Simon was in the process of thoroughly kissing Lady Whitley Ash when he heard the clearing of throats.

Rude.

"Simon, darling, we might be an unconventional lot, but that does not mean we are simply going to sit back and allow such behavior for public viewing on the front lawn. Even if you are courting the lady."

He retaliated, pressing his lips to Whitley's once more. But Simon could already feel the heat of her cheeks at hearing the voices interrupt them. So he relented, for her sake, and turned to face his aunts. Simon didn't drop his arm from around Whitley's waist, however. He tugged her close, and she gave a delightful little squeal.

Lord, he wanted to find all the ways he could have her make that sound.

Simon cleared his throat. "It was not public viewing until you decided to make it so, Emilia. I do recall the veranda being empty a mere minute ago."

"Well," Adelaide cut in, leaning back in a rocking chair casually, "we thought you might like it better for us to interrupt rather than—"

"Simon! Get over here."

Lord Farrington stepped out of the manor, his eyes like slits as he took in Whitley and Simon standing there entwined. Simon very nearly rolled his eyes at his father...but then immediately straightened at seeing Lord Ash emerge as well.

He dropped his arm from around the colonel's daughter and quickly walked to his father, mouthing thank you to his aunts on his way. They smiled knowingly at him.

The last thing Simon wanted was to ruffle any feathers with his future father-in-law. It was a mercy that he hadn't seen how Simon's lips were locked with Whitley's a moment before.

Strolling back into the house, Simon passed his mother as she joined the other women outside. He heard her call out to Whitley, asking her to join them for tea, which made Simon smile. There was no doubt in his mind that Whitley was going to enjoy spending time with Madame Mischief.

Lord Ash seemed to have disappeared into thin air, but Simon wasn't surprised. He was a quiet man. Whitley had hinted that his time at war had affected him in ways she had never even fully understood.

"What is it, father?" Simon asked, following the earl absentmindedly down the hall.

Lord Farrington's silver-blonde hair swept to the side as he jerked his head back toward his son. "I've absolutely nothing to say to you."

Simon rose his brow, trying to determine what his father was getting at. Was he actually upset? Had he done something wrong? Was it the kiss?

But Lord Farrington's face was placid. And then he shrugged. "I simply needed you to unhand the lady before the colonel saw."

Oh. His father quite literally had nothing to say.

But Simon knew that couldn't actually be true. The man would certainly fill the air with his chatter in a matter of—

"Now, since you've completely ignored my advice I gave you at the beginning of the summer regarding one Lady Whitley Ash," his father went on, as expected, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, "I fully expect you to solidify your arrangements. And soon."

Lord Farrington gave his son a look, and then he promptly turned on his heel.

Well, Simon had no qualms about that. It had been over a month now since that day in the library when he'd officially asked Whitley to court him, and he wanted to make her his. Wholly, entirely his.

Whitley, as it would seem, felt similarly. Because later that evening, she brushed up against him during after-dinner refreshments, immediately setting every nerve ending in Simon's body on fire with the knowledge of having her so close. Honestly, he was so in tune with Whitley that he'd sensed her before she even spoke in his ear. But then she did, and it was a husky murmur that made parts of him ache in entirely inappropriate ways.

Simon needed another drink, and it needed to be very cold.

"My chambers. Midnight."

Simon internally groaned. His chambers were closer. They could be there within seconds. And that sounded an awful lot better than waiting until midnight rolled around.

Whitley continually pushed Simon to his edge. The past weeks had been blissful torture. Bliss because he could very nearly kiss Lady Whitley whenever he desired, as long as they showed some modicum of discreteness. Torture because he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her, and she was adamant about her desire for the same thing.

And while Simon had caved and taken some liberties—because honestly, he had needed to see pleasure blossom on that pretty face of hers almost as badly as he needed to breath—he had also somehow managed to withhold from taking her completely.

She was pushing him again now. Whitley didn't even look back as she strolled away from Simon after breathing in his ear. But her perfume was left behind, the scent teasing Simon, making him stare at the clock to wish the minutes to pass.

The more he got to know Lady Whitley Ash, the deeper Simon fell for her. She was everything he'd known she would be—from her kindness to her clever mind to her spirit. The lady had dreams that Simon couldn't wait to help make possible.

Simon was raised to believe women had the right to seek their own fulfillment, as wild a thought as that was. In addition to being the writer of Mischief in Mayfair, Simon's mother oversaw other London publications, such as The Times. She was ridiculously powerful and ambitious in her own right. And his father had never once cared about that, as long as she was putting it to good use.

