How was it that she’d never before realized how very many colors the world contained? How beautiful everything was? The cobblestones. Even the man who would insist on pissing against the side of the building. Everything was new when viewed through a lens of delight.
But what surprised her most was the gratitude for everything, including all the heartbreaks, upheavals, betrayals she’d so far known. The wrong men had simply prepared her to recognize the right one. The seemingly wrong turns had led her precisely to where she wished to be.
In between bouts of lovemaking, under cover of Delacorte’s snores, their murmured conversation meandered from dark topics to light topics, from the profound to the frivolous. In the dark, in his arms, nothing had power to hurt either of them, it seemed. So she filled in the emotions that went with the scaffolding of her story: of the heartbreak of being disowned by her family when she’d lost her governess job. How she missed her relatives nonetheless, though she’d never said as much aloud to anyone out of pure pride.
Lucien told her, as he would never again tell a soul, that the Duchess of Brexford had allegedly paid a friend of his to throw him into the Thames. Though no one could prove a thing, and Cutty hadn’t even been certain she’d wanted him dead so much as frightened.
“She hadn’t a prayer of vanquishing me,” he murmured drowsily. “Then or now.”
The notion of anyone attempting to harm Lucien was like an icy finger reaching through her bubble of bliss to touch, very lightly, her heart. But then, he’d fought back more frightful enemies than the Duchess of Brexford. And surely nothing could harm them here at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
But she did not tell him everything. Some parts of her past were too raw and shameful; she didn’t want to introduce them into her idyll. One day, of course, she would. Because of a certainty her life would be filled with nights and days like this from now on.
Chapter Fifteen
This was all he wanted.
To wake every morning with his arms around her, her breath falling softly on his chin. His body her pillow; his heartbeat her lullaby. To slide his arms down, and set his hands free to slowly, wonderingly roam over the eloquent, satiny curves of her. God, the untold pleasure of the learning of her, the claiming of her. To feel desire stir then, and build, and lance him breathless, but to hold it in check, to slowly, slowly seduce, to prolong these pleasures, to ramp it up, as one would pull the string on a bow back and back and back. To feel her ripple against him, her own want fierce and building. To softly, softly kiss her, their lips like feathers, teasing, languid, as their bodies moved, her ruched nipples chafing his skin, his cock hard at the soft golden curls at the crook of her. To know that she wanted him inside her, needed him inside her, and that glorious thrust into the tight velvet heat of her. To move, joined like this together, side by side, coming together in a plunge, parting, undulating like waves. To feel in her body the tension that meant her release was upon her and it was because of him. To feel his name, “Lucien,” a ragged gasp against his lips. To see her eyes hot and hazy, her arms locked around him as though he was the only raft in a stormy sea. The frenzy as their bodies collided toward a release of such shattering, violent pleasure they nearly lost consciousness. And holding her as the storm of their breathing settled.
It was how he’d begun his morning, and how he wanted to start every morning for the rest of his life. Or at least as long as they were physically able.
He was going to be the man she needed and wanted. Had any man ever had such a noble ambition? He thought not.
And as part of his noble ambition, he took himself off to White’s on Tuesday night.
Where he was greeted enthusiastically.
“Bolt! You’ve got to try this port I’ve sneaked in. Thick as blood but sweeter. Come and join us.”
“Thank you, Beacham. I think I will. I’ve just one thing to attend to.”
And to think three weeks ago Beacham had glared warily at Lucien as he walked through the door and reflexively gripped the edge of the table. Many years ago Lucien had gotten into fisticuffs with someone and tipped over the table with Beacham seated at it. He’d gone legs up in the air, like a turtle on its back. Naturally he had never forgotten it.
A few weeks ago Lucien had sought Beacham out and proffered a bottle of Courvoisier.
“I was an ass and a menace and I hope you’ll forgive me, Beacham. Or at least accept this by way of helping drink away the memory of it.”
Beacham had laughed, surprised.
And then, cautiously, after a moment’s silence, he’d invited Lucien to sit.
They shared the bottle—Lucien drank but the one glass, Beacham noted and told everyone later—and spoke of mundane things, business and safe political topics and mutual acquaintances and how Lucien might like to have one of the spaniel puppies Beacham’s favorite hunting dog had just whelped. Lucien explained he already had a large cat who ran up and down the halls.
And thus, after a fashion, a friendship, a new one, was born.
Every transgression he could recall—reckless racing, raucous, absurd arguments, frivolous wagers, hot-headed fights, even if he hadn’t entirely been in the wrong—he addressed them, one man at a time.
And now, where once upon a time he’d walked a gauntlet of gimlet gazes into White’s, now he strolled through smiles and upraised, greeting hands and invitations. He’d become such an expected and welcome and charming presence, so generally entertaining to have about, that everyone not only took for granted that Lord Bolt was back, they weregladLord Bolt was back.
Except, no doubt, Cuttweiler.
But then, he hadn’t seen Cutty at White’s since that little encounter on the bridge. Which was all for the best. Lucien’s penance did not include politely suffering Cutty’s presence, and Cutty was wise enough to know it.
He was assembling something of the life he wanted. Of laughter, camaraderie, love, and friendship. As Angelique had put it, ordinary life was sufficiently operatic enough.
But the vestiges of the man who had arrived in England remained.
And tonight he had a particular mission.