A Wicked Pursuit (36 page)

She cried out one last time as release swept her away, her fingers digging into his back as she arched and shuddered with the force of it. With that, his own crisis exploded as well, and with a roar, he emptied himself into her, pumping hard, until at last he sank down beside her, burying his face in her lavender-scented hair. He was spent, exhausted, as winded as if he’d just run from Norwich himself. He didn’t care. He’d found Heaven, and he was in no hurry to leave.

Still breathing hard, he pushed himself up to gaze down on her face. Her eyes were closed, her lashes feathering over her rounded cheeks, and her own breath only now beginning to calm. He kissed the bridge of her nose, just to remind her he was there with her. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled, a blissful, slightly crooked smile.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, her voice a delightful croak. “I have no words.”

“You don’t need any,” he said, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her chin. Her skin tasted salty; he thought it was delicious. “Not now.”

Wanting to relieve his weight on her, he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him to lie on his chest. That made her laugh, and she sprawled shameless over him, letting her legs tangle with his.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Umm,” she said, the picture of contentment, and idly traced her fingertip along his jaw. “I am
sated
.”

He chuckled, spreading his fingers to curve comfortably around her bottom. “Sated and spent, I’d wager. I’d also wager that if we’d any neighbors in the next room, they’d have heard you the same as you heard those other lovers years ago.”

“Hah, they’ll have heard you, too,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter, Harry. We’re married.”

“Because we’re married, it matters very much,” he said. He took her wandering fingertip and kissed it. “Few husbands are as fortunate as I am.”

She smiled down at him, her smile wobbling, and he reached up to brush the first tear that trickled down her cheek. “What, because you married a minx?”

“No, Gus,” he said softly, drawing her down to kiss. “Because I married the one woman in the world that I love the most.”

It was long
past nightfall when their carriage finally rumbled into Grosvenor Square, and with anticipation and a little trepidation Gus looked from the window for her first glimpse of her new home.

They had tarried an extra two days longer than planned at the inn in Mildenhall, for the simple but excellent reason that they’d been unable to tear themselves from the bed. For those three nights and two days, they’d done nothing but make love, with a smattering of eating and sleeping. It had been the most glorious way to begin their married life together, and Gus had been very sorry when they’d finally left early this morning. She’d been even more sorry as the day and their journey had dragged on. The closer they drew to London, the more crowded the roads became and the slower their progress had become. Harry’s mood and conversation also declined precipitously as the day went on, and by the time they’d finally reached the city, he was nearly silent. She knew it was all due to his leg, and the strain of the long day in the carriage—not that he’d admit it, not even to her—but she’d enough butterflies of her own that she wistfully wished he’d been able to offer her even a little reassurance.

She had only been in London three times before, the last time being four years ago. She remembered it as being enormous, with street after street of houses, churches, and other fine buildings, noisy, and so filled with an astonishing number of people that she’d been relieved to return to her quiet home in Norfolk.

Now London would be her home. She and Harry would also be expected to spend several months of the year at Breconridge Hall, his father’s home in Hampshire, but this house in Grosvenor Square belonged entirely to Harry.

And now to her as well.

“It’s the second house, there, with the white stone front,” Harry said beside her. “Does it suit you?”

“How could it not, Harry?” she said, staring up at the house as the tired horses stopped before it. The house was larger than she’d expected—much larger than Aunt Agatha’s, the only other London house she’d visited—four stories in height with three bays of windows, and a handsome doorway with an oversized arched entryway. By the light of the lanterns outside, it seemed elegant but severe, almost chilly, and a far cry from the cheerfully old-fashioned abbey. “But it does seem large for just you.”

“It was always intended for only one person,” he said, looking over her shoulder. “Father built it as a dower house for my mother, intending it for her when he died. But because she died first, he leased it until I came of age, and then he gave it to me. Now it’s ours. Come, let’s go inside. I’ve had enough of this damned carriage.”

The front hall of the house was tall and narrow and very grand, with a sweeping stair and a floor of black-and-white-patterned marble. At the top of the first landing was an arched alcove, and in it stood a white marble statue of an ancient goddess, like some ghostly stone sentinel.

The servants were waiting for them in a row to greet them: butler, cook, three footmen, and two maids. Harry presented them with such haste and disinterest that Gus couldn’t begin to catch their names. But she smiled as warmly as she could at their bows and curtseys, and resolved that tomorrow there’d be plenty of time to learn names and duties, as well as begin reviewing accounts.

She could tell she’d have her work cut out for her. Seven servants were not nearly sufficient staff for a house of this size, and she could already see a dozen warning signs, from dust rolling beneath the hall chairs to woodwork in need of polishing. It was clear that the bachelor master had let things slide, and she couldn’t wait to make the changes to improve Harry’s house for him.
That
she knew how to do.

“There’s one parlor in there,” Harry said, waving a hand toward one tall set of double doors, “and another behind it, plus the dining room and the library on this floor. Upstairs there’s a gallery, a ballroom, and the usual bedchambers. I’ll show you all tomorrow, when we’re both not so wicked tired. Besides, it all looks much more agreeable in the daylight.”

He was already making his way up the stairs, one step at a time. Although he wasn’t complaining—he never did—she could tell by the way he grimaced at each step how much his leg was bothering him after they’d spent nearly fifteen hours traveling. She knew better than to say anything about it, however, and in silence she climbed beside him, measuring her steps to match his.

At the landing he stopped in front of the marble goddess, nearly out of breath, and pointed to the left. Though she stood directly in front of him, he pointedly looked past her.

