His gaze darkened. “Or our last.”
The air between them went electric.
“Speaking of scandals,” he murmured, voice dropping, “how soon can we politely leave our own wedding breakfast?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Henry?—”
“Because I’ve been thinking about getting you alone for approximately three hours now. And my patience is running rather thin.”
“We can’t just abandon?—”
“Let’s go.” He stood, pulling her up with him. “Ladies and gentlemen, my wife and I thank you for celebrating with us. Please, continue enjoying the meal. We’re going to—” He paused. “Take a tour of the house.”
Lord Cavendish, who’d been nursing his wine with an amused expression throughout the entire breakfast, raised his glass. “Dashfield, I must say—your restraint during the ceremony was admirable. I had money on you kissing your bride before the vicar finished the vows. Enjoy the tour.” He winked and raised his glass.
“You took bets on my wedding?” Henry asked.
“Of course. Lost five shillings.” Cavendish grinned. “Though I suspect you’re about to make up for lost time with this ‘tour.’”
“Cavendish—”
“By all means, don’t let me delay you. The east wing is particularly fascinating this time of day.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Very… educational.”
Henry’s jaw tightened, though his lips twitched. He didn’t wait for more commentary, but pulled Margaret toward the door, both of them trying not to run, to maintain some shred of dignity.
They made it to the corridor before he stopped, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her breathless.
“Tour of the house?” she managed when he finally let her breathe.
“We’ll get there eventually.” His mouth found her throat. “After a few detours.”
“Henry, someone could see?—”
“Let them.” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m done being proper. I’m done waiting. I want my wife. Now.”
The words sent heat racing through her. “Then take me on the tour.”
He did.
CHAPTER 10
Henry closed their bedroom door and paused with his hand still on the wood, as if he were giving her the chance to speak. Margaret faced him, breath shallow, warmth rising under her skin. His gaze dropped—mouth, throat, the line of her pulse—and then returned to her eyes, steady and intent. In that look was a promise: he would not rush her. In that restraint was the danger of wanting him to.
“Come here,” he said softly.
She crossed to him.
He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “I need you to know something. This isn’t about duty. It isn’t about what society expects. It’s about you and me. Just us.”
Her throat tightened. “I know.”
“And if at any moment you need me to stop?—”
“I won’t.” She covered his hands with hers. “I want this, Henry. I want you. I’m tired of being the grieving widow defined by a marriage that never existed. Tonight, I want to be Margaret. Your Margaret.”
Something flared in his eyes—heat and tenderness and possession all at once. “My Margaret,” he repeated. “My duchess.” Then he kissed her.
Not desperate this time. Slow. Deep. Worshipful. As if he had all the time in the world to learn her mouth. To memorize the feel of her.
