straps he’d ever seen to her own shoulders, and let the remainder of the bundle unroll, all the way down toward her toes.
Ash was speechless.
Black silk—and not much of it. Black lace—even less. A few spangles here and there—the perfect amount.
Emma Grace Pembrooke, I love you.
“Well?” She cocked one hip in a saucy pose. “Do you like it?”
“I can’t tell,” he said. “You’d better put it on.”
“Now, Richmond. Be a good little boy while I’m gone. Don’t give your godfather any trouble.” Emma tickled the babe’s pudgy chin.
“Don’t waste your breath,” her husband muttered. “He’s not going to behave himself. He’s my son, after all.”
Khan smiled down at the infant in his arms and spoke in a baby-friendly baritone. “The little marquess could pass the entire afternoon squalling and soiling his clout, and he’d still be easier to handle than his father.”
“That sounds about right.” Emma smiled, turning to her husband. “Well, my darling. What shall we do with our afternoon?”
“What indeed.”
They strolled away from Khan’s cottage, back toward the house. The late summer’s afternoon was drowsy and humid, and Swanlea was abuzz with bees and dragonflies.
“You likely have some estate business that needs your attention,” she said. “I have a few letters I should write.”
He said in a bored tone, “Oh, truly?”
No, not truly.
A rare leisure afternoon free of the exhausting demands of parenting? Just the two of them, alone? They both knew exactly how they were going to spend that time.
It felt like they’d waited ages. Ash preferred they keep the baby close at night, and Emma was glad to agree. But it did take a toll on one’s sleep, and the few bouts of lovemaking they’d managed had been, by necessity, hasty and furtive.
“How fast do you think we can get back to the house?” she murmured.
“We don’t need to get back to the house.”
His grip tightened over her hand, and he led her off the green. They found a secluded patch of grass within the wood, and then it was a storm of kissing and touching and a great deal of disrobing. Emma tugged at his coat sleeves and unbuttoned his falls. He helped her free of her petticoats and stays.
Once he had her down to her chemise, he slipped a hand inside to cup her breast. Two deep moans mingled in their kiss—one his, one hers. Her breasts were emptied from nursing, but still sensitive. Her heart was tender as well, wrung by loving pangs.
The more buttons he slipped free, the more uneasy she grew. She put her hands over his. “Just leave the shift?”
He seemed to read her thoughts. “Really, Emma. Don’t be absurd.”
“My body’s changed. You’re not the only one with some vanity.”
“I’m not even going to dignify this with conversation.”
The shift fell, joining the jumble of discarded clothing on the grass. Within moments, they added their bared bodies to the heap, tangling their tongues, limbs, breaths, hearts.
From there it was easy. Familiar. They made love in full daylight, not hiding anything. He moved against her, inside her. She held him tight in every way she could. They reached a toothache-sweet climax together, as if simultaneous bliss wasn’t a rarity but the most natural thing in the world. The sun rises; the wind blows; orgasms arrive in tandem.
And after that moment of transcendent bliss, when she brushed the damp hair from her brow and smiled up at her husband in satisfaction, Emma couldn’t have thought him any more perfect.
And now, a few words about badminton.
During the Regency era, badminton as we know and love it today did not exist. There were shuttlecocks, and people amused themselves batting them back and forth with rackets called battledores. “Battledore and shuttlecock” was all the rage in early nineteenth century England. There were no nets, no boundaries, few rules. It was anarchy.
However, no modern reader (that I know, at least) was forced to play “battledore and shuttlecock” in physical education class. We played badminton. So even though the rules were not formalized until the 1860s, I decided to use the word “badminton” anyway. Call it an artistic liberty. Or perhaps an athletic liberty?
Interestingly enough, the game of badminton owes its name to a duke. According to a family legend, the game was invented by the Duke of Beaufort’s bored grandchildren while they were staying at the duke’s home: Badminton. So I don’t think it’s completely unlikely that the bored Duke of Ashbury might think up the game on his own, do you?
That’s my story, anyway—and I’m sticking to it.
Writing romance novels is a joy and a privilege. However, sometimes writers suffer for their art. And sometimes writers share that suffering with everyone nearby.
For their patience and support, I am forever indebted to my husband, my children, my family, my friends, my editor, my agent, my editor’s assistant, my copy editor, my publicist, my personal assistant, my publisher, my twitter followers, my cats, my pajamas, my coffeemaker . . . and pretty much everyone and everything around me. Except that one neighbor with the drone. You know who you are.
Special shout-outs to Guido, Kirk, Samantha, and Ken for bringing the sexy to this book’s cover.
And always, always, thanks to my readers. If not for you, I would have to wear pants.
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