My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) (36 page)

A very small smile—yet the best smile he’d ever seen—tugged at her lips. “Go on, then, poet. Paint for me with your words the picture of how we came to be standing here in this moment. Make me see
you
.”

Philip drew in a long breath. “There was a foolish but well-meaning man who had too much pride to ask his friends for help when he found himself in financial dire straits. He wanted to spare his mother and cousin any worry or harm that would likely come if he sought employment, but he also wanted to ensure they had the lives they deserved.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you decided to marry for money.”

He shook his head. “I thought it was my
duty
to marry for money. I was tortured by having to find a woman to marry for her dowry. I hoped to find both love and a solution to my woes, but it was an impossibility with the guilt in my heart. And then I met you. And money no longer mattered.” He paused, a pained look washing over him. “I had to do right by my mother, by my cousin, but you...” he trailed off.

“Me?” she asked softly.

“You enthralled me with your strength, your wit. You seduced me with your smile, and I knew I would never meet a woman I loved as I did you. And I decided that no matter what came to pass, I could never marry for money. Only love would do. Only
you
would do.” He ran the pad of his thumb over her silken lips, and she shivered under his touch. A desperate need to hear her say she forgave him filled him, and a primal desire to hear her say she loved him and belonged to him overcame him. “I love you, and if you had let me explain, I would have told you I would never accept a dowry for you because I know doing so would cast doubt in your mind about my love.”

A gentle breeze blew around her as Jemma stood there staring at him. When she said nothing, fear that she would not forgive him crept in. “Jemma—”

Her lips trembled. “Forgive me, Philip,” she blurted.

“Forgive you?” Was he hearing her correctly?

She nodded, as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Forgive me. Love me. Marry me.”

He bent his head to hers and claimed her mouth in answer. After a moment, he pulled back and cradled her sweet face in his hands. “I’m supposed to ask
you
to marry
me
.”

“Then get on with it,” she teased.

A thousand flowery words flowed through his mind at once, but in the end, he simply dropped to his knee and took her hand in his. He turned her palm up and brushed a featherlight kiss to her delicate skin. “I request your hand, your heart, your love for eternity. I give you everything I am and everything I know I will be with you by my side.”

She nodded and tugged at his hand for him to stand. When he did, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Yes. A thousand times yes, and then a thousand more.”

His mouth covered hers hungrily, tasting her sweetness and drinking her in. The need to possess her thundered inside him as he deepened the kiss and she responded with a moan. Behind them, someone cleared his throat, and Philip forced himself to break the kiss.

He and Jemma faced her grandfather, who had a scowl on his face but a twinkle in his eye. “I assume a marriage is to take place?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Jemma gushed before Philip could answer. He entwined his hand with Jemma’s and squeezed. Her fingers curled tightly around his as she turned her face toward him. His chest lurched at the intensity of the love he saw in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, smiling, “now that you’ve captured me, Philip, do you think you can tame me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a wink. “You are perfect exactly as you are.”

T
wo weeks later

“What do you think?” Philip whispered in Jemma’s ear as his arms circled her waist.

What did she think?
She shivered as she surveyed the bedchamber that Philip had insisted he prepare himself for their wedding night. Dozens of flickering candles blazed around the bed, and white flower petals scattered the coverlet and the floor. A path of white flowers led to a copper tub with steam rising out of it. What did she think?

Her husband was the most romantic gentleman she had ever known. Her heart thundered in her chest as she turned toward him, dressed so handsomely in the formal attire he’d worn for their wedding. She slid her hands up his chest and tugged at his cravat until it hung loose around his neck.

He cupped her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. “You’re mine,” he whispered fiercely and took her mouth with his. The kiss started slow and sensual, and built to a frenzied one infused with need. Her own desire increased with the touch of his tongue to hers. His hands skimmed down either side of her body along her waist and over her hips. Gently, she felt her gown being undone. Layer after layer of clothing dropped away, until Philip’s warm hands caressed her bare skin where her stockings stopped.

White-hot yearning shot to her core, and she reveled in the fact that her body and heart would be more than safe in Philip’s hands. Peace flowed through her like warm honey. The anticipation of what was to come made her head swirl.

A breath later, she stood naked before him. He smiled and crooked a finger at her. “Come... Undress your poet.”

She skimmed her hands up his broad chest, the muscles of his abdomen rippling under her fingertips as she did. She grasped the material of his shirt and pulled it out of his breeches as her eyes held his. “You are a wicked poet,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” he answered on a growl. “Even as we stand here my mind is composing an ode to the feast of flesh before me.” As if the words broke the last vestige of his control, he yanked his shirt over his head as she tugged his breeches down, and seconds later, he was naked and scooping her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and laid her gently upon it before straightening to his full height.

She licked her lips as she studied his body. “I do not think most poets are made as you are.” Her voice was a whisper full of awe. She’d considered what he might look like under his clothes, suspected he was fit by the hard touch of him, but Philip could have been sculpted from stone the way every inch seemed as though it’d been perfectly carved by a mason. His skin pulled taut over the ridges of muscle beneath. His wide shoulders and toned arms flexed as he grasped her thighs and gently spread them to kneel between her legs.

