Page 88 of The Duelist for the Ton
His forehead creased, and his eyes filled with apprehension. Then she smiled.
“Given that you’re still inside me,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm at such unseemly language, “it really would be rude to refuse, would it not?”
He laughed, softly, then kissed her. “Not the most conventional of responses, but then, you’re not the most conventional of women. Perhaps that’s why I love you. Would my fiancée permit me to hold her for a moment and bask in my good fortune?”
She closed her eyes once more, lulled by his heartbeat, until she drifted into a doze.
When she woke, he was sitting on the edge of the bed pulling his breeches on.
“Colonel, am I to be insulted that you leave my bed so soon?”
He turned and smiled. “Much as I wish to remain in bed with you all night, I must at least give the appearance of propriety to prevent your brother from horsewhipping me in the courtyard.”
“Is there any likelihood of that?”
He straightened his stance and pursed his lips. Then he lowered his voice to a deep growl, made an exaggerated gesture, and spoke.
“Make the slightest attempt to dishonor my sister and I’ll feed you to Whitcombe’s dogs, then have you stripped naked, carried into the center of the village and horsewhipped for the entertainment of all.”
“Is that supposed to be my brother?” she said, suppressing a giggle.
He nodded. “Foxton is many things, but one aspect of him that I admire is his determination to do right by you.”
She let out a snort. “Pity, then, that his and my idea of what’srightseldom coincide.”
“Ought I be insulted?”
“Perhaps this once instance is the exception to the rule,” she said.
“Which is why I must ensure that we’re not caught in the morning.” He leaned toward her to place a swift kiss on her lips. “But tomorrow at breakfast, I shall announce to the party that we are to wed—if my future wife consents, of course.”
She nodded, and he kissed her again. Then he exited the chamber, pausing at the door to blow a kiss in her direction before slipping outside, closing it softly behind him.
She lay back, squeezing her thighs together to relive the delicious sensations he’d elicited. Then she drew the bedcovers over herself and turned onto her side, watching the flames of the fire while they danced and crackled.
My future wife…
To think! She finally understood what made her friends—Eleanor, Henrietta, and many others—so blissfully happy.
And tomorrow she would witness their joy on knowing that such happiness awaited her.
Chapter Eighteen
Portia woke tothe familiar sound of her maid bustling about the bedchamber—the rustle of clothes being set out ready to dress her with, and the delicate chink of bottles being moved on the dressing table.
Nerissa had the innate ability to know precisely when Portia woke and how to rouse her from her sleep with the minimum amount of violence. While Portia lay on the bed, the sounds grew a little louder—footsteps crossing the floor, then the swish of the curtains being pulled back.
She opened her eyes, then drew in a long, languorous breath, stretched her arms, and rolled over, letting out a sigh as she found a cool spot on the pillow. The delicious dream from last night caressed her mind—when her lover had brought her to pleasure, whispering sweet words of love.
Then she caught her breath.
It hadn’t been a dream…
She sat up, exhaling sharply. The young woman silhouetted against the window turned.
“Lady Portia! Forgive me—did I wake you?”
Portia shook her head. “No, Nerissa.”
