Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (32 page)

And kissed her.

It was like coming home.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pressed her even closer. But it wasn’t enough. He picked her up—she didn’t resist—and laid her on the bed.

“Come,” she said, and held out her arms to pull him close again.

Without a second’s hesitation, he settled himself over her. He held her face in his hands a moment, and they gazed at each other again. Would they ever get enough of staring?

He didn’t think so. He could look at her forever.

There was so much between them, so much unsaid that needed to be said. But it was dwarfed by that important, unnamed thing between them—something he’d felt with no other woman—which demanded no thinking, which required nothing but their presence. The closest they could come to satisfying the yearning that the nameless thing created in them was through touching—and just
being
.

Being together, that is.

Together.

As one.

For several minutes, he saw, felt, needed nothing but Jilly’s face, her lips, her skin, soft against his own.

There were a few quick, passionate tugs on clothing, yanking off of shoes, interspersed with hot, hot kisses.

And before he knew it, they were both naked, and he was kissing her breasts, suckling them, running his tongue and teeth over them. She moaned and threw her legs wide, and he teased her with his fingers while she caressed him to the hardness of steel.

And then in the midst of warmth, softness, hardness, exquisite sensation—and bursts of color from tossed pillows, a scrunched emerald gown, ebony hair, and ruby lips—he thrust into her.

She cried out.

He immediately stopped, his chest constricting. “What is it?”

She swallowed. “Hector couldn’t do this,” she whispered.

“Oh, my God,” Stephen said, understanding. “I’m so sorry—”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be. I’m glad … it was you.”

“Jilly.” He kissed her forehead with tender care, feeling the enormity of the trust she’d placed in him.

She encouraged him to continue by arching her back, kissing him madly, and caressing him all over with her hands, even with her thighs and calves, which she rubbed with great tenderness against his own legs and back, twining herself close to him, like ivy wrapped around a railing.

When she cried out with satisfaction, he kissed her, and her moans subsided in his mouth. It wasn’t until then that he took his own pleasure, and her attention was both hot and sweet, entrancing him more than he thought possible.

When they were finished, he collapsed to the side of her and took her in his arms.

“I love you—” he said.

“I love you—” she said at the exact same time.

He chuckled, and so did she.

But then her expression, still soft, grew serious, too. She ran a finger down his cheek. “I’ll carry you in my heart for the rest of my life,” she whispered.

“And I you,” he said. “Forever, actually.” He smiled.

“Wait,” she said with a matching smile. “I meant forever, as well.”

“Good,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

She gave him a slow, tender smile then and closed her eyes. She snuggled close, and Stephen wrapped his arms around her, his eyes on the ceiling.

Jilly fell into a light doze, and still he cradled her.

He didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that he had to do it. He wasn’t himself anymore. He was himself and Jilly.

Yet they couldn’t be.

So what was he to do? Walk around the rest of his life with a heart severed in two by her absence?

She was
married
.

He closed his eyes, choosing not to think, to remain instead with that important thing that connected them.

He chose to remain with Jilly.

*   *   *

He shook her awake a quarter of an hour later.

“I need to go,” he said. “It’s just after noon.”

She sat up and leaned back on her hands. “I didn’t even think of Hector—”

“It’s all right.” Her breasts were full and beckoning to him with their pert tips. He caressed them with his palm, missing them—missing her—already. “Your door is locked. It’s easy enough to get out of here through the window.”

She bit her lip. “You’re quite resourceful.”

“Once a man has climbed rigging to the top of a mast on a heaving sea, scaling a wall a few stories high is nothing.”

They grinned together.

And then he kissed her.

When he pulled back, he saw it in her eyes, the wistfulness he felt.

“Oh, Stephen,” she whispered.

He looked at her unblinkingly. “Don’t think about it,” he said gently.

She swallowed. “I’ll miss you. Can you come back?”

He stopped breathing for a moment. “I’m not sure I can. We were very fortunate this morning.” He slid out of bed, pulled on his breeches, and felt the world closing in again.

“I’m going to be there tomorrow,” Jilly piped up almost gaily. “At the fair.”

He paused in his dressing and smiled. “That’s what Otis tells me.”

She nodded. “I’ll find a way.”

“What if Hector comes, too?”

She winced. “That won’t happen.”

“All of London will know about the fair, if Prinny’s claims are true. And how do you expect to escape here?”

She jumped up, completely naked, and came to him. Pressing her hands on his chest, she said, “Don’t worry.”

He took her wrists. “I can’t help but worry about you with that—that dog.”

She reached up and kissed his lips. “That sweet thought alone will sustain me until I see you again.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her one last time. “Take care,” he whispered.

Saying good-bye was not an option.

She hovered over him as he opened the window and crawled out. He found a foothold on the trellis and clung to the window sash for a few more precious seconds.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He winked. “Don’t worry. Now go. Otherwise, you’ll serve as a wicked distraction and I’ll fall to my death.”

“Oh, no.” She put her hand to her mouth. “We can’t have that.”

He waited patiently for her to retreat.

It was the saddest thing he’d ever seen, when her face finally disappeared from view.