Whitley and Simon would be quite the match, just like Lord and Lady Farrington were.

He knew it.

Whitley knew it.

Everyone knew it by now.

Simon merely wondered if that was all that Whitley saw in him—a good match—or if there was more. Because quite honestly, Simon wished for more. And so he had dragged his feet in officially proposing to her.

But time was running out.

Eventually the clock struck twelve, and he slipped into Whitley's chambers. She was propped in her ginormous four-poster bed, swallowed by snowy linens. It was dark in the room, but not too dark that Simon couldn't see her face. That flowing blonde hair was down and nearly as white a shade as the sheets. And all of that made her eyes and cheeks shine brighter as she glanced up at him.

"You came," she whispered.

Simon smiled. "Of course I came."

Whitley tilted her head shyly and fiddled with the sheets between her fingers. "I had a lovely time with Lady Farrington today. Your mother is most kind. She said that she cannot wait to welcome me into your family."

"You've finally gotten what you wanted," Simon said, winking. "Now that you're joining the family, you'll forever have an inside perspective on Madame Mischief."

Simon smiled, picturing Whitley at their endless family gatherings. Picturing Whitley in the new home that he would purchase for them. Picturing Whitley—

"You are what I want Simon," Whitley replied harshly, looking more than a bit perturbed as she interrupted his dreams. "Stop that. Besides, I had to tell her that her son has not yet offered for me."

His smile faltered. Taking another step into the room, Simon said lowly, "I believe my intentions have been very clear, Whitley."

Her voice was hushed, betraying her nervousness, when she said, "You have not spoken to my father."

Simon shook his head, even as he began to strip himself of his fineries, tossing his coat and waistcoat on a nearby chair. "Is this what this is about? Did you invite me to your chambers to ensure that we wed?"

While Simon and Whitley had done their fair share of sneaking about, he had not again entered her chambers since that night when he'd first placed his lips on her.

Removing his necktie and throwing that aside as well, Simon's voice dropped even further when he asked, "You wish for me to ruin you so my hand is forced?"

"Simon, no. "Alarmed, Whitley sat forward, her eyes pleading with him.

And Simon, naturally, could not bear it. He softened his expression and walked to sit on the edge of the bed so he could take her hand in his. Lord, even that small touch was shocking to his senses. Sighing, he said, "You needn't worry, Whitley. You needn't force a thing. All I have ever wanted is you as my wife. I wish that I hadn't been such a stuttering coward for so long so I could have courted you a year ago. And then we could have already been married."

She gave Simon a little nod, her face relaxing, her eyes taking him in. But still, something bothered her. He could see it there when she blinked up at him before saying, "It's just...the summer is nearing the end. My family is to leave tomorrow, and you have not—"

"I was giving us time, darling. I was giving you time."

"Time?"

"To change your mind."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

Simon sighed again. He released her hand so he could reach out to caress her face instead. Sometimes he still couldn't believe that she was here. And she was nearly his. "Whit, I have loved you since the moment I saw you. Call me a romantic fool, but it's true. I've always known that you are it for me. I simply wanted you to be as sure as I."

She nuzzled against his hand before looking up at him. "I am sure, Simon."

And then Whitley shocked him—he wasn't sure how she kept managing to do it—and gave an abrupt tug on his shirt, forcing Simon to fall atop her, his arms caging her in. Her warm body was beneath his own, and he'd never felt anything so amazing.

"Simon Pearce," she murmured, and Simon couldn't resist stealing a kiss from her lips since they were so close to his. When he released her mouth again, she went on to say breathlessly, "I did not ask you here to trap you into marriage. I asked you here because I am leaving tomorrow, and I wanted to spend my last night at Rosecrest with the man I've fallen in love with this summer. I wanted this night even if he decides not to have me every night."

Simon stiffened, soaking in what she'd just said. He replayed it in his head over and over again, and each time, it struck his heart even deeper. And when he finally came to his senses and found his voice, he said gruffly, "Oh, he wants you every night."

And then Simon decided not to take any more time talking about it and kissed Whitley soundly.

She moaned against his lips, opening for him and giving him...everything.

Simon's tongue swept into her mouth, and Whitley danced with him. Her lips, her tongue, her little nips on the corner of his mouth—they were all taking turns, alternating with Simon's own lips, his own tongue, his own little nips as they danced to this moment. He had no idea how long they kissed like that. But at a certain point, the dance became dangerous. Because it wasn't enough.

