Chapter Nineteen
Christmas Day dawned bright and cold, the snow from the night before glittering like diamonds in the morning sun.
Eliza woke in her narrow governess bed with a smile on her face and Alistair's kiss still burning on her lips. She touched her mouth, remembering the fierce possession of it, the way his hands had tangled in her hair, the sound he had made when she had said yes.
Yes, I'll marry you.
She was going to be a duchess. The thought was absurd, impossible, wonderful.
The household was in high spirits, the shadow of Lord Thornton's presence already fading.
Henry bounded through the corridors with his usual energy, excited about presents and plum pudding and all the pleasures of the season.
Mrs. Crawford supervised the final preparations for the Christmas feast with cheerful efficiency.
Even the servants seemed lighter, as if they sensed that something had shifted in the atmosphere of Northmere Hall.
Only Eliza and Alistair knew the full truth. They had agreed to wait until after the holidays to announce their betrothal—to give themselves time to plan, to prepare for the inevitable storm of gossip that would follow.
But keeping the secret was harder than she had anticipated.
Every time she saw him, she wanted to touch him. Every time their eyes met, she felt heat flood through her body. The memory of his kiss was a constant distraction, pulling her thoughts away from lessons and conversations and all the ordinary business of the day.
And he was no better.
She caught him staring at her during Christmas dinner, his eyes dark with want.
She felt his hand brush against hers as they passed in the corridor, a touch that lingered just a moment too long.
She saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped his wine glass, the barely contained hunger that radiated from him like heat from a flame.
They were both burning. And the fire was only getting hotter.
***
It happened that evening, after Henry had been put to bed and the servants had retired to their quarters.
Eliza had gone to the library, their library, as she had come to think of it, to find a book for the evening. She wasn't expecting company. She wasn't expecting anything except a quiet hour of reading before bed.
But when she turned from the shelves, book in hand, Alistair was there.
He stood in the doorway, watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch. He had removed his coat and cravat, and his shirt was open at the throat, revealing a triangle of bare skin that drew her eyes like a magnet.
"I couldn't stay away," he said, his voice rough. "I've been trying all day. Telling myself to be patient, to wait, to do this properly. But every time I look at you…"
"I know." She set down the book, her hands trembling slightly. "I feel it too."
He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her into his arms. His mouth found hers with unerring accuracy, and she melted against him, her fingers gripping his shoulders as the kiss deepened.
This was different from yesterday. Yesterday had been joy and relief and the overwhelming happiness of finally saying yes. This was darker. Hungrier. These were weeks of wanting, finally breaking free.
"I need you," he murmured against her lips. "I've tried to be patient, tried to wait until we're married, but I can't…I can't think when you're near me. I can't breathe. I can't…"
"Then don't wait." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "I don't want to wait either."
Something shifted in his expression—a crack in the last remnants of his control.
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been more certain."
He kissed her again, harder this time, his hands sliding down her back to her waist, pulling her closer until she could feel every line of his body against hers. She felt his arousal pressing against her stomach, and felt the answering heat pooling low in her own body.
"Not here," he breathed. "My room. I want you in my bed."
Before she could respond, he swept her up into his arms—literally lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all. She gasped, her arms going around his neck, her heart pounding as he carried her out of the library and up the stairs.
The servants' quarters were on the opposite side of the house.
They passed no one on the journey to his chambers, though Eliza wasn't sure she would have cared if they had.
She was beyond caring about propriety, beyond thinking about consequences.
There was only this—his arms around her, his heart beating against her side, the promise of what was to come.
His bedroom was large and warm, a fire burning low in the grate. He set her down beside the bed and stepped back, his eyes roaming over her with undisguised hunger.
"I've imagined this," he said. "More times than I can count. But the reality…" He shook his head. "The reality is so much better."
She reached for the pins still remaining in her hair, pulling them free one by one. Her copper curls tumbled down around her shoulders, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Your hair," he murmured. "My goodness, your hair."
"Touch it."
He didn't need to be asked twice. His hands sank into her curls, tilting her head back as he kissed her again. She felt his fingers working at the buttons of her dress, and she felt the fabric loosen and slip from her shoulders.
She had never been naked before a man. She had never allowed anyone to see her like this, vulnerable and exposed. But when the last of her garments fell away, and she stood before him in nothing but firelight, she felt no shame. Only power and desire.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "You are so incredibly beautiful."
She reached for his shirt, pulling it free from his trousers, pushing it up and over his head. His chest was broad and muscled, scattered with dark hair that trailed down toward his waistband. She traced the path with her fingers, feeling him shudder beneath her touch.
"Eliza…"
"I want to see you. All of you."
He stripped off the rest of his clothes with an efficiency that spoke of impatience, and then they were both bare, standing face to face in the firelight. She let her eyes travel over him: the strong shoulders, the flat stomach, the evidence of his desire standing proud and ready.
She reached out and touched him, wrapping her fingers around his length. He groaned, his head falling back, his hips jerking involuntarily.
"If you keep doing that," he said through gritted teeth, "this will be over before it begins."
"Then take me to bed."
He did. He laid her down on the soft mattress and covered her body with his own, his weight pressing her into the sheets. She felt the heat of him everywhere—his chest against her breasts, his hips nestled between her thighs, his mouth trailing fire down her neck.
"I want to take my time," he murmured against her skin. "I want to worship every inch of you. But I don't think I can wait. Not tonight. Not after wanting you for so long."
"Then don't wait. We have the rest of our lives for slow."
He positioned himself at her entrance, pausing just long enough to meet her eyes.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
He pushed inside her.
There was a moment of discomfort—a stretching, a fullness she had never experienced before. But he held still, giving her time to adjust, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. Move, please."
He began to move, slowly at first, then faster as her body opened to him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned; a sound of pure, primal pleasure that sent shivers down her spine.
It was nothing like what she had imagined. It was better. It was overwhelming. It was fire and need and the complete dissolution of every boundary between them.
He reached between their bodies, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her center, and began to stroke in rhythm with his thrusts. The pleasure built and built, coiling tighter with every movement, until she was gasping, crying out, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Let go," he urged. "I want to feel you. Let go for me."
She shattered. The release crashed through her in waves, her body arching against his, his name torn from her lips. And then he was following her over the edge, his own release pulsing inside her as he groaned her name like a prayer.
Afterwards, they lay tangled together in the rumpled sheets, their bodies still joined, their hearts slowly returning to normal rhythm.
"That was…" She couldn't find words.
"Yes." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "It was."
"Can we do it again?"
He laughed—a real laugh, full of joy and surprise. "Give me a few minutes to recover, and yes. We can do it as many times as you want."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He pulled her closer, tucking her against his side. "We have the rest of our lives, remember? And I intend to spend a significant portion of it doing exactly this."
She smiled against his chest, feeling more content than she had ever felt in her life.
This was what she had been missing. This was what she had been searching for without knowing it.
This was love.
***
The days between Christmas and the New Year passed in a haze of stolen moments.
To the household, nothing had changed. Miss Harrow still taught Henry his lessons. His Grace still attended to estate business. They still maintained the proper distance between employer and governess; the careful formality that society demanded.
But behind closed doors, in shadowed alcoves, in locked rooms, in the precious hours when the household slept, everything was different.
It began the morning after their first night together.
Eliza woke in her own bed, having crept back to her room before dawn to preserve appearances. Her body ached pleasantly, and when she moved, she felt the lingering evidence of their passion: a soreness between her thighs, and a tenderness in muscles she hadn't known she possessed.
She was dressing for the day when a soft knock came at her door.
"Yes?"