“Come look around,” she said, taking him by the hand. She cleared her throat. “This floor has a good-sized parlor and a dining room.” She rattled off the words while she pulled him along, pointing out the kitchen, which according to her needed improvement.
He wondered why she had him touring the blasted place, one he already—“What’s this?”
She had pulled him into a west-facing room. One he might have called the steward’s private study, except the desk by the window looked more like a lady’s. Unlike the rest of the house, this room had been cleaned, painted, and furnished.
She paused there, letting him absorb what he saw: a coverlet lay over the arm of a rocking chair, a small ottoman sat in front of it, a painting—one of Eli’s own watercolors of the Afon—hung on one wall. Did she mean for him to move his office here? To work on that scrap of a desk? His eyes skittered back to it. A neat stack of papers lay on top.“Do you know she finished an entire novel?”
She squeezed his hand, and he peered down at her, certain his hundred questions must be in his eyes. She swallowed. “My office,” she whispered. “My writing place.”
“The earl has offered you the steward’s cottage?” he asked, searching her face for the meaning of life.
She huffed impatiently and gave his arm a yank, tugging him to the stairs. He swore the words she muttered were “slow top.”
At the top of the stairs, she retrieved her hand and began to point. “That room for Amy. That for Wil, or we can make one in the attic if we need it. The one in the corner for a nursery, and this one—”
Nursery?His mouth went dry, and his mind went blank.
She dragged him through the door to a larger suite of two rooms. “This one is—”
“Yours,” he said, the imp urging him to tease being more comfortable than the realization that overwhelmed him.
She punched his arm. Hard. “Ours, you lackwit.”
He tenderly cupped her chin, rubbing her neck with this thumb. “Ours. Is this a proposal, then? I rather hoped to do it myself.”
The green Caulfield eyes filled with moisture, and she blinked them away, pursing her lips together. “Then you should speak up, Eli Benson. I’ve been waiting.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “Miss Frances Hancock, would you consider my poor self a suitable husband? I know I’m a simple clerk and not the hero of your dreams, but I offer—”
She reared back to glower at him. “You are not a simple anything, Eli. You are the brilliant fixer who cares for us all. You are…” She peered at him intently and breathed, “You are everything to me.”
He pulled her hard against him and squeezed his eyes shut. “And you, my beloved, are everything to me.”
She tugged his head down to kiss him.
“Is that yes?” he asked, smiling against her mouth.
Her response became muffled in a kiss, but he thought she said yes. That and “nodcock.” He gave himself over to the kisses his dearest seemed to want. He kissed her until it wasn’t enough, and he glanced around the empty room.
When he lifted her to a windowsill so her face was even with his, she spread her knees to pull him closer, and he joyfully took advantage, beginning the love play that would last their lifetime. He spared a glance out the window over her shoulder as he slid her gown up over her knees and pressed his aroused member up against her, but he saw no one. Only the passing sheep would be scandalized when he kissed his way down her neck while he tugged her gown down to expose her beautiful breasts to his heated gaze and suckled, drawing moans of pleasure from his beloved.
She rocked against him, incoherently begging for more. Eli took her mouth in his and slid his hand between them, his fingers finding her moist heat, caressing gently and then more firmly.
When the last spasm of pleasure shook Fanny and she sagged against his shoulder, disheveled and replete, Eli Benson felt more powerful than he ever had in his life. He kissed the top of her head and asked what she had just mumbled.
“Words aren’t everything,” she replied.
He held her there, unwilling to move, willing the discomfort of his own arousal to subside, glad that no words were needed. He kissed her hair again. “There is one problem with this house,” he said at last.
She sat up then and began to fiddle with her bodice. He planted a quick kiss on her breast before she could go on. She gave him a playful smack and continued tying it up to cover herself. “What problem?” she asked, peering around.
“There is no bed,” he said, enjoying the sight when her hand stilled, delighted by her rosy cheeks.
Still perched on the windowsill, she put a dainty finger under his chin and pulled his gaze up to hers. “Ah. There will be a bed,” she said. “Mr. Benson will see to it.”
He kissed her again. What else could he do? They rode back to the hall long after dark.
