“I know you do not want to marry. I know the last thing you want is a man controlling you as your mother has done. But I swear to you, if you marry me, I will never tell you what to say, what to wear, or what to eat. I just want to love you—you, the clever, opinionated, beautiful woman I fell in love with all those years ago.”
It seemed to Emmeline the torch grew brighter and the room was filled with warmth and light. The dread she’d felt for so many Seasons at the idea of having a husband—a lord and master—faded. Stratford knelt before her. Stratford. She must have loved him almost as long as he’d loved her, only she hadn’t realized it until recently. And why hadn’t she realized it? He had always been, and was, perfect for her. “Stratford, I—”
“Damn, I forgot to ask you the question.” He cleared his throat. “Emmeline Anne Wellesley, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She wanted to smile at him, at the look of nervousness on his face. He really did not know how she would answer. Foolish man. How could she ever say no?
“Stratford Leopold Fortescue, I will.” She pulled him up and off his knees and into her arms. And when he kissed her, it was the sweetest, softest, most respectful kiss she could ever imagine. “Is that the best you can do?” she asked.
He blew out a breath. “Emmeline, I am trying to behave as a gentleman should to his betrothed.”
She cocked her head. “Why?”
“Because I love you.”
She pulled his mouth back to hers for another kiss. “Then love me.” This time she kissed him, her mouth taking his in a fervent mating of lips and tongues. Her hands roamed over his arms, his broad shoulders, his strong back. But she wanted to feel more of him as she had that day in the spring. She pushed at his coat, and he pulled back.
“Miss Wellesley, I fear you intend to take advantage of me.”
She looked about the cave. “And you brought me here because you are such a romantic?”
“I brought you here because I knew we could talk without interruption.”
“That’s not all we can do without interruption.”
He shook his head then removed his coat and hung it over a nearby rock. “You are a wicked woman, Miss Wellesley.”
“You like it.” She beckoned him closer.
“I do.”
She pulled at his neckcloth until it came loose, and she could unfasten the row of buttons at his throat. She placed small kisses there as she lifted the tails of the shirt from his trousers and moved her hands underneath the linen to the hard muscles of his abdomen and chest. “Unfasten your cuffs,” she murmured, loving the feel of his skin under her fingertips.
“I’ll freeze in here without a shirt.” But he reached for his cuffs.
“I’ll keep you warm.”
He stood and she helped him draw off his shirt, admiring the way his chest gleamed in the torchlight. She went to her knees and pressed kisses on his neck and chest and down his belly. When she reached the waistband of his trousers, the evidence of his arousal was clear. She reached for the placket, and he caught her hand.
“Not so fast. I haven’t had a chance to see you.”
She gave him a wary look. “If I remove this gown, I will never be able to find all the pins to put it back on again, not to mention it’s far too cold in here.”
“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, echoing her words. He kissed her, his hands making quick work of her bodice, removing several dress pins until he could push it down. Her nipples hardened when the wool bodice was removed, and he pushed down her stays. She was cold with only the linen shift over her skin, but she shivered at the heat in his eyes as he drew that fabric down, revealing one nipple.
“I’ve dreamed of these,” he said, lowering his head and kissing the turgid point. His other hand cupped her breast and kneaded it gently, taking that nipple between thumb and forefinger until she was panting with need. A few more tugs of fabric, and he had her fully exposed, his mouth all over her, making her hot and provoking an insistent tug in her lower belly.
“I want you,” she whispered as he laid her back, hands braced on either side of her, eyes full of love and desire.
“I want you.” His hand slid under her skirts, cupping her calves then her thighs, then parting her thighs and moving upward until he paused.
Eyes closed, she opened them at his sound of confusion. “What is this?” He touched the material of her drawers, tracing the fabric. “Are these—?”
“Drawers? Yes.”
He blinked then laughed. “Good God, I had no idea.”
She rolled her eyes. “I will never understand why a woman wearing drawers is considered more forward than going without. How is a woman with a bare arse under her gown demurer than a woman wearing drawers?”
“I don’t know, and it’s a question I’ll have to ponder later.” He found the slit in the fabric and his hand brushed against her curls, making her inhale sharply.
“Yes, later,” she said.
“Thank God I did not know you wore these before.” His fingers found her flesh and brushed over it lightly, teasingly. “I would not have been able to resist you.”
“Men,” she muttered. Or at least that was her intention. The word came out on a gasp as he found her center and parted her lips.
“You’re so wet.” He slid a finger inside her, and she arched in response. “God, yes. I could watch you do that for the rest of my life.” He withdrew his finger, slid it up to that small nub that ached for his touch, and circled her.
She moaned.
“I am the luckiest man in England,” he said.
“We’re in Scotland,” she said before she remembered to keep her Impertinence to herself.
But Stratford only chuckled. “The luckiest man in England and Scotland. You like that?”
“Oh, yes.”
He slid a finger inside her again, his thumb circling her, and making her forget everything except the feel of his hands on her.
“I want to see you come. I’ve dreamed of seeing you again.”
“I want to see you,” she said, opening her eyes. She reached for his trousers again, and his free hand stopped her.
“Should we save that for the wedding night?”
She frowned. “When we’re both exhausted after a day of smiling at our tiresome families and then we must be quiet because we don’t want to wake up the house?” She looked about the cave. “I like this much better.”
He pulled back. “I can’t take you without marrying you.”
Emmeline sighed. She loved Stratford’s honor, but sometimes it could be tiresome. And then she remembered.
They were in Scotland.
“Do you have a length of rope?”
He gave her a look that said he thought she had gone quite mad. “No.”
“Ribbon then? String?”
He moved to the satchel, untied one of the packages of food he had inside—he really had planned for a picnic—and offered her the string.
“I know this is not legal, but it will be weeks before we can marry in a church.” She twined her fingers with his and laid the string over their hands.
“A handfasting?” he asked. “Don’t we need witnesses?”