“I swear it.”
“But what if I no longer feel passion?” She felt his fingers stroking her hips.
“Your body does not seem to be aware that you are a passionless woman. And your eyes, cara, are becoming vague and smoky. Surely, that is not because of disinterest.”
There was still a faint protest in her mind, but when she opened her mouth, only a breathless sigh emerged.
“Your dressing gown, Cassandra.”
His voice made her urgent, and she tugged frantically at the sash at her waist.
“Hold still, little one.”
The dressing gown parted under his deft fingers, and he slipped her arms gently out of the full sleeves. He pressed her upon her back and lay beside her, his eyes on her body.
“You are too thin,” he said, still not touching her, “save for your breasts.” He leaned over her and kissed her. Her breasts were swollen and tender, but the touch of his mouth made her arch her back upward.
And then he was on top of her, and she felt the familiar hardness of him, the raw masculine strength of him. He crushed her breasts against his chest, and she felt his black hair pressing against her.
She felt a surge of joy as he forced her lips to part. He pushed against her belly, and her hands urgently kneaded his back as she parted her thighs. But he would not allow it.
He brought her to release before he entered her. To his besotted surprise, when he thrust deep inside her, she quivered anew with passion. She cried out his name, clutching him feverishly to her, and he closed his mouth over hers, willingly losing himself in her.
Belatedly, he was reminded of her shoulder and gently eased himself off her. He smoothed back the tousled hair from her forehead and solemnly kissed her nose.
“If you show any more passion, my love, I will be a dead man.”
She smiled vaguely, replete, and in the next moment, she was fast asleep, her face against his shoulder.
Their wedding was conducted aboard The Cassandra, in the captain’s cabin. Mr. Donnetti and Scargill supported the couple under the suspicious eye of a Father Donovan, lamentably Catholic.
After waving Father Donovan off the yacht, his step jaunty from the excellent champagne provided by the Earl of Clare, The Cassandra, sails billowing and men swarming nimbly over the rigging, prepared to sail out of the harbor of New York.
“Where are we bound, my lord?” Cassie turned to face her husband, her back against the bronze railing.
Anthony wrapped his fingers about strands of her hair that whipped across her face in the crisp afternoon breeze. For some moments, he simply looked down at her, savoring her closeness, secure in the belief that she had finally accepted him.
“I have been given to understand, wife, that England is lovely in the spring.”
Her eyes glistened with pleasure, for she had expected him to say Genoa. She laughed. “I do hope that we do not beat my letter to England. To be faced with a supposedly dead sister would be no mean shock to Eliott. And of course, there is Becky to be considered.”
The earl dropped his hands to her shoulders. “Becky loves you, cara, as would a mother. Surely you can find forgiveness for her, just as you have for me.” He added with masculine arrogance that he knew would gain her attention, “You must admit that everything worked out just as I planned. Becky but followed my instructions.”
“Conceited man,” she said, no heat in her voice. “I suppose since I am so very happy that I can afford to be generous.” She turned abruptly, her eyes alight with her joy, and flung her arms about his shoulders. She hugged him tightly to her. “It is so marvelous to be able to show you how I feel, with no more pretense, no more reservations.”
“And how do you feel, Cassandra?” He held her lightly in his arms, imagining that Scargill and Mr. Donnetti were in all likelihood staring at them, self-satisfied grins on their faces. He wanted her to tell him now that she loved him. She raised her face, her blue eyes shining with mischief.