His lips curved, she thought rather wickedly, but in the poor light she couldn’t be sure. “But I wanted to thank you in my own way.”
Her gown slithered to the floor; she struggled to quell a too-hungry shiver invoked by the sensation of his hands, hard and knowing, and their heat, closing about her waist.
She licked her lips, stretched up to murmur against his, “Your way?”
“Mmm.” His gaze had lowered to her breasts. His hands rose, then reverently closed. “You said you thoroughly enjoyed your day. In return for your help, it seems only right that I ensure you also…thoroughly enjoy your night.”
His fingers flexed; she caught her breath. They played and her lids fell, lips parting on a soft, impossibly evocative—undeniably erotic—gasp.
He dipped his head, covered her lips, and with consummate mastery swept her into the dance.
The one he’d taught her.
One where their bodies spoke more clearly than words ever could, where each touch carried meaning as well as pleasure. Where lips and tongues and hands orchestrated and communicated with a degree of eloquence unimagined, where bodies, minds and even souls could speak with a directness unfettered by any of the intrinsic limitations of verbal speech.
As, all hot naked skin and long tangling limbs, they tumbled onto the daybed, she realized she could say so much more this way. As he drew her beneath him and with one powerful thrust joined them, as she embraced and clung, then encouraged and exhorted, then unshackled her wilder self, letting it free to ride with his, as the heat and the passion rose and consumed them, here, like this, she could open her heart and let the truth come tumbling out…and no one would hear.
Only she knew as she crested and clung, as throwing her head back, she let the glory claim her, just how deep, how strong, how irrevocable and powerful that glory now was. What depths of her heart and soul it had plumbed.
Just how irretrievably and ineradicably it had become a part of her.
Only she knew.
The storm washed past, the frenzy died, subsiding into blissful aftermath. Lying on her back with him slumped, boneless and heavy, over her, eyes closed, her fingers idly stroking through his hair, she smiled, and told herself it didn’t matter. That no matter the cost, only she would know, and no matter what the cost, she would readily meet it—just
to know she could feel like this.
To know what it was like to be all she as a woman could be.
He’d given her that, and for that gift, she’d be forever grateful.
Lifting her head, she pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, then lay back, relaxed, and let satiation claim her.
An hour later, Gervase lay propped against the daybed’s raised back, watching while Madeline delicately sipped a glass of amontillado, then bit into a ripe plum. The dark purple juice stained her lips, threatened to overflow at one corner, but then her tongue darted out and lapped.
He forced himself to look away. Reaching for the hand that held the glass, he raised it so he could brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Thank you for staying by my side today—your insights were invaluable.”
Still chewing, she smiled.
Before he could think too much he went on, “No one else could have done it. Having you there, by my side, felt right. The others thought the same.”
She swallowed, then lightly shrugged. “Your role used to be mine, so I suppose in a way it was a trial run for you.” She looked down, inspecting her fingers. “Next year, you’ll have your new countess to assist you.”
He managed to keep the frown from his face; she hadn’t made the connection he’d intended.
Before he could think of something to jog her mind in the right direction, she looked up and met his eyes, searched them. “You needn’t worry anyone will read too much into my being by your side today. Everyone will realize I was merely helping you find your feet.”
Setting aside the glass, plum finished, she slid around onto her belly, her bare rump distracting him, and proceeded to lick her fingers clean—further distracting him.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Disgruntled irritation colored his tone. “I’m perfectly sure everyone else read the situation correctly.”
She glanced at him, tried to read his mood; expression quizzical, she tilted her head. “So what is bothering you?”
You. He wondered what it was going to take to open her eyes—to make her see that no one else viewed her as in any way ineligible to be his wife. More, that everyone else was starting to assume that she would fill the position. Looking into her eyes, he felt frustration well. He wanted their engagement settled, wanted her hand acknowledged as his—by her most of all. His sisters’ artful manipulation and Harry’s direct question had only exacerbated his natural irritation at having to play such a roundabout game.
His natural inclination was to take the Valkyrie by the horns and insist on submission, on total surrender, but with this particular Valkyrie…
He’d kept his expression impassive; he knew she wouldn’t read anything in his eyes. Reaching out, he set one hand in the indentation of her waist, then stroked slowly down, over the lush curve of her hip and derriere. “I’m in two minds over whether I’ve thanked you enough.”