He slid into her. She’d expected it to be painful and rough, but by the time he entered her, she was already wet and ready for him. There was a pinch—she caught her breath—he stopped…
And she could feel the tip of him inside her, warm and hard, could feel him on top of her, his muscles cording as he held himself back. She reached up tentatively and set her hand on his chest. Very slowly, she drew her fingers down his chest. He made a noise in his throat; his hips flexed, and he slid inside her another inch, and then another, moving slowly until he had filled her completely. Their bodies were joined intimately. She looked up at him…
He smiled, reached down, and brushed her cheek.
“Well,” he said. “I had better make sure that you like this. Because four months from now, I’m having you again and again and again.”
He moved his hips, pulling out of her and then sliding back—over and over, until that rhythm they’d found before swept them both up. Until her skin seemed to catch fire, and his hands came to her hips. She felt herself come apart around him; he gritted his teeth and then, just as she thought she could take no more, gasped and pounded into her one last time.
They drifted afterward. They’d scarcely slept the night before, and she could not keep her eyes open. She fell asleep to the feel of his fingers against her temples, and the soft murmur of his voice.
“Damn,” he said. “Four months.”
“FOUR MONTHS.”
It was six that evening, and Rose’s parents—who had journeyed hours through ice and snow to see their first grandchild—sat at the dinner table, frowning at Stephen Shaughnessy.
“Four months,” her father repeated. “Is there any reason the engagement must be so short?”
They had already interrogated Stephen on his finances and his family. Her father had muttered when he’d said he was Irish, and frowned when he mentioned that he did some work for a newspaper. Rose had thumped her father, urging him to behave…and when Stephen gave a cheeky answer, had done the same to him. But Stephen had actually comported himself in an almost respectable manner.
If someone didn’t say something soon, her parents would have the surprise of their lives when they discovered the things she hadn’t told them. She really was going to have to show them one of his columns. If her father discovered it on his own…
“In fact,” Stephen said, “I should like the engagement to be shorter.”
Right. An excellent way to introduce the topic of his reputation to her parents. Rose managed to hide her wince.
Her father stiffened, glaring at Stephen. But her fiancé—oh, how lovely that word was—simply leaned casually back in his chair, as if he’d not announced to the entire room—to both her parents, watching in wide-eyed shock—that he wanted to take her to bed, and soon.
Which, really, her parents ought to have guessed that from the circumstance of his wanting to marry her, but then parents could sometimes be willfully blind about such things.
“You see,” Stephen said piously, “my understanding is that Doctor Wells is expected home any day now. Once he’s back, there will be no need for Rose to stay here. And once her sister has recovered herself from the birth… Well, I think Doctor and Mrs. Wells might enjoy having some privacy.”
“She’ll come home to us in London,” her father growled. “Of course she will.”
“But then how will she work with Dr. Barnstable?” Stephen asked. He reached out and took her hand under the table. “She enjoys her work with him so, and I would hate to see my Rose deprived of something she liked simply because I was loathe to commit to marriage on a reasonable timeline.”
Oh, that was clever.
Her father huffed. “Oh, you’re good.” He glanced suspiciously at his son-in-law-to-be. “A little too good.”
“Oh, no,” Stephen said angelically. “I’m afraid not. You’ll likely hear about it all too soon. It’s the only reason I’m agreeing to four months at all—because if I had insisted on three weeks, the gossip would be too fierce.”
Rose’s father sighed, but before he could say anything more, the front door opened.
Rose heard stomping feet, a dull thud—and then a man stepped into the back room. His dark skin was more weathered than when last she’d seen him. His hair was cut close to the scalp; a light brush of gray at his temples made him seem all the more austere. He wore a scarlet band on his arm over his uniform.
“Rosie?” He blinked, looking around the room in confusion. “What is going on? Where’s Patricia?”
Rose let go of Stephen’s hand and sprang to her feet, uttering a little cry of joy. “Isaac! You’re back. Oh, you’re back. Patricia had the baby—”
“What?”
“And she’s well—and he is well—you must come see them now.”
“Wait,” her father was saying. “We’re not done here. I haven’t agreed yet.”