered that he washerflood. And she wanted to be swept away for once in her life. To take a risk. To leave caution and fear behind her, moving forward into the unknown. She looked at Warwick now, really looked at him, and she longed to be reckless. Full stop.
With a deep, calming breath, Lydia tipped up her chin and answered. “I will.”
She had no time to rethink the wisdom of her acceptance. His mouth pressed to hers at last, and it was as if he kissed her for the first time, tender and masterful, a gentle claiming, and she thought then that if she wasn’t careful, she could fall in love with him. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, sweeping inside to taste her. Someone made a sound of yearning. Her? Him? She wasn’t sure. She clutched his broad shoulders; he cupped her breast. Her nipple pebbled into his palm.
Morewas all she could think as she sucked his tongue, swallowed his taste, committed the sensation of his solid body beneath her eager fingers to memory. More was what she wanted. Needed. How and when had he become precisely what she longed for?
They broke apart for a breath, and it was then that Mother returned, noisily thumping into the door so that it landed with a dull thud against the wall. Lydia turned away from Warwick, breathless, hoping her mother had not seen their embrace.
Mother smiled, holding the embroidery she had been working on for the last month aloft. “My needlework has been found, and just in time, I should think.”
Lydia’s cheeks burned. Well, then. How mortifying, but all told, she rather liked being referred to as a lady pirate. Indeed, it was a mantle she would wear with pride.
“Merry Christmas, Freckles,” Warwick murmured to her.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered back.
Perhaps Mother had been right about the day after all.
