Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 2)

‘Now, Elliott. Please.’

‘You should rest.’ But his eyes burned into her.

‘Help me out of the bath and I will go and see Marguerite again and then, if she is well, we will both go and rest…together.’

He let Gwen come back and dry her, dress her in nightgown and robe while he went and washed and changed. He found her again standing by the cradle and put his hand over hers as she stoked the baby’s cheek. ‘Both my loves, safe and sound.’

When she straightened up from kissing the soft little cheek he took her hand and just walked straight through the intervening rooms and into his bedchamber. He closed the door and leaned against it.

‘Elliott, are you sure you are not too tired?’

‘I would have to be unconscious to be too tired to make love to you, Arabella.’ Elliott’s eyes were dark with desire and something else that made her want to laugh with sheer delight.

She laughed, breathless with happiness. ‘I love you so much,

I want you awake to tell you,’ she said as he pulled her to him, his fingers urgent with ribbons and ties.

‘I like undressing you from all these fripperies,’ he admitted, tossing the négligé into a corner before running his hands gently over her breasts so that the nipples peaked hard against his palms. ‘Those nightgowns are like unwrapping a very intriguing parcel.’

Bella tried to sound indignant. ‘Parcel? Well, allow me to unwrap you then, my lord.’

‘Arabella.’ It was a groan as she struggled with buttons and shirttails. ‘Hurry.’

The fastenings of his breeches gave way to her fingers and she felt the muscles of his stomach contract as she slipped her hand down and circled him. He thrust into her hand, hot and hard and ready for her. They stood, locked together, not moving, his hand cupping her breast, hers encircling the powerful length of him. Bella tightened her hold.

‘No. Arabella…Wait.’

‘Your boots,’ she managed as he swept her up and dropped her on the bed.

‘My boots be damned.’

‘The covers…Oh! Oh, Elliott. Oh, my love. Yes.’ Boots, bedding, everything vanished from her consciousness as he came into her with a certainty and a possessive passion that eclipsed everything that had gone before. She was his and he was hers and nothing, it seemed to her through a daze of mounting, aching urgency, would ever be the same again.

He drove her up, beyond breaking point into a sudden, all-consuming climax, then held her, murmuring as he moved gently within her until she was aware again, her fingers tightening on his shoulders as she said against his mouth, ‘Love you, I love you. Elliott.’

‘Arabella. My love.’ Elliott kissed her back, claiming her, feeling that this was somehow the first time for them, the first time it had ever mattered so much. He forced control on himself, aware of her body, her breathing, the rising need sweeping through her again, and held on until he felt her begin to break again. ‘My love, for ever,’ he heard himself say as the passion swept him away. ‘Always.’

26 March

‘Those beds will be a mass of bloom by summer.’ Arabella leaned against Elliott as they looked out of the drawing-room window on to the new flowerbeds Johnson and his men, including young Trubshaw, had cut out of the turf and were just beginning to plant up with the hardier shrubs.

‘It is almost the end of March, spring is in the air, Marguerite is flourishing,’ she continued. He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her more tightly. It was still a shock, a joy, to know that she was his and he loved her. ‘Is it possible to be happier, do you think?’

‘In general, no,’ Elliott agreed, loving the way she wriggled with sensual responsiveness as he bent to nibble her earlobe. ‘I could think of ways to increase the intensity of the feeling, of course.’

‘You always can,’ Arabella said. As usual when she remembered that she was supposed to be a respectable viscountess she was trying to sound disapproving and failing completely. ‘It so happens that we have absolutely no commitments this afternoon, or this evening. I kept today free because of packing tomorrow for London.’

‘Your very first Season, Lady Hadleigh. Are you nervous?’ He was glad he had delayed travelling until the weather was better. The time to themselves had been precious. It had taken Arabella a long time to forgive herself for running away from him and to believe that the accident was somehow not her fault. He had tried to find out more about her missing sisters, to no avail, but she had turned to him for comfort and sharing the search and the emotion had brought them closer together.

‘Terrified,’ she admitted. ‘But you will be there so it will not be so bad. I was thinking that perhaps we could go upstairs, and er…rest this afternoon.’

‘How about resting right now?’ Elliott started to turn from the window, his imagination conjuring up an entire menu of unrestful things to do with his wife, then stopped. ‘Damnation, there’s a carriage coming up the drive. Are we expecting visitors? I don’t recognise the team.’

‘Or the crest on the door either.’ Beside him Arabella craned her neck to try to make it out. The vehicle came to a halt, the door swung open and a tall, broad-shouldered man got out. ‘I don’t know him, do you?’ she said. ‘My goodness, what an alarming-looking gentleman. He is positively swarthy, and looks so grim. What a jaw!’

‘Army,’ Elliott hazarded, studying the upright back and indefinable air of authority as the big man held out his hand to assist a lady to alight.

‘What an elegant hat,’ Arabella said. ‘I wonder if—Meg! It is Meg! Elliott—’ She ran out of the room without waiting for him, dodged past Henlow who was opening the front door, and flung herself down the steps with Elliott at her heels. ‘Meg!’