“We used your ideas for the design,” he reminded her. “Your suggestion to steepen the slope of the ceiling to allow in more light quite impressed the architect. I do believe he wishes to hire you on.”
She giggled. The sound was so carefree, so unlike his wife, that he felt a pang in his chest. As he’d predicted, married life with Evie was never boring. He enjoyed discovering her quirks and complexities. He’d learned, in bits and pieces, about her past and knew that she’d weathered difficult times. She’d lost her papa early on and her mama at age fourteen. Left in the care of her stepfather, Lord Calvert Wilmington, Evie hadn’t mourned when he died three years later—and James didn’t blame her. The profligate bounder had gone through her mama’s fortune and her inheritance, leaving her destitute.
To survive, Evie had taken whatever work a seventeen-year-old gentlewoman could find, from sewing to selling arrangements she’d fashioned from dried flowers. She and Harkness—the battle-axe’s loyalty to her charge was the sole reason James kept her on—had shared a room in a boarding house, pooling their earnings to scrape by. When Evie had landed the job as Lady Thurston’s companion, she had believed her fortunes were finally improving.
The image of Evie warding off that scoundrel Thaddeus with a pruning knife smoldered in James’s memory even now. She’d been making her own way in the world from a tender age, and it showed. She didn’t trust readily. She expected little, and when she received anything, even the smallest boon, her stunned gratitude cut him to the quick. It made him want to give her more—everything he could. He was determined to show her the bounty of life and take away her fears…even if he didn’t know their full extent. Despite their flourishing bond, she had hidden corners, places she didn’t want him to see.
Well, he was a patient man, and his wife was worth the wait. He wanted her to willingly yield her secrets. He wanted everything of her—especially the three words she’d yet to say. To be fair, he hadn’t said them either. As delightful as their maiden year of marriage had been, the time hadn’t felt right, and he didn’t want to scare her away. Yet the feeling was there, at least for him. He was certain of what was in his heart and yearned to know what was in hers.
Evie was affectionate, in her own way, and delightfully sensual. He thanked his lucky stars that his prim and intellectual wife enjoyed making love as much as he did. But did the pleasure they share transcend the physical for her? Did she feel…bound to him? The way he felt bound to her?
“Well, he cannot have me,” she said.
James cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”
“The architect,” she said coquettishly. “You may tell him I will be otherwise occupied now that you’ve given me this magnificent greenhouse to conduct my studies in.”
“Will I come to regret giving you this retreat?” Unable to resist her rare playfulness, he tugged on a blonde ringlet by her ear. “Have I built a greenhouse, only to lose my wife?”
“You could never lose me.”
Even as she drew her brows together, looking faintly startled by her words, he felt a jolt of pleasure. Giving in to the impulse, he cupped her cheek.
“Say it, Evie,” he said huskily.
“Say…what?”
“Those three little words. I know you have thought them. And I want to hear you say them aloud.”
Her flush gave her away. He could scent her nerves along with her fresh and subtle perfume.
Leaning down, he murmured against her ear, “They are only words and little ones at that. Give them to me, my sweet.”
A pulse leapt in her throat.
“Thank you?” she said breathlessly.
“That is only two words.”
“Thank you…kindly?”
She jolted when he nipped her tender earlobe.
“Try again, darling.” He ran a thumb over her plump-as-a-peach mouth, his groin heating because he knew how sweet she tasted. “You’ve come close to telling me. Last night, for instance. When I was inside you, you looked at me, and I saw your lips move as your pussy clasped me in that special way when you’re on the cusp?—”
“James.”
“Have I embarrassed you, Evie?”
Enjoying her blush, he couldn’t resist swooping down for a kiss. The flavor of her—nervous, eager, and needy—went straight to his head. Or both his heads, rather. He was already hard as a rock as he explored his wife’s mouth until she was panting, moaning, melting against him.
“Say it,” he urged.
She gazed at him. He’d dislodged her hairpins, and her cornsilk tresses were tumbling over her shoulders. Through her thick lashes, her whisky eyes were bright with desire and trepidation.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why do I have to say it?”
“Because I want to hear it.”