Because who knew when he’d see her again?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

When Jilly woke the next morning, the first thought she had was of Stephen, of course. But the second wasn’t of Hector.

It was about the fair. She wondered if Alicia Fotherington had felt the same way when she’d woken up on street fair mornings—excited, happy.

Jilly hopped out of bed and went through her morning ablutions as fast as she could. She still felt a pleasant ache between her legs where Stephen had left his imprint upon her and wished she could keep that feeling forever.

But she couldn’t. This she knew.

She was married to Hector.

Oh, if only her husband never had to intrude upon her thoughts! He was like a pesky fly buzzing around a picnic. No, make that a bee, she thought, a bee which could sting and cause the picnic-goers to scatter, their food and drink untouched.

Yes, Hector was a bee, an angry, buzzing bee, too. When he’d returned yesterday afternoon from wherever he’d gone, he’d been in a sour mood. Which wasn’t unusual, but he seemed particularly agitated about something.

When she’d asked, he’d refused to divulge the source of his ill temper.

All afternoon, Jilly had hoped he’d become more pleasant. She’d be able to manage him better then, she supposed.

But he never did. And then she remembered, he was in a perpetual foul mood. Perhaps she’d simply been away from him too long to remember how pervasive it was.

Meanwhile, stepping around his temper as best she could, she racked her brains to find a way to go to the street fair and hoped that somehow, a golden apple of opportunity would fall in her lap.

But nothing had happened. No special sign that Fate was on her side had appeared.

At dinner that evening, Hector had sawn through his roast beef with the same grim expression on his face he’d worn all day.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to share with me?” Jilly had paused in her own sawing—the cook at the residence wasn’t particularly adept.

“No.” Hector lowered his brows. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d mind your own business.”

“Oh,” she said, used to being insulted by him but shocked that he’d uttered a word as nice as
appreciate
. “Sorry.” And popped an overcooked carrot in her mouth.

Her husband threw down his fork. “You seem particularly cheerful for a woman who’s had to spend all day inside.”

And who has to eat this awful meal with a cad,
she added silently.

She shrugged, instantly regretting letting her happy state of mind show—not that she was truly happy because no matter what, she was Hector’s wife and would remain so. But she’d had a taste of happiness, all the same, with Stephen.

In her own bed, too.

“I’m simply trying to do my best to be a good wife,” she said, vowing not to allow the maid to wash her sheets for at least another few days.

Hector wrinkled his brow. “Why the change of heart?”

She lifted her wine glass to her lips in a bid for time to think. “Because I’m resigned to my fate,” she said eventually. “We’re married. We might as well make the best of it.”

He produced a small, triumphant smile. “That’s better. You keep thinking that way and I’ll eventually let you leave the house. Not this one, mind you.” He raised a serviette to his lips and wiped them. “But when we’re back at the village.”

She let her face fall in dramatic fashion. “Are there to be no outings, then, for me in London?”

She knew his mood would soften if he saw her tormented.

And he did appear to relax a bit. He leaned back in his chair and studied her as if she were some great scientific experiment he’d invested no feelings in. “Exactly,” he said. “You shall stay inside.”

“Will you stay with me?” She did her best to sound the perfect balance of subservient and not overly so—or he’d guess she was up to something.

He gave a short laugh. “I’m afraid not. I’ve business every day that we’re in London.”

“How long will that be, do you think?” she asked lightly, as if she really didn’t care.

“I told you, the rest of the Season,” he replied equably, “but if my business concludes sooner, we’ll depart.”

“Oh?” She tried to look halfway dainty when she asked. He loved when she was dainty, meek, weak, or mewling.

“It could be as soon as next week,” he said.

She laid a hand on her chest. “Next week?”

He nodded. “Why does it matter?”

She shrugged again. “It really doesn’t. I was simply—” She hesitated and then shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“What?” His tone was short, threatening.

She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I was hoping…”

“Yes?” he asked, his face reddening.

She looked down at her plate and blinked. “I was hoping,” she said softly to her plate, “that I could go out and purchase you a present.”

He slammed his goblet on the table. “A
present
?” He looked perfectly gobsmacked.

She nodded quickly. “It’s all right,” she said. “It can wait.”

He shook his head. “Why would you get me a present?”

“I told you,” she said patiently, “I’m trying. If we’re to be married, we may as well be on good terms.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t believe you.”

Which was exactly what she’d feared.

But she knew what to do.

“Very well,” she said, and stood. “I won’t purchase this present. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

“Tell me what is,” he demanded, loosening his cravat as if preparing for a fight. “And
sit—back—down
.”

Trembling (she was discovering she could be a very good actress when she had a lot at stake), she sat. Then she raised her chin and looked at a point on the wall behind him, as if she were very, very shy.

“It’s a private gift,” she whispered.

“Oh?” An edge entered his voice, the worst kind of edge. The one that meant he was thinking of the bedchamber.

“Yes,” she said, “something for which you’ve been longing.” She clenched her fingers in her lap.

He gave a little laugh. Really, almost a giggle. She had to restrain herself from flinching at the sound.

“Tell me,” he said slowly and leered at her.

“If I do, then it’s no longer a surprise,” she said almost coyly.