Julia Quinn - Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but words could never be enough. He moved to withdraw, so that he could help her, comfort her.

“No!” she cried, grabbing his shoulders. “Please. Don’t go.”

He stared down at her, unable to believe her words. He knew that this had not been rape. She had wanted it, too. She had moaned for him, clutched his shoulders, gasping his name in her desire. But surely now she would wish to end it. To wait for something more civilized. In a bed. As a wife.

“Stay,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

“Amelia,” he said raggedly, and he prayed she could hear all of his thoughts in that single word, because he did not think he could give voice to them.

“It’s done,” she said softly. But then her eyes grew fierce. “And I will never regret it.”

He tried to say something; he made some sort of noise, but it came from deep within, from some elemental spot where he had no words.

“Shhh.” She touched her finger to his lips. “It’s done,” she said again. And then she smiled, her expression the culmination of a million years of womanly experience. “Now make it good.”

His pulse quickened, and then her hand crept up the back of his leg until it reached the bare skin of his buttocks.

He gasped.

She squeezed. “Make it wonderful.”

And he did. If the first part of his lovemaking had been all frenetic thrusts and mindless passion, now he was a man with a purpose. Every kiss was pure artistry, every touch designed to bring her to the heights of pleasure. If something made her gasp with delight, he did it again…and again.

He whispered her name…over and over again, against her skin, into her hair, as his lips teased her breast. He would make this good for her. He would make it wonderful. He would not rest until he’d brought her to the heights of ecstasy, until she shattered in his arms.

This was not about him. For the first time in weeks, something was not about him. It was not about his name or who he was or anything other than what he could do to bring her pleasure.

It was for her. Amelia. It was all for her, and maybe it always would be, for the rest of his days.

And maybe he wouldn’t mind that.

Maybe it was a good thing. A very good thing.

He looked down at her, his breath catching as he saw her lips part in a tiny sigh of desire. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Nothing compared, not the most brilliant of diamonds, the most spectacular of sunsets. Nothing compared to her face in that moment.

And then it was clear.

He loved her.

This girl-no, this woman-whom he’d politely ignored for years had reached inside him and stolen his heart.

And suddenly he didn’t know how he’d ever thought he could allow her to marry Jack.

He didn’t know how he thought he could live apart from her.

Or how he could live just one more day without knowing that she would one day be his wife. Bear his children. Grow old with him.

“Thomas?”

Her whisper brought him back, and he realized he’d stopped moving. She was gazing up at him with a mix of curiosity and need, and her eyes…her expression…He couldn’t explain what it did to him, or rather how, but he was happy.

Not content, not satisfied, not amused.

Happy.

Lovesick, champagne in the veins, want-to-shout-it-to-the-world happy.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, and then she was smiling, too, because it was infectious. It had to be. He could not keep it inside.

“I love you,” he said, and he knew his face must belie the surprise and wonder he was feeling.

She looked instantly cautious. “Thomas…”

It was imperative that she understood. “I’m not saying it because you said it, and I’m not saying it because I obviously have to marry you now, I’m saying it because…because…”

She went very still beneath him.

He whispered the last: “I’m saying it because it is true.”

Tears formed in her eyes, and he bent down to gently kiss them away. “I love you,” he whispered. And then he could not stop his sly smile. “But for once in my life, I’m not going to do the right thing.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “What do you mean?”

He kissed her cheek, then her ear, then the graceful edge of her jaw. “The right thing, I think, would be to stop this madness right now. Not that you’re not properly ruined, but I really ought to get your father’s permission before continuing.”

“Continuing this?” she choked out.

He repeated his kisses on the other side of her face. “I would never be so crude. I meant the courtship. In the general sense.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, then finally slid into something that wasn’t sure if it ought to be a smile.

“But that would be cruel,” he murmured.

“Cruel?” she echoed.

“Mmm. Not to continue with this.” He pushed forward. Just a tiny bit, but enough to make her squeak in surprise.

He nuzzled her neck, increasing the rhythm between them. “To start something, and not finish it-that doesn’t seem like the right thing, does it?”

