His slow caress sent need clamoring through her. “Again, please.”
A silent conversation took place, between his body and hers. He teased, he dared, he hesitated, and Charlotte moaned against his neck. All else fell away as Sherbourne shifted the angle of his hips and positioned himself to join with her.
The act was strange, physical, and unrelentingly intimate. Sherbourne eased his way into her body, and the yearning that had swamped Charlotte tangled up with tenderness for the man in her arms.
“Don’t be so careful,” she murmured. “Be passionate with me.”
He brushed her hair back from her forehead. “You’re managing?”
How odd, to trade words when nothing separated them. “I want to worship you with my body too, Lucas.”
He hitched closer, and pleasure welled from where they were joined. “Move with me, Charlotte.”
How could they move when—? Oh. Oh. He set a tempo like war drums, slow, resonate, full of leashed power and unwavering focus. Charlotte matched him, scooting down to lock her ankles at the small of his back. Her touch wandered everywhere, the span of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the slightly warm, raised bruise along his hip.
As close as they were, she wanted to be closer, to be inside him the way he was inside her. Desire became a madness, obliterating all else—fears, worries, dignity, even dreams fell beneath Sherbourne’s passion—until Charlotte lost her very self in pleasure.
Her awareness clung to one reality: Sherbourne was with her. With her in pleasure, and with her in the panting, thunderstruck aftermath, as she curled beneath him, and his heartbeat reverberated with her own.
Puzzle pieces fell into place: This was what lay behind a thousand glances passed between Charlotte’s cousins and their spouses.
This closeness was where families began, where every marriage was both the same and unique.
This was what a ruined woman sacrificed her future for. Not the bodily sensations, amazing though they were, but the tenderness and cherishing, the oneness.
Sherbourne’s breathing slowed, and though he remained close, he braced his weight on his elbows. Charlotte wanted to hold him tightly, because on the heels of all these revelations came a tide of gratitude toward her husband.
She might have missed this. She might have spent the rest of her days shooting arrows through the hats of randy bachelors and turning down proposals from fortune hunters. She might have never known this wonder, never experienced the profound relief of putting aside every burden and hope to be one with her spouse for a few moments.
She kissed his biceps. “What does one say after that?”
He traced her eyebrow with his nose. “One says, ‘Lucas, fetch me a glass of water, please.’”
No, one did not. “I’m glad I married you.”
He went still, mid-nuzzle. “I’ll bring you a flannel.”
Perhaps one didn’t admit to being glad to be married either. Charlotte would ponder that puzzle later, when she didn’t feel so relaxed or—had marriage made her barmy?—cheerful.
Sherbourne brought her a damp cloth, then disappeared behind the privacy screen. Charlotte tended to herself, tossed the cloth over the privacy screen, and pulled up the covers.
“Come back to bed, Lucas.”
By the light of the dying fire, he emerged from the privacy screen in his dressing gown. “I’m off to the library for a bit. Thought I’d read over some correspondence, let you get to sleep.”
Charlotte’s first reaction to Sherbourne’s plan was hurt, that he’d be capable of rising from their bed and turning his attention to…what? Ledgers? Reports from the solicitors?
After making love with her like that?
But another theory presented itself, one having to do with the privacy necessary to contemplate a marriage he might be reevaluating even as Charlotte was.
“Mr. Sherbourne, for once, you will ignore the siren call of your commercial ventures and get some rest. You’ve earned it, and you will need your strength in the coming days and nights.”
He stared at his bare feet. “I will?”
“Most assuredly. Come to bed, Lucas.”
He came to bed.
*
Sherbourne waited until Charlotte dropped off to sleep to spoon himself around her. He should be in the library, making calculations, revising estimates, figuring the cost of the extra labor Radnor and Haverford were providing.
He should be searching for a replacement for Hannibal Jones or for a competent assistant, though that would be another extra expense.
He should be finding more investors.
He should be—
“Lucas?” Charlotte murmured.
“I thought you were asleep.”
She rolled over to face him. “I was. I dreamed of you. Can’t you sleep?”
He was exhausted, and yet he could not reach for sleep, so he’d reached for her. “I don’t need much rest.”
Charlotte came to him, burrowing closer, tangling her legs with his. “You will need more rest in the coming months. Marriage will take a toll on your energies.”
“Bold talk, Mrs. Sherbourne.”
“I like it when you call me Mrs. Sherbourne.”
He really ought to be in the library, not wasting half the night cuddling around his warm, gardenia-scented, curved-in-all-the-right places wife.
“I cannot neglect my business, Charlotte, not for anything. If the mine doesn’t soon get on its feet…”
She commenced drawing slow circles on his chest with her index finger. “Then the mine fails. This valley has never had a mine, so nobody is any worse off than if the mine had never been attempted.”
Nobody but me and my investors—and you. “Haverford will never cease gloating if the mine isn’t thriving by this time next year.”
“So this determination where the colliery is concerned is about your pride?”
The success of the mine was purely about pence and quid now. “A man should always take pride in his endeavors.”
“What about a woman? Is she allotted any pride?”
Sherbourne kissed her, because he wasn’t equal to a debate on gender differences at this hour. Charlotte returned the kiss, and then lay on her back, urging him to settle against her side. The position was novel, with Sherbourne’s cheek pillowed on her breast, her fingers playing with the hair at his nape.
“We must find a balance, Lucas, between your infernal obsession with immediate business and the long-term endeavors that will aid your interests over the course of a lifetime.”
Her touch was so sweet, so soothing—and yet she was speaking to him in imperatives. “Hard work aids my business endeavors.”
She kissed his temple. “Was it hard work that inspired Haverford to relent regarding the mine? No, it was not. You attended his house party, comported yourself like a perfect gentleman, rescued that hopeless Miss Twit from the lake, entertained me when I was bored, and flirted with a few wallflowers. Haverford had to see you as something other than his vexatious creditor.”
Charlotte traced the curve of Sherbourne’s ear, then used her thumb and forefinger to pull gently on his earlobe. The sensation was exquisitely relaxing, which was no help at all when she was already befuddling him with her pillow talk.
“I attended that house party on the barest pretense of an invitation because I was considering offering for Lady Glenys.”
Charlotte’s grip on his earlobe became quite firm. “Are you besotted with her? She is a duke’s daughter, and the sister of a duke. You lose your common sense in the presence of titles, Lucas. I’ll not have you pining for thy neighbor’s marchioness.”
“I was besotted with the idea that Haverford would have to choose between economic ruin or approving of me as a match for his sister. You have not married a saint, Charlotte.”
Her grip eased. “I have not married the scourge of the high toby. Haverford is a duke, and they can leave a trail of aggravation that stretches for miles, one which they seldom notice. Elizabeth will have her hands full with Haverford. You mustn’t be too hard on him, though. He hasn’t had family about in any quantity to help him go on.”
And Sherbourne had?