"I'm happy. I'm so happy." His husky voice caused pleasure to shoot through her body again.
He pressed his lips against her neck, and his wet tongue circled and sucked on her skin. His hands moved to her bosom. He rubbed her nipples into tight peaks, and she rocked harder against him.
"You're wearing too much," she murmured, and he shot her a cocky grin.
"Thought you would never ask." He moved to undo his robe, but then his gaze fell on his lap, and he seemed to hesitate.
Her heart swelled. It was the leg. He was worried about it. She gave him her best smile and touched the material. "May I see it?"
"It's not much to look at," he said, and he gave a little laugh that caused another pang to beat against her heart.
"Every part of you is wonderful," she said solemnly, and raised his nightshirt. She didn't want him to feel like he had to hide any part of him. Not now. Not after this.
She'd seen the wooden leg before. The bottom was as thick as the man's other foot, similar to a shoe, allowing him to balance. She traced her fingers over the carved curves. A round joint lay an inch above the bottom of his foot, in the space between his heel and toes, and she wobbled the lower part of the foot. It creaked slightly, and she giggled.
He pulled her upward. "I'd rather you focused on the parts of me I can actually feel."
She laughed, and they kissed again. His hands rubbed her back, and he pulled her toward him, pressing his warm, wet lips to her neck, forming his own trail of kisses. Ecstasy swished through her, and he followed the slopes of her curved waist and thighs with his strong hands.
"Percival." She moaned his name. She'd never experienced this before, but now the thought of stopping, of not feeling him here beside her, was unimaginable. He brushed his hands nearer her mound, and her body tightened, as long, elegant fingers swept toward her. He delved his fingers into her silky, most private curls, and she writhed beneath him.
She wanted-more. She wanted-him. Her body quivered at his every touch, at every flash of his brilliant blue eyes, which stared at her in awe.
"My darling," he murmured, pressing his lips against her chest with increased rapidity and desperation.
Her nipples pulled into tight peaks, and he swooped his finger along her breasts, and she trembled. He moved his lips to her crests, immersing them in the hot splendor of his mouth. He sucked one of her breasts, and every part of her body seemed to exult in the force of his tongue on her. His fingers still continued their caress of her body, and his long eyelashes flickered shut as a blissful expression swept over his face.
She thrust her mound toward him, no longer content with his teasing touches. He chuckled and moved his mouth to her other breast, sucking it expertly. And then-his hands traveled lower, and oh goodness, they were venturing into a place no one had ever journeyed to. His fingers pressed into her silky folds, and his eyes flickered up.
"You're so wet, sweetheart."
"I-"
He smiled. Clearly he didn't need a response and he quickened his attention. His fingers delved into her flesh, brushing over her tightest, innermost peak.
"I-" She gasped underneath the blissful force of his attention. He ran his fingers over her core, quickening his pace as if to send her far away, into new realms. She squirmed and writhed. And then the tempo of her breaths increased, pleasure crescendoed through her. Nothing could ever be the same.
His lips spread into a cocky grin, and he kissed her cheeks and mouth. His manhood pressed into her, and she reached for it tentatively. His confident smirk transformed to wonder, and she caressed the velvety sheen of his thickness. She brushed her fingers against tight, round ballocks, experimentally exploring the man's body. Then she moved back up his rod, sweeping her fingers along Percival's sturdy length. She circled the top, and beads of salty liquid dripped from him.
"Don't stop."
She smiled and then moved her fingers back down his length.
This time she increased her pace, remembering her own blissful sensations earlier, and he groaned.
"Just like that," he murmured. "Just like that."
She continued her speed, swooping her fingers up and down his rigid length. He tightened his grip on her other hand, and his gasps soared through the tiny room. Creamy liquid gushed forth from his rod, and he shuddered. His eyes flickered shut, his cheeks darkened, and his chest rose and fell. A masculine scent filled the room, and he pulled her toward him. She lay against his chest, still rising, still falling. Strong arms caressed her, and for this moment, she felt wonderful.
"I want so much to happen between us," he said.
The tips of her lips moved upward, but her heart heavied. After the ball, he would depart for London to his true life. She swept him closer to her, but that action could not stop his inevitable departure, and soon she would only be left with memories.
Chapter Eighteen
The coach halted, and music from the festivities streamed through the windows. Percival crept down the steps. His breath quickened as he turned to Fiona, and he gave her a short bow before extending his hand to her. "My darling."
There was nothing feigned about his words, and his heart swelled when Fiona's cheeks pinkened. She slipped an ivory-gloved hand into his, and he beamed.
By Zeus, his heart shouldn't pound with such force at the mere touch of her satin-ensconced skin. But heaven help him, that flicker drew up a hoist of delightful images. If he had his way, he would be ordering the driver straight back to Cloudbridge Castle.
From the anxious look Fiona directed at the manor house, he wasn't the only person who didn't want to be here, despite the fact this was clearly the place to be. Glossy coaches parked before the manor house, and sounds of people filled the crisp air.
"Maybe we shouldn't go after all," Fiona said.
"Nonsense. We made it this far." Percival smiled down at her, enjoying the sensation of her gloved fingers pressing against his arm. "And you need to speak with this marvelous baron of yours."
Tomorrow he would go to London. He'd speak to the dowager and explain he couldn't marry Lady Cordelia after all, and that he would not propose to her.
Perhaps he'd only known Fiona a few days, but he'd spent more time in her company than with any other woman. She understood him more than any friend, and her body was far more enticing. He had half a mind to stroll around the garden with her, his wooden leg be damned, and propose to her before all the gossips in this God-forsaken county she fretted about.
Perhaps the dowager would not be happy and perhaps she would even comment on his lack of dutifulness. Percival might not make the choices her son would have made, but he'd try his very best to be a brilliant duke and manage his estate well. He'd always make sure the dowager's needs were taken care of, and that would have to suffice.
Yes, after a quick jaunt to London, he could start the rest of his life, the one he'd always heard the great poets laud, but never thought actually existed.
"You're smiling." Fiona slipped her hand into the nook of his arm.
He nodded. "I'm thinking of something pleasant."
She chuckled. "I gathered that. Care to share?"
He shook his head, his lips still spread up. "It's a surprise."
Romance might be a new thing to him, but he was certain a woman didn't want to hear he was in love with her on a crowded path. Those sorts of moments should be confined to places with candlelight, roses, and a great deal of privacy. Those sorts of moments were to be treasured forever.
They strode up the path. The place was every bit as grand as Fiona had said it would be. Roman Gods and elaborate stone vases perched on the facade of the Georgian manor house. A long, man-made lake stretched before the building, and even though ice filled the lake instead of water, and any birds and ducks that used to frequent it had long departed for more sensible destinations, the manor house still retained an impressive allure.
They sauntered into the house, and Percival grinned. Fiona was on his arm, and life was wonderful.
Everyone changed into their slippers, and they strolled past rows of boots of mainly differing sizes of Hessians, into the ballroom.
Mistletoe and holly hung from the ceiling. Red ribbons were tied around each candlestick, and oranges and pine cones mingled together in silver bowls. Fiona had told him the ball would be elaborate, but he hadn't expected this.
Everything was impressive and perfect. A footman offered him a drink, and Percival took a deep sip of negus, smiling as the hot liquid, filled with spices and citrus, swirled down his throat, warming him as effectively as if he'd swallowed fire.