Her hands came to rest against his chest. Beneath the fine fabric of his coat she felt the steady strength of his heartbeat, and the familiarity of him — so known, so trusted — steadied the nervous flutter within her.

  “This feels different,” she confessed.

  “It is different,” he said softly. “But nothing about the two of us has ever been uncertain. Only delayed.”

  He bent and kissed her.

  It began gently, a question rather than a claim. His mouth moved against hers with deliberate care, as though he meant to give her time to retreat. She did not. Instead she leaned closer, her fingers curling into the fabric at his lapels, drawing him nearer.

  The kiss deepened.

  Warmth spread through her in slow, intoxicating waves. She felt the answering tension in him, the restraint he struggled to maintain, the careful control that made her feel treasured rather than overwhelmed. When his arm came around her waist and drew her fully against him, a soft sound escaped her before she could stop it.

  He stilled at once.

  “Too much?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Not enough.”

  Something in his expression changed then — wonder, hunger, relief all at once. He kissed her again, no longer tentative but still reverent, as though the very fate of the world rested upon that touch, that moment.

  Years of quiet longing unfolded between them in the quiet stillness of their chamber: the glances they had not understood, the conversations that had lingered too long, the near losses that had forced truth into the open. There was tenderness in every movement, but beneath it ran a current of desire neither of them could pretend not to feel.

  He rested his forehead against hers, breath unsteady.

  “I have imagined this,” he admitted softly. “More times than I care to confess. And yet it is more magical than I could have dreamed.”

  Her lips curved faintly. “That seems a bit of a stretch. Magical? Really?”

  “Infinitely.”

  He drew her closer once more, and this time when he kissed her, there was no mistaking it for anything but carnal. It was heat and longing. It was years of desperate yearning all poured into that one display. And she matched him. In every way, Eleanor with her limited knowledge, met that kiss with equal ardor.

  When his fingertips drifted over her shoulder, down her arm, across her rib cage… then he tugged gently at the delicate ties of her wrapper. The garment, scant shield that it was, parted instantly, revealing the sheer silk beneath. It didn’t hide her form so much as veil it. Still visible, still tantalizing, still shocking and slightly wicked, but not bared entirely. It felt wicked and decadent. And when his gaze roamed over her with such obvious appreciation, it gave her a feeling of power she had never known.

  His mouth moved from hers, skating along the column of her neck, pressing delicate kisses along the arc of her collar bone. Then lower. His lips burned a path until they reached the upper swells of her breasts. And with only a slight tug, the silk shifted over her skin, and she felt the cool air of the bedchamber whispering over the taut peaks of her breasts. But that cool air was quickly replaced with the scorching heat of his mouth.

  She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her, or the slight moan that followed it. The pleasure suffusing her was too intense to remain quiet. It seemed to awaken something deep inside her. It was hunger and thirst. Life and death.

  In dozens of novels she’d read about desire, and in the vaguest sense, she’d understood it. But this was much more primal than the yearning of a girl who had never even been kissed as she consumed florid prose that only hinted and never detailed. This thing building inside her was hungry and sharp, driving her to clutch at his shoulders, for her fingers to spear through his hair and hold him to her breast as she savored the wet heat of his mouth on sensitive flesh.

  When is hand slipped beneath the silk to coast along her thigh, she had no thought of stopping him. She welcomed his touch, parting eagerly for his touch. It was instinctual for her, the belief that he could somehow assuage the aching need within her.

  His hand slid higher and higher until he reached the apex of her thighs, his hand brushing gently over the curls that shielded the most intimate parts of her. Eleanor shivered, desperate to feel more, even if she wasn’t entirely certain what that was. Then he parted her folds, his fingertips dancing over slick skin, touching her so expertly that she could only squeeze her eyes shut as the breath rushed from her.

  And still he kept building that unbearable tension. He stroked her flesh until she was fevered with it, until every muscle had drawn taut and she strained against him, searching for something she did not yet understand.

  It was a sudden thing, the intense feeling of release that swept through her. She cried out as pleasure wracked her, leaving her shuddering beneath his tender touch. Before she had even stopped trembling, he’d parted her thighs more fully and eased himself between them. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her. Even in her state of repletion, the eagerness for him had not truly abated. Because as much as she wanted that pleasure to never end, what she wanted more was the connection to him. The intimacy of their bodies joined together in the dimness of their chamber.

  “Are you certain?” He asked.

  “Never more so,” she replied. “I feel as if I have been waiting my entire life for this moment.”

  He kissed her then, and she could feel him moving, easing the buttons of his trousers open. Then he was guiding himself into her, the softness of her body yielding to the hardness of his. It was shocking and terrifying and familiar and wonderous all at once. The slight stinging pain was there and gone as quickly as it had come. Then it was only pleasure. Only aching fullness and the gentle rocking of his hips against hers. And the climb began anew, that now familiar tension building inside her once more.

  When the wave of her release claimed her that time, she was not alone. As it pulled her into the depths, he groaned her name, uttering it almost like a desperate prayer as he shuddered against her, his warmth spilling inside her.

