She grasped his shoulders, slippery from sweat, and hung on, urging him with her mouth and hands. More. More. More.
Until she crested, suddenly and without warning, a blissful, glorious explosion of pleasure. She would’ve shouted had her mouth not been full of his tongue. He stiffened and lifted himself up, and she saw that he had reached his point as well. His nostrils were flared, his teeth gritted and bared. He thrust home one last time, shuddering, and then he let his head hang, his arms straight and holding up his upper body.
He inhaled deeply.
She kneaded the muscles of his back, wanting still to feel this connection.
He raised his head and she saw his face. Stark. Uncompromising. And without a trace of pity.
“You are mine,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Longsword and the princess entered the castle’s gates together, but the minute their feet touched the ground, a thorny vine leaped up, faster than a bolt of lightning. Higher and thicker it grew until a giant, thorny hedge so entirely surrounded the castle’s keep that not a stone could be seen. Longsword began to hack at the hedge, but as soon as he cut a branch, another one grew in its place.
“It is impossible!” the princess cried.
But Longsword took a deep breath and ran at the hedge, swinging his sword faster than the eye could see. He slashed so quickly that the blade of his sword glowed white-hot, and as it cut, it seared as well so that the branches could not grow again. In a minute more, Longsword had cut a path through the magical hedge….
—from Longsword
“Did you know that Lottie Graham has left her husband?” Adriana asked as she forked up a piece of fish at dinner. She looked at it critically and said, “Do you think he’s taken a mistress? Or two? Because most men do take a mistress at one time or another, and I think the practical wife just doesn’t notice, don’t you?”
Hasselthorpe took a drink of wine, boggling a bit at the thought of Adriana lumping herself together with “practical” wives. They sat in their town-house dining room tonight, a rather overdecorated room featuring gold putti and pink marble. He didn’t bother answering the question, because she rarely needed anyone else’s help in her conversations. This was handy, especially on the rare occasions when they dined just the two of them, for he had no need to follow the conversation.
And indeed she continued after swallowing. “I can’t think of another reason for her to leave Mr. Graham. He is so handsome, and every time I see him, he compliments me on my appearance, and I do like a gentleman who can turn a pretty phrase.”
She poked her fish and frowned. “I don’t see why fish should have so many bones, do you?”
Hasselthorpe, who’d been contemplating Blanchard’s lessening odds of keeping his title, looked up rather irritably. “What are you talking about, Adriana?”
“Fish,” his wife said promptly. “And their bones. They have so many, and I really don’t see why. They live in the water.”
“All creatures have bones.” Hasselthorpe sighed.
“Not worms,” his wife said. “Nor jellyfish nor snails, although they do have shells, which I suppose are very like bones, on their outsides.”
He winced. Why must she always blather about nonsense?
“But I’m not sure a shell is quite the same as a bone on the inside.” She scowled quite adorably down at her haddock. “And, in any case, I still don’t understand why they should have so many and they be always waiting to catch in one’s throat.”
“Quite.” Hasselthorpe gave up trying to follow his wife’s mind and instead drank some more wine. Sometimes it helped get him through these meals. How had Hope survived that second assassination attempt? Dammit, why the man should survive two attempts in as many weeks and not a scratch on him was—
“Do you suppose he doesn’t wash?”
Hasselthorpe paused, his wineglass halfway to his lips. “The fish?”
“No, silly!” Adriana trilled gaily. “Mr. Graham. Some gentlemen seem to think washing their persons is merely a monthly or even yearly chore. Do you suppose Mr. Graham is one of them?”
Hasselthorpe blinked. “I—”
“Because I can’t think why else Lottie would leave him.” Adriana frowned. “He’s quite handsome and rather charming, and I haven’t heard any tales of him keeping one mistress, let alone two, so I think it must be the washing, or rather not washing, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Adriana, my dear, as usual, you’ve quite lost me.”
“Have I?” She smiled at him. “But I didn’t mean to. And you considered one of the leading lights of the Tories, too!”
Her ripple of laughter was enough to send a less-strong man into raving fits. As it was, Hasselthorpe merely smiled tightly at his spouse. “Very amusing, my dear.”
“Yes, aren’t I?” she said complacently, and went back to poking at her fish. “I think it must be the reason you love me.”
Hasselthorpe sighed. Because despite her lack of wits, her irritating conversation, and her execrable decorating style, Adriana was quite right about this one matter.
He did love her.
BEATRICE SHOULD’VE BEEN suspicious when Reynaud sat down to dine with her and her uncle that night. But alas, she was so caught up in keeping her expression bland that she didn’t even think to wonder what he was doing there. So when he made his request over the fish, she nearly choked on her wine.
“What did you say?” Beatrice gasped when she’d caught her breath.
“I wasn’t addressing you,” the odious backstabber said.
“Well, you’ll certainly have to consult with me about the matter eventually,” she said tartly.
A muscle in Reynaud’s jaw flexed. “I doubt—”
“No!” roared Uncle Reggie.
Beatrice’s head swung toward her uncle in alarm. His face had gone the color of claret. “Please don’t excite yourself—”
“It’s not enough that you must have my title, but now you want to take my niece as well,” Uncle Reggie bellowed. He thumped a fist on the table, making the silverware jump.
“I haven’t accepted Lord Hope’s proposal,” Beatrice said soothingly.
“But you will,” Reynaud said, crushing what little peace she might’ve gained.
“Don’t you threaten my niece!” Uncle Reggie shouted.
Reynaud’s lips thinned. “I don’t threaten; I merely state a fact.”