Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
The ceremony was small, despite Julien’s insistence that she have the wedding of her dreams. What her brother failed to understand was that any wedding where she would become Adrian Grant’s wife was a dream come true.
The wedding breakfast would be small as well.
And their more elaborate celebration would be the masquerade ball.
And as she stared up at Adrian, his eyes locked on her and his expression so undeniably tender, she was all but overcome by it. Her gloved fingers trembled where they rested in his hand.
He tightened his grip, not enough to restrain, only enough to steady. The small gesture sent a rush of warmth through her that had nothing to do with the crowded church or the unseasonably warm air within the sanctuary.
She had imagined this moment once, years ago, and then had forbidden herself to imagine it again.
Dreams were dangerous things when there seemed to be no chance of them being fulfilled.
Yet here she stood, her hand in his, the man she had loved in silence now standing before God and everyone, to bind their lives together until death parted them.
When the vicar began the vows, Eleanor heard the words as though from a great distance. She repeated them dutifully, but the weight of what they signified pressed upon her chest until it was almost difficult to breathe.
When Adrian spoke his vows, his voice did not waver.
“I take you, Eleanor Rebecca Harcourt, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow. To love and to cherish. For all the years she had believed herself resigned to a life beside him but not with him, these words felt like a miracle spoken aloud.”
She saw that his jaw was tight, as though he too struggled to contain something too vast for the moment. Softly, she repeated her vows, but said them with great conviction. She did not need everyone gathered to hear them. Only him.
He slid the ring onto her finger. The gold caught the light, gleaming with quiet promise. “Eleanor,” he murmured, so softly only she could hear. Then he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss there just above where her wedding ring now rested.
Her vision blurred.
When the vicar pronounced them man and wife, the small crowd gathered in the church might as well have been absent. The world had shrunk to a pinpoint, only the two of them. Everything had changed.
Everything. And it felt as if her life was finally beginning… as if she’d only been waiting until that moment.
After rounds of well wishes, they returned to Harcourt House for the wedding breakfast which passed in a blur of toasts, laughter, and the endless choreography of congratulations.
Eleanor smiled until her cheeks ached and endured embraces from well-meaning matrons who spoke of happiness and heirs with alarming enthusiasm.
Adrian bore it with surprising good humor, though his hand found hers beneath the table whenever the speeches grew long.
Julien raised his glass with conspicuous restraint and declared that he had always known they would come to their senses eventually. Caroline, seated at Eleanor’s side, squeezed her hand and whispered that she had never seen two people look so entirely right together.
At last, propriety loosened its hold. Carriages were called. Farewells exchanged. The crowd thinned.
And the day, which had belonged to everyone else, finally belonged to them.
It was nearly twilight when they finally reached the townhouse that Adrian had procured for them. After a brief introduction to the limited staff, she excused herself to go upstairs.
Eleanor entered the bedchamber prepared for them.
She paused just inside the door. The scene laid out before her was one clearly intended for romance and seduction.
Candles burned low and steady, their light soft against the pale walls.
Her trunks had already been unpacked; her gowns hung neatly in the wardrobe.
Everything appeared settled, orderly, as though she had always lived here.
And draped on the bed was an exquisite nightrail.
It was the sheerest silk, edged in delicate lace.
Never in her life had she worn something like it, and the idea of baring herself so completely was difficult. But her eagerness to finally discover what lay beyond passionate stolen kisses surpassed her wariness.
A soft knock at the door and then her maid entered.
Liza helped her to prepare for bed, taking her hair down from its elaborate coiffure.
Brushing the mass of dark waves until it shone.
Then her dress was removed and carefully put away.
Her undergarments were stripped from her to be taken for laundering and she donned the nightrail with fingers that shook furiously.
There was, thankfully, a matching wrapper.
Though in truth it provided only the illusion of modesty.
The maid ad only just vanished, slipping almost unseen and unheard from the door, when Adrian entered.
For a moment neither spoke.
He closed the door softly and remained where he was, as though approaching her too quickly might startle her into retreat.
“If you are frightened—” he said gently.
“I am not frightened,” she answered, though her voice betrayed her.
He crossed the room then, slowly, giving her time to step away if she wished. She did not.
“I would never hurt you,” he said.
“I know.”
“And we have all the time in the world.”
The tension in her chest eased at that. “We have wasted too much of that already. I’m… apprehensive, I suppose, because I do not truly know what to expect. But I am not reluctant. Not in the least.”
He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles lightly along her cheek, a touch so tender it sent a shiver down her spine. She leaned into it without thinking, the gesture instinctive, inevitable.
“Eleanor,” he murmured, as though the sound of her name alone was something he savored.
Her hands came to rest against his chest. Beneath the fine fabric of his coat she felt the steady strength of his heartbeat, and the familiarity of him — so known, so trusted — steadied the nervous flutter within her.
“This feels different,” she confessed.
“It is different,” he said softly. “But nothing about the two of us has ever been uncertain. Only delayed.”
He bent and kissed her.
It began gently, a question rather than a claim. His mouth moved against hers with deliberate care, as though he meant to give her time to retreat. She did not. Instead she leaned closer, her fingers curling into the fabric at his lapels, drawing him nearer.
The kiss deepened.
Warmth spread through her in slow, intoxicating waves.
She felt the answering tension in him, the restraint he struggled to maintain, the careful control that made her feel treasured rather than overwhelmed.
When his arm came around her waist and drew her fully against him, a soft sound escaped her before she could stop it.
