Love is when you endure pain for the sake of a beloved sister and husband, if that’s what it takes to nurture the child of their illicit union.”
Then she glanced at Gran. “Love is sometimes doing the wrong things because you’re at your wit’s end in knowing how to help your family.”
He drew her into his arms. “Love is taking chances when every rational part of you screams, ‘Don’t risk it.’ Because it’s only when your heart has been ripped open that you get a chance to find the one person capable of making it whole.”
With her own heart beating wildly, she smiled at him. “And you say you aren’t poetic.”
“Well,” he said, with a glint in his eye, “perhaps a few of us can be good at everything.”
And as he pulled her into a dark corner and kissed her with great sweetness, she acknowledged that at some things, he was very good indeed.
Didn’t Gran make a beautiful bride, Jackson?” Celia asked.
“Hmm? Yes. Beautiful.” He covered her gloved hand with his. “Though not nearly as beautiful a bride as you were.”
She smiled. “Flatterer.”
“Not a bit. It’s the absolute truth.”
“You were a gorgeous bride,” Aunt Ada agreed. “That veil with the rosettes…”
And they were off again, discussing gauze and ribbons and something called a furbelow. That last one sounded dirty, but he figured it probably wasn’t, it they were discussing it with such enthusiasm.
Much as you joke about it, it wouldn’t do for anyone to find you here. My brothers are unpredictable, and Gran might just chase you around the manor with her cane.
Sabrina JeffriesSomeone else was approaching, and Jackson was none too happy about it. He hadn’t seen Devonmont since the house party and wouldn’t mind never seeing the man again, but since Devonmont was his new sister-in-law’s cousin, that was unlikely.
As the man neared them, Celia cast Jackson an assessing glance. “You do know he never meant a thing to me.”
“That makes me only slightly less inclined to smash his face in.”
“Jackson!” she said laughingly. “You would never do any such thing.”
“Try me.” He glanced at her. “Don’t let this sober façade fool you, sweeting. When it comes to you, I can be as jealous as the next man.”
“Well, you have no reason.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek and whisper, “You’re the only man I’ll ever love.”
He was still reveling in that remark when Devonmont reached them. “I take it this would not be a good time for me to kiss the bride?” he drawled.
Jackson glared at him.
“That’s what I thought,” Devonmont said, laughing. “But seriously, Pinter, you’re a very lucky man.”
“How well I know it,” Jackson said.
“And I say most sincerely that your wife is a very lucky woman as well.”
Jackson was taken aback. “Thank you, sir,” he managed.
After Devonmont nodded and walked away, Celia said, “Surely that softens you toward him a little.”
“Perhaps,” Jackson conceded. “Though it’s a good thing Lyons isn’t here. I don’t think I could be civil to both in one day.
It’s wonderful,” he choked out. “Absolutely wonderful.” He smoothed his hand over her belly. “I can’t imagine anything better than having a child with you, my love. But are you sure?”
She relaxed. “As sure as anyone can be at this point. Your aunt and I think I may be nearly three months along, so…”
When she trailed off with a blush, he added up numbers in his head, then let out a laugh. “It probably happened that night in the cottage.”
“Or the night in my bedchamber.”
“Then it’s a good thing I came to my senses and gave you that ‘proper proposal’ you demanded. Or I’d be staring down the barrel of your percussion rifle just about now.”
“I doubt that. I would just have married the duke,” she teased.
He scowled. “Over my dead body.”
She laughed. “You know perfectly well you would have proposed long before I knew I was with child.”
“Ah, but would you have said yes? I thought you once told me that a lady never surrenders.”
“She doesn’t.” Eyes sparkling, she buried her fingers in his hair and drew his head down to hers. “Except where love is concerned. I’ve come to realize that in matters of love, a clever lady always surrenders.
Her eyes began to shimmer with tears. “You . . . you love me?”
His heart seemed permanently lodged in his throat. “More than life. God only knows why you love me, because I sure as hell don’t, but I know why I love you. You’re my beacon in the darkness, and my compass on a night sea. When I’m with you, I don’t want to dance with Death. I want to dance with Life. I want to dance with you. And whatever it takes, I mean to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.
Her corset dropped to the floor, and he swept his hands up to cup her breasts. "I'm just ungentlemanly enough to prefer a woman's real flesh, Angel. I like the softness, the fullness of it. If I wanted to feel whalebone, I'd fondle a whale.
Sabrina JeffriesTags: seduction breasts corset whalebone
Perhaps the wolf wasn't quite so dangerous as he pretended. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out for sure——give him a little rope and see if he hung himself.
And pray that he didn't tie her up with it instead.
Tags: wolf spy pirate rogue rope
He’s rumored to have more bravery than sense.”
“Then he and Gabe make a good pair,” Oliver growled.
“Lay off of him, will you?” Jarret told Oliver. Closest to being a blend of their parents, he had black hair but blue-green eyes and no trace of Oliver’s Italian features. “You’ve been ragging him ever since that stupid carriage race. He was drunk. It’s a state you ought to be familiar with.”
Oliver whirled on Jarret. “Yes, but you were not drunk, yet you let him-“
“Don’t blame Jarret,” Gabe put in. “Chetwin challenged me to it. He would have branded me a coward if I’d refused.”
“Better a coward than dead.” Oliver had no tolerance for such idiocy. Nothing was worth risking one’s life for-not a woman, not honor, and certainly not reputation. A pity that he hadn’t yet impressed that upon his idiot brothers.
Gabe, of all people, ought to know better. The course he’d run was the most dangerous in London. Two large boulders flanked the path so closely that only one rig could pass between them, forcing a driver to fall back at the last minute to avoid being dashed on the rocks. Many was the time drivers pulled out too late.
The sporting set called it “threading the needle.” Oliver called it madness.
No wonder Gran had managed to run a brewery with such success for the past twenty-two years. She was a Machiavelli in skirts.
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