“Then take me inside, husband.”
His laugh was low, disbelieving.
He helped her down, hand firm at her waist, and guided her through the door of the mews house with a man’s urgency and a husband’s right.
Once the bolts were thrown and the curtains drawn, Graham backed Eleanor against the wall and kissed her as though he meant to erase everything that came before.
They made their way toward the sitting room, shedding layers as they went, leaving them like breadcrumbs in the hall.
At the threshold, Graham lifted her, careful despite the hunger, and carried her to the rug before the fire.
“This is hardly proper,” Eleanor breathed, laughter in her voice.
“We are married.” He napped at her neck.
“Still improper,” she sighed.
Graham’s mouth brushed her temple as he laid her on the carpet. “Still yours,” he corrected.
Eleanor slid her hands beneath his shirt, tracing scars she had memorized by lamplight. His breath hitched when she kissed his throat.
His hands moved with deliberate reverence, unfastening her bodice as if it were not cloth but a promise. When her gown slipped from her shoulders, he stilled. Wonder plain on his face.
Eleanor caught his jaw and pulled him down.
“Do not stare,” she ordered softly. “Touch.”
Graham kissed her throat, her collarbone, the soft rise of her breast, hands warm and certain. Eleanor arched into him, the room dissolving into heat and shadow.
When he finally joined his body to hers, Eleanor’s fingers tightened in his hair, her breath breaking on a sound she did not bother to suppress. Graham’s mouth found hers, swallowing the rest—every gasp, every plea, every last sound of pleasure.
Afterward, Graham lay beside her, arm around her waist, forehead pressed to her temple. “Lady Rathbourne.”
Eleanor smiled against his chest. “Yes?”
“I have no idea how to be this,” he admitted.
“A husband?” she asked.
“A man who is allowed to keep something.”
Eleanor cupped his cheek. “Then we learn,” she whispered. “Together. That was the bargain.”
Graham closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. “Together, always.”
“And forever,” she added.
Epilogue
Ten Years Later
The first thing Eleanor noticed each morning was the absence of urgency.
It was like reaching for a familiar ache and finding only smooth skin. For years she had woken with her mind already running ahead, counting routes, weighing threats, listening for the shape of danger in the quiet.
Now she woke to the soft thump of a tail against the floorboards.
Bramble, a broad-chested spaniel of questionable pedigree and unwavering opinion, had stationed himself at the edge of her bed as if appointed by the Crown to ensure she rose at a reasonable hour. His nose pressed insistently to her hand, warm and damp, fringed with soft fur.
