My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,60

was presented to him: the moment in which the world adjusted so that his heart could recognize one of his tribe. One of his beloveds.

He put a finger to his lips. “Mama is sleeping,” he whispered.

Her bottom lip quivered. “Mama?”

“She’s right here.”

Viola nodded. “Go, snow, cake.” She held up her arms.

Hugo wasn’t certain of the etiquette of inviting small females to one’s bed, albeit future family members. He turned and dropped a kiss on Ophelia’s cheek.

“No,” she murmured. “Later, Viola.”

“Viola is here now,” he observed. “I don’t think she wants to wait until later.” Indeed, by the time he turned back, Viola had dragged a small set of steps from under the bed, climbed up, and was crawling across the coverlet toward her mother.

“Mama!” she cried joyously.

Ophelia turned over and pushed herself up on her pillow, shoving back a curtain of tangled silken strands of hair. “Sweetie,” she said sleepily.

Viola crawled onto Ophelia’s lap and leaned back, examining Hugo. “Snow,” she said. She turned to her side and nestled against her mother, her thumb in her mouth.

“She recognizes you,” Ophelia said, beaming at him. “Yes, sweetie, he’s the gentleman whom we met the other day in the snow.”

“I should go,” Hugo said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Return to my bedchamber.”

“The household doesn’t rise for another half hour,” Ophelia said. Viola appeared to have fallen back asleep.

“I didn’t expect this,” Hugo said, trying to find the words to explain what he meant.

“Viola?” Ophelia wrinkled her nose to him. “When she has a nursery with siblings, I suspect she’ll wake them up instead of me.”

“Joan is an early riser as well,” Hugo said. He looked at Viola to make certain she was truly asleep. “I had forgotten what making love was like. I had imagined it with you—hell, the image of you in bed was present in my mind within a moment of entering your carriage.”

Ophelia gave him a lopsided smile. “I was not far behind you.”

“But the reality of it is so much more. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had. Marie was sweet, but she was a girl. With you, it’s all different . . . Making love to a woman is—”

“Not just any woman,” Ophelia said, grinning at him.

“You are gorgeous,” Hugo said instantly. Her lips, for instance, were perfectly shaped, and but for the presence of a small child—which acted as an instinctive dampener—he’d be rolling on top of her this moment, tucking her warm body beneath his, and nipping that generous bottom lip.

“I appreciate it, given that I must look like one of Shakespeare’s witches. My hair is long past rumpled.”

“A beautiful witch,” Hugo said, his breath catching at the look in Ophelia’s eyes. How could a woman so gorgeous have even a hint of insecurity? And yet his Ophelia wasn’t certain she was beautiful.

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, making love to you isn’t so good just because you are extraordinarily beautiful. It’s because you’re you, and in case you’re wondering, I know that makes me sound like a complete git.”

“Git?”

“Idiot.”

“You’re no idiot.” Bright eyes held his.

“Could we perhaps return your sleeping child to the nursery?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

She shook her head. “If I move, she’ll wake up, and then she’ll be fussy by eleven in the morning. Her nursemaid will come along in a half hour or so and take her away for a bath.”

He groaned soundlessly.

Ophelia’s eyes had a mischievous gleam. “I realized last night that I announced our marriage without giving you the chance to propose.”

“You wish me to propose now?”

She nodded. “Why not?”

Hugo could think of many reasons, most of which had to do with thirsty kisses that couldn’t be shared over the body of a sleeping child. But he nodded, swung his legs soundlessly over the bed, and padded over to his breeches.

When he came back, he paused for a moment, just to make certain that he wasn’t in a dream. Tangled silky red hair spread around Ophelia’s pillow and spilled over her shoulder. Her pretty mouth was curved in a wicked smile, one that acknowledged the fact that he was lusting for her.

“I suppose that with you as a mother, the children will never be confined to a nursery, will they?”

“At night, they will,” she said. “But otherwise, no. Why have children if you don’t want to spend time with them?” She looked down at Viola, peacefully sleeping, and stroked a finger down her plump cheek. “I want more