CHAPTER 16 #2
"We should go inside," she said, though she made no move to leave his arms. "It's cold."
"I'm not cold."
"Gabriel…"
"We are now betrothed. Surely that allows for some additional liberties?"
"We were sharing a bed before we were betrothed. I'm not sure what additional liberties you think are available."
"I can think of several."
"I'm sure you can, but perhaps we should actually plan our matrimonial ceremony before you start expanding the boundaries of propriety even further."
"How soon can we wed?"
"Well, there are banns to be read, arrangements to make…"
"Or we could elope to Scotland tonight."
"Absolutely not. We've caused enough scandal for one day."
"Tomorrow then?"
"Gabriel."
"Next week?"
"We'll do this properly. Three weeks for the banns, an intimate ceremony…”
"Three weeks? Clara, I've been in agony for the past fortnight sharing your bed and maintaining boundaries. I'm not sure I can survive three more weeks."
"You survived so many years without me, a few more weeks shan’t cause you much despair.”
"That's different. I didn't know what I was missing then. Now I do, and the knowledge is killing me."
Clara pulled back slightly to look at him. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that a betrothal is traditionally a time when certain... anticipations of matrimony might be explored."
"Anticipations?"
"Expectations?"
"Gabriel…"
"We are to be wedded, Clara. The boundaries we set were to prevent consequences if you left. You're not leaving now. You're staying. Forever. So perhaps we could renegotiate…"
She kissed him to stop the flow of words, and when she pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire.
"Inside," she said. "Now."
"Is that a yes to renegotiation?"
"That's a yes to getting out of this cold garden before we both freeze to death and never get to negotiate anything."
The house was quiet, the servants dismissed for the evening at Clara's insistence, though the knowing looks from Mary and Mrs. Potter suggested they understood exactly why privacy was required.
Edmund had left with a wink and a promise to handle any social fallout from the morning's dramatics, and for the first time since Clara had arrived at Ashbourne, they were truly, completely alone.
"This is dangerous," Clara said, standing in Gabriel's bedroom, still fully dressed but intensely aware of the bed behind her.
"We're betrothed," Gabriel reminded her, locking the door with a decisive click. "This is expected."
"Expected and proper are different things."
"When have we ever been proper?"
"We've maintained one very important propriety."
"Which is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain."
He moved toward her slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wanted, but Clara stood her ground. When he reached her, his hands went to her hair, pulling out pins one by one until it tumbled around her shoulders.
“This action has been my firm desire for the past month, I assure you,” he admitted, running his fingers through the freed strands. "Every time you put it up so properly, all I could think about was taking it down."
"That's remarkably specific."
"I have remarkably specific fantasies where you're concerned."
"Should I be concerned about these fantasies?"
"Only if you object to being thoroughly worshipped."
His mouth found her throat, and Clara's knees went weak. "Gabriel…"
"Tell me to stop."
"We both know I'm not going to do that."
"Then tell me to continue."
"That seems redundant given that you're already…oh."
He'd found that spot below her ear that made rational thought impossible, and Clara's hands fisted in his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
"We should talk about…"
"No talking. We've talked for weeks. We've talked around this, about this, despite this. No more talking."
"But…"
He kissed her properly then, deep and demanding, and Clara gave up any pretense of resistance. This was what they'd been denying themselves, this consuming need that had been building since the moment she'd arrived at his door.
When they finally broke apart, Gabriel's control was visibly fraying. "Clara, if you're going to stop this, do it now, because in about thirty seconds I'm not going to be capable of gentlemanly restraint."
"I'm not asking for gentlemanly restraint."
"What are you asking for?"
"You. All of you. Everything we've been denying ourselves in the name of propriety that never really mattered anyway."
“Are you quite certain?”
"Gabriel, I've been sharing your bed for two weeks, feeling you against me every night, wanting you with every breath, and maintaining control through sheer force of will. Yes, I am more than certain.”
"Thank Goodness," he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers again, his hands working the buttons of her dress with fingers that shook slightly.
"You're trembling," Clara observed.
"I've wanted this for so long I can barely believe it's happening."
"How long?"
"Since you walked in on me shirtless and didn't run away. Possibly since you appeared at my door looking like a drowned rat. Definitely since you told me my face was the least ugly thing about me."
"That's a terrible thing to find arousing."
"Everything about you arouses me. The way you argue with me, the way you organise my life without permission, the way you look when you're asleep in my arms."
Her dress pooled at her feet, and Gabriel's breath caught. "You're beautiful."
"I'm ordinary."
"You're everything."
He lifted her, carrying her to the bed they had shared so chastely for so many nights. The candlelight trembled over the walls, painting their joined shadows in gold. For a long moment, neither spoke. The quiet between them was reverent, almost sacred.
"Are you afraid?" he asked softly, brushing his thumb across her cheek.
"No," she whispered. "Are you?"
