And when she rippled with pleasure, again, her bones melting, a scream tearing from her throat before she collapsed onto the mattress, he knew he was.
A few more pumps brought him to completion, and the pleasure rocketing through his body turned him into a different man.
Every nerve ending firing like lightning across a storm-heavy sky, he collapsed atop her for a few breaths. Each kiss he placed upon her neck a prayer, then he crawled onto the bed and, together, they wiggled toward the top, wrapped in one another’s arms. He pulled the blankets over as she turned to him, kissed his chest with closed eyes and nestled close as she could get.
Sleep took her quickly and soundly. Her eyelids fluttered pale and blue above a deep sweep of fire-gold lashes. Her mouth pouted out in the innocent fashion of slumber, and he lay for hours—watching.
So this was what it was like to be fully and irrevocably in love? He always knew it would be spectacular and terrifying. All the greatest tricks were. How the hell was he to keep this, keep her? She claimed to want nothing but a lover, a temporary scratch of her itch. He suspected she might want more. She liked being possessed by him, liked being cared for, and he wanted to be the man who had that privilege.
She rolled in her sleep, putting distance between them. He almost reached for her to bring her back to the home of his body. But he didn’t. He didn’t want a body’s length of distance between them, so he’d have to banish the other distance first, the distance between her intentions and her desire, his fears and his needs.
Thirteen
The new spring warmth in the air crept under Freddy’s collar. She was perilously close to peeling off her spencer to allow her arms to breathe. The garment added to her frustration. Grant should have arrived by now. He was never late to his lessons with Izzy and Bridget. Where was he? She paced the path back and forth as the girls chased one another in circles round the placid pony while the groom held tight to its reins.
Worry gnawed at her in a way she’d never quite experienced. Worry had become a habit for her in the days since she’d begun her affair with Grant. Worry had been wearing her thin, especially after he’d put her up on the horse. So high. So dangerous. She stopped, planted her feet to the ground and rolled her shoulders, loosening her concern, throwing it away. He was not hers to worry about, was he?
“Good afternoon, Freddy darling.”
She jumped at the whisper in her ear, the warmth at her back. “Grant!” She whirled, fluttered her hands about his chest, wanting to touch to reassure herself he was solid, real, and uninjured. Clearing her throat, she said, “Mr. Webster, you’re late.”
“My apologies.” He stepped beside her, grinning at the girls and their circular game. “William had an accident.” The slightest flinch followed this news.
“An accident?” Her own voice small. “Is he well?”
Grant grunted. “He will be. With time. He’ll heal.”
“Wh-what happened?”
“He fell. I told him he wasn’t ready for Wellington. The blasted boy will likely listen to me from now on. The only silver lining of this debacle.” He inhaled deeply, exhaled, then turned to her with a grin, letting go of the weight of William’s foolishness. “Are the girls ready for their lesson?”
“Perhaps we should cancel. You should be with William.”
His jaw ticked. “Doctor Monroe is with William. I am here.”
“Does injury really affect you so little?”
He turned to her, frowning. “It is a fact of my trade, Freddy.”
“Yes.” And she hated that as much as she admired it. “They are ready.”
He gave her a curt nod, then put on the smile she’d come to recognize as his performance smile, the one he gave all of London during a show—charming and brilliant and false. Then he gathered the girls from their game and set Bridget atop Persephone before setting Izzy atop his shoulders. The girls gave him the adoring glances they usually reserved for Max; they did not know the danger. It likely never occurred to them they could lose this new man in their lives. But Freddy knew, and the worry from before—justified, it seemed—sank into her very bones. They would be crushed once more. Her daughters’ eyes would turn crystal from tears, and their little chests would ache from sobbing.
One day. One day when it was Grant who fell instead of William.
Freddy pressed her palms to her chest to keep her heart from beating out from between her ribs.
She’d woken sated and happy in his arms after their lesson at Garrison’s, the recognition that she did not want to leave him, ever, settled deep within her like a pulsing vein. She’d let him kiss her and fondle her and tease her as she’d dressed. She’d let him bundle her into his carriage with promises in his eyes. Promises for what? Not to fall? Not to die? Not to break her heart and her children’s?
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she dashed it away with her gloved hand and glanced at the others to make sure they took no notice of the cracks in her, spreading out everywhere. But looking only made the cracks spread more quickly. Izzy rode now, Bridget running alongside her, Grant laughing at them, correcting Izzy’s posture. The three of them the very picture of a dream, a heart’s hoping. Another tear, another dashing hand. She’d made promises, too. To herself and to her daughters, that they would not know the sort of pain they’d known over their father again.
No. She couldn’t let it happen. She must end this now, before he was hurt and they were hurt. She would slice her heart out of her chest so her daughters didn’t have to cry again.
Grant nodded to the groom when Izzy sat straighter and let the man take over, then he set his steps toward her.
Her breath shook, and she smoothed her skirts, ordered her thoughts in an attempt to soothe herself.
He stepped into pace beside her. “The girls are running wild for a bit. May I take your arm?”
