Page 16 of The Spinster's Seduction(The Lover's Arch #4)

The wedding was held in the small chapel on the grounds of Havercroft. Traditionally, it was where the family would have taken their services, although they now attended the village church. Still, it felt right to stand in the dim, cool stone building, the weight of his inheritance behind him. As children, he and Evelyn had sneaked inside and hidden amongst the pews as his tutor searched for him, a birch rod in his hands.

In the decades since, he had lost himself and found himself again. And yet when he turned to see Evelyn enter the doors at the end, snow blowing in with her, he felt as though no time had passed at all. In her face, he saw the child she had been, young and eager. Afraid of him at first—afraid of everyone. Then his tentative friend, then someone he could not have forgotten even if he had wanted to. A steady point in his tumultuous life.

He smiled widely at the sight of her approaching, fabric rustling with every step, her face upturned to his, blue eyes warm and dark eyelashes wet. A necklace he recognised as being his mother’s rested at the hollow of her throat.

His bride. Not just the woman he loved, but his wife.

He reached out a hand for her as she approached, squeezing her fingers, and her own smile firmed.

“Seems odd to be here causing good instead of mischief,” he murmured to her, and she tilted her head back so she could look at him through her veil. Silvery curls decorated her temples and forehead, her usual austere bun exchanged for a gentler style, braided around her head. He would take great pleasure in undoing those braids, letting her hair tumble over her shoulders.

“I never caused mischief,” she murmured back.

“Liar. We were frequently in trouble.”

“You frequently got me in trouble.”

“We ought not to begin married life on a disagreement.”

“Then you ought to agree with me,” she whispered back, and turned to face Reverend Walters, who glowered at Charles. An older man, his back stiff with age and his face creased with a lifetime of declaring the Lord’s word from a pulpit, the reverend was a familiar figure. One that was not particularly fond of Charles. After all, Charles had once sneaked into the rectory and set fire—accidentally, mind you—to Reverend Walter’s table runners.

His father had dragged him back to apologise, and to pay for the damage, but that had set Charles’s reputation in Walters’ mind. Almost thirty years had not been enough to change his opinion.

Charles didn’t mind. And it seemed fitting that after so many years drifting off in his family’s pew, sometimes with Evelyn by his side pinching him to stay awake, Walters would be the one to officiate his marriage.

“Dearly beloved,” Walters began. “We are gathered here today . . .”

Charles let the words drift over his head and leant down to whisper in Evelyn’s ear. “You look beautiful.”

“Hush.” Still, under the dim winter light through the stained glass, he saw a flush spread across her cheeks. Perhaps she was not a great beauty by the eyes of modern standards, but he adored every line of her face. Deep, serious eyes; a small, lovely mouth; a gentle chin; skin a fraction too tanned for society’s preference; a thoughtful brow.

Tonight, and every night for the rest of his life, he would remind her of all the things he loved so she never forgot.

Reverend Walters performed the service with aplomb, not stopping to glare at Charles more than once or twice. And even Charles, slipping his ring on Evelyn’s finger, felt as though he was in the presence of something sacred. As Walters proclaimed them man and wife, Charles tipped her chin back and bent to kiss her mouth.

His wife.

Evelyn laughed, her fingers sliding through his, and after signing the wedding register, they walked down the aisle together and out into the frigid cold.

“I should have planned you a June wedding,” he said, shuddering on the short walk to the house. “Far more fitting.”

“Oh, but then you would have had to wait four long months,” she said slyly.

“True, that would have been an impossibility. I am but a man.”

She raised teasing eyes to his. “You are a future duke—can you not change the seasons to suit your mood?”

“I fear, my darling, you are destined to be disappointed when you become the Duchess of Norfolk.”

She nudged his side as she giggled, the sound spilling out like champagne from a bottle. “Disappointed, Charles? Oh no. I think I will be anything but disappointed.”

The wedding breakfast—though considering the hour, could it not be called a wedding dinner?—stretched on for several hours. But finally, perhaps sensing Evelyn’s dwindling tolerance for large groups of people, Charles had made their excuses, leading her through the rambling old house to his suite of rooms.

Their suite of rooms. As his wife now, she would share his bedchamber. His bed.

The thought sent heat pooling into her stomach.

Charles turned the handle to his bedchamber and gestured her inside. A fire roared in the fireplace, banishing any lingering chill, while heavy curtains shut out the darkened world beyond. And there, dominating the space, loomed a great four-poster bed.

“I spend little time here, typically.” Charles wrapped his arms around her waist, his mouth finding the curve of her neck. “But I think I might be persuaded to change my mind.”

“Oh?”

