“I love emeralds more than any other stone,” she said, turning the ring.
“Joan.”
She looked up, and heat shot through her again. “Oh.” And then: “Yes.”
“We’re in a pigsty. A duchess, a future duchess, in a pigsty,” Thaddeus said, a dark thread of humor in his voice.
“The moon is up. We could . . .” Her voice faltered. Now that she’d promised to become a duchess, perhaps she should be more circumspect. Hadn’t she promised not to cause scandals? Not that anyone in Lindow would know.
Or care, some devil inside her prompted.
But Thaddeus—her future husband—was prudent, gentlemanly. Not a Wilde.
“We could take the rowboat,” Thaddeus growled, completing her suggestion. His eyes were burning hot. “We could go to the island, and you could lie back on my coat, Joan, naked under the moon except for this ring, and let me love you.”
He brought her to her feet. They paused to say good night to Percy, who opened one sleepy eye, and set out into the night.
Through the apple orchard, down the meadow slope.
Thaddeus put the lantern down and with a wicked smile, stripped off his coat.
Joan couldn’t find any words because her heart leapt for joy.
Thaddeus threw his clothes on the grass. Joan waited, forcing her lungs to fill with air, marshaling all her resources to wait patiently. She needed help. A lady could not unclothe herself without assistance. She toed off her shoes; she could do that. She pulled the pins from her hair and shook it free, letting sweet-smelling powder float into the air. It fell below her shoulders, the thick, golden evidence of her parentage.
Tonight, that felt like a joyful fact, rather than a complicated one.
After that, she just watched Thaddeus, reminding herself that his body would be hers. Hers to touch, explore, delight.
For life.
He took off everything except his breeches and turned back to her, hands on his hips, moonlight emphasizing every dip and shadow carved by his muscles. Joan took another hard breath. “You’re beautiful.”
He laughed, and suddenly Joan had the feeling that Thaddeus was meant to be a person for whom laughter wasn’t rare. He had compressed himself into the form of a perfect gentleman, the exquisite duke, the somber man.
But the real Thaddeus stood on the bank, eyes lit by fierce lust—and laughter.
“My lady,” he said, striding to her. “May I?”
She nodded.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
Obediently, she turned, picking up the heavy fall of her hair and bringing it forward over her shoulder.
He was nimble, twice as fast as her maid, twirling her when needed, plucking knots before she fumbled to untie them. Showing a remarkable knowledge of women’s clothing, she noticed. And then thought, with a happy wiggle, that Thaddeus would never again undress any woman other than herself.
Her corset fell onto the grass, leaving only her light chemise. Thaddeus leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips. His hands settled on her waist, making her feel encompassed, encircled. He kissed her again, on her nose, her cheekbones. His fingers spread into a caress, and she shivered, swaying closer.
“The island,” he rasped.
Joan opened her eyes. “There’s a very nice patch of grass underneath our feet.”
Thaddeus shook his head. “You told me that you would bring your future husband to the island.” He kissed her. “Vixen,” he whispered. “I couldn’t sleep that night.”
Her smile felt as if it lightened her soul with pure joy. Thaddeus handed Joan the lantern and operated the oars with such force that the boat shot across the lake, splitting a sea of sweet-smelling flowers and leaving a wake behind them.
Joan was content to watch his arms bunch as Thaddeus rowed. Her body tingled all over, but more than that, she felt a soul-deep connection with a man who was her opposite in almost every way.
Except the ways in which he wasn’t, because when he shook back his hair and leapt to the bank, turning to hold out a hand, she knew that in the only ways that truly matter, they were as close as two humans could be.
Over the years, they would grow even closer.
The little clearing looked different at night: The air was gently scented, and the white jasmine blossoms caught moonlight and reflected it. When Thaddeus put down the lantern, the light created a small room bathed in gold, and yet over their heads the vast moon sailed on.
Eyes on her face, Thaddeus undid his breeches and shoved them down his legs. Then he stood before her, naked.
“May I?” he asked, reaching to her chemise. At her nod, he drew the cloth slowly, torturously slowly, up her body and over her head. Joan could feel her heart pounding as if she were looking at herself along with him, purposefully uncovering her body bit by bit, making the pleasure last.
Her chemise flew to the side, and she stood there, naked, the lamplight washing over her skin. The sight of his naked body made pleasure ripple through her.
“May I?” she echoed. Without waiting for an answer, she reached down and wrapped his cock in one hand.
Thaddeus sucked in a rough breath, and his hands fell from his hips. He didn’t move. Her fingers closed tightly and then slid . . . He made a harsh sound in the back of his throat. He was hard and thick, and his hips arched toward her. “Hell,” he groaned.
Joan grinned at him, tightened, and added a gentle twist, watching as a flicker of heat lit in his eyes. She tightened her hand even more, and his head fell back. She tried a slower stroke and his eyes opened . . . She brought her other hand there too, tentatively touching what she had seen but not caressed.
“Wait,” he choked, and removed her hands. “Joan.”
She smiled at him, impish, pleased with herself and the world. “Yes, Thaddeus? This is so Adam-and-Eve-ish.” She rearranged her hair so that her breasts were almost hidden, cocked a hip, and held out a hand. “Surely you have an apple for me, Your Lordship?”
He caught her against him, all his heat and strength against her softness. “I’m no devil.”
Joan tipped back her head. “You’re devilish. Taking me to an island to have your way with me.”
“Only with you,” he said hoarsely, one hand running forcefully down her shoulder and curving over her bottom.
“I certainly don’t mind if you leave the perfect duke behind on the shore.” She shivered, her tongue shaping his bottom lip. His hand dipped lower, between her legs, and she forgot what she was saying. “Thaddeus.”
“Perfect dukes keep their wives happy,” he murmured. His fingers were everywhere, caressing, rubbing. “Are you happy, Joan?” One finger dipped inside.
“Yes,” she gasped into his mouth, because he was kissing her openmouthed, hungry, insistent, while his fingers . . . She pulled back just enough to see what he was doing. One hand circled a breast, his thumb rubbing over her nipple.
The other maddened her, two fingers plunging inside, filling her.
“More,” she whimpered, absently registering that she sounded like a wanton. Not a duchess.
Thaddeus didn’t seem to mind. “You’re more beautiful than Eve,” he said, his voice raw.
She didn’t like compliments; she never had. They were always, in her mind at least, barbed. But with Thaddeus’s dark eyes staring into hers, the word had a different meaning.