Page 111 of The English Duke
“Yes,” he said. “You should. After one more kiss.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“No,” he said, bending to kiss her throat, “you shouldn’t. But I’ve just found you. How can I lose you again so soon?”
Oh, how she wanted to remain in his arms, to feel his body against hers, to marvel at the magic of lovemaking, how it could transform two people into one. She wanted to throw her arms around his shoulders and hold on as bliss overwhelmed her. She wanted to be carnal and adventurous and seductive, but her conscience was awake and demanding she do the right thing.
He kissed her again, one hand on her cheek, the other spearing through her hair.
“I love your hair,” he said. “It’s like a cloud surrounding you.”
She should have left then, but she didn’t. He was himself and he knew who she was. She wasn’t a figment of his drugged state. She was Martha and for these few hours, his lover.
This afternoon she would stand in the church and watch him marry her sister, but for now he was hers.
Her clothes seemed to melt away from her body, testament to his skill at seduction. Perhaps another time she might be jealous about who had taught him to manipulate the busk of a corset or remove a shift with such expertise, but not now. Not when time was against her and the passing moments marched him inexorably toward his wedding vows.
Let him love me. Just for now. Just minutes out of a busy life.
She would ask forgiveness at a later date. Perhaps. She would confess her sins and await God’s censure. But not now.
She couldn’t stop the tears. They seemed perfect for this moment. She couldn’t hold everything she was feeling inside. It slipped out as soft weeping when he kissed her again.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, pulling back.
She could only shake her head. How did she tell him? It was sadness that these moments could never be replicated. She’d lived most of her life without him, but she would know his loss for the rest of her days. It was also joy, because she would always have these memories, this forbidden time in his arms.
Slowly, sweetly, tenderly, he kissed each separate tear. She placed her hands on the side of his face, closed her eyes, and memorized how his bristly cheeks felt against her palms, the softness of his hair as she threaded her fingers through it.
His shoulders were perfect, the muscles in his arms well developed, his chest with its light dusting of hair attracting her attention and her kisses.
She rose up over him, her knees on either side of his hips.
His hands held her breasts, teased the nipples, then pulled her down for a kiss.
“How is your leg?” she asked.
His laughter reassured her, banished her tears, and made her smile.
“I care more about another appendage at the moment,” he said.
She lay against him, her arms stretched out on either side of his head, her breasts pressed against his chest. She wanted to absorb the feeling of him, the heat of his body, the perfection of his form.
The words almost escaped her, but she held them back at the last moment. They weren’t appropriate, not now. She had no right to say them, but she said the words silently as she rose up to kiss him.
I love you.
I love your strength and your courage.
I love your determination and your ferocity.
I love your pride and your persistence.
I love you.
I love you, Jordan Hamilton, for all the people you are and all the roles you play. I love you in pain and anguish. I love you in laughter and joy. I will love you until the end of my days.
“You should leave,” he said, his voice even.