“The room looks far lovelier with you in it,” he murmured, turning her to face him so their bodies were flush, his back against the closed door. Yet though he had manoeuvred them into this position, she felt as though she was the one to have pinned him in place. A thrill ran through her.

“Charles,” she said.

“Yes, Evie?”

“Can this be real?”

He brushed his knuckles down her cheek, his expression patient and tender. “It feels too good to be true, doesn’t it?” His voice was low. “But I am here, and you are here with me, and you are my wife.” He took her hand, holding it against his chest, where his heart thudded steadily. “And I love you.”

The gentleness in his eyes made her breathless. “Then can we begin?”

“Tell me what you want.”

She wasn’t used to such openness, such honesty, but Charles had always expressed himself so easily—telling her what he wanted and how she made him feel—and she would learn to do the same. She would .

“I would like you to finish what you started the last time,” she said.

His grip on her hips tightened. “I’m very glad,” he said huskily, “because that is precisely what I had in mind.” Bending his head, he kissed her. Softly, at first, then deepening as she wrapped her arms around his neck and shifted closer. Under her dress, beautiful as it was, her skin burned—overheated, restless, too sensitive. Charles remained against the door, fingers working deftly at the buttons of her blouse. He peeled it off, tossing it aside. She made an impatient noise in the back of her throat, and he chuckled .

“Always so eager,” he murmured, kissing a hot line down her throat to her collarbones, newly bared as he stripped away her layers. The diamond lay there, and he paused, looking at it for a long, unspeakable moment.

Evelyn touched it, suddenly self-conscious. “Your mother gave it to me. She received it when she married your father, and she thought I should receive it on my wedding day, too.” Her fingers lingered on the gold and diamond, warmed by her body heat. “I have heirlooms my mother left me, but this is . . .”

“Precious,” he supplied.

“Yes.”

“Then you shall wear it every day, if you would like.” He unpinned her braid and ran his fingers through the twisted hair, watching as it tumbled over her shoulder. “But I think we should remove it for now. I would hate for it to be damaged.”

“Damaged?” Her heart thumped. “Precisely what do you expect to happen?”

“Mm.” His voice dropped as his fingers trailed along her throat, finding the clasp and undoing it. “I am going to make love to you. And then, when I wake beside you later tonight or tomorrow morning, I’m going to make love to you again. I do not intend to emerge from this room until we are both sated—and I warn you, Evie, that it may take a very long time.”

Her stomach clenched, but not in fear. He thought he had waited a long time, but she had been waiting since she was fifteen years old, since he had returned from fighting Julian Trowbridge with bloodied knuckles.

“Do not make me wait any longer, Charles,” she begged.

He carried the necklace to the dressing table, and when he returned to her, it was with his eyes alight with an almost feral intensity. This time, when he undressed her, he near ripped her skirts with his urgency. He did rip her chemisette and petticoats, stripping them from her with indecent haste. Only, as she watched the way he removed his frock coat and waistcoat and shirt, she found nothing indecent about the man in front of her .

The male body still held so many secrets, but she would uncover them, one by one.

“The bed,” he rasped.

She obeyed, lying with her legs closed. Charles bent over her, one hand on her knee, easing her legs open, baring her fully to him. His finger trailed down her inner thigh, and she shivered.

“You’re already wet for me,” he said, one hand going to his erection and gripping it firmly. At the sight, she ached, wishing she could feel his silky skin beneath her fingers; she wanted to be the one to make him fall apart. Come undone. Just the way he had done for her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice a plea.

“I would like to taste you. May I?” He looked up at her from where he positioned himself, kneeling on the floor before her, his head between her legs. “Say you’ll let me, Evie. I’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

Taste her. Her head spun, but she knew she could not turn him down now. And at the thought of his tongue, which had teased hers so delightfully, being in her most precious place made her tighten. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. Please.”

“Thank the Lord.” He kissed her inner knee. Then down, alternating legs as he marked her inner thighs with hot, wet kisses. She throbbed, she ached, she writhed, and he looked at her with unmistakable male pride. A little smugness.

She gripped the sheets in her fists. “Now.”

The first press of his tongue was a relief. A supplication. The next made her cry out in shock. The heat, pressing heat, such pleasure. With one hand on her stomach holding her down, and the other wrapped around a leg, keeping her open for him, he assaulted her senses. After so long wanting, the flare of pleasure almost overwhelmed her. She slid a hand into his hair, hips moving helplessly against him as she sought the bliss she had found with him the last time.

“That’s right.” He bit her inner thigh, and she gasped again, the sounds too loud in the softly lit room. “Take what you need from me. Use your words, Evelyn. Tell me what you like. What you want.” The tip of his finger teased her entrance. “Or can you not form full sentences?” She felt his lips curve against her folds.