He stilled at once.
“Too much?”
“No,” she whispered. “Not enough.”
Something in his expression changed then — wonder, hunger, relief all at once. He kissed her again, no longer tentative but still reverent, as though the very fate of the world rested upon that touch, that moment.
Years of quiet longing unfolded between them in the quiet stillness of their chamber: the glances they had not understood, the conversations that had lingered too long, the near losses that had forced truth into the open.
There was tenderness in every movement, but beneath it ran a current of desire neither of them could pretend not to feel.
He rested his forehead against hers, breath unsteady.
“I have imagined this,” he admitted softly. “More times than I care to confess. And yet it is more magical than I could have dreamed.”
Her lips curved faintly. “That seems a bit of a stretch. Magical? Really?”
“Infinitely.”
He drew her closer once more, and this time when he kissed her, there was no mistaking it for anything but carnal.
It was heat and longing. It was years of desperate yearning all poured into that one display.
And she matched him. In every way, Eleanor with her limited knowledge, met that kiss with equal ardor.
When his fingertips drifted over her shoulder, down her arm, across her rib cage…
then he tugged gently at the delicate ties of her wrapper.
The garment, scant shield that it was, parted instantly, revealing the sheer silk beneath.
It didn’t hide her form so much as veil it.
Still visible, still tantalizing, still shocking and slightly wicked, but not bared entirely.
It felt wicked and decadent. And when his gaze roamed over her with such obvious appreciation, it gave her a feeling of power she had never known.
His mouth moved from hers, skating along the column of her neck, pressing delicate kisses along the arc of her collar bone.
Then lower. His lips burned a path until they reached the upper swells of her breasts.
And with only a slight tug, the silk shifted over her skin, and she felt the cool air of the bedchamber whispering over the taut peaks of her breasts.
But that cool air was quickly replaced with the scorching heat of his mouth.
She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her, or the slight moan that followed it. The pleasure suffusing her was too intense to remain quiet. It seemed to awaken something deep inside her. It was hunger and thirst. Life and death.
In dozens of novels she’d read about desire, and in the vaguest sense, she’d understood it.
But this was much more primal than the yearning of a girl who had never even been kissed as she consumed florid prose that only hinted and never detailed.
This thing building inside her was hungry and sharp, driving her to clutch at his shoulders, for her fingers to spear through his hair and hold him to her breast as she savored the wet heat of his mouth on sensitive flesh.
When is hand slipped beneath the silk to coast along her thigh, she had no thought of stopping him. She welcomed his touch, parting eagerly for his touch. It was instinctual for her, the belief that he could somehow assuage the aching need within her.
His hand slid higher and higher until he reached the apex of her thighs, his hand brushing gently over the curls that shielded the most intimate parts of her.
Eleanor shivered, desperate to feel more, even if she wasn’t entirely certain what that was.
Then he parted her folds, his fingertips dancing over slick skin, touching her so expertly that she could only squeeze her eyes shut as the breath rushed from her.
And still he kept building that unbearable tension. He stroked her flesh until she was fevered with it, until every muscle had drawn taut and she strained against him, searching for something she did not yet understand.
It was a sudden thing, the intense feeling of release that swept through her.
She cried out as pleasure wracked her, leaving her shuddering beneath his tender touch.
Before she had even stopped trembling, he’d parted her thighs more fully and eased himself between them.
She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her.
Even in her state of repletion, the eagerness for him had not truly abated.
Because as much as she wanted that pleasure to never end, what she wanted more was the connection to him.
The intimacy of their bodies joined together in the dimness of their chamber.
“Are you certain?” He asked.
“Never more so,” she replied. “I feel as if I have been waiting my entire life for this moment.”
He kissed her then, and she could feel him moving, easing the buttons of his trousers open.
Then he was guiding himself into her, the softness of her body yielding to the hardness of his.
It was shocking and terrifying and familiar and wonderous all at once.
The slight stinging pain was there and gone as quickly as it had come.
Then it was only pleasure. Only aching fullness and the gentle rocking of his hips against hers.
And the climb began anew, that now familiar tension building inside her once more.
When the wave of her release claimed her that time, she was not alone. As it pulled her into the depths, he groaned her name, uttering it almost like a desperate prayer as he shuddered against her, his warmth spilling inside her.
It was perfection. It was everything she had dreamed of. It left her whole and wrecked at the same time. She had thought her world would change with their marriage. But in truth she was changed. She felt complete in a way she had never known. And he had given her that.
“I do love you so,” she whispered.
“I shall remind you of that daily… likely when you are cross with me,” he answered teasingly as he collapsed onto the bed beside her.
Glancing at him, she saw that he was still slightly breathless and wore a look of such smug satisfaction.
But she hadn’t the heart to take exception to it.
That smugness, she thought, was well earned.
“I imagine there are other things you can do when I am cross with you that would be far more effective in curbing my ire.”
“I’ll remind you of that too,” he said. “After we rest for a bit, I may remind you again tonight. And tomorrow. And every night after if you permit it.”
She settled contentedly against his side, loving the way his fingertips traced light circles on her skin. “I should like that very much… I’m afraid I am discovering certain hedonistic tendencies that are… unanticipated.”
“My sweet, perfect, paragon of a wife…. who also happens to be perfectly wanton in my arms. I may be the luckiest man to ever walk this earth.”
She grinned then. “I will remind you of that when you are cross with me.”
The sound of their laughter carried along the corridors, filling the house with the sounds of joy. The sounds of love.