Page 31 of While the Duke Was Sleeping (England’s Sweethearts #1)
Luncheon stretched on for hours. In the space of two days Mrs. Carlyle and her kitchen staff had put together a feast unlike any Rhett had ever experienced. For every country he’d sent a Christmas bauble from, she’d replicated a local dish with astonishing accuracy. With every dish, he and his new wife shared a story of their favorite time eating it—punctuated by comments from Adelaide such as “Pain au chocolat from France. Wait, no. Apfelstrudel from Germany.” And “I change my mind, Spanish churros.”
“Any form of pastry, then?” Jac said, accepting another glass of lemonade from a passing footman.
Adelaide nodded. “Yes. Any form of pastry and I’m in heaven.”
“Good to know, sister. There is an exceptional bakery in the village.”
Adelaide popped a mini quiche in her mouth and looked at Rhett. “I am aware.”
Standing in the bakery’s only empty space, hands pressed against each other’s as they built a metaphorical wall, was the moment Rhett had realized they might be soulmates. It was certainly the moment he’d realized they were kindred spirits. Now he knew why—they’d both been floating the continent, experiencing it alone. Now they could experience it together.
With her next to him, he would be one of the best foreign diplomats out there. Her natural ability to adapt to her environment and fit in seamlessly, just as she’d done this past week, would be an asset. She would have as great an impact as he would, working the often-hidden side of strategic decisions, made by women across tea sets and shared with husbands across pillows.
He’d personally experienced her ability to influence. Together, they would be a powerhouse.
Jac and Winnie—Winnie in particular—soaked in every word of Rhett and Adelaide’s reminiscing, with oohs and aahs, and comments like “Can women have a grand tour, or is it limited to men?” and “Peter, when Rhett and Adelaide are set up, the family should visit, don’t you think?”
Peter, for his part, managed not a single disparaging word. In fact, judging by the ever-present smile on his face and the way he clapped Rhett on the shoulder, he was both supportive of and happy for his brother. A miracle, or perhaps inevitable if Rhett had been open to seeing it.
“We will go to London to talk to the Prime Minister next week,” Peter said. “Though it may take some months before you can settle into a posting. What will you do in the meantime?”
Rhett looked to Della, who had ensconced herself on a settee with Meg, the two women talking animatedly. “If you’re willing to loan me the money, which I swear to pay back, I’ll buy an empty house in London and watch Della fill it. That way we’ll have a home base.”
“If it means having you home more often, you have my full support. Talk with Andrew. Work out a budget. He can see to the financial aspects.”
Rhett pulled Peter into a hug, having not felt this close to his brother since childhood, except… He had been closer than this, far more recently and with far fewer clothes. He drew back, still holding on to Peter by the shoulders. “I’m truly sorry.”
Peter frowned. “For interrupting the wedding? That’s all right.”
Rhett let out a short, sharp sigh. “For the lengths we went to to wake you. One day, someone will tell you the stories and Gods, I hope I’m out of the country when that happens.”
Peter opened his mouth—to object, to interrogate, to forgive, Rhett would never know. He ducked out of his brother’s reach to avoid the awkward questions and made his way toward his wife. He’d been out of her orbit for a full twenty minutes now, and that was too long for newlyweds. It was far too long, full stop.
Ten feet from his bride, Rhett was stopped, his uncle sidling up next to him, seemingly from nowhere.
“Congratulations, son. I hope.”
Rhett pressed his lips together. He took full responsibility for his actions. He’d left when he shouldn’t have. He’d given in to his fears. But still, there was a part of him that resented his uncle for stoking those fears to begin with.
Rhett didn’t know what Frank’s motivations had been. Perhaps his uncle really was trying to look out for him. Perhaps not. Either way, at the moment Rhett needed support, Frank had not been that. All Frank could see was the person Rhett had been and not the man he was now. Rhett felt a twist of sadness as he realized he’d grown beyond their relationship. Unless Frank also chose to give up his bitterness, there was no room for him in Rhett’s life beyond the occasional encounter at a family event. That was sad. They’d once been close. But, as he looked at Della and she caught his smile, returning it with her own sweet one, he was okay with that loss because what he was gaining was so much richer.