“The countess’s bedchamber and rooms are at the end of that hallway,” he said. “Your maid should have already arranged your things for the night.”

Gus frowned, not liking the way this was heading. “And where, pray, is the earl’s bedchamber?”

He turned to look in the opposite direction. “Down there.”

“That would seem to me to be an unconscionable distance apart,” she said, setting her hands on her hips. “I would not expect you to share my dressing room with my clothing and things strewn all about, but no husband and wife should be so far removed from each other each night.”

“It is the most common arrangement in town,” he said, pulling his hat a little lower over his eyes. He wasn’t exactly being stubborn, but rather thick-headed and
dense
, and she could not fathom why. “It is the custom. We may still visit each other’s beds at any time, of course.”

“My lord Hargreave,” she said, her voice taut with wounded anger. “I do not give a tinker’s damn for what the custom of the
town
may be. Whilst we are in our house, our home, we may sleep together on the middle of the dining table for all the
town
will ever know of it.”

He frowned, still avoiding meeting her eyes. “Gus, please.”

“‘Gus, please’?” she cried, her voice now breaking with emotion. “That is all you can say? ‘Gus, please’? Have these last three nights meant nothing to you? Did you take no pleasure in what we did?”

“We were in an inn,” he said. “We weren’t here.”

“What does it matter, when I am your
wife
?”

“Because, damnation, it wasn’t supposed to be like this!” he said, his distant reserve suddenly snapping. “As soon as I stepped through that door, I remembered how I was when I left, how I was whole, and now I cannot even walk up my own
stairs
!”

Something snapped inside her, too, all the anxiety and strain and fears for him that she’d kept bottled tight within.

“Who knows how anything is
supposed
to be, Harry?” she demanded. “I am no Cassandra, able to peer into the future, and neither are you. You don’t know what may happen tomorrow, or next year, or even a minute from now. The past is done, over, and cannot be changed, and the future will unfold in its own time. All we truly have is this moment, here, now, with that wretched statue watching us, and I won’t let you—”

But what she wouldn’t do didn’t matter, because he was kissing her, one arm around her waist to jerk her close against him. All the emotion and tension that had been building between them roared into that kiss, his mouth bruising and possessive against hers. She pushed her hands inside his coat to cling to his back, wanting to be closer still. Her hat fell to the floor, and he thrust his fingers in her hair, tangling it. He was kissing her with such ferocity, such desperation, that it made her dizzy with the force of it. She could feel the hard heat of his cock grinding against her, and more, she felt her own body tightening in response as well.

He groaned into her mouth, an impossibly male sound, and when he finally broke his mouth from hers, he still could not look away from her face, staring into her eyes as if she held every secret in the world.

“I have far more than this moment, Gus,” he said roughly. “I have you.”

And she knew there’d be no more talk of her sleeping in the distant room at the end of the hall.

“I thought
I’d never see you in a carriage again after Tuesday,” Gus said as she settled on the squabs beside him. “Yet here we are, only three days later. I am stunned, Harry, truly stunned.”

Harry laughed, something he’d done a great deal with her these last three days. Of course he’d been doing a great deal of some other things with her as well, wonderfully wanton and voluptuous things, that had gone far toward making him forget the tedious trip to London. They had kept to his bed and ignored the rest of the world, and let the cards of well-wishers who had called pile up on the salver beside the front door. He had sent his regrets and canceled appointments with his agent, Mr. Arnold; Sir Ralph; his tailor, Mr. Venable; and several old friends at his club, while Gus had put aside all her grand plans for remaking his household. Being in bed—his own bed—with Gus had been entirely worth it, and if he’d had his wishes, he would have preferred they continue in this fashion forever.

But to do so would have been unfair to Gus. Not that she would have objected to remaining in bed with him; far from it. Yet if she was to be accepted into London society as his wife and countess, it was time they were seen together in public. Riding in their carriage through Hyde Park today would be their first appearance, and later this evening he’d take her to his box at the playhouse. That ever-growing stack of cards in the hall was proof of how curious society was to meet his new wife, and he was proud to oblige.

Gus, however, was not nearly as confident. “Do I look well enough, Harry?” she asked anxiously, fiddling with her hat. “Julia says that Hyde Park is where all the people of fashion go to ogle one another, and I don’t wish to embarrass you.”

“How could you embarrass me?” he asked. “You look beautiful. You
are
beautiful.”

She was wearing the plum merino habit and the ribbon-covered hat, and she did look beautiful. He’d have to ask Celia to take her to her London mantua maker now that they were in town, and have Gus order as many others as she wanted. As charming as she looked, he didn’t want anyone saying she had only one habit, or accusing him of being a less-than-indulgent husband.

She sighed, unconvinced. “Are you sure I’ll do, Harry?”

“Of course you’ll do,” he assured her, linking his hand into hers. “All that’s required of you today is to sit beside me and smile and nod. No one makes real conversation in the park, because no one stops, and most of them can’t ride and be witty at the same time.”

“That is good,” she fretted. “Because I’m not witty even when I’m sitting still.”

“Hush,” he said gently. “You’re the Countess of Hargreave. You’re my wife, and I love you beyond measure.”

At last she smiled. “I love you, too, Harry.”

He ducked beneath the sweeping brim of her hat to kiss her.

“Today we’ll ride about the park,” he said. “Then the playhouse tonight. Tomorrow Sir Randolph is coming to inspect my infernal leg.”

“He doesn’t inspect you, Harry,” she said. “He examines you. I’m sure he’ll only be pleased with your progress, too.”