His hands cupped her bottom, grinding her to him; he found her breasts, kneading, teasing. He caught her hands and intertwined their fingers and squeezed, then dropped them and sunk his hand into her hair. He tugged on her thigh and she hooked her knee over his hip, and he moaned at the burn of her closeness, at her eagerness, at her little gasp of pleasure.
When their position proved too restrictive, he pushed away from the stage and lifted her. He pivoted and plopped her on the stage. He nudged her knees apart and she opened for him, hitching her legs around his haunches. Luke groaned and fell into her, sliding his hands to the backs of her knees and scooting her to the edge of the stage.
They never broke the kiss. This was their way. Mindlessness with no end in sight. Their passion felt like a ship on fire... in a storm... on the darkest night of the year. No survivors. Their way.
He’d just tipped her back, fanning out her hair on the stage, when she said, “I would marry you. Even if Prince George hadn’t betrothed us, I would do it.”
The words lit him up like a warning flare. He kissed her harder.
“I would marry you,” she repeated. “Even if Eastwell Park was not at stake, I would marry you.”
If the previous Luke—the old Luke—had heard these words, he would’ve declared victory. He’d come to Ivy Hill to claim a princess—and now he had her, compliant and consenting, with almost no effort.
But the current Luke did not rejoice. The current Luke swore in his head and stopped the kiss. He dropped his head beside hers, resting his face in her hair. They were ear to ear; his mouth on her shoulder. He breathed in and out, willing his body to calm; willing himself to let her go.
“I’ve said the wrong thing,” she said to the ceiling.
“No.” He shook his head against her. None of this was her fault.
He pushed himself up, leaning over her, his palms planted on either side of her face. He looked into her emerald eyes. At the end of the day, his goal was to marry her. And now he had—blaggard that he was—made her want the same. She’d professed this—she’d literally just said the words. There was no choice but to take advantage.
“I’m too bold, perhaps,” she told him. “But I—”
“Have you a date in mind, Princess?” he cut in. He closed his eyes. “For the wedding?”
She fell silent. He opened his eyes. She stared up at him, her expression confused. “A date?”
“It’s only conjecture, isn’t it, with no set plan.” He endeavored to smile, but the expression felt hollow. He gently pulled away and slid from her arms. He stepped to the side and gave her his back, adjusting his trousers. “We should have a plan.”
“Alright,” she said carefully. He heard her slide from the stage. She walked along the edge, fluffing her skirts.
“So,” she began, “I’d thought of the first Saturday of next month? That gives us—”
“Too far away,” he cut in. He turned to her. “Could we do this Saturday? Saturday at the end of the week?”
“In five days?”
“Yes. If you can arrange it in that time.”
“The ceremony itself could be arranged in five days, I suppose,” she mused. “It will be next door at St. Andrew’s. The vicar is Amelia’s father and he can officiate. But my hopes for a wedding breakfast would want more time. This parish hall can’t be ready in five days.”
“A traditional wedding breakfast is what you want?” Luke had not thought of a party.
“Well—yes? When these sorts of events return to the village—wedding feasts, and Christmas concerts, and flower shows—Ivy Hill will feel like a proper community again. Celebrating important moments with your neighbors is unifying. It lends identity and a sense of place. What better celebration than a wedding?”
“And all of Ivy Hill is to be invited?”
“Not all of Ivy Hill, but a few families. Miriam and Whittle put away a little money for the purpose of seeing me properly wed. I’d hoped to allow them that privilege; a dress for me, a pretty hat for Miriam, a meal shared among friends. Of course, if we move ahead with a wedding bySaturday, the hall will look exactly as it does now—”
“I’ll hire men to see it readied,” he cut in.
“You will?”
“Yes. An added joy will be making all the repairs Stinchcomb promised and then leaving the building in possession of the church.”
She laughed. “And what of my committee and our grants? We earned money for the refurbishment. We’ve sponsorships from historical societies all over England.”
“Use your grants to buy new furniture, or stage lamps, or golden candelabras. Commission stained glass. Have angels painted on the ceiling. I’ll take care of the repairs, you pay for embellishments. The sooner we have the wedding, the sooner you can— The sooner we can relocate to Eastwell Park. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked Abbott to begin hiring staff. The house is being aired and firewood brought in. In the beginning, we’ll live in just one wing, as you said. I’ll hire craftsmen and you can manage the refurbishment from the inside out. Would this be acceptable?”
