Page 92 of The Defiant One
He shrugged. "That's how I think most things up," he confessed, almost apologetically. "I can't help it."
"Andrew, you're absolutely brilliant!" She leaped to her feet and hurled herself into his arms, kissing his face, kissing his lips, while huge tears of happiness slipped down her cheeks. "Do you know what this is going to mean to all those poor little dogs burning their paws off in so many English kitchens, running their tiny legs to the bone? Do you realize how this is going to revolutionize the way kitchens are run, the way food is cooked? Oh, Andrew — I thank you! All those little dogs who are currently being so abused thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
He caught her as she hugged him around the neck, nearly choking him and more happy than he'd ever seen her. His own grin was a little cocky. Well, damn . . . if this was all it took to make the lady happy, the road ahead wasn't going to be so difficult, after all!
"Do you know, I couldn't have asked for a better present," she said, wiping at her streaming eyes. "I am the happiest woman in England. I have the smartest husband in the whole wide world. And the only thing that could possibly make me even happier is if my smart, handsome husband were to lift me in his arms and carry me off to our marriage bed."
He smiled lazily down at her, and in one neat, easy movement, scooped her up. "Well then, dear lady — your wish is my most eager command."
Chapter 28
"We'll have to get a patent for it, immediately. We'll have to present it to the Royal Society. We'll have to throw a huge ball and invite everyone there is to invite, have a demonstration, and prove that people don't have to use poor little dogs in the kitchen!"
Andrew merely smiled and, carrying the comparatively weightless Celsie, strode easily down the hall.
"We'll have to enlarge the kennels so we can take in all the dogs that will be out of work once your wheel goes into production. We'll have to print broadsides informing the general public. Oh, and Andrew, we simply must make a present of one for the king's household, because if he endorses it, all of England will want one!"
"Yes, Celsie."
"Oh! You just passed the door, Andrew. Go back a few steps!"
He did, carrying her over the threshold and kicking the door shut behind him as he moved toward the bed.
"We'll have to start a company to manufacture it. We'll have to take it on tour throughout England. In fact, we'll have to take it all around Europe so that everyone there will also —"
She never finished. His mouth came down hard on hers, crushing her lips with blistering intensity. His tongue forced her lips apart and his breath was hot against her cheek. Ohhhhhh, Celsie thought, and began to melt. As he laid her down on the bed, she felt her spine sinking into the plush coverlet, her eyes closing, her head falling upon a paw.
A paw.
Freckles was in the bed.
Her eyes flew open. "Andrew, we can't make love here, Freckles will see!"
"Freckles can close his eyes."
"But Andrew —"
He scooped her back up, carried her to the elegant, claw-footed settee, and laid her down on it instead. Her body angled across the rich red damask, one leg bent at the knee, the other just resting on the rug. One of her shoes came off. Her layers of petticoats spilled from her hips and tumbled toward the floor in frothy yards of quilted cotton, of heavy, serviceable wool. She felt his mounting urgency to have her. She felt his fingers pulling her stock from her neck, his lips against her throat. And she felt his hand palming and stroking her breast where it swelled above her stays, warming her skin, firing her desire.
"God and the devil, I hate these things," he muttered. "Must beauty be contained in such a damnable cage?"
He couldn't reach her; not without turning her over and unlacing her. And he had neither the patience nor the ability to wait. He crowded onto the narrow sofa, too much man for so little space, his knee driving against the outside of her thigh, his hand reaching down to find the hem of her petticoats and pull them high —
"Lord save me, you're wearing breeches under these things!"
"Well, I did ride astride, Andrew . . . Did you want the saddle to chafe my legs to ribbons?"
"The last time I saw you in breeches . . ."
"Was altogether memorable. Go ahead, Andrew. Let's make more memories. But please don't undress me fully — it's dreadfully cold in here."
"It won't be for long," he promised.
She unfastened the breeches and lifted her bottom, inviting him to tug them off.
He did, tossing them to the floor. She saw his slow, appreciative smile as he found that which he'd been expecting to find — stockings, garters, and bare naked thighs. Oh, she loved when he smiled like that! And she loved the feel of his hand skimming up her stocking-clad calf. His mouth was warm against her breasts, swelling above the tightly laced stays, and now Celsie could feel his hand moving across her knee, fumbling with her garter, finally cursing and tearing it down her leg and peeling the filmy stocking off with it.
"Is this what ravishment feels like, I wonder?" she breathed faintly, loving every minute of it.
