The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,83
“An inn?”
“Indeed.” He leaned down to speak conspiratorially in her ear. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve chosen such a spot.”
“Well . . . yes.” Not that there was anything wrong with an inn. It certainly looked well kept from the outside. And if he had brought her here, it must be clean and comfortable.
“Here’s the rub,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “If we go home, I shall have to introduce you to all of the servants. Of course there are only six, but still . . . their feelings will be terribly injured if we do not lavish the appropriate amount of attention on them.”
“Of course,” Violet said, still a little awed by the fact that she would soon be mistress of her own home. Edmund’s father had given him a snug little manor house but one month earlier. It wasn’t large, but it was theirs.
“Not to mention,” Edmund added, “that when we don’t come down to breakfast tomorrow, or the next . . .” He paused for a moment, as if pondering something terribly important, before finishing with “or the next . . .”
“We won’t be coming down to breakfast?”
He looked her in the eye. “Oh no.”
Violet blushed. Right down to the tips of her toes.
“Not for a week, at least.”
She swallowed, trying to ignore the heady curls of anticipation that were unraveling within her.
“So you see,” he said with a slow smile, “if we spent a week, or really, perhaps two—”
“Two weeks?” she squeaked.
He shrugged endearingly. “It’s possible.”
“Oh my.”
“You’d be so terribly embarrassed in front of the servants.”
“But not you,” she said.
“It’s not the sort of thing men find embarrassing,” he said modestly.
“But here at an inn . . .” she said.
“We can remain in our room all month if we wish, and then never visit again!”
“A month?” she echoed. At this point she could not be sure if she had blushed or paled.
“I’ll do it if you will,” he said devilishly.
“Edmund!”
“Oh, very well, I suppose there might be a thing or two for which we will have to show our faces before Easter.”
“Edmund . . .”
“That’s Mr. Bridgerton to you.”
“So formal?”
“Only because it means I get to call you Mrs. Bridgerton.”
It was remarkable, how he could make her so ridiculously happy with a single sentence.
“Shall we head inside?” he asked, lifting her hand as a prompt. “Are you hungry?”
“Er, no,” she said, even though she was, a little.
“Thank God.”
“Edmund!” she laughed, because by now he was walking so quickly she had to skip to keep up with him.
“Your husband,” he said, drawing up short for the express purpose (she was sure) of making her crash into him, “is a very impatient man.”
“Is that so?” she murmured. She was beginning to feel womanly, powerful.
He didn’t answer; they’d already reached the innkeeper’s desk, and Edmund was confirming the arrangements.
“Do you mind if I don’t carry you up the stairs?” he asked once he was done. “You’re light as a feather, of course, and I’m manly enough—”
“Edmund!”
“It’s just that I’m rather in a rush.”
And his eyes—oh, his eyes—they were filled with a thousand promises, and she wanted to know every one of them.
“I am, too,” she said softly, placing her hand in his. “Rather.”
“Ah, hell,” he said hoarsely, and he scooped her into his arms. “I can’t resist.”
“The threshold would have been enough,” she said, laughing all the way up the stairs.
“Not for me.” He kicked open the door to her room, then tossed her onto the bed so that he could shut and lock it behind them.
He came down atop her, moving with a catlike grace she’d never seen in him before. “I love you,” he said, his lips touching hers as his hands came under her skirt.
“I love you more,” she gasped, because the things he was doing—they ought to be illegal.
“But I . . .” he murmured, kissing his way down to her leg and then—good heavens!—back up again. “I shall love you better.”
Her clothes seemed to fly away, but she felt no modesty. It was astounding, that she could lie beneath this man, that she could watch him watching her, seeing her—all of her—and she felt no shame, no discomfort.
“Oh God, Violet,” he groaned, positioning himself awkwardly between her legs. “I have to tell you, I don’t have a whole lot of experience with this.”
“I don’t, either,” she gasped.
“I’ve never—”
That got her attention. “You’ve never?”
He shook his head. “I think I was waiting for you.”