He claimed her before she could lean back again, one hand clasped around her waist. “The Splendid Miss Swift.” He dragged his lips across her throat until her head tilted back of its own accord. The soft tickling feeling traveled down between her legs, turning into a hot aching that made her squirm. His mouth moved to the neckline of her dress, the thin muslin no challenge to his teeth and his tongue, flicking down under the line of her stays. He lifted her breast out, sucking gently, pulling, his tongue working her nipple so delicately she thought she might lose all decorum. She needed more.
She moved against him, pulling his shirt from his breeches so she could feel the hard planes of his stomach. There was a feverishness to her, a primal desperation. His hand was on her knee, her skirts bunched up. He traced soft patterns, like she was made of soap bubbles. She felt swollen and wet. His erection strained against her hand and she curled her palm around him. It wasn’t enough.
She leaned forward, shifted until she had one knee on either side of him on the seat cushion. He sat back with a smile that challenged her to take what she wanted. “Go on then, love,” he said hoarsely.
She edged forward, feeling wanton and deliciously daring. He leaned back, suddenly every inch the indolent duke. She fumbled with the placard of his breeches until she could grasp the rigid heat of him. He was silk and steel and fire. He lifted his hips slightly, releasing more fully into her palm. He was still sprawled, boots planted firmly to steady her weight. He raised an eyebrow, another challenge.
She shifted closer and then lifted up slightly, fitting him to her entrance. His eyes flared, his breath going ragged. But still he didn’t move, didn’t thrust up, only waited patiently. “Damn your patience,” she whispered, and he smiled, up until she lowered herself onto him, inch by glorious inch. The carriage wheels went over a patch of uneven road, jostling them closer. She gasped and he hissed out a breath. She lifted again, her thighs straining and then sank down, down, deeper still. And again, and again. Sweat gathered on his throat, under her stays.
The pleasure swelled and built, just out of reach, tantalizingly close.
And even as she sat astride him, riding him for her own needs, he was so careful, holding back as if she might shatter. And she had every intention of shattering. Only she meant to take him with her. She leaned back slightly, bracing herself. The new angle lit sparks of new sensation. Dougal finally moved, his hands dipping under her dress, skimming up her thighs to the place where they were joined. He brushed her clitoris and she gasped, her breaths short and sweet. She clenched around him, and he hummed with satisfaction. “Reach for it, Meg.”
The ministrations of his fingers, the rocking of the carriage and then finally he thrust up to meet her, driving her into waves of sensation. She wilted over him, trying to catch her breath. A strand of hair had come loose and stuck to her cheek. He brushed it aside.
He was still hard inside of her, and she tightened around him. He lifted his hips to drive himself deeper and then stopped. She moved against him. “Dougal.”
He kissed her. “We’re nearly there.”
She scowled out of the window and saw that he was right. They were turning onto the long driveway. As they drove up to Pendleton Hall, Meg knew a kind of happiness she had never felt before. Even with turnips and the dirt attached filling the space with that particular green smell she knew so well. “Dougal?” she said as they put their clothing to rights.
“Yes, love?”
“May I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
“I hate turnips.”
Tamsin was thefirst to greet them when they walked up to the house. She burst out of the side gardens before Basil had even opened the door. “Meg!” She rushed in for a hug. Her red curls were caught back with a wide yellow ribbon.
Meg gestured to it. “Lady Blackwell is already here.”
Tamsin grinned. “You should see the ballroom. I hope you like orange.”
Meg groaned. Tamsin turned to Dougal assessingly, before flashing him the wide, toothy smile she reserved for family. “Aren’t you the clever one?”
“Lady Tamsin.”
“So formal,” she teased, which was likely a surprise to him since he had never been accused of being formal in his entire life. She slid her arm through his. “We’re family now,” she said. She lowered her voice. “And your shirt is not quite tucked in at the side.”
He flushed and hastily fixed it. She laughed. “Oh, we’re going to have fun. But for now, say your goodbyes, because we are claiming your fiancée.”
“You are?” Meg asked.
“Of course, we are,” Priya agreed from the front step. Meg hugged her. Basil stood behind them, stiff as a poker by the door. They were offending his sense of decorum, as usual, by chatting on the stoop. Even if that stoop was actually a sweep of impressive steps bracketed with white pillars in the shape of Vestal Virgins. The wind was cool enough to hurry them inside, even if his judgmental sniff wasn’t. Still, he softened when Tamsin grinned at him. Not enough for anyone who had not known him since childhood to notice, but enough for Tamsin. “Thank you, Basil,” she said, sailing past him.
“His Grace is in the library,” he said. He bowed smartly at Dougal. “Lord Thorncroft.”
Dougal nodded back politely. He was already losing the ease he had around Meg, and around George and his siblings. Even around Lady Beatrice and her marzipan cannon. Meg slipped her hand into his discretely and squeezed.
“Well, here you are,” Lord Pendleton boomed, when they found him digging through a new chest of antiquities. “Finally.” He beamed at Dougal. “Good to see you, my boy. You made good time. I knew you could do it.”
Meg and her friends shared an eyeroll.
“And you, my girl,” Pendleton continued. “I told you how it should be.”
“You sent me to draw Roman buttocks and find a treasure. Which I did not actually manage to find,” she added, disgruntled.