“May I have my bride?” Rhett asked Meg.
His sister shook her head. “I’m not finished with her. We have much to discuss.”
“You have a lifetime to discuss it. We will be back for every Christmas, every wedding, every birth. I promise.” He took Della’s hand, wondering if he would always feel this sense of having come to rest when he touched her. Leaning close enough to smell the lemon in her hair, he whispered, “Do you think we can escape yet?”
His sister’s ability to throw together a last-minute celebration was to be admired and endured. As the hours had worn on, the tension within him coiled tighter. Intertwining fingers, resting his hand on the small of her back, her thumb grazing his—those moments weren’t enough.
He needed her. He needed the taste of her lips and the silk of her skin, and the feeling of her beneath him. He needed to kiss her long and deep, in a way that would scandalize the footmen and send his brother into a conniption, so he had endured with quick pecks on her cheek or the press of his lips to her hair while they enjoyed the celebration.
But enough was enough. He could love his family tomorrow. Right now, he was going to make love to his wife.
“I think we can go, if we make it subtle,” she whispered.
They were on the opposite side of the room to the door. “Subtle will take longer,” he murmured. He ran his hand down her waist, wrapping it around her hip and pulling her against him.
Her breath quickened. “Not so subtle then.”
He tried not to make eye contact with anyone as he steered her directly through the middle of the room at a quick clip, though he could feel all eyes on them.
A red flush crept up the back of Adelaide’s neck, but she didn’t slow her pace or veer off course. The moment they were out of the room and away from prying eyes she started laughing. “Your family is tactful enough not to mention our quick exit, aren’t they?”
“Our family. And they will definitely bring it up when it suits them, probably for the rest of our lives.”
She shook her head but grinned regardless, and then wrapped an arm around his neck, twining her fingers through his hair. “We best make the innuendo worth it, then.” She pressed her lips against his, her body against his body, her hand on his chest.
It was more than any sane man could take. He lifted her and carried the two steps needed to flatten her back against the wall. His tongue ran across the seam of her lips, begging, pleading, until she opened to him. They explored each other, hands roaming frantically across necklines and waistcoat buttons, and the damned waistband of his pants.
“Gods, I want you.”
It was the sound of the door next to them snicking closed and Meg’s embarrassed cough that drew them apart.
“While I can understand your enthusiasm, brother, perhaps it’s time to take it upstairs.” She returned to the room, no doubt to prevent her younger sisters from leaving until Rhett and Della had taken a moment to adjust themselves and depart.
He tried to draw her upstairs, but she pulled back until he faced her, and then she cupped his cheek in her hand. “You’re perfect,” she whispered.
The words cut through him like the Viking sword of Sigurd. No one had ever thought him perfect. He’d been called handsome, amusing, a skilled lover, an entertaining friend, an excellent shot, a keen gamer with the devil’s own luck, even physical perfection by the artists he’d posed for, but never perfect in and by itself. His heart twisted at the thought that Della had seen him for who he truly was, flaws and all, and still thought him splendid.
“No, you are perfect.” She was, and she was his. He’d done nothing in his life to deserve a woman with such kindness, intelligence, or beauty. She was not his karma or a reward from the gods. He’d not earned such a prize. She felt like a sign from fate, though, an encouragement from the universe, a sense of divine belief that he would be worthy of her. His future would not be a reflection of his past. They would forge something new.
Finally, he had something to reach for, not run from.
She shook her head. “No, you are perfect.”
He pressed her knuckles to his lips. “I have never been this happy. I didn’t even know it existed.”
“Me too,” she whispered. It was her turn to drag him toward the stairs and up to his bedroom. He didn’t pull back at all.