A Duke By Any Other Name

Chapter Six

You have witchcraft in your lips.

—Shakespeare, Henry V

“T he snow is beautiful, floating through the dark.” Maisie stood at the wide bow window of Colin’s Heriot Row house, looking out at a world coated in white. He joined her, cupping her shoulders, leaning to kiss the top of her head, then her cheek as she looked up, then his mouth met hers. The silence of snowfall, the warm, intimate quiet of his home—he had asked Gordon’s carriage driver to take his cook and housemaid home for their wellbeing, and so he and Maisie could be alone.

There was so much he owed her, so much to learn and relearn about each other.

“So, love,” he murmured, “are we settled on what we want to do?”

“A small wedding at Kintrie Castle in the spring, with family and friends—Mrs. Siddons and her sons, your friends the lawyers, a few more. We will divide our time between Kintrie Castle and Edinburgh, and I will live here, near Papa and my sisters, when you work on your roads. And I will paint and work in the theatre too.”

“You can also paint beautiful landscapes at Kintrie.” He turned her around to wrap her in his arms. “Though our children will need your time too, if they arrive.”

“They will.” She glowed—happiness or firelight or both? He cradled her face to kiss her long and deep, and pulled away.

“The driver will return in a bit. We should get you home before it is too slippery.” He snugged her against him. “Though I hoped we might have time—”

“Again?” She laughed. “Our happy reunion, my love, took place rather eagerly as soon as we were alone here, before we even had our coats and gloves off.”

“Somewhat of an exaggeration.” He had to laugh; his hat and one of her gloves were still lost somewhere in the foyer.

“Perhaps we could rehearse again.” She pulled at his cravat.

“I dropped my script somewhere.” He looked about.

“We do not need a script.” She threw her arms about his neck. “Take me upstairs properly, husband, while we have a little time.”

“Just enough.” He pulled her to the stairs, then climbed beside her to his bed chamber. There, he picked her up again and set her on the bed, stretching out beside her.

He chuckled softly, for she was already tugging at ribbons and buttons, hers and his. He cradled her head in his hands, sank his fingers into her rich dark hair, and kissed her, long and slow—then fiercely in answer to her passionate returned kisses. He feared his body would not wait, yet he craved to take this time with her. Kissing her cheek, her throat, her mouth, he traced his lips over the sweet mounds of her breasts, freed from layered shifts now that she had undone some ribbons. In fact, she was still hastily undoing bits and buttons.

“My dear, such a hurry,” he murmured at her ear.

“Six years without you,” she whispered. “Romeo and Juliet are owed their happy ending.”

“They have it now.” He kissed her, and traced his fingers under her skirts as she arched against him. She pulled at his clothing as he laughed, tumbled over with her on the mattress. He set her above him, where she moaned, welcoming, eager, her body gloving his, surrounding his wild ache for her. His body, his very heart, rocked with hers, and he felt enveloped in the unique substance of love, melded of passion, trust, commitment, and so much more.

Then, taking her into his arms, he kissed her. “I love you.”

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,” she quoted in a whisper. “‘My love as deep.’”

“‘The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.’”

“Which makes you, sir, my Romeo forever,” she laughed, and kissed him.

The End