Chapter 17 #4
With his free hand, he sketched a flourishing bow.
“It will.” It would have to; he could only hope the time flew.
But the weeks between would give her time to prepare, to arrange a wedding gown and her attendants and all the other things females so delighted in when it came to weddings.
Felicia, Stacie, and Mary would, undoubtedly, throw themselves into assisting, and Kit realized he wanted that period of building anticipation and joy for Sylvia.
He liked to plan ahead, and so did she. “Once we’re wed, I take it you won’t be averse to living in the city?”
She turned her head to study him. “You have a house, don’t you? I assumed we’d live there.”
He inclined his head. “That would be my preference, but if you wished to reside somewhere outside the city itself…”
“No.” She tilted her head, her gaze on his face. “Is your house big enough? You mentioned it’s in Queen’s Parade—that’s a very acceptable neighborhood.”
“It’s definitely big enough. I have the beginnings of a staff—a majordomo, an excellent cook, Smiggs, and, of course, a footman-in-training. I daresay you’ll wish to—indeed, will need to—add to them.”
She smiled. “I imagine hiring a housekeeper and maids would be wise.”
“I’ll leave that to you and Gordon—my majordomo. He’s young and learning the ropes, so he’ll be grateful for your guidance. He was a footman at Raventhorne Abbey—I stole him away from Mary, but as they have a surfeit of footmen, she didn’t really mind.”
“I’m glad you warned me.” Consternation seeped into her expression, then she gripped his hand a little tighter. “I just realized I’ve agreed to marry into the nobility. I’ll have to entertain lords and ladies and, possibly, even duchesses.” Her tone had turned faintly aghast.
Smiling, he squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“Behind the titles, we’re all just people.
Wealthier, perhaps, but you can’t take even that for granted.
And you’ve met Mary and Stacie and several others of the family already, at Rand’s wedding.
And if Felicia, of all ladies, can cope with the challenge of us without turning a hair, then I’m more than confident that you will, too. ”
She tipped her head consideringly. “There is that. Felicia is more…unworldly than I am.”
“Buried at Throgmorton Hall as she was, she unquestionably had much less experience of the wider world than you. You’ve been dealing with the directors of the Dock Company, the Dean, and the luminaries of Bristol society for years.
Handling a few members of the haut ton won’t even count as a challenge. ”
He shifted on the bench, half facing her and drawing her hand to where he could enclose it between both of his. “But enough of others. What of us?”
Turning slightly, she met his gaze. “What about us?” Before he could reply, she went on, “I assume you’ll spend your days working on building your yachts, while I continue to manage the school…” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t think I would give up my position with the school?”
“No.” Disgruntled that she’d even thought of it, he frowned.
“Of course not. I assumed you would continue to manage all—perhaps that I would see you to your office every morning before going on to mine, then meet you at the school in the afternoon, before we head home.” Together in all things was his vision.
“Then…what?” She looked at him encouragingly.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I was trying to be delicate. So—children?”
She blinked. “Oh.” Faint color touched her cheeks. “I assumed…well, that if they came, they did.” Her gaze grew dreamy. “But…”
He watched her face, her eyes, as, clearly, she examined the prospect. “But…? Would you like children? My children? To have children—perhaps even a whole tribe—with me?”
Her lips curving, Sylvia refocused on Kit’s eyes.
“Can I just say yes and leave it at that?” She couldn’t describe the feelings that had surged to life inside her simply at the thought of holding a tiny Kit in her arms. And later, overseeing a brood of adventurous children—one challenge she would embrace with her whole heart.
He held her gaze for a long instant, as if reading her emotions in her eyes, then, his voice lowering, said, “Yes is acceptable. Entirely acceptable.” His gaze fell to her lips, and the rhythm of her breathing fractured.
Slowly, he leaned closer—as if he, too, was as mesmerized as she.
She lifted her face, her lids lowering.
His lips brushed hers. Warm, inviting. Then they settled, and she gave herself up to the moment—to his kiss.
To a caress that consumed her and sparked passion in her soul.
She’d known many passions—enthusiasms, desires—but nothing to compare to the surge of feeling he and his kiss evoked.
Emotions she’d only recently come to know stirred and rose, and compulsions she’d yet to come to grips with flared.