Simon's lips began to trail down, and Whitley arched for him without hesitation, letting him taste every bit of her. When he got to the edge of her gauzy nightgown, he clutched it in his fist. The fabric wrinkled between his fingers.

Peering up at her, he asked roughly, "Can I take it off?"

Whitley smirked. "Please do."

He loved this woman so much.

He could have done it quickly. He could have ripped the damn thing off, tossed it to the floor where it belonged, and Whitley likely wouldn't have batted an eye. But Simon wanted to savor the moment. He'd imagined it for ages, after all.

Smoothing his hands over every curve and edge of Whitley's body, Simon eventually made it to the hem of the gown. And then he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric and did the same thing on the way back up, feeling her beneath his palms as he slowly removed the garment—as he slowly bared her for him to finally see.

By the time he was pulling the gown over Whitley's head, she was panting heavily, her perfect, bare breasts rising and falling beneath Simon's chest.

"Whitley?" he managed to ask, his own breaths coming in short spurts.

She was beautiful and perfect and his.

"Simon?"

Her usually bright, blue eyes were hazy with desire. He sought them and muttered, "I want you every night."

Simon dropped a rough kiss to her lips, and Whitley gasped. Loudly. "Yes. Yes, Simon."

"Quiet, love," he mumbled even as he took the moment to grind his hips into hers, making it that much harder to do as he said. But he wanted Whitley to feel and know exactly how much he wanted her. And to emphasize that point, Simon then leaned as close to her ear as he could get, brushing his lips over the curve of it as he spoke lowly. "I want you every night, darling. And that includes tonight."

"It had better, Simon Pearce," Whitley whispered fiercely, her fingers intertwining in his hair, tugging on it. She was writhing beneath him now, urging him on. As if Simon required any urging.

He smiled against her skin, dragging his lips down again until he was brushing lightly over her breast. Simon waited until Whitley arched against him to capture her perfect nipple in his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue around the peak.

Whitley cried out—softly, but still. Simon pulled back and quieted her with a kiss, reminding her again to not make a sound.

Hovering his lips over hers in case he should need to use them again to soften her damn moans, Simon lowered his hands, caressing the planes of her stomach. His fingers slipped between her legs, and he cursed at what was waiting for him.

Her wet, hot body welcomed his fingers into its folds. As suspected, Whitley made some body-tightening, ungodly, amazing noise that Simon was forced to muffle with his mouth while he continued to rub the little nub that was bringing his future wife so much pleasure.

"Si," she gasped, and Simon growled at hearing the little nickname coming from her lips.

And that was when he knew—he knew that he needed all of her. And he needed her now.

"Let go, Whit," he breathed against her lips, and thankfully, she did, trembling in waves beneath him. Her eyes rolled back before finding his again. And he recognized the determined look there.

It shouldn't have been a surprise when Whitley's hands were suddenly all over him. It shouldn't have been—but it was still a shock to Simon's system to have her fingers ripping open the buttons on his shirt and sliding beneath to touch his bare skin. It was still a shock that soon his shirt was on the floor, and then his pants, and everything else. It was a shock to find himself hovering over Whitley, both of them naked, both of them panting.

"Whitley—you are so incredibly—"

"Save it, Simon."

He laughed, though it was breathless.

"No." He shook his head, his hair hanging down nearly over his eyes. "No, Whitley. Do not rush this for me. I need to tell you how incredible you are, and that I love you, and that I'm going to try very hard not to hurt—"

Simon's words were cut off because he suddenly forgot how to breathe. Whitley's fingers were wrapping around his very hard, throbbing shaft. She was guiding him into her, and Simon didn't have it in him to do anything except allow it.

He began to nudge his way in, trying to be gentle. But Whitley jerked her hips up against him, and suddenly Simon was very deep inside her. And lord—

Simon had been wrong before. This. This was the most amazing thing he'd ever felt.

Whitley had stiffened beneath him. So he froze as well, concerned. Simon dropped down, kissing her lightly and muttering soft reassurances. He asked quietly if she wanted him to stop, but she gave a firm shake of her head. And it wasn't long before she began to wiggle beneath him, began moving her hips, testing out the feeling.

And then Whitley moaned. She began to clutch onto Simon's shoulder, digging her nails in.

