FREDERICK KNOCKED ON the door of Celia’s bedroom.

She’d seemed nervous once she’d learned about the ball, and he wanted to make sure she was content. 

She didn’t know he was planning to propose.

Naturally she would feel uneasy at their earlier intimacy. He’d been a fool to not reassure her more.

Temptation to propose filled him.

His grandmother’s ring was in his room.

If he fetched it—

He shook his head.

He was determined to do this properly. She’d lauded having a mother involved in one’s life herself. He would wait until he asked her mother’s permission.

The door opened.

His mother’s maid curtsied. “I was just leaving, Your Grace.” She hesitated. “She’s beautiful.”

And then she swept by him.

He paused. Had the maid just grinned at him?

Frederick poked his head into the room, and his heart tightened.

The maid had not been mistaken.

He’d known Lady Theodosia was beautiful before. 

But this—

“You look...splendid.” His voice sounded hoarse, but Lady Theodosia did not remark on it.

“Do I?”

“I cannot wait to dance with you.”

Not that he was fond of dancing.

It had seemed a tiresome pursuit, even if he’d never struggled to find a rhythm as some of his peers did, the speed of their movements determined more by the amount of alcohol they’d imbibed than the tempo of the music.

He’d have to be sure the musicians would play the waltz. Clasping Lady Theodosia in his arms seemed the most delightful thing in the world.

Lady Theodosia’s smile faltered. “I am not a good dancer.”

“I rather doubt that.” He would have to be blind not to see the elegance in her everyday movements.

“Even so,” she said. “I prefer not to dance.”

If Lady Theodosia had no desire to dance, he would not press her.

He favored solitude too.

Particularly if it was the sort of solitude that involved Lady Theodosia.

“Then you shall be the very loveliest wallflower. I’ll bring you mountains of lemonade and ratafia. It will be terribly indecent.”

She smiled, and the whole world seemed wonderful.

*

“I HAVE A CONFESSION,” Celia blurted.

It was the only way.

She would tell him she was a maid, and he would despise her.

He’d wished she’d fled when she had a chance.

Would he move her to the servants’ quarters?

Would he feel shame before all his staff?

And his mother... His dear, sweet, vivacious mother—what would she think?

“Yes?” he asked.

“I-I—” She was unsure how to formulate the words.

She didn’t lie.

This was...new.

And selfishly, she did not want to discover his reaction.

Not when he was staring at her with such intensity.

Her throat seemed to swell, and perhaps he took her silence as a sign to speak.

“I have something to tell you,” he said.

“Indeed?”

He nodded gravely. “It’s of the utmost importance.”

Her heart trembled, and she stared at him.

Had he somehow discovered her deception?

He must have.

Tension prickled through her. She’d wanted to tell him herself.

“You should know...” His mood was somber, but he barreled on, “That you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh.”

“And the sweetest.”

“Indeed?”

“And the very, very best.”

Her heart beat an uncertain rhythm.

She hadn’t expected such praise.

She’d steeled herself for... worse.

“What on earth did you think I was going to say?”

“Well—" She tried to speak, but instead his tongue met hers.

She might not be floating through the heavens, but she couldn’t imagine a more blissful sensation.

She might as well be a violin in the hands of a prized maestro.

Except Frederick did not resemble the hoary haired men with the long locks who sometimes visited Lady Fitzroy in London, musical instruments neatly packed in black cases.

Frederick was magnificent.

And Frederick seemed intent to do much more than kiss her.

His lips had moved to her neck.

She’d never given much consideration to her neck, seeing it more as an inconvenient stretch between her torso and face that needed to be wrapped in scarves when the temperature dropped, but now her neck seemed the center of all things wonderful.

He sucked her skin, continuing to move his hands over her.

Heat coursed through her body.

His fingers traced her lightly, and she moved closer to his hand. Even a millimeter difference between them seemed ridiculous.

She wanted...more.

“Theodosia,” he said, his voice husky. “I desire you. All of you.”

She hesitated.

This was wrong.

She was a servant.

Her father might have been an earl, but she was not the first servant to be related to the family she served.

