Billie took a shaky breath. His hand was at the top of her leg now, spanning the whole width of it, and his thumb was very near to her center.

"Trust me," he whispered.

"You keep saying that."

His forehead rested against hers, and she had a feeling he was trying not to laugh. "I keep meaning it." He kissed his way back down her neck. "Relax."

Billie wasn't sure how that was possible, but then, just before he took her nipple in his mouth again, he said, "Stop thinking," and that was an order she had no trouble following.

It was the same as before. When he teased her this way she lost her mind. Her body took over, and she forgot whatever it was she'd thought she feared. Her legs parted, and he settled between them, and then oh God, he was touching her. He was touching her and it felt so wicked and so divine, and it just made her want more.

It made her hungry in a way she'd never been before. She wanted to draw him closer; she wanted to devour him. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down. "George," she gasped, "I want -"

"What do you want?" he murmured, sliding a finger within her.

She nearly bucked off the bed. "I want I want I just want."

"So do I," he growled, and then he was opening her with his fingers, spreading her lips, and she felt him pressing at her entrance.

"I'm told it will hurt," he said regretfully, "but not for long."

She nodded, and she must have tensed up, because he once again crooned, "Relax."

And somehow she did. Slowly he pushed inside. The pressure was stranger than it was great, and even when she felt a light stab of pain, that was overshadowed by her need to keep him close, then closer.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded again.

"Thank God," he groaned, and he moved forward, entering her more deeply.

But she knew he was holding back.

He was gritting his teeth and holding hard, and she would swear he looked like he was in pain. But at the same time he was moaning her name as if she were a goddess, and the things he was doing to her with his member and his fingers, with his lips and his words were stoking a fire that consumed her.

"George," she gasped, when the tightness within seemed to grab her from the inside out. "Please."

His movements grew more frenzied, and she pushed back, the need to move against him too overwhelming to ignore. "Billie," he groaned. "My God, what you do to me."

And then, just when she was certain she could take no more, the strangest thing happened. She grew stiff, and she shook, and then the moment she realized could no longer so much as draw a breath, she shattered.

It was indescribable. It was perfect.

George's movements grew more frenzied, and then he buried his face in the crook of her neck, muffling his hoarse cry against her skin as he plunged forward one last time within her.

"I'm home," he said against her skin, and she realized it was the truth.

"I'm home, too."

Chapter 24.

W.

hen George went down to breakfast the following morning, he was not surprised to learn that Billie was still abed.

She had not, he thought with some satisfaction, had a restful evening.

They had made love three times, and already he could not help but wonder if his seed was taking root within her. It was odd, but he'd never given much thought to having children before. He'd known he must, of course. He would one day inherit Manston and Crake, and he had a sacred duty to provide the earldom with an heir.

But even with all that, he had never imagined his children. He had never pictured himself holding a child in his arms, watching him learn to read and write, or teaching him to ride and hunt.

Or teaching her to ride and hunt. With Billie as their mother, his daughters would surely insist upon learning all the same skills as their brothers. And while he'd spent his childhood thoroughly annoyed by Billie's insistence upon keeping up with the boys, when it came to his daughters...

If they wanted to hunt and fish and shoot a pistol like a marksman...

They would hit the bull's-eye every time.

Although he might draw the line at jumping hedges at the age of six. Surely even Billie would now accept that that had been absurd.

Billie would be the best mother, he thought as he walked down the hall to the small dining room. Her children would not be trotted out once a day for her inspection. She would love them the way her own mother loved her, and she would laugh and tease and teach and scold, and they would be happy.

They would all be happy.

George grinned. He was already happy. And it was only going to get better.

His mother was already at the breakfast table when he entered the room, glancing at a recently ironed newspaper as she buttered her toast.

"Good morning, George."

He leaned down and kissed her proffered cheek. "Mother."

She looked at him over the rim of her teacup, one of her elegant brows set into a perfect arch. "You seem in an exceptional mood this morning."

He gave her a questioning glance.

"You were smiling when you entered the room," she explained.

"Oh." He shrugged, trying quell the bubbles of joy that had had him nearly hopping down the stairs. "Can't explain, I'm afraid."

