“Will you marry me, Sybil?”
She gasped. “What?”
He kissed her inner thigh, but his finger didn’t stop its relentless movement. She tried to gather her wits, but if she’d ever possessed any, they were forever scattered. “You heard me,” he said, but his voice was tender. “Will you marry me? I love you, more than I could have ever conceived of loving another, and I wish to keep you by my side. Ideally, in this very room.”
“Oh, I—” Her back arched again, and she gasped. “George.”
“It’s a simple question, Sybil. Yes or no.” His tongue flicked across that most sensible part of her, and she knew she was losing this battle. The pleasure threatened to crash over her. “So, my love? Will you marry me?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she gasped and stopped holding back. Pleasure, hot and ready, slammed into her, and she made a noise that was half cry, half choked moan, as his mouth didn’t stop moving on her.
When the last vestiges of pleasure left and she squirmed at the sharp, overwhelming sensation that was in its place, he moved up her body, pushing her chemise up as he went, until finally, he disposed of that as well.
Sybil couldn’t say she minded. This way, when he suckled her nipple in his mouth, she felt everything. He settled between her legs, and she felt the hard press of his arousal. This was just as it had been before, but better. This time, there was true tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her.
“Sybil,” he said, her name a caress. He pressed a kiss to her mouth, but before she could respond, he flipped her over so he was lying on his back and she was on top.
Bracing her hands against his chest, she sat up, noting the way her legs were on either side of his hips. Just below her, he twitched. “Is this what you want?” she asked uncertainly.
He wrapped his hands around her waist and guided her back until she was positioned directly above him. “This is what I want,” he said with a growl.
Well, in which case, she was hardly going to be one to complain. Obeying his silent commands, she eased down on him, letting him fill her in that specific way he had the very first time. They were one. Joined in all ways.
His eyes were on her as she moved, finding her rhythm. He pulled her head down so he could kiss her. The movement was clumsy, but his lips were gentle as she brushed against them, and with his hands steadying her, they moved together. The connection was sizzling, and with her breasts brushing the hair across his chest, the feeling of his hands stroking across her body, and the sensation of him inside her, it wasn’t long until the pleasure began building again.
“Sybil.” George groaned her name, and his breath was short and fast. “You are perfection.”
They were going to marry. He had proposed, in the most intimate way she could ever have imagined, and now they would be bound together forever, in love and holy matrimony. She could hardly wait.
She gripped his shoulders as she gyrated her hips, grinding on him, pressing against that perfect place inside her—the place that needed him.
“Sybil,” he said, his voice almost a plea this time. “I can’t hold on if you do that—” He broke off with a grunt, and his fingers tightened on her hips. “Sybil.”
That was enough; she flung her head back as she squeezed around him, her rhythm faltering. George groaned her name, a curse, her name again, and as soon as the shuddering pleasure had faded again, he tugged her off him. His body convulsed under her, and she rolled to one side, her skin slick with sweat, her heart full of love.
ChapterNineteen
The unthinkable had happened: Sybil was engaged.
A gentleman—and not just any gentleman: a Duke—wanted to marry her. If this had happened inside the pages of a novel, she would have rolled her eyes and condemned the author’s imagination. But this was her life and there was nothing to condemn because George wanted to marry her. He wanted to marry her enough that he was flying in the face of his mother—and indeed, all Society—in order to do so.
She was floating in the air.
“Good morning,” she chirped to her mother one week after that most glorious night. Her mother, eyes tired and unusually shadowed, sat with a knife poised above her plate. On it, there was a roll of bread, some eggs, and sliced meat Sybil suspected was ham. Or perhaps beef. Chicken? She didn’t know, and nor did she care.
She was going to be married.
“You are happy this morning,” her mother said.
“Our engagement was announced yesterday.” The final confirmation she needed to believe she had not dreamed the entire affair, which given the state of her active imagination, was more than possible. “I am going to be married. Are you not happy for me?”
Scarlet’s smile was worn and thin, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course I am, dear.” The words were just as thin and insincere as her smile, but Sybil barely had time to notice before a footman approached with a single letter on a silver tray.
“This came for you, Lady Sybil.”
Perhaps it was George writing to her. He hadn’t made any promises to write, but he had already sent three vases of flowers—all displayed prominently in the front room—and a beautiful ruby necklace. It was not too much to suspect he would also send her a letter.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the letter and waiting for him to leave the room before she studied it properly. This was not from George. It was written on thin paper by a strong, elegant hand that again didn’t belong to George.
