The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [100]
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say, but not until minutes or even an hour later.
“What for?” He’d maneuvered her from the chair to the rug, firelight leaping here and there, flickering on her creamy skin. As it turned out, she was wearing nothing but a dressing gown, and though she had tried to keep it tied, he had managed to wrestle it open.
Blood raced through his body. But it had to be said. “You could have married a war hero if I hadn’t taken your virginity. Every woman loves a hero.”
“Isn’t it wonderful for Rupert?” she said, smiling.
“Absolutely.” His voice was hollow, but he kept it in check.
“We won’t have any problem finding him a wife now,” she continued. “Is something wrong, Quin? You aren’t jealous of poor Rupert, are you?”
There was only one answer to that. “Yes.”
She came up on one elbow, put a soft hand on his cheek. “Please don’t tell me that you want to go to war.”
“I can’t. Too many responsibilities. But yes, I would like to. I’ve read Machiavelli, Julius Caesar, and de Saxe. I would like to do something that makes a difference in the world.”
“I do see what you mean,” she said, lying back and folding her arms behind her head. “You’re saying that you have to stay home and take care of thousands of acres of land, and make sure hundreds of people in your care and working on your lands are fed and clothed and able to live another day . . . Wait! Is that making a difference?” She tapped her chin. “No, you’re right. Unless you can go over to France and kill some people, your life is wasted.”
Quin made himself say the words, forcing them out of his mouth. “Under the circumstances, do you still wish to marry me?”
She frowned at him. “Which circumstances? Rupert’s triumphs or the battering ram episode of last night?”
“Battering ram!” Her indelicate simile caused him to momentarily lose track of the point, but he recovered. “Because of Rupert’s triumphs. Because you could marry a duke who seems likely to be one of the greatest heroes the British Empire has ever known.”
A little smile touched her lips. “Why, that is true, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I could spend the rest of my life discussing what Lucy ate most recently with a great national hero . . . or I could lie on a rug with you.”
His heart was pounding in his ears.
“Naked,” she added. Her eyes said everything. “Vulnerable to attack by a ba—”
“Don’t say that again.” The clench in his heart eased. He stood up and pulled off his boots. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes.
He threw the shirt away, pulled down his breeches. “Olivia.”
“Mmmm.”
“A battering ram?”
He threw off his smalls and her eyes went right to the spot. “That is an accurate description,” she stated. “Just look at yourself.”
Quin looked down. He was rampant, so to speak. And yes, formidable. “We really shouldn’t make love again until Montsurrey is back in England and has been informed of the change of circumstances.”
With a thrill of pure pleasure, he saw her eyes change and her lower lip droop. It seemed the battering ram wasn’t all that terrifying.
He dropped to his knees and drew his fingers sensuously down the slope of her cheek, to her neck, slower . . .
“That doesn’t mean we have to be strangers.”
“No?” she whispered, winding her arms around his neck.
He lowered his head, a low groan escaping from his chest.
“No.”
Twenty-four
Gallic Mustaches, a Friend in Need, and the Spirit of Adventure
In later years, Olivia looked back on the evening she spent on the hearthrug, being ravished by a jealous, possessive, and altogether perfect duke, as a defining moment, the point that would forever separate her life “before” from that “after.”
It was the night when she learned how breathtaking life could be.
And it was followed by the morning when she learned how truly fragile and dear it is.
She and Quin had crawled into her curtained bed, slept in snatches, woken each other up, laughed and whispered, and explored each other.
He departed as the sun was creeping over the horizon,