“No,” she answered, but her voice was strained and her breaths were growing ragged.

So he continued. He loved her with his body just as he loved her with his heart. And when he felt her shudder beneath him, he finally let go, exploding inside of her with a force that left him spent, exhausted…and complete.

Maybe it wasn’t the right way to seduce the woman he loved, but it had certainly been good.

In the end, Thomas did do the right thing.

Almost.

Amelia had expected that he would seek out her father the next day and formally ask for her hand in marriage. Instead, he asked her to deliver the note and his ring as planned, adding that he would see her in a fortnight in England.

He loved her, he said. He loved her more than he could ever say, but he needed to return on his own.

Amelia understood.

And so it came to pass that she was sitting in the Burges Park drawing room almost three weeks later, in the company of her mother, all four of her sisters, and two of her father’s dogs, when the butler appeared in the doorway and announced:

“Mr. Thomas Cavendish, my lady.”

“Who?” was Lady Crowland’s immediate reply.

“It’s Wyndham!” Elizabeth hissed.

“He’s not Wyndham any longer,” Milly corrected.

Amelia looked down at her book-some dreadful etiquette guide her mother had termed “improving”-and smiled.

“Why on earth would he come here?” Lady Crowland asked.

“Perhaps he is still engaged to Amelia,” Milly suggested.

Her mother turned to her with utter horror. “Don’t we know?”

“I don’t think we do,” Milly replied.

Amelia kept her eyes on her book.

“Amelia,” Lady Crowland said sharply. “What is the status of your betrothal?”

Amelia tried to answer with a shrug and a blank look, but it became quickly apparent that this was not going to suffice, so she said, “I am not certain.”

“How is that possible?” Milly asked.

“I did not break it off,” Amelia said.

“Did he?”

“Er…” Amelia paused, unsure of where to direct her reply, as the query had come from five different sources. Her mother, she finally decided, and she turned in her direction and said, “No. Not formally.”

“What a muddle. What a muddle.” Lady Crowland brought her hand to her head, looking much aggrieved. “You shall have to end it, then. He will not do so; he is far too much of a gentleman for that. But surely he would never expect you to marry him now.”

Amelia bit her lip.

“He is most likely here to provide you with the opportunity to end it. Yes, that must be it.” Lady Crowland turned to the butler and said, “Show him in, Granville. And the rest of you-” She waved a hand in the general direction of her daughters, which was not easy, as they were scattered about the room. “We shall greet him and then discreetly make our regrets and leave.”

“A mass exodus is meant to be discreet?” Milly asked.

Lady Crowland gave her a look, then turned to Amelia, exclaiming, “Oh! Do you think your father should be here?”

“I do,” Amelia said, feeling remarkably serene, all things considered. “I really do.”

“Milly,” Lady Crowland said, “go find your father.”

Milly’s mouth fell open. “I can’t leave now.”

Lady Crowland let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, was a mother ever so beleaguered?” She turned to Elizabeth.

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth said instantly. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

“You two,” Lady Crowland said, waving her hand toward her two youngest. “Go find your father, and no complaining about it.” She put her hand to her head. “This is going to give me a megrim, I’m sure.” When her daughters did not move quickly enough, she added, “There is nothing to see here! Wyndham-”

“Cavendish,” Milly corrected.

Lady Crowland rolled her eyes. “Whoever heard of such a thing? Long-lost cousin, indeed.” And then, with remarkable verbal agility, she turned back to the two younger girls hovering near the doorway. “Go!”

They went, but not before skidding into Thomas, who had just been shown in. He was holding a rather large, flat package, which, at Lady Crowland’s direction, he set down against the wall.

“Lady Crowland,” he said, executing a deep bow.

Amelia felt an elbow in her ribs. Elizabeth’s.

“He doesn’t look devastated,” Elizabeth whispered. “Didn’t he just lose everything?”

“Maybe not everything,” Amelia murmured. But Elizabeth did not hear; she was too busy trying not to appear as if she were gawking, which of course she was.

Thomas turned to the three Willoughby sisters. “Lady Elizabeth,” he said politely, “Lady Amelia, Lady Millicent.”