One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
Page 113
It was suddenly difficult to swallow. “I agree.”
“And an excellent legacy for our son.”
And then it was difficult to breathe. “Our—son?”
She smiled, her hand coming to his, moving it to the soft, perfect swell of her belly. “It could be a daughter . . .” she said, as though they were discussing the weather, “but I like to think he’s a son. A handsome, ginger-haired son.”
He stared at the spot where he touched her, his hand seeming to belong to another. To two others. It wasn’t possible that this was his . . . that she was his . . . that this life was his. He met her gaze. “You’re certain?”
She smiled. “There are scientific truths, my lord. One of which is that all that research that we have conducted has a very specific outcome.” She leaned in and whispered at his ear, “That is not to say that I have concluded this line of inquiry.”
His attention returned to her. “I am happy to hear that.”
She hooked her ankle around his thigh, pulling him toward her, and lifting her lips to his. They kissed for a long moment, separating only when they were both breathless. “Are you happy?”
He took her face in his hands and told her the truth. “I have never in my life been happier. I feel as though I’ve had the greatest run of good luck there ever was.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?”
He shook his head, “Even I am not this good at running the table.” His fingers were at her ankles then, trailing up the soft skin of her calves as she opened to the caress. “Speaking of tables, what do you think will happen if you lie back on this one?”
She chuckled. “I imagine that I shan’t finish my letter to the Royal Horticultural Society anytime soon.”
“I wouldn’t dare disagree,” he teased, worrying the lobe of one ear. “You are, after all, one of the great scientific minds of our day.”
“It is a complex field of research . . .” She sighed as his fingers trailed higher, along the skin of her inner thighs. “ . . . but ever so rewarding.”
He kissed her again, long and lush and deep, pushing the linen nightdress high on her thighs and pressing between them, close to her. She gasped as he rocked against her, her hands coming to the sash of his robe, pushing the fabric wide, and finally finally touching him.
He let out a long, shuddering breath and met her beautiful blue eyes. “Your touch still devastates me, you know.”
She smiled, trailing her hands down his torso, the movement a delicious promise. “Do not worry, my lord, you have years to become accustomed to it. It is entirely possible that someday, you shall take it entirely for granted.”
“That will never happen.” He captured one hand in his, lifting her perfect fingers to his lips and kissing their tips before laying her back on the table. “But if you like, I am happy to continue to research the theory.”
She laughed, her fingers threading through his hair. “In the name of science, of course.”
He shook his head. “Hang science,” he said, grey eyes flashing with passion and promise and something much much more. “This is for love.”
“And an excellent legacy for our son.”
And then it was difficult to breathe. “Our—son?”
She smiled, her hand coming to his, moving it to the soft, perfect swell of her belly. “It could be a daughter . . .” she said, as though they were discussing the weather, “but I like to think he’s a son. A handsome, ginger-haired son.”
He stared at the spot where he touched her, his hand seeming to belong to another. To two others. It wasn’t possible that this was his . . . that she was his . . . that this life was his. He met her gaze. “You’re certain?”
She smiled. “There are scientific truths, my lord. One of which is that all that research that we have conducted has a very specific outcome.” She leaned in and whispered at his ear, “That is not to say that I have concluded this line of inquiry.”
His attention returned to her. “I am happy to hear that.”
She hooked her ankle around his thigh, pulling him toward her, and lifting her lips to his. They kissed for a long moment, separating only when they were both breathless. “Are you happy?”
He took her face in his hands and told her the truth. “I have never in my life been happier. I feel as though I’ve had the greatest run of good luck there ever was.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?”
He shook his head, “Even I am not this good at running the table.” His fingers were at her ankles then, trailing up the soft skin of her calves as she opened to the caress. “Speaking of tables, what do you think will happen if you lie back on this one?”
She chuckled. “I imagine that I shan’t finish my letter to the Royal Horticultural Society anytime soon.”
“I wouldn’t dare disagree,” he teased, worrying the lobe of one ear. “You are, after all, one of the great scientific minds of our day.”
“It is a complex field of research . . .” She sighed as his fingers trailed higher, along the skin of her inner thighs. “ . . . but ever so rewarding.”
He kissed her again, long and lush and deep, pushing the linen nightdress high on her thighs and pressing between them, close to her. She gasped as he rocked against her, her hands coming to the sash of his robe, pushing the fabric wide, and finally finally touching him.
He let out a long, shuddering breath and met her beautiful blue eyes. “Your touch still devastates me, you know.”
She smiled, trailing her hands down his torso, the movement a delicious promise. “Do not worry, my lord, you have years to become accustomed to it. It is entirely possible that someday, you shall take it entirely for granted.”
“That will never happen.” He captured one hand in his, lifting her perfect fingers to his lips and kissing their tips before laying her back on the table. “But if you like, I am happy to continue to research the theory.”
She laughed, her fingers threading through his hair. “In the name of science, of course.”
He shook his head. “Hang science,” he said, grey eyes flashing with passion and promise and something much much more. “This is for love.”