Which was the truth. He certainly couldn't explain it to her.

She regarded him for a moment. "I don't suppose it would have something to do with your untimely departure last evening."

George paused briefly in the act of spooning eggs onto his plate. He had forgotten that his mother would surely require an explanation for his disappearance. His presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing she'd asked of him...

"Your presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing I asked of you," she said, her voice sharpening with each word.

"I beg your forgiveness, Mother," he said. He was in far too good a mood to spoil it by quibbling. "It won't happen again."

"It is not my forgiveness you must obtain."

"Nevertheless," he said, "I would like to have it."

"Well," she said, momentarily flustered by his unexpected contrition, "it is up to Billie. I insist that you apologize to her."

"Already done," George said unthinkingly.

She looked up sharply. "When?"

Damn.

He took a breath, then returned to fixing his plate. "I saw her last night."

"Last night?"

He shrugged, feigning disinterest. "She was up when I came in."

"And when, pray tell, did you come in?"

"I'm not entirely certain," George said, subtracting a few hours. "Midnight?"

"We did not get home until one."

"Then it must have been later," he said equably. It was amazing what an excellent mood could do for one's patience. "I was not paying attention."

"Why was Billie up and about?"

He plopped four pieces of bacon onto his plate and sat down. "That I do not know."

Lady Manston's mouth clamped into a frown. "I do not like this, George. She must take more care for her reputation."

"I'm sure it's fine, Mother."

"At the very least," she continued, "you should know better."

Time to tread carefully. "I beg your pardon?"

"The instant you saw her, you should have gone to your room."

"I thought it behooved me to use the time to apologize."

"Hmmph." His mother did not have a ready response to that. "Still."

George smiled blandly and got down to the work of cutting his meat. A few moments later he heard footsteps coming toward them, but they sounded far too heavy to be Billie's.

Indeed, when a body filled the doorway a moment later, it belonged to the butler. "Lord Arbuthnot is here to see you, Lord Kennard."

"This time in the morning?" Lady Manston said with surprise.

George set his napkin down with a tight-jawed frown. He had anticipated that he would need to speak with Arbuthnot about the events of the previous night, but now?

George knew just enough about Lord Arbuthnot's dealings to know that they were inherently flavored with secrets and danger. It was unacceptable that he would bring his business to Manston House, and George would have no compunction telling him so.

"He is a friend of Father's," George said as he stood. "I will see what he needs."

"Shall I accompany you?"

"No, no. I'm sure that will be unnecessary."

George made his way to the drawing room, his mood growing blacker with every step. Arbuthnot's appearance this morning could mean only one of two things. First, that something had gone wrong after George had departed the Swan the night before and now he was in danger. Or worse, held responsible.

The more likely possibility, George thought grimly, was that Arbuthnot wanted something from him. Another message relayed, probably.

"Kennard!" Lord Arbuthnot said jovially. "Excellent work last night."

"Why are you here?" George demanded.

Arbuthnot blinked at his bluntness. "I needed to speak with you. Is that not why a gentleman usually calls upon another?"

"This is my home," George hissed.

"Are you saying I am not welcome?"

"Not if you wish to discuss the events of last night. This is not the time or the place."

"Ah. Well, I don't, actually. Nothing to discuss. It all came off brilliantly."

This was not how George would have described it. He crossed his arms, and stared Arbuthnot down, waiting for him to state his intentions.

The general cleared his throat. "I've come to thank you," he said. "And to request your help with another matter."

"No," George said. He did not need to hear anything more.

Arbuthnot chuckled. "You haven't even -"

"No," George said again, his fury cutting his words like glass. "Do you have any idea what I ended up doing last night?"

"I do, as it happens."

"You What?" This was unexpected. When the hell had Arbuthnot learned of the farce at The Swan With No Neck?

"It was a test, m'boy." Arbuthnot slapped him on the shoulder. "You passed with flying colors."

"A test," George repeated, and if Arbuthnot knew him better, he'd have realized that the utter lack of inflection in George's voice was not a good sign.