She nodded. “You-you’re too big. You don’t fit.”
“It’s only this first time,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to kiss her gently. “I’m fitting you to me, sweetling. After this time, I promise our joining will bring you nothing but pleasure.”
He moved within her again, and her nails dug deeper.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked. God, he prayed she would not ask him to stop, but he mentally girded himself for the possibility. He could still cease, but if he did not pull out soon, he would not be able to control himself. Already, instinct began overriding reason. Unable to resist, he moved within her, sliding against her sleek folds. He bit back a groan.
“Sweetling,” he said between clenched teeth, “if you want me to stop, you have to say so now. I can’t”—he moved inside her again, thrusting deeper into her warmth—“hold on much longer.” And then he felt her legs wrap around him, and her body relax enough so that she seemed to accommodate him. “You are my husband now in truth,” she said, and kissed him with passion.
“Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He was gentle and cautious, holding back as much as he could until the urge to plunge into her a final time overtook him. He was aware that her fingernails dug into his bunched shoulders, that she smelled like peaches and him, and that he had never known he could feel so much pleasure. And then he could hold back no longer, and he didn’t want to. He went over the edge and plunged into her with body and soul.
When they finally parted, he pulled her close and fit his body around her, cradling her in his arms. “Next time,” he whispered into her hair, “I promise I’ll give you only pleasure.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her breath tickling the skin of his shoulder.
He held her like that, staying awake and vigilant until she slept. And even then he did not doze. He lay beside her, listening to her quiet breathing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, and losing himself in the heat her woman’s body generated in slumber.
She was gone when he awoke the next morning. He was disappointed at not finding her beside him, but admittedly he’d overslept. He dressed quickly, hoping to catch her before her morning ride and perhaps join her, but as he strode down the steps of his house his butler announced that Meeps was waiting for him in the study.
Not the person Quint wanted to see just then, but business would have to win over pleasure today. Meeps was sitting in one of the armchairs, reading the Times and sipping tea when Quint strode in. The assistant stood, bowed, then gestured to a lone sheet of paper on Quint’s desk. Quint went to it immediately. As he read, he had to sit down.
It took a moment for Quint to find his voice, and then he said, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“My lord, I told you others were in competition for the Cabinet seat.”
“Others, yes. You said Fairfax had not been given a nod.”
Meeps inclined his head. “It was a foregone conclusion, especially once your name was thrown into the ring.”
Quint swore. Fairfax and he had been contemporaries at Oxford, always in competition with one another. They were not enemies, not even on opposite sides of the political fence. Their careers had been on a parallel course until last spring when Fairfax married Lady Honoria, daughter of the Duke of Astly.
Quint had watched as Fairfax’s popularity soared. Lady Honoria was polished and beautiful. She was schooled in the social graces by those who made the rules of etiquette, and the political salons and soirees she hosted for Fairfax were immensely popular among the secretaries and Cabinet ministers.
Lady Honoria had been one reason Quint decided it was time he seek a wife. He could not hope to keep up with men like Fairfax without some ammunition.
And now he had his ammunition—the niece of an earl—nothing to scoff at. Except he had not married the charming Elizabeth Fullbright, but her shy, socially awkward sister.
“Fairfax. Goddamn it,” Quint grumbled now. “I advised you to stay in London.”
Quint glared at Meeps, and his assistant shrank back in his chair a bit. “Since you seem so adept at advising me,” Quint said in his most scathing tone, “why don’t you advise me what to do now? Fairfax is the undisputed favorite for the Cabinet seat. How do I change that?”
“You must return to London. Posthaste.”
“Damn it, but I knew you were going to say that.”
“And then you must launch a three-pronged attack.”
Quint sat forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. He liked organized strategies. “Go on.”
“Your first line of attack will be Parliament. You must quickly attach yourself to the new act sponsored by Lord Graves. It’s bound to be controversial.”
Quint shuffled through the stack of papers Meeps had moved aside until he found the documents he sought. “Ha! Graves wants to lower taxes on”—he flipped several pages—“hell, on a whole host of items.”
“Fairfax opposes the bill.”
“What a surprise. It’s not going to be popular.” “Except with the people. Pass that bill, gain the people’s support, and the prime minister cannot afford to overlook you.”