And that was Simon's cue.

Simon pulled out—just barely—and then entered her again, thrusting deep. Their mingled groans echoed through the room. Staying quiet was forgotten. Abandoned.

Everything else was lost.

Everything was gone, except for him and Whitley.

He dove into her countless times before rolling them over, wanting to see Whitley on top of him. She looked uncertain at first, so Simon grabbed her hips in his hands, guiding her. And then she took over, like he knew she would, and he nearly expired just at the sight of her riding him, let alone the bursting pleasure that rolled through his body from the way she was stroking his rigid length.

The world melted away. It didn't even come back when it was over, when she collapsed to the side of him, panting. Simon pulled her close. "So... you've fallen in love with me, have you?" He was breathless, still dazed by what had just happened.

Whitley was gasping for breath, too. "Yes." Her eyes flicked upward in a little roll. But then she sighed and snuggled into Simon further, and his heart nearly burst. "You're a romantic, stubborn fool, but I've fallen in love with you, Simon."

He kissed the top of her head. "Say it again."

"I love you, Simon."

"I love you, too," he breathed and then threw his head back into the pillows with a sigh. "And I cannot wait to repeat what just occurred a great many times. But now I reckon we should sleep. Because I need to speak with our fathers in the morning about keeping you forever, darling."

"You will stay here tonight?" Whitley mumbled the words sleepily into his shoulder.

"I intend to stay with you every night, Whitley. If you'll have me."

"Was that finally a proposal?" Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing slow and deep, and yet she was still giving Simon a bit of sass. And he loved it.

He chuckled. "It was. Marry me, Whitley Ash."

The words felt so good on his lips.

She sighed. "Yes. I'll marry you, Simon Pearce."

And with that, Whitley fell asleep. And Simon's heart had never felt so uncomfortably full before.

The next morning, Simon rose early to ensure he was not detected leaving her chambers, although he rather doubted it would matter at this point. Regardless, he returned to his own dressing room, taking his time to tidy his appearance before speaking with his father and Lord Ash.

When he was sure that Lord Farrington had likely risen, he made his way to the parlor, where his parents usually spent their mornings. They were, indeed, there. But so was everyone else.

Simon's eyes scanned faces that looked up at him suddenly. Emilia with her deck of cards in hand, his mother with her pen dangling between two fingers, Adelaide with her stack of gothic novels beside her. And his uncles—all looking at him expectantly and with sly grins.

Simon was suddenly grateful that Whitley's parents were not also present.

"Uh, father... can I speak with you?"

Lord Farrington slapped his knees before standing and treading across the room toward him. "Well, I'll say. It's about time."

At the same moment, Sawyer appeared at Simon's shoulder, trying to catch his breath.

"Father, I must speak with you."

Although he couldn't see them because his father was blocking the view, Simon could hear the commentary coming from his uncles in the background.

"Better late than never, I suppose," Theo's deep voice said.

"I was beginning to worry," Will muttered.

Leo had a look of amusement on his face as he ushered his sons into the hallway. "Well, you both completely disregarded my orders this summer. I told you to stay away from the Ash sisters."

"Father, I—" Sawyer tried to cut in.

"No, it's quite alright. It seems to have worked itself out. I will meet with Lord Ash this afternoon to settle the marriage contracts. As we are all friends here, I would like to propose that we void the dowries, except if he wishes to afford the ladies with their own coin to have. Neither of you shall need—"

"Father!" Sawyer interrupted, running his hand through his hair and pulling at the ends.

Simon frowned, scanning his twin's frantic movements.

His father frowned, too. "Sawyer, honestly, I was in the middle of something. As I was saying—"

"Lady Blair and I are not marrying," Sawyer blurted.

Lord Farrington's mouth snapped shut. And then his frown deepened, anger etched into the lines on his face.

Simon didn't blame him, considering that Blair and Sawyer had spent nearly every waking moment together in the past month. And likely some...non-waking moments as well.

"The hell you aren't. I am entirely confident you have compromised her in some way—"

"Oh, I've very much ruined her." Sawyer muttered the words, but Simon wasn't certain their father heard. The man was too busy chastising. Which was probably for the best.

"—and you will go offer for her right bloody now!"

Sawyer's jaw was twitching. "You misunderstand, father," he said through gritted teeth. "I have offered."

Hands were thrown in the air at that.

"Then what is the issue?"

Sawyer shook his head, his vexation evident.

"She is refusing."

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