Chapter 10
Henry closed their bedroom door and paused with his hand still on the wood, as if he were giving her the chance to speak.
Margaret faced him, breath shallow, warmth rising under her skin.
His gaze dropped—mouth, throat, the line of her pulse—and then returned to her eyes, steady and intent.
In that look was a promise: he would not rush her.
In that restraint was the danger of wanting him to.
“Come here,” he said softly.
She crossed to him.
He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “I need you to know something. This isn’t about duty. It isn’t about what society expects. It’s about you and me. Just us.”
Her throat tightened. “I know.”
“And if at any moment you need me to stop—”
“I won’t.” She covered his hands with hers. “I want this, Henry. I want you. I’m tired of being the grieving widow defined by a marriage that never existed. Tonight, I want to be Margaret. Your Margaret.”
Something flared in his eyes—heat and tenderness and possession all at once. “My Margaret,” he repeated. “My duchess.” Then he kissed her.
Not desperate this time. Slow. Deep. Worshipful. As if he had all the time in the world to learn her mouth. To memorize the feel of her.
His hands slid from her face down her neck, her shoulders, finding the buttons of her dress. He took his time with each one, his fingers brushing against her skin with every release.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against her lips. “Do you know that? Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”
The dress loosened and slipped from her shoulders. She let it fall, pooling at her feet like spilled cream and stood before him in her stays and chemise, suddenly aware of how thin the fabric was. How much he could see.
“Look at me,” he said. She met his eyes. “You’re not just beautiful, you’re extraordinary. And tonight, I’m going to make sure you feel it.”
Heat flooded through her. “Henry—”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Let me worship you properly for I only became duke to find you and to make you duchess, worthy of everything the world has to offer.”
His hands found the laces of her stays. She expected him to rush, to fumble. Instead, he took his time, loosening each section slowly, his knuckles brushing against her ribs, making her shiver.
When the stays finally fell away, she drew in her first full breath of the evening.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” His hands settled on her waist through the thin chemise. “Because I need you to be able to breathe for what comes next.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to the curve of her neck. She gasped at the sensation—his lips, his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth.
“Do you like that?” he murmured against her skin.
She let out a pleased little sound.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t like. I need to hear it.”
“I will. I promise.”
His mouth moved lower, trailing down to her collarbone, then the swell of her breast through the chemise. When his lips closed over her nipple through the fabric, she cried out.
“Good or bad?” he asked immediately.
“Good. So good.”
He did it again, this time using his tongue, wetting the fabric until it clung to her. The sensation was maddening—pleasure and frustration all at once.
“Henry, please—”
“Please what?” He lifted his head to look at her. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need”—she flushed—“I don’t know how to ask.”
“Then show me.”
She caught the hem of her chemise and lifted it just enough to bare one breast.
His eyes went dark. “Perfect. You’re absolutely perfect.”
This time when his mouth closed over her nipple, nothing lay between them. Just skin on skin, heat on heat. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him to her.
He took his time, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan. When he finally lifted his head, she was trembling.
“We need to get you out of the rest of this.” He tugged at the chemise.
She helped him pull it over her head. Now she stood before him completely bare. She fought the urge to cover herself. To hide.
“Don’t,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful, Margaret. Every inch of you.”
“I’m not—I don’t know what I’m supposed to—”
“You’re not supposed to do anything except feel.” He stepped closer, his hands sliding around her waist. “This isn’t a performance. It’s not something you have to get right. I just want you to be here. With me.”
The words broke something in her. Some last wall she’d been holding up. “I want that, too,” she whispered.
“Then lie down for me.”
She moved to the bed, aware of how exposed she was. How vulnerable. But when she looked at Henry—at the way he was removing his own clothing with steady, deliberate movements—she no longer felt vulnerable. She felt powerful. Desired. Chosen.
