A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)

Hearing his name on her lips, in that lusty voice . . . it sent him over the edge. His own climax erupted, wrenching his hips off the mattress. He came growling and shuddering, spilling his seed in forceful jets.

In the aftermath, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the muted patter of rain, and the hoarse, open-mouthed rasps of their breathing.

Well. She’d wanted carnality.

As soon as he could regain some strength in his limbs, he guided her aside and helped her settle onto the mattress. She curled next to him with her eyes closed, still working for breath.

She was so quiet for so long, he began to worry. Damn it. He must have shocked her too greatly. She was having regrets, wondering just what sort of beast she’d tethered herself to.

He stroked her hair, teasing out the rain-induced tangles with his fingers. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m well indeed. I’m just not sure how to look at you after that.”

After a moment’s thought, he suggested, “With pride?”

She laughed into her pillow.

“I’m serious. You were perfect.”

“You have such a wicked sense of humor. You always make me laugh at the most unlikely moments.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a wonderful thing.” She propped her chin on his chest. “It’s one of the things I love most about you. And it’s what assures me we’ll be happy together. We’re neither of us perfect people, but we can laugh together and admit our mistakes. And there’s this.” She eyed the mussed bed linens, blushing.

There was “this” indeed.

“After what we just did,” she said, “I don’t suppose I could have a single secret from you.”

“I pressed you too far just now. It’s your first time. I should have been more tender, more—”

“Please. Don’t apologize for giving me unfathomable pleasure. It’s just . . . for a fantasy girl, I didn’t even do much of anything.” Smiling, she touched his flagging erection. “I’d like to help with this part next time.”

A hoarse chuckle lifted his chest. “That can be arranged. Shortly.”

“Do we have a little time to talk first?”

He sat up in bed, pushing a hand through his hair before reaching for his flask. “A few minutes, at least. I’m not a youth anymore.”

At her chirping call, Badger abandoned his quilt and leaped onto the bed. The pup circled a good five times before finally wedging into a space between them. His tail whipped furiously.

“There we are,” she said. “Just like a little family. We’ll be very cozy in America.”

Thorne took a casual draught off his flask. Best not tell her that with those simple words she’d gone and made his wildest, most depraved and outrageous fantasy come true. He’d keep that information to himself. Until after a few more rounds of pleasure, at least.

She dropped her gaze and picked at an edge of the bedsheet. “I’m legitimate.”

He choked on his mouthful of whiskey. “What?”

“Evan and the solicitors found a marriage record. It seems Simon and Elinor—my parents—were married in secret. And the housekeeper from Ambervale identified me by my birthmark. So it seems I’m not just a Gramercy, I’m . . .”

Oh, Jesus. Don’t say it.

She lifted her head and looked at him. “I’m a lady.”

The room tilted. Then the walls began to spin around him.

A lady.

“Please don’t look so overset,” she begged. “It won’t change a thing between us.”

A cloud of frustration blurred his vision. She was the legitimate daughter of a marquess. A lady. How could that not change everything?

God damn it. It was as though every time he dared to reach for her, some cruel, vengeful deity pulled her just a little further out of his grasp. If he found a way around this hurdle, what would be next? She’d be revealed to be a princess? A mermaid?

“We’re still going to marry and go to America,” she said. “That’s all I want, is to be with you. To be your wife.”

A marquess’s legitimate daughter, living as a trapper’s wife in a humble, rough-hewn cabin. In Indiana.

Lady Katherine of the Prairie. Right.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“Angry with you? Why would I be angry with you?” Even as he spoke the words, he was aware that they sounded . . . well, angry.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and then exhale slowly.

She was right; it didn’t matter. Not after what they’d just shared. They must marry, whether she was a charwoman or a fairy queen. He couldn’t waste time feeling worthless or counting all the ways he wasn’t good enough for her.

Whatever sort of woman she was . . . he had to be the man she needed.

Thorne scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to fit his brain around the notion.