April, 1885
Isabella decided therewas no better sight in all the world than that of her husband standing before her in his dressing gown.
“Husband,” she greeted him, trying out the word.
It sounded good.
It sounded right.
Perfect, in fact.
“Wife,” he returned, offering her an elegant bow at odds with his state ofdishabille.
She curtseyed to him, holding the silk of her dressing gown as if it were the finest ball gown. In truth, itwasas fine as any ball gown. Part of the extensive trousseau Benedict had insisted upon commissioning for her in preparation of their nuptials, it was fashioned of ivory lawn and lace. His edict had been definitive: no black.
They had married earlier that day in a grand ceremony attended by all current and former Special League members. Their wedding breakfast and subsequent trip to Manning Hall had passed in a pleasant blur. Now, at last, the moment she had been waiting for was upon them.
“Is your shoulder paining you?” she asked him tentatively.
“Nothing could pain me now.” A charming grin curved his lips, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I feared this day would never come.”
Her heart gave a pang. So much love for him filled her. “I am sorry we had to wait so long.”
Though he had wanted a hasty wedding, his recovery had taken time. He had stepped down from his role as leader of the Special League, and she was heartily glad for it. No more danger would chase them ever again.
He drew her into his arms then. “The wait was more than worth the reward, my love.”
She cupped his face, gratitude rushing over her anew that he was alive and that he was hers. “I love you.”
His smile turned tender. He feathered a sweet, fleeting kiss over her lips. “I love you, my wife, my love, my duchess, my heart.”
“You did not always speak of me in such glowing fashion,” she could not resist teasing him. “Do you recall that first day? You called me Miss Killjoy.”
“What an arse I was.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “It is a miracle you deigned to return. I was right about the joy half of the word, however. You are the source of all mine.”
“And you are mine, Benedict.” How she meant those words. Today had been the happiest of her life. Knowing she was his forever, and that he was hers, filled her with a new sense of wonder.
The warmth burning inside her burst into flame as longing pooled between her thighs. They had not made love since the night she had spent in his bed at Westmorland House, seemingly a lifetime ago. She pressed her mouth to his once again. He instantly deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding along hers.
She opened for him, eager for more.
His delicious scent inundated her. He groaned when she sucked his tongue, and she slid her fingers into his thick mane of golden hair. Her nipples tightened. The need built steadily as she nipped the fullness of his lower lip.
He broke the kiss, staring down at her with storm-tossed-sea eyes. “My Love, my own.If you do not take care, this evening will be over before it has begun. It has been far too long since I last had you in my bed.”
Her hands drifted to his shoulders, relishing the warm strength of him. “For a man who proposes to despise poetry, you certainly do speak a lot of it.”
“Minx.” He kissed her again. “I still think it is all lovesick twaddle.”
Her husband did not fool her.
She could not suppress her smile. “I caught you reading the volume from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know, Your Grace.”
“So you did, Your Grace.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Mayhap I was bored on the train ride here.”
“Is that so?” She caressed down his chest. He was so vital. So powerful. She vowed to never again take him for granted. To always be thankful for his presence in her life. For his love. “I suppose I should have done a better job at distracting you.”
“You distract me endlessly.” He kissed her cheek. “Deliciously.” Her ear. “Wickedly.” The sensitive patch of skin beneath it. “I read the poetry so I would not toss up your skirts and ravish you in the railcar.”