Her father hadn’t been the first man to make a servant with child, and though she’d always supposed the connection between her parents to be romantic, driven by love, perhaps she’d simply been wrong.

She’d always prided herself on her logic. One didn’t like numbers without some appreciation for logic but perhaps she’d been fanciful in respect to her parents.

Perhaps he’d seen her mother as unimportant, unworthy of the pigskin precautions some men were rumored to place over their members.

Perhaps the duke viewed her as disposable.

Except he doesn’t know who I am.

For a moment she took comfort in that fact.

He saw her as a lady.

And if the duke desired her, despite the consequences of ruining a lady, perhaps he truly did care for her.

She couldn’t continue to mislead him. “I’m not....”

He halted his kisses. “You’re not happy.”

“You mustn’t think that. This is the most wonderful I’ve felt in my life.”

The duke grinned, and heat prickled her cheeks.

Likely most ladies would never be that direct.

“Then in that case, just know the feeling is completely and utterly mutual.”

“Indeed?”

He pressed his lips against her skin, and she succumbed to the blissful sensations. “But we should discuss—”

“It’s not important,” he murmured. “Nothing is more important than this moment.”

He undressed her.

It should have felt wrong.

She dressed other people.

Nobody undressed her. The clasps for her undergarments were in the front, and the woolen dresses maids wore were shapeless and easy to slip on oneself.

Polly had seen her in her undergarments, since they shared a room, but Frederick was a man.

A duke.

And impossibly kind and lovely and wonderful.

It should have felt wrong when he fiddled with the clasps of her undergarment, but she didn’t have time to be embarrassed.

Not when Frederick’s mouth continued to kiss her, and not when his hands continued to glide over her, as if seeking to memorize every single curve.

Perhaps I could be his mistress.

The idea came unbidden in Celia’s mind.

But that’s what happened when people of varying classes cared for each other. She knew that well; she was a product of such an arrangement. 

Perhaps some of the men simply liked the appearance of their maid or servant girl, finding some attractiveness in their form or facial features that appealed to them. Perhaps for some it was an element of isolation. People in large manor estates did not always meet many other people, particularly if they did not belong to parliament and have reason to go to London with any regularity.

Perhaps others enjoyed the element of power. She hoped her father did not belong to that category of men.

She’d been taught her whole life to be wary of the masters and grown sons of masters who seemed to find pleasure in taking the servants who depended on employment in their household and obtaining good references.

Still.

There must be others who were similar, who simply connected well, despite the differences of their birth. Was it so impossible someone of her class might hold some appeal to someone of his? Perhaps the contrast might be appealing, and they took joy in learning from one another.

Celia did not believe it impossible. Her conversations with the duke made her convinced. She’d seen other men speak of their mistresses with more fondness than they spoke of their own wives. She could not believe there were not women who were fond of these men. She knew there were men who took pride in selecting luxurious attire and even better apartments for their mistresses.

She shook her head.

She didn’t want that for herself, and she didn’t want that for him.

He deserved to find a wife he adored.

She couldn’t abide the thought of him sneaking away from the woman he married, the children he had, to visit her. Celia didn’t want to be the mistress in some apartment of impropriety, no matter how pleasant the view or tasteful the furnishings.

No.

It would be far better to continue to work as a maid than that. Better than to see him pull away from her, better than to watch him admit that he shouldn’t have taken a chance on her.

Better than to see him neglect his duties at home for her.

But the horrible thing was—

She wanted him.

He was right beside her, claiming her, and—

Lord knew, she should say no.

It was what every vicar at every service she’d ever attended would say.

But Frederick was it for her.

He was the man she loved.

The only one she’d ever loved.

Perhaps they’d only known each other for a week, but she’d lived more in Yorkshire than she had in the last five years put together.

She wanted to feel him. To touch him. To...make love to him.

She craved him.

And heaven help her, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life wondering what it would feel like for his skin to be pressed beside hers, his lips to seek areas of her body always clothed, and for him to enter her.

So she acquiesced.

He could sweep her away.

Ravish her.

Consume her.

And she would be happy.

*

THEODOSIA WAS BEAUTIFUL.

