“What was that for?” he asked. She had yanked his hand away.
Her eyes narrowed languidly. “I’m in charge,” she whispered.
His body tightened. More. Dear God, she was going to kill him.
“Don’t go slow,” he gasped.
But he didn’t think she was listening. She was taking her time, undoing his breeches, letting her hands flutter along his belly until she found him.
“Frannie . . .”
One finger. That’s all she gave him. One featherlight finger along his shaft.
She turned, looked at him. “This is fun,” she remarked.
He just focused on trying to breathe.
“I love you,” she said softly, and he felt her rise. She hoisted her skirts to her thighs as she positioned herself, and then, with one spectacularly swift stroke, she took him within her, her body coming to rest against his, leaving him embedded to the hilt.
He wanted to move then. He wanted to thrust up, or flip her over and pound until they were both nothing but dust, but her hands were firm on his hips, and when he looked up at her, her eyes were closed, and she almost looked as if she were concentrating.
Her breathing was slow and steady, but it was loud, too, and with each exhale she seemed to bear down on him just a little bit heavier.
“Frannie,” he groaned, because he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted her to move faster. Or harder. Or something, but all she did was rock back and forth, her hips arching and curving in delicious torment. He clutched her hips, intending to move her up and down, but she opened her eyes and shook her head with a soft, blissful smile.
“I like it this way,” she said.
He wanted something different. He needed something different, but when she looked down at him, she looked so damned happy that he could deny her nothing. And then, sure enough, she began to shudder, and it was strange, because he knew the feel of her climax so well, and yet this time it seemed softer . . . and stronger, at the same time.
She swayed, and she rocked, and then she let out a little scream and sagged against him.
And then, to his utter and complete surprise, he came. He hadn’t thought he was ready. He hadn’t thought he was remotely near climax, not that it would have taken long had he been able to move beneath her. But then, without warning, he had simply exploded.
They lay that way for some time, the sun falling gently on them. She burrowed her face in his neck, and he held her, wondering how it was possible that such moments existed.
Because it was perfect. And he would have stayed there forever, had he been able. And even though he didn’t ask her, he knew she felt the same.
They’d meant to go home two days after the christening, Francesca thought as she watched one of her nephews tackle the other to the ground, but here it was, three weeks out, and they had not even begun to pack.
“No broken bones, I hope.”
Francesca smiled up at her sister Eloise, who had also elected to stay on at Aubrey Hall for an extended visit. “No,” she answered, wincing slightly when the future Duke of Hastings—otherwise known as Davey, aged eleven—let out a war whoop as he jumped from a tree. “But it’s not for lack of trying.”
Eloise took a seat beside her and tilted her face to the sun. “I’ll put my bonnet on in a minute, I swear it,” she said.
“I can’t quite determine the rules of the game,” Francesca remarked.
Eloise didn’t bother to open her eyes. “That’s because there are none.”
Francesca watched the chaos with fresh perspective. Oliver, Eloise’s twelve-year-old stepson, had grabbed hold of a ball—since when had there been a ball?—and was racing across the lawn. He appeared to reach his goal—not that Francesca would ever be sure whether that was the giant oak stump that had been there since she was a child or Miles, Anthony’s second son, who had been sitting cross-legged and cross-armed since Francesca had come outside ten minutes earlier.
But whichever was the case, Oliver must have won a point, because he slammed the ball against the ground and then jumped up and down with a triumphant cry. Miles must have been on his team—this was the first indication Francesca had that there were teams—because he hopped to his feet and celebrated in kind.
Eloise opened one eye. “My child didn’t kill anyone, did he?”
“No.”
“No one killed him?”
Francesca smiled. “No.”
“Good.” Eloise yawned and resettled into her chaise.
Francesca thought about her words. “Eloise?”
“Mmmm?”
“Do you ever . . .” She frowned. There really wasn’t any right way to ask this. “Do you ever love Oliver and Amanda . . .”
“Less?” Eloise supplied.
“Yes.”
Eloise sat up straighter and opened her eyes. “No.”
“Really?” It wasn’t that Francesca didn’t believe her. She loved her nieces and nephews with every breath in her body; she would have laid down her life for any one of them—Oliver and Amanda included—without even a moment’s hesitation. But she hadn’t ever given birth. She had never carried a child in her womb—not for long, anyway—and didn’t know if somehow that made it different. Made it more.
If she had a baby, one of her own, born of her blood and Michael’s, would she suddenly realize that this love she felt now for Charlotte and Oliver and Miles and all the others— Would it suddenly feel like a wisp next to what was in her heart for her own child?
