Seven Wicked Nights (38 page)

“Too late for protests,” he teased, carrying her toward the cottage’s narrow bed and tossing her onto it. With an impressive economy of movement, he stripped himself of his boots, trousers and smallclothes before settling his weight onto the bed. “Now you.”

All that remained of the daylight was a faint, dusky glow filtering through the small window and the chinks in the thatching overhead. He helped her out of her gown and petticoats, then loosened her stays and the ribbon tie of her drawers. When she was completely bared, he sat back on his haunches and regarded her with a quiet intensity. He sat that way for so long, she began to grow anxious.

“Luke? Is everything—”

“Promise me,” he said hoarsely, “that you will give me another opportunity to do this properly.” Shaky fingertips traced the pale curve of her hip. “You are so beautiful, Cecily. Yours is a body that deserves to be worshipped, adored. Promise me the chance to kiss every lovely, perfect inch of you—next time.”

How she loved those words,
next time
. She nodded as he prowled up her body. “Of course.”

“Good.” His voice was strained as he lowered his weight onto hers. “Because—forgive me, darling—this time will have to be quick.”

She gasped as he insinuated one hand between them, probing the slick folds of her sex and spreading her thighs apart. Then she felt the blunt head of him—
there
—pressing, pushing, stretching her to the point of pain. And beyond.

“Are you hurt?” He panted against her neck.

“A little.”

“Shall I stop?”

“No.” She clutched his back and hooked her legs over his. “Don’t you dare.” She had fought for him, fought to experience this pain, and she felt oddly possessive of the dull ache between her legs. She wouldn’t let him take it away. The pain was real, it was
now
—it meant he had truly come home at last. Home to her.

All too soon, the ache dissipated, lessening with each thrust, and a desperate yearning took its place. She rose up to meet each wild buck of his hips, her hands sliding over his back on a thin sheen of perspiration. His tempo increased, driving her closer and closer to that horizon of delicious pleasure he’d pushed her beyond that afternoon. But this time, it would be so much better. This time he would come too.

With a guttural moan, he froze deep inside her. His gaze caught hers, and Cecily instinctively understood the question in his eyes. They could create a child this way, if she allowed him to continue.

She swept a lock of hair from his brow and waited. He knew her feelings already. This decision should be his.

“I do,” he said roughly. “My God, Cecily. I do love you.”

Joy swelled inside her, until she trembled with the effort of containing it. Smiling up at him, she whispered, “Then damn the consequences.”

No more words after that. Only sighs and moans and wild, inarticulate urgings.
Faster. More. There. Yes, there.

Now.

“C
AN WE STAY HERE ALL NIGHT
?” Cecily asked. She lay tangled with him on the narrow bed, struggling to catch her breath. Only now growing aware of the musty closeness in the cottage.

“We could,” he answered sleepily. “If we wish to be awoken by Denny’s footmen crashing down the door. He’ll have them all searching for us soon enough.”

“He knows I’m with you.”
In more ways than one
. She felt a pang of sympathy for her old friend. There’d been true disappointment in his expression, when she’d broken their kiss and refused him that afternoon. But Denny deserved to find love too, and she never could have made him truly happy. Not when her heart and soul belonged to Luke.

As if exerting his claim on her body as well, Luke tightened his arms around her. Kissing the hollow of her throat, he murmured, “Perhaps we can stay a half hour more.”

Afterward, they rose and dressed quietly, pausing to tidy the small dwelling before latching the door as they left. The night was cloudless, and the nearly full moon provided them sufficient light to follow the path. They walked hand in hand.

“Did you see it last night?” she asked quietly. “The stag?”

“Yes.”

“It was beautiful.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Don’t you agree?” Perhaps men did not think animals “beautiful”, or did not admit to it if they did.

“Yes.” He gave her a rare, easy smile. “It reminded me of you. Beautiful, graceful, fearless.”

“And here I thought him so much like you. Proud, wild, strong.” She laughed softly. “Perhaps he didn’t exist at all, and we were just out here chasing each other.”

If the stag truly existed, they did not see it again before reaching the border of Swinford Woods and emerging onto the green. Then again, a whole herd of bloodthirsty man-deer could have been lurking in the thickets, and Cecily would have remained oblivious. She only had eyes for Luke.

And that fact must have been painfully obvious to Denny, when he nearly collided with them at the entrance to the drawing room.

“Cecily.” His gaze wandered from her unbound hair to her disheveled gown, to her fingers still laced with Luke’s. “I…I was just about to go searching for you.”

