She laughed, wrapped her arms about his neck, and tipped backward. He allowed her to topple them onto the bed. Back into an engagement informed by their desires and fueled by their passions, yet now, with the power that bound them acknowledged and embraced, that earlier sharp edge, that extra bite, had transformed into an irresistible heat that sent exhilaration and anticipation swirling higher and lent an extra dimension to every physical thrill, making each more exquisite.
She gasped and clung and tipped back her head, trying to find air to assuage her tight lungs as their combined passions, unrestrained, rolled through her, through him, and rendered them both mindless.
Mindless with hunger, each for the other.
Desperately seeking the sharpest thrill, the pinnacle of pleasure each could gift the other.
They rolled across the sheets, heated and wanting.
Desire turned ravenous and raked them with claws honed by need.
Until they joined and the power surged and filled them, and the sense of togetherness drew in as intimacy—true intimacy with no screens, no reservations, no barriers of any sort—unfurled, gripped, and in the inferno of their passions, forged them into one.
One in thought, one in deed, one in their drive to reach the beckoning peak and seize their due.
One in every way that counted, linked by so much more than passion and desire.
They strove for completion, to reach and claim the ultimate prize.
Then, abruptly, they were there, caught all but simultaneously in that rapturous instant of scintillating sensation and expanded awareness as her climax called on his.
Hearts pounding, eyes open, gazes locked, they clung suspended for a single heartbeat.
Then they shattered.
Fractured into shards of light and heat and all-encompassing incandescent glory.
As one, they rode the wave until it faded and left them adrift, clinging to each other on oblivion’s sea.
Together, as they were meant to be.
Epilogue
They were married on the twenty-third of March, when daffodils and jonquils nodded in brilliant yellow-and-white drifts beneath the greening trees of the park at Hinckley Hall.
Godfrey and Ellie had originally thought to hold the ceremony in the old chapel of the Hall, but the number of locals who had known the Hinckleys for generations and Ellie all her life and would therefore wish to attend rendered the chapel impractical. They’d happily settled for the even more ancient St. Andrew’s in Kirkby Malzeard to the delight of all the villagers and surrounding farm families, who, on the day, had turned out to cheer the bride on her way and stare wide-eyed and take note of and whisper about all the latest fashions displayed by the London nobs who rolled past in their elegant carriages.
That one of their own was marrying into a noble family was seen by all as a cause for celebration.
The ceremony passed off without a hitch, which was no surprise to Godfrey given that Mary, Felicia, Sylvia, and Stacie, and their respective spouses and children, had arrived at the Hall over a week before, and together with Ellie, the ladies had taken the entire enterprise in hand.
As Ellie had remarked to Godfrey, “By marrying you, it seems I’ve gained the older sisters I never had.”
Godfrey had grinned. “You’ve given me your family—it’s only fair I return the favor.”
Shortly after they’d announced their engagement, Ryder’s wife, Mary, had convened a family gathering at Raventhorne Abbey to welcome Ellie to the Cavanaugh clan. Godfrey had taken Ellie to meet his brothers and their wives and children. Ellie’s initial trepidation had lasted all of a minute. That was how long it had taken before Sylvia had unceremoniously thrust her youngest, Gilly, into Ellie’s arms so Sylvia could separate her sparring sons, Manfred and Jordan, who had reached the stage of rolling around on the hall tiles in the otherwise august foyer of the abbey. With thirteen children in residence, most under ten years of age, the abbey had rung with shouts, shrieks, and laughter, making all the adults, the staff included, smile indulgently. With chubby little Gilly in her arms, the not-yet-one-year-old girl-child tugging at Ellie’s hair, Ellie had caught Godfrey’s eyes, grinned, and relaxed.
In short order, she’d been embraced by the group; by dinnertime, she’d been entirely at ease.
Godfrey suspected his sister, Stacie, had conspired with Mary over Ellie’s wedding gown. A stylish confection in soft ivory satin and Brussels lace, the gown set off Ellie’s neat figure, delicate complexion, and golden-brown hair to perfection; in the gown, to Godfrey’s eyes, she glowed like the pearl she was—priceless. The sight of her as she’d walked down the aisle toward him would forever remain seared in his memory.
In all honesty, he couldn’t remember all that much of the actual ceremony; he’d been too busy riding the wave of happiness that having Ellie beside him—with her hand in his and with the knowledge that they were together and soon would be man and wife, acknowledged before God and all their world—sent surging through him.
What had followed after they’d each said “I do” had passed in a haze of joy.
Now, at the wedding breakfast in the Hall’s ballroom, resplendent with decorations of spring-green leaves and yellow and white flowers, echoing the palette outside, with the meal devoured and the speeches done, Godfrey paraded with Ellie on his arm, trying to keep his pride within bounds while introducing her to the surprisingly large contingent of Cavanaugh relatives and connections who had happily made the trek to North Yorkshire. Given that number included many of the haut ton and several grandes dames, such as Mary’s mother, Lady Louise Cynster, and Stacie’s mother-in-law, the Dowager Marchioness of Albury, he remained alert, uncertain how Ellie would cope with such personages or, indeed, they her. As they paused to chat with each knot of guests, the protectiveness that had awakened at his first sight of Ellie and that subsequently had become an intrinsic part of him remained vigilant, ready to step in and defend her if need be, but everyone was as delighted to meet her and warmly congratulate them as he could wish. It seemed their marriage was universally welcomed.
From various comments he overheard, he suspected he had Mary and Stacie to thank for that unanimous benediction; it sounded as if his powerful sister-in-law and his sister had put it about that they’d been hugely relieved at the news of his engagement as they’d started to fear he would never wed.
As far as Godfrey knew, such an assertion was a huge exaggeration, but there was no doubt that Mary’s and Stacie’s transparently genuine embracing of Ellie as his bride had effectively silenced any tempted to be mean-spirited about a mature lady from a provincial gentry family snaring one of the haut ton’s most-eligible partis.
He and Ellie had just excused themselves from another group of elders and turned to move on when a line of laughing, cheering children came snaking through the milling crowd. Led by Godfrey’s oldest nephew, Ryder and Mary’s eldest son, Lord Robert, Viscount Linton, a strapping twelve-year-old, the line circled Godfrey and Ellie, then many gentle but insistent small hands and bodies urged them toward the area opening up on the dance floor.
Laughing themselves, Godfrey and Ellie consented to be herded along.
“Here they are, Mama!” Robert called, then the children melted into the crowd, leaving Godfrey and Ellie at the edge of an expanse surrounded by their loved ones and friends.