“Isn’t it remarkable how much better everything is when others simply heed my advice?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her new companion, Humphrey, on a brisk morning walk through the countryside.
“Do you suppose ten thousand a year is sufficient, Gregory? One may always ask just a bit more, given Mr. Darcy’s surly nature.” Sitting beneath a great ash tree in the midst of a green field dotted with white sheep, Jane cuddled her nephew and read him tales of silly women obsessed with the annual income of eligible men.
They had just passed the village of Wakefield, making good time on favorable roads. Victoria and Lucien had gone inside the small inn to acquire food and drink while their horses were changed. Meanwhile, Jane and Estelle and Gregory’s nursemaid, Roseanna, had spread a blanket beneath a rustling canopy of leaves, opting for a cooler respite from the confines of the jostling carriage.
“‘The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity.’ Dear me, Gregory,” Jane interjected, letting her eyes meet his, blue-green, dark-lashed, and wonder-filled. “I fear generous funds do not compensate for every failing. Let us read on and see what further disturbances we may find: ‘For he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased.’”
“Your grace,” said Estelle quietly.
“And not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.”
“Your grace,” said the maid, this time more insistently.
Jane glanced up from her book. “Yes, Estelle?”
But the maid was not looking at her. She was staring across the field, past the sheep, to the courtyard of the inn. Where Jane’s tall, handsome, fine figure of a husband tossed his reins to a groom and strode toward her with long, ground-eating strides.
She lost her breath and her composure, filled with a sudden flush that was not due to the August heat. “Oh,” she uttered, dropping her book onto the blanket. “Oh, my.”
“Your grace, perhaps I should take Master Gregory.” Hearing Roseanna’s words distantly, she allowed her to lift the contented babe from her arms. Then the girl murmured something to Estelle, and they both departed, moving off toward the inn. She braced her hand against the tree behind her and stood.
Harrison halted while he was still several feet away. “Jane,” he breathed. That was all. Just her name, as if it was the only word he knew.
“You—you must have left Blackmore shortly after I …”
He stared at her with eyes that burned, feeding her starving soul with their fire. “Two hours. Too bloody long, Jane. I pushed Ulysses quite hard, I fear. But I knew I must catch you. To tell you that I …”
Heart now pounding and melting at once, she prompted, “Tell me what?”
“I want you to come back.”
“To Blackmore?”
Looking strangely adrift, he stepped closer, his hands loose at his sides. He swallowed visibly. “To me.”
She could not speak, wondering if perhaps she had fallen asleep and was dreaming of him again. Her head began to swivel slowly back and forth in wonderment. No. He was here. He was really here.
“Before you deny me, just listen. I beg of you.” He took another step closer, one beseeching hand reaching out then curling into a fist and dropping again to his side. “When you left, I … I spoke with Lady Wallingham.”
That was perhaps the last thing she had expected him to say. Lady Wallingham?
“She helped me see, to understand. About my father. That he was a horse’s ass.”
Jane could not stifle her grin, so she pressed her lips together and her fingers over her mouth. He had spoken those words with utter seriousness: horse’s ass.
“I believed I was like him. No, at first I believed we were different, but … then she told me he was infatuated with my mother. Obsessed with her. And I knew in at least one respect, we were the same.”
She tilted her head, her smile becoming less about amusement and more about loving him so much, she could scarcely contain it.
“Because you are that for me, Jane. My obsession. The very heart of me.” He took another step closer. Now, he was at the edge of the blanket. “At first, I feared I was not enough like him, that I could not control myself with you. That I would do something rash. When I held a gun to your captor’s head—it was a very close thing. Very close.”
The heavy, sluggish air, weighted by too much heat and moisture, swayed through the leaves above them, causing sunlight to ripple along his face.
“Then, after Lady Wallingham told me what unrestrained jealousy had caused my father to do, I feared I was too much like him, and that violence or cruelty would be the consequence if I did as I longed to do.”
“And what did you long to do?” she asked softly.
“Make you mine. Completely. To let myself love you.” He stepped onto the blanket. “So, I pushed you away. Not because I did not want you. God, Jane, never that. Because I want you too much. Need you too much.” He dropped his head, staring at his feet, looking startlingly young to her in that moment. When his head came up again, he clenched his fists at his sides, seemingly working up the courage to speak. “I fear what is inside me. But I fear losing you more.”
