Page 128 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Through the increasingly heated moments, knowledge of each other was their currency, and pleasuring the other became their ultimate and overriding aim.
The heady scent of passion wreathed about them as, finally, they joined, and for one shining moment, that scintillating sensation of being one, locked together in true intimacy, in the ultimate physical harmony, overwhelmed them.
Fingers clutching, gazes locked, they hung, suspended for an indefinable instant, no longer solely in this world, then the irresistible compulsion welled, swelled, and washed over them, and they surrendered to the compulsive tide.
Joy and delight, pleasure and sensation danced like magic beneath their skins. Passion and desire seared and burned and branded, and through it all, that elemental conflagration grew, undeniable and all-consuming, until it subsumed their senses and swept them from this world.
Into the heart of the sun of their creation.
They shattered, her, then him, nerves unraveling and senses expanding as light and glory filled them, and a connection so profound it linked their souls glowed in their minds.
Then aftermath rolled over them, and oblivion issued her commanding call.
They slumped, exhausted, yet with exhilaration still coursing through their veins.
Head bowed, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a still-burning kiss to her fingertips. “Thank you,” he murmured, soft and low.
She raised her lids, revealing intensely emerald eyes that still glowed with the fires of desire. She met his gaze, steadily held it for several heartbeats, then her lips, lush and swollen, curved, and on an irrepressible chuckle, she said, “And you. And yes, that was, indeed, worth waiting ten years for.”
Epilogue
Tickencote Grange, Rutlandshire. August 27, 1853
Izzy knelt on a cushion on the gravel path in her knot garden and busily weeded and clipped. The herbs were a riot of scent and color; everything she’d sown had taken and grown.
A gurgle of laughter had her looking up in time to catch her daughter, Sylvia, almost one year old and just starting to toddle everywhere, leaving her nursemaid running in her wake.
Said nursemaid, Ginny, came puffing up. “I’m sorry, m’lady—she got away from me again.”
“No harm done.” Izzy hoisted Sylvia and settled her on her hip, from where the little girl could more easily see into the garden bed. “Mama is cutting mint to make a sauce for tonight’s roast lamb.” She plucked two leaves, crushed them lightly in her fingers, and held them to her nose, then to Sylvia’s. “Smell—mint.”
Sylvia dutifully sniffed in lungfuls, and her button nose wrinkled, then her features lit, and she squirmed to get down.
Having also heard the approaching footsteps, Izzy grinned and obliged, warning Ginny, “Stand back. His lordship is coming.”
Released, as fast as her chubby legs would carry her, Sylvia rocketed toward the green archway giving access to the front lawn, simultaneously shrieking and waving her arms in the air.
Forewarned, Gray walked into the garden and smoothly stooped and hoisted the little girl in his arms.
“Dadda! Dadda!”
He kissed Sylvia on the forehead. “Yes, my darling daughter, I am, indeed, here.”
Smiling, Izzy pushed to her feet. She was pregnant again, but was thankfully having a much easier time with it than when she’d carried Sylvia. “Are you coming to help weed?”
Gray glanced around. “Ah, no.” He waved the papers he was carrying. “I’ve come to ask your opinion on this bill I’m supposed to be drafting. Lord knows, you’re better with words than I am.”
“Hmm.” Dusting her fingers, Izzy walked to him and took the pages. She started to read, then waved to the stone bench, set in one corner to allow her to sit and appreciate her efforts. They retreated to the spot, and she sat and read while Gray played peekaboo with Sylvia.
On reaching the end of the closely written pages, Izzy glanced at Ginny, who promptly came forward to take Sylvia from Gray.
Wisely, Ginny mentioned the possibility of getting some bread from Cook to feed the ducks on the river, and Sylvia went peaceably; feeding the ducks was her favorite pastime.
Relieved of their distracting daughter, Izzy pointed to one of the clauses in the bill. “Is this really what you want to say?”
Gray took the page, read, and frowned. “You’re right—it’s convoluted to the point of being indecipherable.”
He fished a pencil from his pocket, and with their heads together, they worked through the bill, correcting, amending, and clarifying.
