She had every intention of being his equal in every way.
“You’re ready for me already,” he said in a low, guttural voice that made her think of a flickering candle, wick burnt low.
Pleasure throbbed deep inside her, even before he slid a finger in.
Her head tipped back against his shoulder, and his other arm came to band across her stomach, holding her in place. Her backside came into contact with his erection, and he sucked in a breath, his arm tightening. Remembering the way he had climaxed helplessly in his breeches the first time they’d come together, she rolled her hips, and it became a competition. Her naked, him clothed; both working to provide the other the most pleasure.
To think, they might have been doing this all along if she had not been such a fool.
The heat coiled in her lower belly, and she knew with a rush of delight and disappointment that he was going to win.
“Have you been practising?” she asked between breaths.
His grip on her squeezed reflexively. “No. Have you?”
She was so close now. “Not since before you.”
“I hated it,” he said, voice a low growl against her ear, finger insistent inside her, thumb stroking her folds in relentless circles. “When I learnt that you’d had lovers beside your husband while I had waited, I hated it.”
Her nails dug into his arm, and ground herself against him, urgently enough that he groaned.
“And now?”
“Now I am incapable of hating anything about you.” He stroked her one more time, and she quivered on the edge. “I want you to teach me all you’ve learnt. And then I want to surpass all the men who came before.”
No one else had ever held her the way he had. And she had thought, before Henry had returned to England, that she hadn’t needed it.
He knew his lack of experience made him in need of tutorage; no other man she had been with had ever been so open to learning.
She had never felt so wanted when she was with him.
If she could have had her life play out differently, perhaps she would have done—she would have married him at twenty, and they would have learnt to love the life they had. But given the hand she was dealt, she refused to regret anything. Not her choices, nor the person she had become.
And she felt nothing but relief that he had come to accept it the way she had.
“I love you,” she gasped as pleasure broke over her.
His arm banded across her chest. “I love you too,” he said fiercely, then almost before her climax had ended, she was on her back and he was hovering over her, all taut muscles and unfocused eyes. It was a matter of seconds for him to strip off his waistcoat, shirt and breeches, and then he was inside her with a rush. She raised her legs to better allow him access, encouraging him deeper, and they both made a sound of satisfaction.
“I’m glad I waited for you,” he said, holding her gaze as she tightened around him, so sensitive the feel of him inside her was almost overwhelming, the sensation too much.
“I’m glad too,” she admitted. “I tried not to be.”
“I like that you are.”
She didn’t apologise for not waiting for him, and he didn’t ask her to. This was who they were, and only by becoming what they had could they ever have found their way back together again.
His body pressed her into the mattress, and she sank her teeth into his shoulder as he found completion inside her. They stayed like that a long while.
Epilogue
June 1815
The beaches in Kent were spectacular.
Louisa had grown up in Melton country, far from the sea, and she luxuriated in the knowledge that her new home was a mere hour away from the coast. The sun was hot on her bare skin, and she closed her eyes at its glare.
They had been married a mere two weeks. After their wedding, rather than the traditional honeymoon, Louisa and Henry had chosen to remain at Beaumont Place, putting her fortune to good work. Perhaps next year, they could go for a belated honeymoon, but this felt enough like a holiday that she had no objections.
