Page 55 of Gone with the Rake

“Entirely.”

His certainty seemed to flow into her, straightening her spine and brightening her eyes. “Then yes,” she breathed, a smile spreading across her face. “I’ll marry you.”

Relief spread along his limbs, then happiness, elation, and joy.

Thorn slipped the ring onto her finger, his heart threatening to burst from excitement. Then Lily was in his arms, her lips on his, and he could taste the salt of happy tears as they kissed.

When they finally broke apart, she pressed her forehead to his. “I won’t be able to wear this ring in public,” she whispered.

Thorn let out a chuckle and produced a silver chain from his pocket. “I’ve thought about that. But you can wear it around your neck. Close to your heart.”

He dropped the chain onto her palm, and she closed her fingers around it. “Two years,” she murmured.

He nodded. “Two years. We might be physically apart, but we can still keep in touch. I’ll write to you every day. And we will meet for every break.”

“How can you?” Lily shook her head. “If anyone discovers you write to a servant—”

“No one will know a thing. I will disguise my letters as addressed to my father. All you’ll have to do is reach the letters before he sees them and extract the ones I wrote to you. It will be easy. He doesn’t check the letters until late in the evening. And he doesn’t enter his study until after breakfast. You will have plenty of time to snatch them!”

Lily let out a giggle. “That is risky.”

Thorn tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “I am willing to take that risk, aren’t you?”

She met his eyes, her gaze searching—for what? Resolve? Reassurance? He could not decipher it. Whatever it was, she must have found it, for she gave him a confident nod.

He kissed her then, and she responded with fervor. They had kissed many times before, but this kiss was entirely different. It was free of all insecurities and inhibitions; it was raw, scorching Thorn to the tips of his fingers.

Suddenly, Lydia was undressing him. Her hands were roaming his wide shoulders, her fingertips leaving a hot trail in their path. Thorn weaved his fingers through her hair and tugged, turning her face to the firelight.

Her eyes were dark with passion, her lips puffy from their kisses. She was the loveliest creature in the world and the most wicked at the same time. The feelings mixed and warred inside him: tenderness and desire, love and passion. He wanted to slowly kiss every inch of her body, and at the same time, he wanted to toss up her skirts and enter her in one swift motion.

She trailed her hand down his bare chest, and the cold metal of the ring mixed with the warmth of her palm sent shivers down his spine. The ruby caught in the firelight, somehow igniting the carnal need in his veins.

Mine. She is now and forever mine.

He tried to rein in his desire, but the next moment, she lowered her head and kissed his chest, her tongue dancing against his skin, and that was the last straw.

Thorn wrapped his arms around her and tumbled them onto the floor. Lydia shrieked and then giggled, drawing him closer to her.

He loomed over her, his breaths frantic, a silent question on his lips. Do you want this, too?

He didn’t ask, but she seemed to read his mind, because she tugged him closer and whispered against his lips, “I love you.”

Then everything happened in a frenzy. Their clothes got pushed aside, their bodies tangled in a heap of limbs. Their kisses grew more intense, their touches more sensual, bolder, closer, until they were one, locked in a passionate embrace.

The entire world stopped, and it was just the two of them in the dark library, loving each other by the glow of the firelight.

Chapter 15

Lydia ran out of the hell, the stolen ring burning in her palm like coal, its weight heavy with the memories she’d thought long buried. She paused a few feet away from the doorway, her breathing heavy.

Almost without conscious thought, she slipped the ring onto her finger, telling herself it was just to keep it safe. But deep in her soul, she knew—it felt right there, as if returning home.

As if it belonged to her.

Because it had belonged to her once. He had given it to her. She was the one who’d left it behind.

No. She forced the thought away. It didn’t belong to her anymore—it belonged to Miss Monroe, and she should have turned it over already.