Epilogue
The wedding took longer to plan than Lysander would’ve liked, but as the third Oliphant son to be married this summer, Lady Dumpkins was crowing that her house party was a clear success.
He was happy enough to turn the wedding planning over to her, since he’d made it clear that the Baroness Oliphant—who wouldn’t shut up about her daughter becoming a viscountess—wasn’t to be involved at all.
Tiffany, apparently, was thrilled by that.
The weeks spent preparing to make her his wife were surprisingly nice, once she and Bonnie officially accepted Lady Dumpkins’s invitation to spend the time on her estate. Lysander could visit his betrothed any time he wished, without having to worry about his future-mother-in-law’s vain pride.
It had been bad enough seeing the baroness preening at the wedding—she’d worn white, and far too much lip rouge—as she bragged to everyone that she was now a guest at the house party, since her daughter was a viscountess.
Lysander had even overheard her saying to a supremely uninterested Duke of Cashard that Tiffany would have made a perfect duchess.
It was then that Lysander decided it was time to steal his wife away.
After he finished lifting Tiffany into the carriage, he turned, and was surprised to see his siblings standing there. Lyon, for once, was wearing a suit, although he looked damned uncomfortable in it. Of course, he always looked damned uncomfortable these days.
Phineas pulled Lysander in for a hug, pounded his shoulder, and chuckled.
“Welcome to marriage, big brother. I’m glad Olive and I were able to stick around long enough to see it happen.
Luckily, we’re leaving for Jerusalem tomorrow and willnae have to see ye muck through yer first few months together. ”
Since Phin had married first, Lysander supposed his brother had the right to tease him, so he accepted it good-naturedly. Max was the next one to step up, and he was also grinning broadly as he offered his hand.
“I’m happy for you, Lysander,” he drawled in that brash American way of his. “It’s damned good to see you looking so at ease, and I’m glad I won’t have to listen to any more of your stories about your exploits.”
Since he winked when he said that, Lysander laughed, knowing this new brother of his was referring to his old life. “Indeed, I’m a man in love with his wife.”
“Welcome to the club, brother,” Max said, and pulled him in for a hug.
Lysander had no idea what the club meant, but he returned the embrace.
Then it was Athena’s turn. Her smile was proud, but he read sadness in her eyes when she stepped up and took Max’s place. “Good work, Lysander,” she said softly. “I am pleased ye didnae fook this up too badly. I always kenned yer harebrained scheme to punish Tiffany was a bad idea.”
“Shut up,” he hissed, dragging his little sister in for a hug. “She’s sitting in the coach right behind me.”
“I ken.” Athena raised her voice even more. “Ye were wrong about her, big brother, and Tiffany deserves to win the first five arguments of yer married life.”
From inside the couch, they all heard Tiffany’s snort of agreement, and Athena’s smile looked a little more natural as she straightened.
Impulsively, Lysander’s hold on her tightened. “Athena. Ye deserve to win arguments. Ye deserve happiness too. Ye havenae lost the chance—with the Dumpkins house party still going on, ye could—”
Her laughter cut him off, and she patted his hand in consolation.
“I dinnae need to be married to be happy, Lysander. I have Callan and my collection, and I have the sense to ken how to find my fun without marriage. What? Ye think I would meet a useless fop at a house party and find happiness?” Her laugh was too loud, too harsh to be genuine. “Cease yer fussing, all of ye.”
She sent her brothers grins, but none of them returned them. Max and Phin exchanged a worried look, but Lyon sighed and dropped his arm around their little sister’s shoulders. She seemed to melt against him, and he tugged her up against his side as he offered Lysander his hand.
When Lysander took it, the handshake was crushing, and his brother’s expression serious. “Good work, Lysander.”
It was all Lyon said, but his approval meant the world.
Since Lysander couldn’t seem to make his tongue work, he just pulled them both in for another quick hug—Lyon was stiff of course—before cheerfully saluting them, and the gathering crowd, and climbing into the carriage.
As soon as the door shut behind him, a pair of small hands grabbed his lapels and yanked him forward. He ended up sprawled across the seat, with Tiffany—his wife—atop him. Her lips were everywhere, and although he’d started off chuckling, soon he was groaning in surrender.
“Love, if we continue this, we’ll no’ make it to Blabloblal.” He was going to have to have her, right there in the carriage.
“That is fine,” she gasped, shifting, so she could throw one leg over his thighs. “The journey is long.”
Humming, he agreed. It would take them several hours to reach his—their—estate, and who knew what kind of intriguing activities they could get up to in the meantime.
During the last weeks, the two of them had snuck away often enough, since the Dumpkins house party offered plenty of opportunities for wickedness. They’d spent plenty of time talking about their future, holding hands, and sharing thoughts…but they’d found enough privacy for other things as well.
And it wasn’t as if this would be Tiffany’s first arrival at Blabloblal.
She’d visited often enough to meet the staff and prepare for her official reign as a viscountess.
Her smiles, and the way she was genuinely interested in the running of the place, had made the staff love her.
He knew Tiffany was up to the challenge of running an estate like his, completely unaided.