  It was perfection. It was everything she had dreamed of. It left her whole and wrecked at the same time. She had thought her world would change with their marriage. But in truth she was changed. She felt complete in a way she had never known. And he had given her that.

  “I do love you so,” she whispered.

  “I shall remind you of that daily… likely when you are cross with me,” he answered teasingly as he collapsed onto the bed beside her.

  Glancing at him, she saw that he was still slightly breathless and wore a look of such smug satisfaction. But she hadn’t the heart to take exception to it. That smugness, she thought, was well earned. “I imagine there are other things you can do when I am cross with you that would be far more effective in curbing my ire.”

  “I’ll remind you of that too,” he said. “After we rest for a bit, I may remind you again tonight. And tomorrow. And every night after if you permit it.”

  She settled contentedly against his side, loving the way his fingertips traced light circles on her skin. “I should like that very much… I’m afraid I am discovering certain hedonistic tendencies that are… unanticipated.”

  “My sweet, perfect, paragon of a wife…. who also happens to be perfectly wanton in my arms. I may be the luckiest man to ever walk this earth.”

  She grinned then. “I will remind you of that when you are cross with me.”

  The sound of their laughter carried along the corridors, filling the house with the sounds of joy. The sounds of love.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Caroline had not intended to linger at the edge of the ballroom, yet with the press of bodies and the weight of sympathetic glances, retreating felt like her only option. Everywhere she turned, conversations faltered, voices softened, and eyes filled with that dreadful mixture of pity and curiosity. She truly did not understand how something so quiet could feel so suffocating.

  So she remained near the shadowed alcove beside the musicians’ platform, where the crush thinned and the masks lent a measure of anonymity. From there she could observe without being observed, a luxury she had not enjoyed since her humiliation had become social currency.

  Across the room, Eleanor moved through the crowd on Adrian’s arm, her happiness unmistakable even beneath her mask. There was a lightness to her movements Caroline had never seen before, as though she had at last stepped into a life that fit her. The sight stirred no bitterness in Caroline — only relief. If one of them could be happy, then perhaps happiness had not been a complete fiction after all.

  “Poor Mr. Grant,” a voice murmured nearby, low but pitched with deliberate carelessness. “One cannot imagine the mortification he must feel.”

  Caroline stilled.

  Miss Verity Langford stood only a few feet away, surrounded by two matrons and a pair of eager young ladies. Her fan fluttered lazily, though her eyes were sharp with relish. As discreetly as possible, Caroline maneuvered further behind the column that separated them. She concealed herself and listened with growing indignation.

  “Mortification?” one of the matrons asked. “Surely you do not mean⁠—”

  “Oh, I would never repeat gossip,” Verity replied, with the air of one who was beyond eager to do precisely that. “But I have heard from Lord Marklynne’s aunt, Lady Lyndehurst, that he withdrew his attentions only after discovering them in the most compromising of circumstances. Such an awkward position for a gentleman of his consequence. I daresay it his knowledge of Mr. Grant’s surrender to her wiles that compelled the man down the aisle and sent Lord Marklynne fleeing her inherent wickedness.”

  The younger girls leaned closer.

  “In fact,” Verity continued softly, “one hears he felt obliged to distance himself entirely. A gentleman must protect his name, after all. And poor Mr. Harcourt — imagine the embarrassment. To host the very people who know the truth and must pretend otherwise.”

  Caroline’s fingers tightened around her reticule.

  One of the matrons whispered, “Then Mr. Grant⁠—?”

  “Did what any honorable man must. Though he was reluctant to do so, given the obvious moral depravity displayed by Miss Har—Mrs. Grant,” Verity corrected, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur that nevertheless carried. “He stepped forward to salvage what could be of both her reputation and his. It was the only course open to him. And her poor brother must now attempt to stem the tide of gossip and save face for all of them!”

  A ripple of fascinated horror passed through the group.

  “And Lord Marklynne attends tonight?” another asked.

  Verity’s lips curved. “Out of charity, no doubt. To spare the Mr. Harcourt further humiliation. One must admire such restraint.”

  The matrons nodded gravely, already converting rumor into certainty.

  Caroline felt the blood drain from her face. The cruelty lay not merely in the lie but in the manner of its delivery — the feigned reluctance, the careful layering of insinuation, the appearance of sympathy that sharpened the blade. By morning, the tale would travel from drawing room to breakfast table to carriage ride, gaining further exaggerated detail with every repetition.

  And Eleanor, who had done nothing but choose love, would bear the stain.

  Caroline did not allow herself to think. If she hesitated, she might lose her nerve. If she considered propriety, she would never act. So she simply gathered her skirts and slipped silently, stealthily from the ballroom on a mission to spare those she cared for most the same terrible fate she currently suffered.

  Julien had retreated to his study in search of momentary quiet and found none. The muffled music from the ballroom pulsed faintly through the walls, an insistent reminder of obligations he could not entirely escape. He had intended only a brief respite before returning to his duties as host, yet he remained at his desk, staring at nothing, aware only of a restless tension he could neither name nor dismiss.