Did it make a difference?
Did she want it to make a difference?
“I thought it would,” Eloise admitted. “Of course I loved Oliver and Amanda long before I had Penelope. How could I not? They are pieces of Phillip. And,” she continued, her face growing thoughtful, as if she had never quite delved into this before, “they are . . . themselves. And I am their mother.”
Francesca smiled wistfully.
“But even so,” Eloise continued, “before I had Penelope, and even when I was carrying her, I thought it would be different.” She paused. “It is different.” She paused again. “But it’s not less. It’s not a question of levels or amounts, or even . . . really . . . the nature of it.” Eloise shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”
Francesca looked back to the game, which had resumed with new intensity. “No,” she said softly, “I think you did.”
There was a long silence, and then Eloise said, “You don’t . . . talk about it much.”
Francesca shook her head gently. “No.”
“Do you want to?”
She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know.” She turned to her sister. They had been at sixes and sevens for much of their childhood, but in so many ways Eloise was like the other half of her coin. They looked so alike, save for the color of their eyes, and they even shared the same birthday, just one year apart.
Eloise was watching her with a tender curiosity, a sympathy that, just a few weeks ago, would have been heartbreaking. But now it was simply comforting. Francesca didn’t feel pitied, she felt loved.
“I’m happy,” Francesca said. And she was. She really was. For once she didn’t feel that aching emptiness hiding underneath. She’d even forgotten to count. She didn’t know how many days it had been since her last menses, and it felt so bloody good.
“I hate numbers,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
She bit back a smile. “Nothing.”
The sun, which had been obscured behind a thin layer of cloud, suddenly popped into the open. Eloise shaded her eyes with her hand as she sat back. “Good heavens,” she remarked. “I think Oliver just sat on Miles.”
Francesca laughed, and then, before she even knew what she was about, stood. “Do you think they’ll let me play?”
Eloise looked at her as if she’d gone mad, which, Francesca thought with a shrug, perhaps she had.
Eloise looked at Francesca, and then at the boys, and then back at Francesca. And then she stood. “If you do it, I’ll do it.”
“You can’t do it,” Francesca said. “You’re pregnant.”
“Barely,” Eloise said with a scoff. “Besides, Oliver wouldn’t dare sit on me.” She held out her arm. “Shall we?”
“I believe we shall.” Francesca linked her arm through her sister’s, and together they ran down the hill, shouting like banshees and loving every minute of it.
“Iheard you made quite a scene this afternoon,” Michael said, perching on the edge of the bed.
Francesca did not move. Not even an eyelid. “I’m exhausted” was all she said.
He took in the dusty hem of her dress. “And dirty, too.”
“Too tired to wash.”
“Anthony said that Miles said that he was quite impressed. Apparently you throw quite well for a girl.”
“It would have been brilliant,” she replied, “had I been informed that I wasn’t meant to use my hands.”
He chuckled. “What game, exactly, were you playing?”
“I have no idea.” She let out an exhausted little moan. “Would you rub my feet?”
He pushed himself farther onto the bed and slid her dress up to mid-calf. Her feet were filthy. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “Did you go barefoot?”
“I couldn’t very well play in my slippers.”
“How did Eloise fare?”
“She, apparently, throws like a boy.”
“I thought you weren’t meant to use your hands.”
At that, she pushed herself indignantly up on her elbows. “I know. It depended on what end of the field one was at. Whoever heard of such a thing.”
He took her foot in his hands, making a mental note to wash them later—his hands that was, she could take care of her own feet. “I had no idea you were so competitive,” he remarked.
“It runs in the family,” she mumbled. “No, no, there. Yes, right there. Harder. Oooooohhhh . . .”
“Why do I feel as if I heard this before,” he mused, “except that I was having much more fun?”
“Just be quiet and keep rubbing my feet.”
“At your service, Your Majesty,” he murmured, smiling when she realized she was perfectly content to be referred to as such. After a minute or two of silence, save for the occasional moan from Francesca, he asked, “How much longer do you wish to stay?”
“Are you eager to return home?”
“I do have matters to attend to,” he replied, “but nothing that cannot wait. I’m rather enjoying your family, actually.”
She quirked a brow—and a smile. “Actually?”
“Indeed. Although it was a bit daunting when your sister beat me at the shooting match.”
“She beats everyone. She always has. Shoot with Gregory next time. He can’t hit a tree.”