Page 157 of Oddity of the Ton
“Can I not shed tears of joy?”
Her heart swelled at the raw hope in his eyes.
“Oh, Eleanor!” he cried. “Am I to be the most fortunate of men?”
“I-I wouldn’t say fortunate,” she said, “but…”
“And now, I must admonish you.”
Her stomach curled in apprehension as he rose to his feet. He cupped her face and dipped his head until their mouths almost met.
“I would not have you believe that I am not blessed to have secured your affections,” he said. “The world may not value you, butIdo. There are many who love you—Lady Marlow was most distraught that you’d gone—but, most of all, you must love yourself for who you are. I would have you see yourself through my eyes. And if you consent to become my wife, I shall spend the rest of my life showing you.”
Her heart soared at his words—spoken with such love.
“Then,” she whispered, “I consent.”
For a moment, he remained still. His eyes widened, at first in disbelief—then the disbelief turned into pure, unbridled joy. He dipped his head and claimed her mouth, sliding his lips against hers in a hungry kiss. A fizz of need threaded through her as she surrendered, parting her lips in invitation. He slipped his tongue inside, a groan of need reverberating throughout his body.
He pulled her close, and she drew in a sharp breath at the wicked pulse of need deep within her center as she felt his hard length against her stomach.
Sweet heaven!Her body ignited with an instinct born of need—the need to have him inside her. He shifted against her, moving his hips, and she caught the faint, but unmistakable, scent in her nostrils.
The scent of pure male desire—that called to her on a visceral level.
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice a low growl. “Oh, yes…”
“Ahem.”
The voice broke the spell, and she froze, drawing in a deep breath to dissipate the fog of pure animal lust.
Mr. Staines stood at the edge of the garden, his cheeks flaming red.
“While I consider it a privilege to have witnessed the reunion of two people so obviously in love,” he said, “I fear I’ll have to do much to reconcile myself with the Almighty if I witness any further…”
He made a random gesture toward them, and Eleanor felt her cheeks warming.
“Mr. Staines, f-forgive me—what must you think?”
He grinned. “That the Duke of Whitcombe is one very lucky devil.” He approached them and offered his hand to Montague, who stared at it. “Permit me to be the first to congratulate you on what I believe to be yourgenuineengagement. Eleanor—I wishyou all the happiness in the world, for none deserve it as much as you.”
Montague took the proffered hand. “In that, I agree with you, Staines. I only hope you’ll forgive me in taking this glorious creature away.”
“Make her happy, and you’ll need no forgiveness.”
The two men shook hands, and a spike of pain tempered Eleanor’s joy on seeing the sorrow in the vicar’s eyes. Then he gave her a bright smile, bowed, and made his way toward the gate, pausing to pat the chestnut horse on the nose before he set off along the lane and disappeared.
“Poor man,” she whispered.
“I should hate him for being a rival for your affections,” Montague said. “But he wished us well.”
“He’s a good man,” she said. “But I didn’t love him—and a marriage without love is not to be borne.”
“A year ago I’d have disagreed with you,” Montague said. “But you taught me what it was like to love—with my heart, as well as my body.”
He dipped his head and captured her mouth in another kiss. The flare of need curled in her belly once more, and she drew in a sharp breath. His eyes darkened with desire, and a wicked idea formed in her mind—too wanton to voice. But hadn’t Montague taught her that she had the power to secure her happiness?
“Sh-shall we retire inside?” she asked. “Harriet is not due back for some time. We’ll have the cottage to ourselves.”
