Her heart warmed at his words. He loved her.
Nothing had ever felt so good, so right, in all her life. With Edward she’d fooled herself into believing she’d loved him. With Ashton it was different, real. It was inexplicable, illogical, but she felt it all the way down to her bones. She loved this man. She’d loved him since the moment she’d laid eyes on him at her sister’s wedding, and she was going to be his completely.
“Yes.” She smiled. “I will marry you.”
He whooped and swept her up into his arms. “Tomorrow morning we leave for London. I’ve already requested a special license.”
She shook her head and smiled. “You are not getting off so easily. A woman dreams of her wedding day, and I will not be robbed of it. I want it written up in all the papers so all of the unmarried ladies will know you are mine.”
He lowered her to the ground, still holding her close. “I am ever your humble servant.” He kissed her quickly on the lips. “I love you, Daphne Hayward.”
“And I love you, my darling duke.”
Epilogue
One month later
Daphne opened the door slowly and slipped inside the darkened bedroom. She shut and bolted the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief that the long, torturous wait was almost over.
This morning she and Ashton had married in all the pomp and splendor expected of a duke and his new duchess. With help from about two dozen assistants, it only took three weeks to plan the wedding. Daphne carried a bouquet of white roses, and her gown was made of the finest pink silk. Ashton had looked devilishly handsome in his black coat and cream-colored waistcoat, gazing at her from the end of the long aisle as though she were the most beautiful woman on Earth…
Now, all the guests had finally gone home, and they were alone, at last.
A thin sliver of moonlight shone through the curtains, casting the room in a silvery, dreamlike hue. She crept toward the bed, careful to keep her footfalls light. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, head tilted toward her, his breathing deep and even.
Sheets tangled around his legs and hips, exposing every sinew of his bare chest and stomach. Even in the dim light, she could make out every taut muscle, every smooth sweep of skin. He was glorious—a deity sculpted into flesh and bone. She reached out and ran a finger down his chest, to the muscles that lined his stomach. He was smooth, warm to the touch, yet hard as steel.
“Do I meet with your approval?”
The deep rumble of his voice made her jump—she hadn’t realized he was awake. With all the joy and merriment of the day, she’d assumed exhaustion had overtaken him. She was delighted to find she was wrong.
“You will suffice,” she teased.
He groaned as she slipped her hand down farther, beneath the sheets, curling her fingers around the solid length of his erection. He was thick, larger than she remembered, and the feel of him was both thrilling and frightening.
“Ah…you are a vixen,” he said, thrusting his hips forward, pressing his erection more firmly against her hand. “God, Daphne, you torment me.”
The last month had been pure torment—they hadn’t made love since that first night at the house party, and for propriety’s sake, they’d had to pacify themselves with quick, stolen kisses. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. She’d needed to see him, touch him, feel him close. Now, here he was, her husband, and it felt like a dream.
At that moment, he sat up, gripped her wrist and tugged her onto the bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest. It seemed so long ago since they’d touched like this, she almost felt like a virgin all over again.
He skimmed one finger along the line of her jaw, as though memorizing the precise shape of her face. The sensation was pleasant, heady.
He gazed deep into her eyes. “Part of me feared this day would never come. I still can’t believe you are truly mine.”
She bit her lip, her heart swelling at his words. “I am here and I am yours completely.”
Reaching out, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. His scent, the spicy taste of him, curled around her, sending tingles up her spine.
Flicking the crisp white sheets aside, she exposed all of him to her hungry gaze. He was glorious, his erection thick, the swollen head straining toward her. She wanted to taste him, feel the texture of him on her tongue.
She pushed him back gently and prowled down his body, nipping, licking, tasting every taut muscle, every delicious dip and valley on her way down. He tasted so good: salty with just a hint of spice that was completely his own. She skimmed a finger across the length of him, then swirled her tongue over the swollen head. He groaned, low and guttural, like a man tormented.