“There you are!” Portia called from behind him. “Come in, come in.” She lay swaddled in blankets on the divan, with her bandaged leg propped on a nearby ottoman. Brooke sat beside her, balancing a teacup in either hand.

Cecily turned to Denny. “I’m sorry to have worried you, but…” She squeezed Luke’s hand for courage. “You see, Luke and I—”

“I understand,” he replied. The serious expression on his face told her he did understand, completely. To his credit, he took it well. He turned to Luke. “When will you be married?”

“Married?” Portia exclaimed.

Cecily sighed. Just like Denny, to take his responsibilities as her third cousin twice removed—and only male relation in the vicinity—so seriously. But did he have to force the issue now? Certainly, she hoped that she and Luke might one day—

“As soon as possible.” Luke’s arm slid around her waist.

Cecily’s gaze snapped up to his.
Are you certain?
she asked him silently.

He answered her with a quick kiss.

“Well, then. When can
we
be married?” Brooke directed his question to Portia.

“Married!” Blushing furiously, Portia made a dismissive gesture with both hands. “Why, I’m only just learning to enjoy being a widow. I don’t want to be married. I want to write scandalous novels and take dozens of lovers.”

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “Can that be negotiated to lov
er
, singular?”

“That,” she said, giving him a coy smile, “would depend on your skill at negotiation.”

“What an evening you’ve had, Portia,” Cecily said. “A brush with death, a proposal of marriage, an indecent proposition… Surely you have sufficient inspiration for your gothic novel?”

“Too much inspiration!” Portia wailed, gesturing toward her bandaged foot. “I am done with gothics completely. No, I shall take a cue from my insipid wallpaper and write a bawdy little tale about a wanton dairymaid and her many lovers.”

“Lover, singular.” Brooke flopped on the divan and settled her feet in his lap.

“Oh,” she sighed, as he massaged her uninjured foot. “Oh, very well.”

Luke tugged on Cecily’s hand, drawing her toward the doorway. “Let’s make our escape.”

As they left, she heard Denny say in his usual jocular tone, “Do me a favor, Portia? Model your hero after me. Just once, I should like to get the girl.”

Cecily and Luke tumbled into the corridor, hands still linked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, twirling her to a stop and backing her against the wall. “I didn’t have a chance to ask for your hand properly, but…you don’t have an objection, do you?”

She paused a moment to savor the endearing vulnerability in his expression. Then she kissed him soundly, threading her fingers into his hair and pressing her body to his. “There,” she said finally. “Does that feel like an objection?”

He smiled and planted a light kiss between her eyebrows before resting his forehead against hers. Between them, their hands made a tight knot of fingers and thumbs.

“I’ll leave within the hour,” he said, “to go speak with your father. I cannot expect even Denny to be so generous as to continue hosting his rival in this house. And I couldn’t spend another night here without having you in my bed.”

“As if I would find that objectionable.”

They kissed again, and he pressed her against the wall, his hips grinding deliciously against hers. “We must have”—
kiss
—“a very brief”—
kiss
—“engagement.”

“Can we not just elope? I could pack a valise in a trice.”

He laughed softly into her hair, and she thought it the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Cecy,” he whispered against her ear, “tell me this is not a dream. Are you truly mine at last?”

“Oh, Luke.” She slid her arms about his waist and gripped him tight. “I always have been.”

About Tessa

Thanks for reading!

I hope you enjoyed
How to Catch a Wild Viscount!

If you’d like to learn more about me or my books, please visit
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Tessa Dare is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of eleven historical romance novels and four novellas. Her books have won numerous accolades, including Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® award and multiple
RT Book Reviews
Reviewer’s Choice Awards.
Booklist
magazine named her one of the “new stars of historical romance,” and her books have been contracted for translation in more than a dozen languages.

A librarian by training and a booklover at heart, Tessa makes her home in Southern California, where she lives with her husband, their two children and a big brown dog.

Other Books by Tessa

Castles Ever After series

Romancing the Duke

Say Yes to the Marquess
— releases December 30, 2014
 

Spindle Cove series

A Night to Surrender

Once Upon a Winter’s Eve

A Week to be Wicked

A Lady by Midnight

Beauty and the Blacksmith

Any Duchess Will Do
 

Not part of a series

The Scandalous, Dissolute, No-Good Mr. Wright
 

Stud Club trilogy

One Dance with a Duke

Twice Tempted by a Rogue

Three Nights with a Scoundrel
 

Wanton Dairymaid trilogy

Goddess of the Hunt

Surrender of a Siren

A Lady of Persuasion

Chapter One