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He had no idea what to say, for ugliness had lived in him long before the war had ruined his body.
Lady Lillimere’s lip curled. “I’ve no idea what could possibly produce a creature like Miranda—” “A grand and a noble family?” asked Viola, earning a snort of laughter. “More like six wild unicorns, a rose that blooms only at midnight, and three barrels of skydust.
When her words had been her gift. To wear like the jewels he had given her.
“Next time,” he said, “leave the shoes. You always wear such pretty shoes.” She wasn’t sure what thrilled her more—the fact he spoke so readily of next time or that he still noticed her shoes. “That does not sound like a spontaneous thought.” “What do you want to hear? That I’ve imagined it? Countless times? You beneath me, with your legs around me, wearing nothing but your pretty shoes?”
“Good. Now give me all the pleasure.”
It was accident rather than design that brought her to his nipples, but just the possibility of her fingers made him tilt his head back and groan. “Viola …” “Oh.” She hardly recognised her own voice in that moment—the power in it, and the joy. “You’re sensitive here.” “Yes, but—” Whatever he had been about to tell her was lost in the shudder that overcame him as she bent her head and pressed a kiss, first to one nipple, then the other.
“Can we be … one flesh?” “All love-making is becoming one flesh. Whether it’s with mouths or hands or any other parts we wish to share. But if you mean, can I take you inside me, or you me, then yes. If that’s what you desire.” “You … you would allow that? You would allow me to …?” She was not sure how to form the thought, let alone the words. “Allow you?” He laughed. “It’s not a sacrifice. I would welcome it. I think I would welcome most things you might want to do with me.”
And, to her relief, less about what he touched than the fact he did—that it was his hand and his eyes upon her, and his body stirring afresh in response to hers.
“I want to be inside you. I want to know how it feels—to have our bodies joined that way. And I want to see you in pleasure. I want to see you lost in it and undone by it and transformed by it, and know it was me who gave it to you.” “Yes.” His look was at once wry and hopelessly loving.
“My heart.” Gracewood’s voice. A bare whisper against her ear. “My Viola. I’m with you. Stay with me.” She drew in a rough breath.
“Mira?” He was out of the curricle with a swiftness that almost made his leg buckle under him. Running, as best he could, along an unfamiliar country road. Towards his sister, who had thrown herself to the ground, and was running towards him in return. “Justin,” she cried. “Oh, Justin.” They came together in something that was more of a collision than a hug, Gracewood with no notion how he kept his footing. And Mira was half laughing, half crying in his arms. “I knew you would come. I knew you would.”
But still. What a marvel it was. What freedom. To be a woman unabashedly in love beneath a multitude of stars.
“Gracewood, there are some things beyond even—” “There are,” he agreed. “And if the only child you would consider yours is one that shares your blood, then … then I am content to leave the estate to Mira. But for myself—well—what good has my father’s blood ever done me? England is full of children in dire need of mothers and fathers, and while I do not flatter myself that we would be ideal parents, I do not think we would be so very terrible. And wealth, you know, covers a multitude of sins.” For a moment, Viola was silent.