She crooked her finger, and he leaned down, brushing his mouth over her right nipple and then her left. Passion rushed through her veins as he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled her. When he released her and moved to the other, she gripped his arms, consumed by fiery desperation.

She ran her hands over his arms and through the curls of his hair that she gripped to bring him up to her. He slid along her body until his face was inches from hers. She could see nothing but bright love and need shining in his eyes.

“Make me yours, Philip,” she pleaded.

“You were mine the moment I met you,” he answered.

He swooped his hands under her buttocks and grasped her flesh to lift her as he entered her with care. It took her but a moment to acclimate to the shock of his hardness filling her, the hotness of his flesh. Each brush of his chest against hers intoxicated her as he found his rhythm, and she met him stroke for stroke until she felt as if she had drank more of the Attack Punch from Vauxhall Gardens.

Her world was spinning—she was spinning—and then his thrusts became faster, more demanding, and her world shrunk to nothing more than the man within her. Her skin prickled with the heat of his, her nostrils flared to consume his manly smell, her mouth parted in an effort to fill her lungs with the breath he exhaled. Thought fled as, deep within her, everything coiled and hummed in a burning ache. Blood pounded in her brain, leaped from her heart, and surged through her veins to shatter the coil. A scream of ecstasy tore from her as a guttural moan of release ripped from Philip. Together they reached a place she had never been and had no idea existed.

They collapsed back onto the bed as one, a tangle of arms and legs, slick flesh against slick flesh. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the pounding of his heart. His fingers traced over her back, down her buttocks, and back up, making her arch into him. After a while, their breathing grew steady and he tugged her up to him, encircling her safely in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder as she studied him.

He turned his head to meet her gaze, kissed her on the forehead, and smiled. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She propped herself up and grinned. “I’m composing my first poem, and it’s about you.”

He chuckled. “And what, pray tell, will this poem be called?”

“My Gentleman Rake,”
she replied, then shrieked with delight as her muse captured her mouth with his to inspire her next line.

C
hristmas 1821

Clutching the package in his hand, Philip followed the sound of the pianoforte to the parlor, expecting to find Jemma and her grandfather there. Rowan had gifted Jemma and Philip with a beautiful pianoforte for their wedding after Jemma had confessed that she’d always wanted to learn to play but they had never had the money for lessons, let alone the instrument itself. The duke came to visit twice a week, and he would sit and listen to Jemma practice for several hours. He even played sometimes himself.

As Philip entered the parlor, Rowan paused his playing and Philip nodded to him, then waved at Anne, who was sitting on the settee beside Amelia. Both ladies lowered their books at once and gazed expectantly at him.

“Is it done?” Amelia asked.

“Give him a moment to warm up,” Aversley said from where he stood in front of the fire.

Amelia frowned at her husband as she stood. “Do hush, darling. Philip’s walk from the main hall to the parlor gave him that opportunity. I’m positively bursting to see Jemma’s reaction when you show her your book.”

Philip grinned as he tapped a finger against his first published work. “Mr. Radbury says it will be available for sale next week.” Philip held up the book of love poems he’d written. Each one had been inspired by his wife. “This is an advanced copy for Jemma. Where is she?”

Anne blew a stray hair out of her eyes before motioning toward the door. “In the kitchen baking gingerbread for the Christmas feast.”

Philip frowned, and his gut tightened. One of the many things he’d learned in the six months he had been married to Jemma was that she usually only baked when she was upset, worried, or trying to forget something. He didn’t have any notion what could be amiss, but if Jemma was baking, it was serious. The last time she’d baked was two months ago when she’d thought she might be with child but had been disappointed when it turned out she hadn’t been.

Christ.
Philip clutched the book, an ache gripping his chest. “I’ll just go give her the gift, and then we’ll be right in.”

They all nodded, and Philip rushed to the kitchen. He paused outside the door, the smell of gingerbread swirling around him where he stood. He wanted to have a child as much as Jemma did, but each month she wasn’t pregnant seemed to affect her more. He looked down at the package that contained the love poems he’d dedicated to her.

Hell and damnation. It might not be the time to give her this book.

He glanced around, but with nowhere to put it, he simply lowered it to his side and entered the kitchen.

Gingerbread covered every spot of counter space available. Philip clenched his jaw against his own disappointment that she may not have conceived yet. He didn’t need anything more in his life but Jemma, but it would be nice to have a daughter that looked like her or a son with her fiery-red hair. He didn’t want Jemma to see any regret from him. She would need his strength, and that’s what he intended to give her.

He located her—or rather her bottom—stuck up in the air as she put another tray of gingerbread in the stove. When she came up, she turned to him and blinked in surprise. The smile she offered him was tremulous at best. Philip swallowed past the lump in his throat as he gazed at his beautiful wife. She had flour on her nose, and her red hair was up in a haphazard bun with strands dangling around her chin.