“Yes, to Punch and Judy,” she laughed as they sipped their wine cuddled on the sofa.
“Until now, our efforts have been centered on safeguarding one another.” He paused, his gaze meeting hers with true curiosity, “We haven’t spoken about what we want for ourselves, for our own future. What are your hopes and dreams?”
Juliet’s eyes met his, and in them, she saw the spark of shared aspirations. “A home filled with laughter and warmth,” her words were a breathy echo in the hushed space. “Children, perhaps, running through the gardens without the worry of the world beyond these walls.”
Silence settled between them, the air thick with unspoken dreams and hopes. Finally, Juliet tilted her head, her smile soft and tender. “You have a way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary.”
Glenraven raised an eyebrow playfully as he refilled her glass with wine. “Juliet, in your presence, even this humble wine seems as though it should be savored in a royal chalice.” His tone was light, the corners of his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile.
Juliet sipped her wine, the rich aroma complementing the bouquet of scents from the garden that filled the room. She let the silence stretch between them, a comfortable lull in their conversation. “Ewan, I’ve always admired the loyalty and friendship between men.” Her gaze met his, reflecting the flickering candlelight.
Juliet nestled against Glenraven’s shoulder with ease. Their conversation flowed naturally, meandering like the garden paths outside. They spoke of their favorite books, revealing a shared love for the classics and an appreciation for poetry that surprised them both. They discussed the changing seasons and how each preferred the crispness of autumn to the heat of summer. Glenraven expressed an interest in horticulture, which Juliet matched with her fondness for painting. She confessed a desire to capture the beauty of the summerhouse garden on canvas. They even touched upon lighter subjects, such as childhood escapades, how he played chess with his cousin, and the simple pleasures of a well-brewed cup of tea.
She lifted her head and caught her breath as his smile danced across his lips. More than charm and confidence, she saw his promise of passionate encounters and thrilling adventures.
“I thought you were beautiful when you approached me in the chapel. You were even more radiant this evening.”
She closed her eyes as his deep, rich voice flowed over her. He awakened a deep longing in her, a craving so fierce that she forgot all caution and restraint.
“But now—”
She reached up and kissed his lips softly, tentatively not allowing him to finish what he was saying. Hesitantly, she broke the kiss. Their eyes connected, holding for a moment that went on and on.
He stared at her eyes and hair, but when he focused on her lips, he pulled her close and claimed them. His kiss, first tender and sweet, grew more demanding.
She was lost to the storm, to sensations she had never experienced, sensations to which she surrendered and hoped he wouldn’t stop.
He drew back slowly, the warmth of their kiss lingering as their lips parted. A soft sigh filled the space between them, a silent echo of their tenderness.
“I’ll be your Abigail, Madame.” His voice was deep and husky, and he pulled out one of her hairpins.
She glanced at his eyes and saw the laughter and couldn’t help but laugh with him. “Then I must be your valet, my lord.” The twinkle in her eye had him chuckling.
He gently lifted the circlet from her hair and placed it on the nearby table. Then, one by one, he removed the rest of her hairpins, letting them scatter without concern. Once her hair fell loose, he ran his fingers through the soft strands, massaging her scalp with a soothing rhythm.
Her eyes closed in response, a serene smile spreading across her face. He was captivated by the simple joy that played upon her features.
He stepped closer to her, her chest nearly against his, reached around, and pulled the bow loose at the top of her gown.
Her eyes flew open. She stared at him for a heartbeat as the corners of her lips tipped up. She undid his cravat and then his waistcoat. He didn’t move. Her fingers worked unbuttoning his shirt. After she pulled the linen back over his shoulders and helped him shrug out of it, she ran her fingers down his chest.
“Your gown, my lady. It’s a beautiful shade of green.” He unlaced the ribbon as she held the bodice in place. When he had the ribbon free, he tossed it to the side, gently took the gown from her hand, and let it fall to the floor.
Ewan stood awestruck.
Nothing. Juliet stood without anything on. Her chestnut hair cascaded, flowing down over her shoulders, modestly covering her breasts. In Glenraven’s eyes, she was his own Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.
“I thought women—” he stammered.
“It was Aunt Geraldine’s idea,” she whispered, never looking away from him.
“I will thank her—”
“You will do no such thing,” her voice louder than she planned, “Ewan James Alasdair Danford Glenraven.”
He began to laugh but quickly sucked in his breath as she began to work him free of his trousers. When she was done, he guided her onto the bed amidst the plush pillows and the soft fabric. He held her close, her breasts against his chest, and felt her heart beating quickly like a timid sparrow.
“What did I do to deserve you?” he murmured, cradled her. “I love you.”