  He told himself it was fatigue. The past weeks had demanded more of him than he cared to admit — the wedding, the ball, the unrelenting social demands. That was all. Even a man who enjoyed society sometimes needed a reprieve.

  The knock at his door was swift and urgent.

  Before he could respond, the door opened and Caroline Ashworth stepped inside. The very reason for his discomposed state now stood just inside the doorway of his private study. Alone with him, as the ball raged on.

  He rose at once.

  The impropriety of it was startling given that, to his knowledge, Miss Caroline Ashworth had yet to put a foot wrong in society despite now being at the center of a scandal. Yet she stood there, a young lady alone in his private study, unchaperoned, at the height of a crowded ball — if discovered, the consequences would be ruinous for her. The realization sent a sharp current of alarm through him that was swiftly eclipsed by something more visceral: the sight of her, pale beneath her mask, breathless and shaken.

  “Miss Ashworth,” he said, moving toward her. “Is something amiss?”

  She closed the door behind her and pressed her gloved hands together as though to steady them.

  “This is terribly improper, I know, and I would not have come,” she said, her voice low but urgent, “had it not been of the utmost importance.”

  His concern sharpened. “You are safe here. Tell me.”

  She drew a breath and forced the words out with careful control. “Miss Langford is spreading the most vile gossip imaginable. She is telling anyone who will listen that Eleanor was compromised… that Lord Marklynne withdrew his attentions after discovering it… that Adrian married her only to spare the family disgrace likely on threat of exposure of their misdeeds.”

  For a moment Julien did not speak.

  A slow, cold fury settled into his chest. He had endured gossip all his life; society thrived upon it. But to slander his sister — and on this night of all nights when they were hosting a ball to celebrate her marriage to his best friend — was beyond tolerance.

  “She speaks as though she does so reluctantly,” Caroline continued. “As though she wishes to protect reputations even while destroying them. She is a viper in our midst.”

  Julien’s jaw tightened. “And you heard this yourself?”

  “I did. I have been something of a wallflower by choice tonight, and she did not know I lurked unseen nearby as she repeated her Banbury tale. ”

  He turned away briefly, forcing his temper into submission. Rage would solve nothing. This was a moment that called for controlled and decisive action rather than an explosion of fury.

  When he faced her again, he saw the strain she was trying so very hard to conceal — the exhaustion in her eyes, the fragility beneath her composure. She had already endured more public humiliation than anyone deserved, and yet she had risked further scandal to protect Eleanor.

  “You should not have come here alone,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she replied. “But I could not stand idle while my dearest friend was so cruelly and undeservedly maligned.”

  His chest tightened at that.

  He had admired her for years — admired her kindness, her steadiness, her quiet courage. But if he were to be honest, it was far deeper than admiration. It was a thing he had never dared put a name to because she was promised to another. Had been. Had been promised to another. It was in the past now and she was unencumbered by promises to another. Adrian’s words came back to him in that moment. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. There would never be a better opportunity to express that to her.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.

  Julien reacted without thought. He reached for her, drawing her swiftly into the narrow space behind the door, his hand braced against the wall beside her shoulder as he shielded her from view. The movement was instinctive, protective — the only way to prevent discovery. Even if someone opened the door, they would not see her. Not well enough to identify her other than to know he had a woman closeted with him.

  They stood only scant inches apart, pressed close in the dimness. In the quiet of his study, the sound of their breath mingled, falling into a rhythm with one another’s.

  He was acutely aware of her — the warmth of her breath against his throat, the faint scent of orange blossom, the delicate rise and fall of her chest as she stilled herself to silence. He had held women before, danced with them, offered polite embraces when propriety allowed. Indulged other desires in private when his needs became burdensome. None of those moments had ever felt like this — charged, precarious, impossible to ignore.

  If anyone opened that door and recognized her, then her reputation would be irreparably damaged. The knowledge tightened every muscle in his body. He kept his arm braced, forming a barrier between her and the world beyond, determined that no harm should come to her through his carelessness.

  The footsteps passed. The risk of discovery receded with them. Still he did not move.

  Caroline remained very still against him, her gloved hand resting lightly against his coat as though she had forgotten to withdraw it. He felt the faint tremor in her fingers and wondered whether it was fear — or something else entirely.

  In all her years with Sutton, she had been courted openly, no doubt shared kisses with him in secluded gardens, admired before the world. And yet she was looking up at him, her lips parted softly in surprise, and an acute awareness passed between them. They were in uncharted waters here, touching one another, standing intimately close to one another. Her lips were but a scant breath from his. It would take nothing at all to lean in and capture her lips and finally know the taste of her. And it would be an absolute breech of trust. It would be taking advantage of her while she was vulnerable and hurting. And he could not do that. Because she was more than a kiss to him, more than a momentary diversion. A stolen moment with Caroline Ashworth would never be enough for him and if that was all he might ever have, he did not wish to be further haunted by it.