Beckett’s sister did not attend this morning’s simple ceremony—she was pregnant yet again and could not travel fromthe country estate in such weather. But he did not mind, and she sent her glad tidings for him having found a partner to share his fate. Perhaps having a wife might prove an avenue to bring the siblings together, in a way they had never been. All things seemed possible at this moment.
Finally, the hour stretched far later than he’d wanted, her friends and their guests and Timothy were all finally gone. He bade the servants to take a half day off after the wedding breakfast was cleaned up. Jacobs and Sabine had moved into their elevated positions easily, and indeed, he’d gotten reports that Sabine took on airs for being promoted from a widow’s maid-of-all-work to a countess’s lady’s maid. But even his housekeeper knew the woman’s loyalty was to Nell, not the title of countess, and she would be ruthless should anyone say a bad word about the odd person the earl married. In that, Beckett was likewise grateful, and happily increased her pay, according to her station.
But at this moment, with his wife—hiswife—having that lady’s maid in question helping her undress in the room next to his. He did not want to think of Sabine or Timothy or his sister. He wanted Nell. He wanted to smell her hair, kiss the hollows of her clavicles, and let his hands finally roam. He wanted to feel her smooth skin beneath his palms, the heat of her—good Lord he needed to stop. He exhaled roughly, pacing his bedroom. His valet had divested him of his wedding accoutrements, and he was in a state of undress, sans waistcoat, clad only in comfortable trousers, his shirt, and braces. A dressing gown was open and flowed behind him as he waited and stalked the length of the room.
The month between their accord next to her bedroom fire and now had built to this moment. The passionate kisses had not quenched anything.
He sat on the bench at the end of his bed, his leg jiggling as he listened to the muffled noises in the room next to his. The servants had spent much of yesterday and today moving her things over. He liked seeing the crates coming up the drive, a cart loaded full of trunks, overseen by Jacobs and Sabine. He liked that he could hang her White Cliffs of Dover painting in his study. She had allowed him that favor.
The door latch sounded. She was ready. He stood, heart racing. He smoothed his shirt and straightened his posture. He would be gentle. Amorous. Whatever she wanted. A day he never thought would come was happening. A woman he desired more than anything. A wife. Awife!
He opened his side of the portal between their two rooms, the door giving way to his wife’s chambers, still not fully unpacked. Trunks sat in the small dressing chamber off the main room. In the darkened room, Nell stood by the fire, lit by its flames. Her hair was down and loose, falling long over her shoulder blades. The angular planes of her face were softened by it, and she looked over at him, her expression as eager as his.
Thank God.
“You came,” she said.
As if he would forego his conjugal rights. He was measuring his steps, trying not to run to her side. He didn’t want to scare her. “Of course.”
“I wasn’t sure,” she said. “I don’t know the protocol.”
He shook his head, arriving by her side and immediately sliding his hands around her waist. Her dressing gown was tied closed, which was a shame. “Between us, there are no protocols. Only what we want. What webothwant.”
She nodded. “What happens next?”
He chuckled. She didn’t look scared or even the slightest bit nervous. “Are you asking for a schedule of events?”
“More like a program,” she said, twining her arms around his neck. “So I know what will happen. When I attend an opera, I know the structure, I know the aria to expect.”
His whole body was rigid with attention, and he wanted to press into her, back her against the wall, but he also wanted her splayed on the bed. He wanted her over and over, beyond what his body could perform in a single night. He needed to pace himself. Start slow, he reminded his cock, which twitched in protest.
He ran his hands through her hair, shining like polished walnut in the firelight. It was soft and smooth, and she smelled of the latest perfume he’d gifted her, rosewater and vanilla. He bent and kissed her cheek. And then her neck, just below her ear. God, she smelled so good, so soft. There was a sound that he made, but he couldn’t tell what it was. His mind was sluggish and fogged through a haze of lust.
The freedom of letting his hands rove over every curve, finding and testing each roundness, exploring every stretch between them.
She spoke, and her tone was teasing. He didn’t comprehend her words. His tongue ran along the tender skin of neck, and his hands were at her dressing gown’s sash, clumsy in their efforts to pull apart that which separated them.
Her chemise was fine and flimsy, thin enough he could see the reddish-pink circles of her nipples, peaked in the cool air. His hands were there, cupping and kneading, flicking those hard points, and he heard her sigh with pleasure.
Then her hands were cupping his face, bringing it up to look her square in the eye. “Beckett.”
The haze of lust did not clear entirely, but close. This was important. He could take a brief moment, because she wanted him to focus. He willed his heart to slow, his cock to shut up for just a moment. “Yes?”
“I love you. And I’m proud to call you my husband. You.” She put her hand on his chest, over his heart.
How did that confession make him want her even more? “Nell.” He cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “I’m trying very hard to not ravish you completely right this moment. This is very much a challenge.”
She giggled like a much younger woman, and that made his cock twitch. Oh God, he was trying to control himself. She had no idea what this was like, did she?
“Go on, then,” she said, her voice throaty and coy. “Show me what this is all about.”
“I’ll make sure you have an aria or two,” he growled, and kissed her mouth. Her lips were soft and wet, and if he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t last to a final act. He tried to think of Latin conjugations, but his mind assured him that he had not existed before this moment, and he certainly had nothing to do with any tongue other than the one he applied to her delicate skin, and nothing else could ever take his attention from this woman in front of him.
He did press his hard cock against her now, unable to keep himself from the indulgence. He wanted to bury himself in her so badly. But he also wanted to see her head thrown back in pleasure. Unable to withstand the demands of his lust any longer, he hauled her up, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. His cock strained upwards, where the crux of her heat beckoned him.
Instead of giving in to that urge, he carried her to the bed, setting her down on the edge. She moved to scoot backwards, but he grabbed her arms. “No,” he said. “Stay right here.”
She raised an eyebrow.
