“There are other ways?” And now her cheeks had gone very rosy.
“Oh, Aurelie.Somany ways,” he promised huskily.
She ducked her head and went mute and entirely pink, the very picture of a woman overcome.
“The duke also promised to facilitate obtaining a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury so that we can be married as soon as possible. Perhaps even tomorrow or the day after,” he told her softly.
“Christian?” she finally looked up. She sounded so subdued his heart gave a lurch.
“It cannot be soon enough,” she said gravely. “I must know all of these other ways to make love immediately.”
He nearly stopped breathing.
They were married by Mr. Bellingham in the sitting room two days later.
(Having spent two nights—also known as aneternity—apart in their respective rooms, so as to respect the rules of The Grand Palace on the Thames.)
It was a modest affair, attended by everyone who lived at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
Modest, that was, apart from the tipsy singing, some uproarious laughter, and some sentimental toasts. Everyone was given a commemorative TGPOTT handkerchief, which were liberally employed.
But the new Mr. and Mrs. Hawkes, soon to be Lord and Lady Redvers, went up to his room—their room now—while all of the tipsy singing was still underway.
In tacit agreement, they made a beeline for the bed and sat down, gazing at each other, hearts pounding.
“We have taken a suite in the annex and will stay here for at least three months until we find a London home and we sort out your new title and job,” she told him. Gently but firmly.
“We have?” He’d been lost in her eyes.
“Yes. I spoke to Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand about it a few minutes ago. We will move into it tomorrow. You need to rest, Christian, in comfort and quiet, so you will heal and recover all of your strength.”
It was true: Galloping on a horse, making vigorous love, and fending off attackers had been more than even Lord Bolt’s skillful stitches could withstand. Hawkes lost two of them. And he, alas, needed them.
“A bit like my shirts and waistcoats,” Delacorte had said, with a sympathetic wince, when they’d gathered around to fix him up again, “keep the ladies busy here. Ha ha!”
“Mr. Delacorte presents a unique challenge to our mending skills and we relish it,” Angelique had agreed diplomatically. “And if you present a unique challenge to our mending skills, we’ll see to you, too.”
So he’d been repaired again just in time to be married.
“We are happy and comfortable here at The Grand Palace on the Thames,n’est-ce pas,” Aurelie said, “and there is a smoking room for you and there will be singing and good food and everything we need?”
“Oui,” he confirmed. “Everything we need.” He’d already undone his cravat. And he was now watching, dazed by his outrageous good fortune, as everything he needed unbuttoned his waistcoat.
“And you have very, very beautiful muscles—” The waistcoat was hanging loose now, and her hands had deftly slipped beneath his shirt and were suddenly gliding over his chest.
“Have I?” he said on a rasp, after a bit of a delay. He was feeling light-headed. Not at all minding what appeared to be an abrupt change of subject.
“Every bit of you is very beautiful,” she explained patiently, on a hush, as though teaching him a sacred text. “But you are a bit too thin yet...” She moved her hands to slide across his belly, below his bandage, dipped her fingers into the fall of his trousers and trailed her fingers across the slightly too-sharp bones of his hips and he drew in a hiss of pleasure. “And so you must eat many of Helga’s good meals. And rest.” She began, to his great, great delight, unbuttoning his trousers.
“Perhaps the only nourishment I need is kisses,” he suggested, his voice a husk, as her hand wandered lower.
She kissed him long and languidly.
“And beef,” she whispered against his mouth.
He smiled. “Anything for you,” he whispered. “Forever.”
Her trust and surrender undid him when they made love; her boldness and sensuality, her innocence and pleasure were gifts he’d never dreamed he’d deserved.