“Don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry, my darling. I have no intention of stopping. Not yet.” He pushed that single finger inside her, holding her down as her back arched. This was what women ruined themselves over—and heavens, wasn’t it worth it? This pleasure, this connection, this sensation. So much more than anything else her life could provide.

The heat inside her built, just as before.

She clenched around his finger, needing something more, a hollowness inside her she could not account for.

His tongue flicked lazily across the bud she had discovered the last time, and his finger crooked against her inner walls.

She fell apart. Wholly and completely, losing herself to the flood of pleasure, aware of nothing but his hands and mouth and the taste of his name on her lips.

This time, she did not concern herself with being quiet. This pleasure was not illicit.

After, she found Charles beside her, one hand still between her legs, the other pressing tender kisses to her cheeks. She twisted in his arms, meeting his mouth with hers. She tasted herself on his lips, and there was something so primal in that knowledge that she let out a tiny noise of shock and arousal.

“I love you,” Charles said, drawing back and looking at her. “Long ago, I told you that this ought to be the sort of thing that you should experience with your husband.” His smile gentled. “And now you are.”

“You and your honour.” For a strange reason, she felt like weeping, the pressure of emotion in her chest too much for her to bear. “I never intended to hold out for a husband, Charles. I asked you because I wanted you. Yes, because I wanted to know everything, but I asked you— you —because I loved you too much to lose you before having something to take with me.”

He rolled over her, eyes glittering in the near dark. “Say that again.”

“Say what? ”

“That you love me.”

“My darling,” she said, reaching up a hand to cup his cheek. “How can someone so astute be so blind?”

“I know you love me, and I have done little enough over the years to deserve it. But to be in love with me—that is a different thing entirely, Pidge, and you know it.”

She had the absurd desire to laugh, though it came out more like a sob. “I have been in love with you longer than I ever knew what love meant. What did you think? That I was merely fond of you? Would I have given you my heart and my body so freely if that were the case? I was a spinster, and content to be so. You are what compelled me to matrimony. Because how could I turn down a chance to share a life with you, if you wanted it too?” And he had done—he must have done, or he would never have gone to all this effort for her alone. Lady Rosamund would have been the sensible, dutiful choice. He had thrown that over for her. Her .

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. When he lowered his face to hers, she felt tears on his cheek. His arousal pressed against her leg, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tightly against her.

The last time they had been here, his erection nudging her entrance, she had thought the words and not uttered them, and they had been interrupted before she could have him.

“I love you,” she said, determined that she would not stay silent this time. “I love you, Charles Hardinge.”

Now, he shoved inside her with a decisive thrust. He was far larger than his fingers had been, but although the stretch almost burned, there was no pain. Nothing but a stab of pleasure so intense, she moaned. He did the same, braced against her, hands shaking a little as they cupped her face.

“How—how is that?” he asked.

“Good. Wonderful.” She slid a hand down his side, at the wiry muscle, the slight jut of his hipbones. He was all hardness to her softness. She liked the way it felt, the press of his weight. The feeling of him thick and hard inside her. So deep. “Keep going,” she whispered .

He shuddered and flexed his hips, his movements tentative at first. The second thrust felt almost as good as the first; the third, even better. She canted her hips, encouraging him deeper, following primal instinct. His hands were everywhere—her breasts, her face, her stomach, her legs, squeezing her waist as though he could not help himself. As though it took everything within himself to keep his pace. Again and again, he pushed into her, until time ceased to have meaning. All she knew was she never wanted this to end.

And, by the way he touched her, whispering praise against her skin, neither did he.

This transcended anything she thought she could experience. And not just from the pleasure of it, but the intimacy of his skin against hers, his mouth against hers, the joining that brought them so irrevocably together—not just of bodies, but of hearts, of souls.

She yielded everything she had to him.

Her husband.

He gave a rough laugh against her hair. “You make me feel like a boy again,” he said, and she pressed a clumsy kiss to his shoulder. “Ready to spill at a moment’s notice.”

She pressed herself more firmly against him, rising to meet his thrust. He hissed between his teeth, and she thought she saw stars. His breath shuddered, and her thoughts splintered as he pinched her nipple. Another moan slipped free, and he made a noise of appreciation.

“I want to—” He palmed her breast, his other hand at her waist, as though he wanted to drive into her deeper still. There was an urgency to his movements now, control fraying. “Evie,” he groaned. “Evie, love, I’m not sure I can last much longer. Do you think you can—”

Could he be talking about her climax? “Again?”

“An . . . advantage ladies have over gentlemen.” He gave a strained smile. “Can you?”

“I—I don’t know.” She didn’t think so, as wonderful as it felt. There was not the same coiling tension that his mouth had brought about.