"Terrified," he confessed, his voice rough.
"Of what?"
"Of not being what you need. Of this being less than you deserve."
She smiled faintly. "You are what I choose. That’s all that matters."
He bent to kiss her, and the conversation dissolved into warmth and breath. His touch grew bolder by degrees, his restraint crumbling as hers did. Buttons slipped free, fabric pooled at her waist, and the shock of cool air against bare skin made her shiver.
When at last he shed the last of his clothing, her gaze caught on him, on the proof of his desire and she froze. The sight stole the air from her lungs. She had known, in some distant way, what must happen between a man and wife, but nothing had prepared her for that.
Gabriel stilled immediately, misreading her silence. "Clara," he murmured, voice unsteady, "if this frightens you…"
"It doesn’t," she said quickly, though her cheeks burned. Her pulse fluttered wildly as she looked up at him, trying to reconcile the man she loved with this startling, unfamiliar truth of him. "Only… I hadn’t realised…"
A wry, gentle smile touched his lips. "Nor did I, the first time I understood what I was made for."
Her laugh trembled out, easing the tension. She reached for him then, shy but sure, tracing a tentative path along his chest before pulling him down beside her.
When he joined with her, the moment stole her breath. A sharp, startled sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, and his hands came up at once, steadying, soothing, his forehead resting against hers as though he could lend her his calm through sheer proximity.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “Only breathe.”
She did, and the ache melted into warmth, into something so tender it made her eyes sting. His movements were careful at first, searching, learning. Every sigh and every shiver became a new kind of language, one only they would ever understand.
His hands were commanding as they guided her onto her hands and knees, fingers digging into her hips with barely restrained need.
She felt him behind her, solid, imposing, his breathing already ragged as he swept her hair aside and pressed his mouth to her nape with something between a kiss and a claim.
"Mine," he growled against her skin, the word more animal than aristocrat.
When he entered her, there was nothing gentle about it.
The angle made her cry out, and he answered with a guttural sound of satisfaction, gripping her waist hard enough to leave marks.
His movements were relentless, driven by something raw and unrestrained, the careful composure of the duke stripped away entirely, leaving only hungry, desperate want.
"Say it," he demanded, voice rough and commanding as he drove into her with punishing intensity.
"I love you," she gasped, barely able to form words as he took her with an almost feral urgency.
"Again," he ordered, his control fracturing completely.
"I love you…" The words dissolved into incoherent pleasure as he pushed her higher, his pace merciless and consuming until finally the crest came, wild and devastating and she shattered beneath him, crying out as he followed with a ragged groan, still holding her captive against him.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the hush of their own creation, the candle burning low beside them. He brushed a kiss across her temple, and she smiled faintly, dazed by the strangeness and the rightness of it all.
"That was…" Clara began, then stopped, lacking adequate words.
“Was it, after all this time, all that you hoped for?”
"Everything. The scandal, the struggle, your aunt's purple fury."
Gabriel laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "We should send Aunt Agatha a thank you note. Without her interference, we might have continued dancing around this for months."
"We should also thank Edmund for investigating my father."
They lay in comfortable silence, Clara tracing the scars on his chest while he played with her hair.
"We should have our matrimonial ceremony tomorrow," Gabriel said suddenly.
"We've discussed this. Three weeks for the banns."
"That was before."
"Before what?"
"Before I knew what we were missing. Now that I do, three weeks seems like torture."
"Everything seems like torture to you."
"Not this. This is the opposite of torture."
"What's the opposite of torture?"
"Bliss? Paradise? That thing where you made that sound when I…"
Clara covered his mouth with her hand. "We're not discussing the sounds I made."
He licked her palm, making her squeal and pull back. "We should definitely discuss the sounds you made, particularly that one when I…"
"Gabriel!"
"What? We're betrothed. We're allowed to discuss our mutual satisfaction with our physical compatibility."
"That's the least romantic way possible to describe what just happened."
"Would you prefer I compose a sonnet? ‘Ode to Clara's Extraordinary Sounds of Passion'?"
"I would prefer you never mention sounds again."
"Even the good sounds?"
"Especially the good sounds."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing. I'm... thermally challenged."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
"You can't just…" He stopped, pulling her on top of him. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Being impossible."
"I learned from the best."
"I am the best, aren't I?"
"Your modesty is overwhelming."
"I overwhelmed you quite thoroughly, as I recall."
"Gabriel!"
“It’s true. You said my name quite loudly. Several times."
Clara buried her face in his chest
He pulled her down for a kiss that quickly heated, and Clara felt her body responding despite their recent activities.
"Again?" she asked, surprised.
"Again," he confirmed, rolling them over. "And again. And again. We have weeks of frustration to make up for."
"We'll be exhausted."
"We'll be satisfied."
"Same thing?"
"Absolutely not the same thing."
"Show me the difference?"
"With pleasure."