Creamy skin glowed against her gown. It seemed impossible for there to be a lovelier sight in the world, but when he glided his gaze to the exquisite features of her face, the glossy dark locks of her hair, and the perfectly proportioned curves of her body, he knew he was wrong.

Lord, he craved her.

Blood coursed through his body, and he longed to delve into her, thrust into her, lose himself inside her to the rhythm of nature.

She should have looked indecent, wanton like those women in Paris and Madrid whom some of his comrades delighted in visiting during the war, but she remained perfection itself.

Should he wait?

No.

They didn’t require some halting, stammering fourth son of a peer, who’d found a place in the church out of practicality rather than faith, to approve their love. 

Nothing could be more sacred than what they were about to do.

He wanted to kiss the corner of her hazel eyes. 

He wanted to kiss her cheeks.

And her neck.

And her bosom.

And the space behind her ear.

And her earlobe.

He moved from delicious spot to delicious spot, all while heat pulsed through him.

He devoured her.

Consumed her.

Her skin tasted delicious. Salty from the sheen of sweat that covered her like crystals, despite the cold weather.

He wrapped her in his arms, blissfully conscious of her rounded curves. Her soft bosom pressed against his chest.

He needed to see it.

He needed to see all of her.

His fingers tore at her gown, and he cursed the fashion designers who placed small buttons on women’s dresses.

Not even arms manufacturers had been that cruel.

He was so stiff. He felt too tight, constrained in his pantaloons.

Every second was agony, torture even Bonaparte could not have thought of.

He scrambled up.

She was an innocent.

And he’d been acting far too familiar.

It didn’t matter how tight his breeches were. He wasn’t going to do anything she was uncomfortable with. “We shouldn’t—”

“Let’s have tonight,” she said.

His heartbeat soared, as if it had mistaken itself for a drum, as if he were experiencing the thrill before a battle.

Soon he’d be inside her.

He moved his fingers to her collar bone, tracing its curve.

She gazed at him.

She appeared so innocent.

And yet desire seemed to sparkle through her gaze.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her always exquisitely prepared hair had tumbled from its pins.

Curly locks lay splayed over the red sofa, and he brushed his fingers through them.

How in the world could anything feel so silky? So splendid?

Lord.

He yanked down her dress.

Perfect bosoms lay before him.

He wanted to spend all day lingering on their shape and form. Her skin was milky, magnificent, and when he moved his gaze to the tawny roses which adorned her bosom—

His throat dried, and he ached further.

He needed her. Required her.

Frederick swept his hand over her bosom. The flesh was softer than the finest silks from the orient.

It seemed absurd any painter might waste time creating portraits of other people, that any poet might devote needless time to creating verse about plants or pottery when a woman like this existed. Each lock of her dark hair could inspire a ballad. He yearned to trace his lips over her entire body, to mark her, to claim her, as his own.

She was wearing too much.

Whichever force of nature had invented winter had been mad.

Her shift was far too thick, and he tore at the fabric.

He’d been so content to be without a woman, content to muse over his scientific experiments, but now every second that separated them seemed to stretch interminably long.

He caught her mouth in his again, moaning as her lips, her tongue moved with his.

Pleasure shot through him, and he tightened his grip around her, inhaling her scent. Vanilla and citrus played on her skin.

She arched against him. “Please.”

And then he pushed against her.

The next moment was bliss.

Warm, dewy, tight bliss.

He was not completely inside her, but he halted his progression. “Tell me if I should stop.”

“Continue.” She gave a smile he suspected was more brave than genuine.

Didn’t she know this moment was about her?

This was her first time, and he was determined to make it special.

He kissed her again. She relaxed into his arms, and he moved further until he was all the way inside.

He thrust slowly, steadily, until she met him.

Her cheeks were flushed, warm now after the outside snow. Her skin gleamed, and he glided a finger through her locks.

“Darling,” he said.

He kissed her more, and the steadiness that made him good at making exact chemical formulas seemed to dissipate, like the floor underneath his feet.

He tensed and pulled out abruptly.

His seed spilled on her stomach. She must think it odd, but she smiled at him.

He returned her smile and then trailed kisses over her body. He moved his fingers inside her until she arched against his hand.

The next moments were filled with kisses and absolute bliss.