Page 92 of A Virgin for the Rakish Marquess

James smirked, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. “He was convinced we would be over after our five promenades.”

“James!” Diana gasped, swatting at his chest.

“What?” He caught her hand and kissed it lazily. “On the other hand, he was terrified I’d corrupt you.” His eyes gleamed wickedly as he tugged her closer. “And there, my love, he was on point.”

“You are impossible.” Diana let out a scandalized laugh, burying her face in his chest.

“And yet you love me.”

“I do.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He looked at her with absolute adoration. She felt need pool in the pit of her stomach, and she glanced at his lips, ready to?—

He got up suddenly and lowered her onto her feet, before gathering her clothes.

“Let’s go!” he said.

“Why the sudden hurry?” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “And where exactly are we going?”

James saw the lustful look in her eyes and smirked, earning himself a raised eyebrow.

“To ask your brother for your hand, so I can thoroughly corrupt you, My Lady.”

EPILOGUE

Diana barely remembered the exact moment everything changed. One moment she was dodging her brother’s sharp glares, trying to look presentable despite the scandalous path that had led her before him after spending a good part of the night in the Pemberton library, the next she was standing in the modiste’s atelier to be fitted for her wedding dress.

And then she was standing at the altar, in that dress, with James looking dashing by her side. The whole of the ton was there, whispering in shock and excitement. The jilted wallflower and the rake.

She barely remembered uttering her vows or hearing James speak his. But she would never forget how he looked upon her as if she was the most precious thing in the world.

The moment they were pronounced husband and wife, he had squeezed her hand and pulled her to him for one chaste kiss onher lips, which still looked too scandalous for the congregation’s eyes.

And here she was, in Pemberton House, her new home, as the Marchioness of Crawford. The wedding reception was exquisite—James had insisted on taking care of it all by himself. And he had given her a reception, a testament to his love for her, how he saw her. It was delicate and daring. So very him, so her, sothem.

Everywhere Diana looked, she saw little traces of their story. Beautiful flower arrangements everywhere, all with Chinese magnolias in them. A naughty wink at their stolen moments. Above, a sea of wisteria cascaded from the tall ceiling, delicate blossoms in pale ivory and soft lavender twining down like silk ribbons, their scent a heady whisper in the air. A promise that he would never hurt her the way he did under that tree.

“You like it, My Lady?” he murmured.

She looked up, and her face lit up even more. He was so handsome, not because he had sharp features, the most piercing blue eyes, and the fullest lips. But because he was happy, free, himself, finally at ease with who he was and sure of the man he would become.

“I love it.”

“Then dance with me.” He took her hand.

“James, we are the hosts. We need?—”

“I only need you,” he whispered in her ear.

Diana stiffened, a sharp intake of breath betraying her. But before she could reprimand him, he was already leading her to the center of the ballroom. She was still not used to this, to the freedom to touch him, to be held by him so openly. But even knowing that, James’s grip on her was too bold, too daring, full of possessiveness and heat, as if he had already forgotten they had an audience.

“My Lord,” she warned softly.

He only grinned, leaning in. His gaze was that of a feral predator dressed in a gentleman’s clothes.

“I am barely holding back from kicking everyone out and taking you right here. I want to hear your screams echo through our halls.”

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