She started toward him, unable to bear it another moment.
“Please say—”
His remaining words were halted by her kiss, her hands seizing his neck and pulling him down to meet her lips in a fiery exchange. His mouth exploded over hers, his arms squeezing the breath out of her. She met his tongue and stroked his face with desperate hands. Oh, how she loved this man. She wanted to climb to the top of him and stake her claim. She wanted to take him inside her body until she disappeared and he disappeared and a new being was born of their ashes.
Together, they rocked and stumbled to their knees. She was grateful, for here she could reach him more easily. Her mouth left his to explore his face, laying adoring kisses along his cheeks and across his eyes. She tasted salt and dampness. Tears. Whether hers or his, she did not know. They were part of each other now.
He pressed desperate, tender kisses to her jaw and then her throat. She threaded her hands through his hair and cradled him against her. “Harrison,” she whispered, her throat tight with emotion. “All I have ever wanted is your love. Without restraint. Without apology. As long as you love me, my darling husband, you shall never lose me.”
He groaned and clutched her harder, his head coming up slowly so she could see his eyes. There in the blue, love shone with neither shadow nor veil. For the first time, she could see clear through into his heart. “Then we will be together always, my Jane.” He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek, sending springles down her spine. “For, that is how long I will love you.”
*~*~*
It took an hour to explain everything to Victoria and Lucien before they could send them on their way. Victoria, in particular, wished to know details. “Oh, Harrison,” she said damply, dabbing beneath her eyes. “You must have flown upon Ulysses. It is so very romantic.”
“Not for the horse, I daresay,” Lucien said wryly.
“And Jane!” she wailed, drawing Jane into a third hug. “I am simply overjoyed, dearest. Over the moon for you. Though I shall miss having you at Thornbridge.”
Jane smiled and gave her best friend an affectionate squeeze. “I am happier than I ever thought possible, Victoria. Thank you for … well, for everything.” Her throat began to tighten and ache with blasted tears again. “Look at me,” she said, pulling back to accept the handkerchief Harrison silently handed to her. She dabbed beneath her eyes, her fingers nudging her spectacles. “I am turning into as much of a watering pot as you.”
Victoria sniffed. “I am well ahead of you in that regard. Just wait until your first child arrives. You won’t recognize yourself.”
Before long, they were saying tearful goodbyes and seeing Victoria and Lucien off with assurances of a Christmas visit. Because Ulysses required rest before being ridden again, and because neither of them could wait several hours to travel to Blackmore, Harrison secured a room at the inn. It was not so grand as her green-silk bedchamber, but as Jane entered the small space, she was reminded of her wedding night at the Pig and Plough—and the following morning, when she had awakened to find Harrison tangled with her in a way that had since become intoxicatingly familiar.
She turned and slipped into his arms as he closed the door. They wrapped her up, tight, strong, and sure. She let her ear rest over his heart, smelled the faint starch and sunshine of his cravat, heard the thud and throb of his blood pumping through his veins. “I love you so,” she whispered into the quiet of the room.
“And I love you, my Jane. More than I dreamed possible.”
Her fingers flared out as she ran her palms up over the muscles of his chest. Slowly, lazily, she searched for and found the ends of his cravat. She tugged and tossed, unwound the strip of cloth from around her husband, at last sliding it free. Draping it around her own neck, she next went to work on the buttons of his waistcoat and the fall of his riding breeches. As her fingers brushed against his hardness, she could sense his impatience growing.
He pushed her hands away, quickly shrugging out of his riding jacket, shedding his waistcoat and shirt, then his boots and breeches. He stood naked in the daylight from the window, his body a feast for her eyes. She adored his chest, the muscles and light dusting of hair. She loved his belly, with its rippling strength. She lusted for his cock, so high and proud and ready for her.
Turning her this way and that, he made swift work of her gown and corset and petticoat and shift. Then, she stood naked, too. His body brushed hers as he drew in close to remove the pins from her hair. The long strands fell around her face and shoulders, brushing like silk.
