Page 124 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Stay,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

“Amelia,” he said raggedly, and he prayed she could hear all of his thoughts in that single word, because he did not think he could give voice to them.

“It’s done,” she said softly. But then her eyes grew fierce. “And I will never regret it.”

He tried to say something; he made some sort of noise, but it came from deep within, from some elemental spot where he had no words.

“Shhh.” She touched her finger to his lips. “It’s done,” she said again. And then she smiled, her expression the culmination of a million years of womanly experience. “Now make it good.”

His pulse quickened, and then her hand crept up the back of his leg until it reached the bare skin of his buttocks.

He gasped.

She squeezed. “Make it wonderful.”

And he did. If the first part of his lovemaking had been all frenetic thrusts and mindless passion, now he was a man with a purpose. Every kiss was pure artistry, every touch designed to bring her to the heights of pleasure. If something made her gasp with delight, he did it again…and again.

He whispered her name…over and over again, against her skin, into her hair, as his lips teased her breast. He would make this good for her. He would make it wonderful. He would not rest until he’d brought her to the heights of ecstasy, until she shattered in his arms.

This was not about him. For the first time in weeks, something was not about him. It was not about his name or who he was or anything other than what he could do to bring her pleasure.

It was for her. Amelia. It was all for her, and maybe it always would be, for the rest of his days.

And maybe he wouldn’t mind that.

Maybe it was a good thing. A very good thing.

He looked down at her, his breath catching as he saw her lips part in a tiny sigh of desire. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Nothing compared, not the most brilliant of diamonds, the most spectacular of sunsets. Nothing compared to her face in that moment.

And then it was clear.

He loved her.

This girl—no, this woman—whom he’d politely ignored for years had reached inside him and stolen his heart.

And suddenly he didn’t know how he’d ever thought he could allow her to marry Jack.

He didn’t know how he thought he could live apart from her.

Or how he could live just one more day without knowing that she would one day be his wife. Bear his children. Grow old with him.

“Thomas?”

Her whisper brought him back, and he realized he’d stopped moving. She was gazing up at him with a mix of curiosity and need, and her eyes…her expression…He couldn’t explain what it did to him, or rather how, but he was happy.

Not content, not satisfied, not amused.

Happy.

Lovesick, champagne in the veins, want-to-shout-it-to-the-world happy.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, and then she was smiling, too, because it was infectious. It had to be. He could not keep it inside.

“I love you,” he said, and he knew his face must belie the surprise and wonder he was feeling.

She looked instantly cautious. “Thomas…”

It was imperative that she understood. “I’m not saying it because you said it, and I’m not saying it because I obviously have to marry you now, I’m saying it because…because…”

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