Physical desire was new to her, but she could taste it now—a need on her tongue and in her veins.
He shifted closer, and she leaned into him. His arms slid around her, gathering her into a possessive embrace, as under the skillful pressure of his lips and the artful stroking of his tongue along her lips, she parted them and welcomed him in.
His tongue stroked, then languidly probed, and she relished the sensation, so much so she felt compelled to return the pleasure. Soon, they were engaged in a duel of sorts, of tangling tongues and hungry lips and a quest to lavish as much pleasure on the other as they could.
So this is what passion is all about.
On the thought, she lifted her hands and framed his face the better to kiss him more deeply.
In response, he hauled her even closer, crushing her breasts against the hard planes of his chest—making her aware of how much her breasts ached.
His kiss had turned dominant, subtly aggressive—possessive—but she discovered she could meet him and match him even there, provoking and inciting and even daring to challenge him.
In this, in their wanting, they were evenly matched. Despite her lack of experience, in this arena their desires clashed and merged, neither overpowering the other, yet overwhelming in their combined force.
The kiss had turned desperately hungry and needy—transforming into a ravenous exchange she previously would have labeled wanton.
But now, she understood. Now, she felt the rabid hunger, the driving need, and the clawing desperation that rose and claimed her.
She didn’t know what came next but was certain he did. Through the melding of their mouths, she urged him on.
Then he shifted, his head angling over hers as his tongue stroked hers in heated temptation. Between them, his hand rose, and he cupped her breast, then closed his strong fingers about the aching mound.
Her senses leapt, then his fingers kneaded, and a soft, yearning sound purled in her throat.
Heat welled and washed through her while lightning danced down her nerves, flashing and sparking.
Never had her body felt like this—as if her senses had risen and claimed it as their territory. Never had her nerves felt so alive, awake to every nuance of the shifting caresses he pressed on her. Her breasts seemed to have swollen and now felt too constrained behind her light stays. She wanted…
She wanted…
Tightening her grip on his face, holding him in place, she poured all that wild, undirected wanting into their kiss.
For a split second, she sensed she’d surprised him, then his response roared through her—in the fire of his scorching kiss, in the possessive pressure of his hand at her breast, and in the steely clamp of his arm about her waist.
But then, just as suddenly as his heated desire had risen to her siren call and swamped her, he reined it in. Pulled it and himself back.
On a gasp, Kit broke the kiss. With a mental wrench, he forced his lips from hers and hauled desperately hard on his—on their—reins. He hadn’t expected her to filch them.
Breathing far too rapidly, he rested his forehead against hers and tried to remind himself of what was right. Of what, in this instance, had to be.
Her hands about his face gentled. One fell away, while she trailed the fingers of her other hand lightly down his cheek.
He raised his heavy lids as she shifted her head back, just enough to look at and study his face.
He barely needed the moonlight to read the question in her eyes—one that compelled him to find his voice, gravelly and gruff as it was, and declare, “I want you—never doubt that for even an instant—but if we don’t stop now… ”
Hoping she wouldn’t ask for further clarification, he shifted awkwardly on the bench, fleetingly wincing as restraint cut where he would much rather it didn’t.
Sylvia blinked, then the reason for his shift and wince and what else he’d said and implied impinged.
Heat claimed her cheeks, but perversely, an inner confidence—her sensual confidence—welled. No—she couldn’t doubt that he wanted her.
Trying to suppress or at least mute a rather smug smile, she turned to sit more properly on the bench.
He shifted again, rearranging his long limbs, then settled beside her.
She seized the moment to ask, “I know I should thank you for your restraint—and I do—but can I ask why?”
He softly grunted. “You’re a clergyman’s daughter.
” He paused as if collecting his thoughts, then offered, “Being that is an intrinsic part of you. I expect you have beliefs about indulging before our wedding, and in the same way that I respect you, I feel I should respect and honor any deep beliefs you hold.”
Without looking at him, she reached for his hand and lightly squeezed. “Thank you. And yes, I do hold those beliefs and sincerely thank you for calling a halt.”
If he hadn’t, she was perfectly certain she wouldn’t have, although she might well have regretted that later.
She felt him lightly shrug.
“We can wait until after the ceremony to go any further.”