Capturing her in his arms, he rolled them both, positioning her so she lay on him, knees braced against the bed. He eased her into a sitting position, guiding her until all she had to do was roll her hips for him to be everywhere she needed him. He exhaled sharply and brought his hand to the apex of her thighs once more. His thumb brushed against that sensitive nub, and she had to brace herself against his chest as she tried to coordinate her movements. Her body knew what she wanted—more of this.

“No matter,” he said, eyes glazed. “It’s—not uncommon for ladies to require . . .” At the next roll of her hips, his breath caught. “This.” He stroked, small circles. “Is this where you need me? Tell me, Evie.”

“Yes. There.”

He nodded, concentration written into every feature as he watched the point where their bodies joined. When she looked down, seeing his hand there, the sight was the most erotic of her life. That image alone made the tension wind tighter inside her once more. A coil of heat building in her lower belly. An impossibility, she had thought, but he worked her tirelessly, seeming to know what she needed before she did.

Her breaths came in short gasps, and she moved on him faster, chasing that sensation, needing it.

Charles closed his eyes, every muscle tensed. “Evelyn,” he groaned.

“Just a little longer. Just a little more.” She ground against him, so close now, so close, so close.

“ Evelyn .”

“I just need—” She just needed a little more, and she understood that as far as it was in his power, Charles would seek to give it to her. He would allow her the space to take her pleasure, and he would hold off on his own to allow her that.

There was a wildness in her, something base and starving, that had her pressing his hand more firmly against herself, the other hand cupping her own breast—how odd to touch her own body in this way. But there could be nothing wrong with something that felt so good. Could not .

Underneath her, Charles’s muscles locked, a groan ripping from his lips, and he opened his eyes, looking at her with something akin to desperation. “Evie, I don’t think I can—” His jaw clenched and his eyes rolled, and she watched pleasure wash across his face. His body jerked underneath her, and she kept going, kept rubbing herself as he spilled himself inside her.

The sight of Charles coming undone so thoroughly underneath her brought about her peak, her climax shuddering through her as she bucked. His hands remained on her waist, holding her as she, too, fell apart.

By the end, she felt so exhausted, so boneless, that she slid off him and into the welcoming circle of his arms. Charles kissed her, at once chaste and adoring. “Welcome to my bed, wife,” he said, sleepy and teasing all at once. “I have wanted you here any time since the age of seventeen.”

She snuggled closer. “Liar. You were never interested in me then.”

“Who’s the liar? I had eyes, Evie, but my daydreams were about a certain young lady with dark hair and serious eyes, who indulged me and my foolishness far more than she ought to have done.” His fingers trailed along her upper arm as he considered. “I imagine my parents can blame you for the wildness of my younger years. If it were not for your indulgence, I may never have—”

“ Charles . I will not take the blame for your poor behaviour.”

“Quite right, Pidge. But I do believe after that odious boy tried to kiss you, I began seeing you as a lady rather than the girl I used to play with.”

“Julian Trowbridge.”

“I despise that you still know his name.”

She laughed. “You fought him for me.”

“I would do it again—and worse. Could he not see that you disliked having him close? And to do that?” His arm tightened around her waist. “It took you years to accept me, and that Trowbridge thought he could kiss you after a handful of walks in the garden?”

“And yet you never tried to kiss me, Charles,” she said, running the pads of her fingers along the rough underside of his jaw. “You ought to have done.”

“Would you have welcomed that?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I think I would.”

“Then I have nothing to blame but my foolish honour.” He tipped her chin back so he could kiss her properly again. “Do you recall the first time I proposed?”

“How could I not? You swaggered in and told me that we dealt so excellently, we may as well marry and have done with it.”

He gave a little pained groan. “Those were the words I settled for?”

“Yes. You were a trifle tipsy.”

“I was in my cups,” he said ruefully. “But Evie, even then I was only half in jest. Had you agreed to marry me, I would have met you at the altar happily.”

So much of their life had passed them by, neither one aware of how the other felt. She had been content to love from a distance, and he had no doubt convinced himself that he did not love her at all. And yet here they were, a wedding ring engraved with their names sitting on her finger. The sensation of it there was unfamiliar, but she suspected she would grow accustomed to it soon enough.

That almost seemed a shame. She never wanted to forget what a privilege this was. To be his wife.

“Then let’s spend the rest of our life making up for it,” she said, looking back at him.

“That’s what I promised when I put the ring on your finger,” he said. “Every day in paradise.”

“Well,” she said. “Maybe not paradise. But together.”

He smiled. Her heart, fickle thing that it was, stopped as he leaned over to brush his mouth across hers. “To me,” he murmured, “that’s the same damn thing.”