Chapter 5 #2
His mouth on hers was like a homecoming.
All these months since that whirlwind of desire in the salon back in New York, and she was every bit as undone now as she had been then.
She opened for him, seeking the hot probe of his tongue, wanting to taste him, to devour him.
Needing him in a way she hadn’t even realized was possible until this moment.
He released her hand, and Lillian was free to touch him.
She settled her hands on his broad shoulders, the rough tweed of his coat beneath her fingertips.
His scent engulfed her, spicy and pleasant with a hint of musk.
Strange to think they had been married for a whole month and yet this was the closest they had been, both physically and emotionally, since their betrothal.
He placed his other hand on her waist, anchoring her to him. Gently, he coaxed her lips to part for the silken invasion of his tongue. He tasted like bergamot and sugar, likely from his tea, and she couldn’t keep herself from sighing and moving nearer until her breasts grazed his chest.
The shock of it sent heat to pool between her thighs. She pressed them together to stave off the sensation, but that only seemed to heighten it. Her breasts felt heavy and full, her nipples suddenly aching where they strained stiffly against her corset. Her body had come to life.
For him.
Her husband.
He lifted his head, ending the kiss, and stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. “I should have done that far sooner.”
She licked her lips, tasting him. Wanting more. And all she could do was agree.
“Yes, I think you should have.”
“Time aplenty to rectify my error now.” He brushed his thumb softly over her cheek, and then his mouth was on hers, stealing her breath again.
They kissed until the sound of servants beyond the drawing room, bustling through the halls, intruded on their idyll. And at last, they broke apart, his expression as guilty as she felt for this unexpected display in the midst of day when any of the domestics might come upon them.
“Thank you,” he told her quietly.
Lillian didn’t know if he was thanking her for the kisses, the decorations in the drawing room, or both.
“You’re welcome, Alaric,” she returned, not having the courage to ask.
His smile reached his eyes this time. “Would you care to go riding with me?”
It was the first time he had invited her to do anything with him, aside from dining, since their stilted courtship. The day was chilly, the sky leaden, the branches bereft of leaves beyond the windows. But she didn’t care. Warmth suffused her.
“I would like that very much.”
“Meet me at the stables in an hour.”
She nodded and watched as her husband offered her an elegant bow before taking his leave from the room.
Lillian wasn’t certain what just happened between them.
But whatever it was, she did know she wanted more of it.
“This was one of my favorite places at Wentworth Abbey when I was a lad,” Alaric told Lillian as they walked together along the banks of the river that flowed through the estate.
They had left their horses secured to a tree so they could venture closer to the water. The December air was crisp and cold and damp, but after the kisses they had shared in the drawing room, he needed the chill to quell some of his ardor.
He could only hope that time and distance had cured her heart.
That she no longer ached for another. Her responsiveness to his kisses had sent desire careening through him, like a locomotive off its tracks.
Nothing could have prepared him for her reaction, for the softness of her lips, for the sweet sigh she’d given him when his tongue had slid against hers.
Kissing Lillian had been like coming home, bittersweet. The betrayal he’d felt over the fallen letter he’d never been meant to see had melted like ice in the spring. Taking its place, lodged deep in his own heart, was hope, that perennial, persistent beast.
“What a beautiful spot,” Lillian said at his side, taking in the winding creek and the centuries-old trees presiding over its banks. “I can see why you liked it so much. Did you climb trees and wade into the water in the summer?”
He found a particularly charming location to stop, near a place in the river where the rocks were all worn smooth and the slowly moving waters ran particularly deep.
“It’s where I learned to swim with my brother Harry,” he confided, thinking about all the sunlit days his younger brother and he had swum and fished and climbed trees.
Their boyhood years had been charmed, which had only made losing his beloved brother that much more difficult. They had been inseparable. The best of friends. And then in the span of a few minutes on the open sea, all that had been taken away so that nothing but the memories remained.
“The two of you were close?” Lillian asked gently.
“We were never in competition, as some siblings are,” he told her, staring into the muddy river waters and remembering the sound of Harry’s laughter. “He was my champion, and I was his. We did everything we could together.”
“You must miss him very much.”
“I do.” His throat was thick, and he jerked his gaze from the water, settling it upon his wife instead. “And my parents as well.”
“Will you tell me about them?”
Speaking about his family was still difficult.
For years, his grief had been an albatross he carried around his neck.
It had taken him some time to realize that their deaths should not have eclipsed their lives.
That he needed to remember them instead of burying them away, like forgotten pictures in the attic rafters.
“My brother was a daredevil, always reckless and wild,” he recalled, smiling fondly as he thought about Harry.
“He could never be still for long. He was forever riding, walking, hunting, engaging in some manner of sport. He was excellent at keeping wicket and a skilled footballer. I could never lay claim to one-fifth of his ability.”
“Did you play cricket or football?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“I played cricket incredibly poorly, I’m afraid. But I was reasonably skilled at rowing. Harry, however, was the recipient of most of the familial physical prowess.”
Which had been why the knowledge that he had drowned had been so particularly painful for Alaric. How impossible it had been to fathom his vibrant, beloved brother, so strong and capable, helplessly meeting his end in the sea with their parents.
“What of your mother and father?”
“My mother was dreadful at cricket,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
Lillian laughed softly, the sound husky and pleasant, even more so because he had been the source of her levity. “Is that so?”
“No. I’m lying, of course. She adored gowns and jewels and shopping. Perhaps a bit too much,” he added wryly. “My father was congenial—he was happy if Mother was happy. Theirs was a love match, and he worshiped her until the end. She adored the Christmas season especially.”
“Do you think she would have approved of me?” Lillian asked.
There was a hesitation in her voice that chipped away at the walls around his heart. This beautiful woman, so lauded in the newspapers, every detail of her wardrobe, appearance, and trousseau reported upon, this sought-after American heiress, had finally shown him a hint of vulnerability.
“I know she would have,” he said. “And my father and Harry as well. You are a perfect duchess, Lillian. You are elegant and refined, polite and intelligent, and kindhearted as well. Mrs. Greaves tells me you are already a favorite belowstairs.”
His praise elicited a becoming pink flush on her cheeks. “You praise me far more than I deserve, I fear.”
Over the course of the past few days, he had learned more about her, enough to know that she was not just a selfish, cossetted heiress as he had originally believed in the wake of discovering that bloody letter.
Alaric was going to have to tell her about discovering it. Soon. But for now, the words were not there. Or perhaps he didn’t wish to find them and ruin this moment.
“I don’t think I’ve praised you enough,” he admitted.
She gave him a sidelong smile. “Well, if you insist, who am I to argue?”
Alaric chuckled, and they returned to their horses and spent the rest of the ride getting better acquainted, as they should have done months ago, before they had married. Before the letter had changed everything.
As his mother had been fond of saying, better late than never.
He could only hope his wife agreed.