So aye, she’d been introduced to everyone she needed to worry about impressing, and surely they wouldn’t begrudge their new mistress arriving at her new home a bit rumpled on the morning of her wedding?
Smiling, Lysander shifted positions, settling himself upright against the squabs, and pulled her leg even further across his. “The journey is long,” he murmured, loving how enthusiastically she climbed atop his lap. “And I can think of any number of ways to occupy ourselves.
“Good,” she gasped, as his hands closed around her breasts. “Because that creative thinking is one of the things I adore about you.”
“What other things do ye adore, love?” His hands were already digging at the piles of petticoats bunched between their legs, and he appreciated the way she lurched forward on her knees, helping him.
They both sighed in unison as she settled herself down, her warm dampness flush against his alarmingly aroused cock.
“I love all sorts of things about you,” she murmured, cupping his cheek. In the light from the windows—which he’d scandalously left open as they sped through the Highlands—he could see her wicked grin. “Including the way you listened to my suggestion to wear a kilt to our wedding.”
She’d worn a delightfully low-cut gown, and he was prepared to take advantage of that. “Aye?” he asked, as he bent to brush a kiss atop one plump breast. “I thought it was because ye liked to look at my legs.”
“That, husband, and I appreciate the easy access.”
When she reached down and closed her fingers around the hardness tenting the front of his kilt, Lysander began to chuckle.
Tiffany suspected she should control herself. But the thought of spending the next few hours in this coach merely holding hands with her new husband was atrocious. They had forever for that sort of thing.
Besides, a bit of a cuddle might be nice…after.
Aye, after.
When she lowered her lips to his, Lysander’s chuckle turned into a groan, and she had to smile triumphantly. Her fingers encircled his hardness, stroking the way he’d shown her a fortnight ago, and sitting in his lap made her feel powerful, desirable.
Of course, that was when he squeezed her breasts lightly, then reached into her bodice and scooped them out entirely. When he moved his attention to her nipples, she forgot exactly what she was doing.
He’d learned early on that her nipples were really quite sensitive, and all he needed to do to get her hot and ready was—
“Yes!” she gasped against his lips. “Like that!”
He chuckled again, lifting one breast to his mouth as his other hand delved between their bodies, fighting through the mass of petticoats to find her slick, wet heat. As his fingers teased her folds, she dragged her fingers through his hair.
“Lysander! Cease teasing me.”
She felt him grin around her nipple, and his thumb found her clitoris, the center of her pleasure, and gave it a gentle flick. Her hips jerked into his, and she gasped as her aching core instinctively cradled his hard length.
“Now, wife?” he growled.
She didn’t need to be prompted, but raised up far enough on her knees to shift her weight forward…and slide down atop him. As his hard length slid into her, they both exhaled, as if releasing tension.
For the first time, Tiffany became aware of the motion of the carriage.
Apparently, she’d been distracted enough earlier that the constant rocking hadn’t bothered her. But now she realized Lysander had propped his booted feet against the opposite seat, his head back against the cushion, and the rocking…
Well, the rocking was really rather fortuitous, wasn’t it?
“Why are ye grinning?” he asked.
Her smile grew. “Because…” She shifted forward again, lifting herself just slightly off his hard length, which allowed the motion of the carriage to slide him infinitesimally in and out of her. “I have decided carriages really are remarkable contraptions.”
The noise he made was half-laugh, half-growl, as his hands closed around her hips.
Then they weren’t speaking—or making any intelligible noises, frankly—as they gave themselves over to the pleasure.
Carriages really were ingenious contraptions. Lysander was able to make use of the rocking motion, and she found herself having to do nothing more than hold on.
With her breasts so close to his mouth, he seemed distracted. And each touch of his lips, each thrust of his hardness, sent Tiffany closer and closer to the edge of the precipice.
And then, Lysander took her nipple between his teeth, and she exploded into a million pieces. The pleasure swept her up and over, and she tightened her hold on him with a gasp.
That was all the encouragement he needed, because he thrust twice more, then wrapped his arms around her waist and burrowed his face in her chest as a warm flood spilled against her womb.
It took ages for her heartbeat to return to normal. She could feel her pulse in her temples, her wrists, her throat, her very core, where each beat was accompanied by a spasm of pleasure. In her arms, Lysander’s breathing slowed as well, until he straightened and pulled her down against him.
Beneath her skirts, beneath his kilt, she felt him slowly soften and slip from her. But the pair of them still felt connected, as much as any two people could be.
“I love you,” she whispered, her cheek resting against his forehead.
She felt him smile. “Aye, lass, and I love ye. Ye’re right about carriages being marvelous contraptions, by the way.”
With a chuckle, she pushed herself upright, unwilling to release him yet, but needing to meet his eyes. “And do you think we might have an opportunity to investigate this one again?”
“Well, I cannae reach my pocket watch right at this moment, but I suspect we still have some time before we reach our home, wife.”
She gently clasped his cheeks with her palms. “And what do you think we might do in that time, husband?”
He didn’t answer, but his grin turned positively wicked, and she began to chuckle again.
When she pulled him toward her for another kiss, he tasted of redemption and joy and the future.
And she knew she’d found her perfect forever.