Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He thrust forward with a primal grunt, and she could not help it—she let out a tiny scream of pain.

He froze instantly.

As did she.

He pushed himself up so that his head drew back, and she got the impression that he was only just now seeing her. The haze of passion had been pricked, and now—oh, it was everything she’d feared . . .

He regretted it.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”

* * *

What had he done?
It was a bloody stupid question, and an even stupider time to ask it, as he was lying atop Amelia, buried to the hilt, and they were in a field. A field. He’d taken her virginity without even a care to her comfort. Her dress was bunched around her waist, there were leaves in her hair, and good God—he hadn’t even managed to take off his boots.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She shook her head, but he could not tell from her expression what she meant.

He would marry her now. There could be no question. He had ruined her in the most debasing way possible. Had he even whispered her name? In the entire time he’d been making love to her—had he said her name? Had he been aware of anything besides his own unrelenting desire?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but words could never be enough. He moved to withdraw, so that he could help her, comfort her.

“No!” she cried, grabbing his shoulders. “Please.

Don’t go.”

He stared down at her, unable to believe her words.

He knew that this had not been rape. She had wanted it, too. She had moaned for him, clutched his shoulders, gasping his name in her desire. But surely now she would wish to end it. To wait for something more civilized. In a bed. As a wife.

“Stay,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

“Amelia,” he said raggedly, and he prayed she could hear all of his thoughts in that single word, because he did not think he could give voice to them.

“It’s done,” she said softly. But then her eyes grew fierce. “And I will never regret it.”

He tried to say something; he made some sort of noise, but it came from deep within, from some ele-mental spot where he had no words.

“Shhh.” She touched her finger to his lips. “It’s done,”

she said again. And then she smiled, her expression the culmination of a million years of womanly experience.

“Now make it good.”

His pulse quickened, and then her hand crept up the back of his leg until it reached the bare skin of his buttocks.

He gasped.

She squeezed. “Make it wonderful.”

And he did. If the first part of his lovemaking had been all frenetic thrusts and mindless passion, now he was a man with a purpose. Every kiss was pure artistry, every touch designed to bring her to the heights of pleasure. If something made her gasp with delight, he did it again . . . and again.

He whispered her name . . . over and over again, against her skin, into her hair, as his lips teased her breast. He would make this good for her. He would make it wonderful. He would not rest until he’d brought her to the heights of ecstasy, until she shattered in his arms.

This was not about him. For the first time in weeks, something was not about him. It was not about his name or who he was or anything other than what he could do to bring her pleasure.

It was for her. Amelia. It was all for her, and maybe it always would be, for the rest of his days.

And maybe he wouldn’t mind that.

Maybe it was a good thing. A very good thing.

He looked down at her, his breath catching as he saw her lips part in a tiny sigh of desire. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Nothing compared, not the most brilliant of diamonds, the most spectacular of sunsets. Nothing compared to her face in that moment.

And then it was clear.

He loved her.

This girl—no, this woman—whom he’d politely ignored for years had reached inside him and stolen his heart.

And suddenly he didn’t know how he’d ever thought he could allow her to marry Jack.

He didn’t know how he thought he could live apart from her.

Or how he could live just one more day without knowing that she would one day be his wife. Bear his children. Grow old with him.

“Thomas?”

Her whisper brought him back, and he realized he’d stopped moving. She was gazing up at him with a mix of curiosity and need, and her eyes . . . her expression . . . He couldn’t explain what it did to him, or rather how, but he was happy.

Not content, not satisfied, not amused.

Happy.

Lovesick, champagne in the veins, want-to-shout-it-to-the-world happy.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, and then she was smiling, too, because it was infectious. It had to be. He could not keep it inside.

“I love you,” he said, and he knew his face must belie the surprise and wonder he was feeling.

She looked instantly cautious. “Thomas . . . ”

It was imperative that she understood. “I’m not saying it because you said it, and I’m not saying it because I obviously have to marry you now, I’m saying it because

. . . because . . . ”

She went very still beneath him.

He whispered the last: “I’m saying it because it is true.”

Tears formed in her eyes, and he bent down to gently kiss them away. “I love you,” he whispered. And then he could not stop his sly smile. “But for once in my life, I’m not going to do the right thing.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “What do you mean?”

He kissed her cheek, then her ear, then the graceful edge of her jaw. “The right thing, I think, would be to stop this madness right now. Not that you’re not properly ruined, but I really ought to get your father’s permission before continuing.”