The necklace felt heavy and cold around her neck, but his fingers were warm as they brushed across her skin. With his hands resting on her shoulders, he met her gaze in the looking glass. “Perfect,” he breathed, then bent and pressed a warm kiss on the sensitive skin of her nape.
A shiver of heat rippled through her and without conscious volition her eyelids fluttered closed and she leaned back into his body.
After a moment he moved back and, feeling a little embarrassed, she remembered to open her eyes and look at the necklace in the mirror. It was a perfect match for the dress.
“Earrings?” He handed her a dainty pair of ruby earrings and she put them in, then turned her head back and forth, examining them in the looking glass. “They’re lovely.” She didn’t often wear earrings—she’d only had herears pierced when she came to London—but these were pretty.
“Now these.” He clasped the bracelet around her wrist, then slid the ring onto her finger, next to her bright gold wedding ring. The ring was unusual, a square-cut ruby, the setting the same intricate gold design. He stood back to examine the overall effect. “What do you think? Not too old-fashioned?”
The earrings danced as she shook her head. “No, they’re beautiful. Antique, rather than old-fashioned. Thank you, d—” She broke off. She couldn’t keep calling him duke. “What should I call you? Redmond, as your mother does, or would you prefer me to call you Everingham? Or Hart, like your friend Mr. Sinclair does?”
He considered it. “My mother calls me Redmond, but I’ve never liked the name. But I don’t mind what you call me.”
She grinned. “Ooh, dangerous suggestion. That leaves the choice wide open.” She thought about the rubies that were his grandmother’s. “What did your grandmother call you?”
“Redmond.” He wrinkled his nose.
“Then I think I’ll call you Hart, as your friends do. Thank you, Hart. And I am honored and delighted to be wearing your grandmother’s beautiful jewels.” She stepped forward, raised herself on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He looked down at her, an odd, intense look in his eyes. “No, it’s I who should thank you.” His voice was husky. Then seeing the question in her eyes, he added, “For marrying me.” He drew her slowly toward him.
Cupping her cheek in one hand he kissed her mouth, a mere brush of skin against skin, the barest whisper of a kiss, but sensation shivered through her, a delicate spiral of pure heat. She leaned in closer, wanting more, and slipped her hands around his waist.
He pulled her hard against him, wrapping his arms around her and tightening his hold so they stood chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thigh to thigh. And mouth to mouth.
His mouth was warm, demanding and she opened to him. The taste of him flooded her senses, potent as brandy.
Moving as one, they moved back toward the bed, kissing. His kisses robbed her of all thought. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sank onto the mattress.
He released her and stepped back. Confused, still dazed, she blinked up at him.
His smile was rueful. “I know, but we have a wedding breakfast to attend.” His chest was heaving as though he’d run a mile.
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. “I thought...”
“We have all night for that.” His voice was deep, rich as thick dark chocolate with the promise of the night to come.
Gathering her shredded composure, she managed to stand. With shaking hands she tidied her hair in the looking glass, straightened her dress, then turned to go. And met his intense, heated, approving gaze. There was a world of dark promise in that look.
She blushed as red as her dress and the rubies around her neck.
Chapter Eighteen
Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her.
—JANE AUSTEN,PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
They were the last to arrive at the wedding breakfast, and George was surprised to see that the guests’ reactions were less about the bride and groom’s lateness, or even the color of her dress, and all about the ruby set she was now wearing.
Aunt Agatha marched up to her saying, “I cannot believe the spectacle you made of yourself—of us all—” She broke off, her eyes bulging, then produced her lorgnette and took a closer look.
“The famous Hartley parure! How didyouget that?”
“How do you think?” George retorted, insulted by her great-aunt’s tone. “The duke gave it to me.”
Aunt Agatha glanced at the duke, who was talking to some other guests. “It’s a disgrace! To give it to you, after your outrageous appearance at the church.”
“Why shouldn’t he give his bride jewels?” Emm asked. “I think it’s a lovely gesture and the rubies go perfectly with George’s dress.”