When he was finally naked, she couldn’t help but stare. His body was beautiful—all lean muscle and warm skin. And lower—
Her eyes widened.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. “We’ll go slowly. I promise.”
He joined her on the bed, settling beside her rather than over her. His hand traced lazy patterns on her stomach, her ribs, the curve of her waist.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m nervous.”
“We can stop—”
“No.” She caught his hand, pressed it to her breast. “I’m nervous, but I want this. I want to know what it feels like.”
“What what feels like?”
“To be wanted.” Her voice broke. “To be more than a widow. More than a burden. I want to feel like a woman, Henry. Your woman.”
His breath left him in a rush. “Margaret—”
“Make me forget,” she whispered. “Make me forget the lies and the performance and everything I was supposed to be. Make me feel real.”
He groaned and kissed her—deep and claiming and full of promise. “I’ll make you feel everything,” he said against her mouth. “Every single thing you’ve been missing.”
His hand slid lower, over her belly, down between her thighs. When his fingers touched her, she gasped.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Let me learn you.”
He explored slowly, carefully, paying attention to every sound she made, every way her body responded. When he found the place that made her cry out, he circled it gently.
“There?” he asked.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
He kept touching her, building the pleasure slowly, steadily. She felt herself climbing toward something, some peak she didn’t understand but desperately needed to reach.
“That’s it,” he said. “Don’t fight it. Just feel.”
When her pleasure finally crested, she shattered. Her body arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders as wave after wave swept through her.
She came back to herself slowly, found him watching her with such tenderness it made her chest ache.
“That was—” She couldn’t find words.
“That was you,” he said. “Free. Real. Mine.”
“Yours,” she agreed. Then, gathering her courage, “Now I want to be yours completely.”
He settled between her thighs, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against her entrance.
“This will hurt,” he said. “Just at first. But I’ll go as slowly as you need.”
“I trust you.”
He pressed forward. Slowly. So slowly. She felt the pressure, the stretch, the strange sensation of being filled.
A sharp sting made her gasp.
He stopped immediately. “Do you need me to—”
“Don’t stop.” She wrapped her legs around him. “Please, Henry. I want all of you.”
He pressed deeper, watching her face the entire time. When he was finally fully inside her, they both went still.
“How does it feel?” he asked.
“Full. Strange. Good.” She experimentally moved her hips. “Very good.”
He groaned. “If you keep doing that—”
“What?” She did it again. “This?”
“Margaret.” Her name was warning and plea.
“Show me,” she said. “Show me what comes next.”
He began to move. Slowly at first, letting her body adjust to the rhythm. She met him tentatively, learning the dance, finding the angle that made pleasure spark through her.
“That’s it,” he said. “Just like that. You’re so perfect.”
The praise sent heat through her. Made her bold. She moved with him more confidently, chasing the pleasure, chasing the feeling of being connected to him so completely.
“Faster,” she breathed. “Please, Henry.”
He complied, his movements becoming deeper, harder, more urgent. The pleasure built again, different this time—deeper, fuller, like something fundamental shifting inside her.
“I can feel you,” he gasped. “You’re close. Come for me, Margaret. Let me feel it.”
His hand slipped between them, found that sensitive place, circled with just the right pressure.
She cried his name, her body clenching around him as pleasure tore through her.
He followed moments later, his release shuddering through him as he buried his face in her neck. She felt him pulsing inside her, felt the warmth of him filling her.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, hearts racing.
After a moment, he carefully withdrew and rolled to his side, immediately pulling her against him.
“Are you alright?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
“A little at first. But then…” She smiled. “Then it was so good.”
He kissed her forehead.
She traced patterns on his chest, marveling at how comfortable this felt. How right.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel life and love.”
His arms tightened around her. “Always mine. And I’m always yours.”
They lay there as the fire burned low and the afternoon light faded to evening.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too.” He tilted her chin up, kissed her softly. “Every moment. Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Outside, the sun painted the sky in shades of gold and rose.