“You are so beautiful, my love,” he rasped. From any other man, said in any other way, she might not have believed him. Her white, overabundant curves and plain features were exceedingly unlikely to launch a thousand ships. But in Harrison’s eyes, she was beautiful. She knew it as clearly as she knew those eyes would darken as they did now. That they would spark and flash with desire. For her. Only her.
She reached for him.
He came to her.
Fell to his knees before her.
Pressed his lips reverently to her belly, then upward to her breasts. He nudged one with his cheek then took her nipple into the heat of his mouth. She moaned and stroked his face, arching into him insistently. He breathed against her skin, suckled and laved her nipple until her hips writhed helplessly.
Her knees turned to butter as he left one nipple to pay tribute to the other, letting first the coolness of the air then his worshipful thumb pleasure the first one in tandem.
“Harrison,” she begged. “I need you.”
His hands stroked over her flesh, curling and teasing along her thighs and buttocks. With his strong hands bracing her waist, he helped her sit on the bed, laid her down gently, then pushed her entire frame up until he could stretch over her, aligning his body with hers.
Oh, the feel of his skin, his weight, his heat against her. Gazing up into his eyes, she breathed his treasured breath. “I love you,” she whispered, her hands stroking his jaw, his skin rasping her palms. She brushed her thumb over his lips.
He slid between her thighs, pressed himself inside her. The blue of his eyes glowed and consumed as his flesh joined with hers. “My Jane.” Setting a slow, leisurely pace, his chest dragged against her nipples, driving her higher, making her hotter.
His elbows held him braced above her, but his hands played with her hair, sending twirling little thrills along her scalp. His fingers brushed her lips and her cheeks, teasing her dimples when she grinned her happiness.
Between her thighs, his cock slowly stretched and retreated, filled and receded, burned and completed until every inch of her core rippled and wept its joy. He was deliberately angled so his veined, heavy cock caught and slid against the swollen lips of her sex, abrading the center of her pleasure with every slow, ecstatic pulse.
And all the while, her eyes never left his. They held each other suspended, the beauty of their joining nearly blinding, their only reality that precious thread. The one that bound their souls together.
His forehead, now damp with sweat, lowered to hers, but he did not break their link, staring into her eyes, breathing into her mouth. She could see the shift coming, the urgency rising, the fire turning from a smolder to a blaze. His hips quickened their pace. Her legs came up to wrap around his hips. The sparks that consumed her entire body forced her higher, tightened her lungs and curled her toes and spilled all around her. They burst forth in a shower, seized her in an explosion so white-hot, she fell to pieces, sobbing his name. He answered the call with the hard thrusts she needed, the deep pressure once. Twice. Thrice. Then he followed her along the climb, letting her pull him over the precipice into bright white light, tugged by the single thread that refused to break. Blue-gray and dark brown. Harrison and Jane. Bound forever.
He trembled in her arms long afterward, their replete bodies settling beside each other, still tangled in an embrace. “Say that you are mine,” he murmured against her ear.
“I am yours.”
“Never leave again.”
“Never.”
While she stroked his arms and his chest, laying little kisses along his jaw, he was silent, letting her explore and soothe him. Finally, he pressed his lips to hers. “It will not be easy for me, Jane,” he whispered. “You terrify me.”
She smiled. “Me?”
“The way you make me feel.”
“And how is that?”
He sighed. “It is too much to describe. I am determined to give you everything. All I have inside. That is my promise to you, and I shall not break it. But please don’t ask me to explain, for I haven’t the words.”
She buried her nose in his neck and breathed deeply, letting the quiet sigh of the breeze outside fill the room for a while. Then, with a touch of mischief in her voice, she said, “I have a proposition.”
He stilled. “Yes?”
“Each year, on this day, we will write each other a letter. Not an ordinary letter with notes about the children or the household accounts. But a letter describing one—just one—aspect of our feelings for each other.”
“Ah, Jane,” he said, his voice filled with affection. “You are far better at such things. I predict you would be woefully disappointed by my efforts.”
She propped herself on an elbow, then rearranged his arms so she could roll on top of him, straddling his hips and hovering her face above his. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around them, playfully shadowing the obvious spark of joy in his eyes. Grinning down at her beautiful husband, she laid a tiny kiss on his nose and winked. “Would you care to wager on that, my love?”
*~*~*