The house was very quiet as Sarah tiptoed through the night-dark hallways. She had not grown up at Whipple Hill, but if she added all of her visits together, she was certain it would come to more than a year.

It would not be hyperbole to say that she knew the house like the back of her hand.

You could never know a house like the ones you roamed as a child. Hide-and-seek had ensured that she knew every connecting door and every back staircase. But most importantly, it meant that when someone had mentioned to her several days earlier that Lord Hugh Prentice had been given the north green bedroom, she knew precisely what that meant.

And how best to get there.

When Hugh had left her room that evening, just five minutes before Honoria had returned, Sarah had thought that she would fall into a lazy, luxurious sleep. She was not sure she understood what exactly he’d done to her body, but she’d found it quite impossible to lift even a finger for some time after he left. She felt so... sated.

But despite her utter physical contentment, she did not sleep. Perhaps it was due to all the napping she’d done earlier, perhaps it was a casualty of an overactive mind (she did have a lot to think about, after all), but by the time her mantel clock read one in the morning, she had to accept that she would not be sleeping that night.

This should have frustrated her—she was not one who did well when overtired—and she did not want to be cranky at breakfast. But instead, all she could think was that this extra period of wakefulness was a gift, or at least she ought to consider it as such.

And gifts should never be squandered.

Which was why, at one-oh-nine in the morning, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the door to the north green bedroom, carefully applied pressure until she felt the mechanism click, and allowed the door to swing open on its thankfully silent hinges.

With very careful movements, she closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, and tiptoed toward the bed. A pale shaft of moonlight striped across the carpet, providing just enough light for her to make out Hugh’s sleeping form.

She smiled. It wasn’t a large bed, but it was large enough.

He was splayed more toward the right side of the mattress, so she padded around to the left, took a small breath of courage, and climbed in. Slowly, carefully, she inched toward him until she was close enough to feel the heat that rose off his body. She moved even closer, lightly placing her hand on his back, which she was delighted to discover was bare....

He came awake with a start, making such a funny snorting sound that she couldn’t help but giggle.

“Sarah?”

She smiled flirtatiously, even though he probably couldn’t see her in the darkness. “Good evening.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked groggily.

“Are you complaining?”

There was a beat of silence. And then, in a husky timbre she recognized from earlier that evening: “No.”

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“Apparently.”

She poked his chest even though she’d heard the smile in his voice. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too.”

His arms came around her, and before she could say a word, he’d pulled her on top of him, his hands lightly cupping her bottom through her nightgown. “I missed you, too,” he said.

Softly, she kissed his lips. “I’m going to marry you,” she said with a goofy smile.

He returned the expression, then rolled them both so they were on their sides, facing one another.

“I’m going to marry you,” she said again. “I really like saying that, you know.”

“I could listen all day.”

“But the thing is...” She let her head rest on her arm and slowly reached out her foot, letting her toes run lightly along one of his legs, which, she was delighted to note, were also quite bare. “I just can’t seem to summon the moral rectitude required of a woman in my position.”

“An interesting choice of words, considering your current position in my bed.”

“As I was saying, I am going to marry you.”

His hand found the curve of her hip, and the hem of her nightgown began to travel up her leg as his fingers slowly bunched the fabric.

“It will be a short engagement.”

“Very short,” he agreed.

“So short, in fact, that—” She gasped; he’d managed to get her nightgown all the way up to her waist, and now his hand was squeezing her bottom in the most delightful manner.

“You were saying?” he murmured, one of his fingers straying wickedly toward the very spot it had pleasured earlier that evening.

“Just that... maybe...” She tried to breathe, but with everything he was doing to her, she wasn’t so sure she remembered how. “It wouldn’t be so very naughty if we got a bit ahead of our vows.”

He pulled her closer. “Oh, it will be naughty. It will be very naughty.”

She smiled. “You’re terrible.”

“May I remind you that you were the one to sneak into my bed?”

“May I remind you that I’m a monster of your making?”

“A monster, eh?”

“An expression of speech.” She kissed him, softly, at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t know I could feel this way.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted.

She stilled. Surely he wasn’t saying that he’d never done this before. “Hugh? This isn’t... Is this your first time?”

He smiled as he drew her into his arms and rolled her onto her back. “No,” he said quietly, “but it might as well be. With you, it’s all new.” And then, while she was still reeling from the beauty of that statement, he kissed her deeply.

“I love you,” he said, his words almost lost against her mouth. “I love you so much.”

She wanted to return the sentiment, she wanted to whisper her own love against his skin, but her nightgown seemed to have melted away, and the moment his body touched hers, skin to skin in full, she was insensible.

“Can you feel how much I want you?” he said, his lips moving along her cheek to her temple. He pushed his hips against hers, the hard length of him pressing relentlessly against her belly. “Every night,” he groaned. “Every night I have dreamed of you, and every night I have been like this, with no release. But tonight”—his mouth made a slow, wicked trail down her neck—“it will be different.”

“Yes,” she sighed, arching beneath him. He was cupping her breasts, plumping them in his hands. Then he licked his lips...

She nearly came off the bed when he took her into his mouth. “Oh my oh my oh my oh my,” she gasped, clutching at the sheets beneath her for purchase. She’d barely given thought to this part of her body before. They looked nice in a dress, and she’d been warned that men liked to look at them, but heaven above, no one had told her that her breasts could feel such pleasure.

“I had a feeling you’d like that,” he said with a satisfied grin.

“Why do I feel it... everywhere?”

“Everywhere?” he murmured. His fingers moved between her legs. “Or here?”

“Everywhere,” she said breathlessly, “but there most of all.”

“I really can’t be sure,” he said in a teasing voice. “We shall have to investigate the matter, don’t you think?”

“Wait,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.

He gazed down at her, his brows rising in question.

“I want to touch you,” she said shyly.

She saw the instant he understood what she meant. “Sarah,” he said hoarsely, “that might not be such a good idea.”

“Please.”

He drew a ragged breath as he took her hand and slowly led her down his body. She watched his face as she drifted past his ribs, his abdomen... He almost looked as if he was in pain. His eyes closed, and when her fingers reached the smooth, taut skin of his manhood, he groaned audibly, his breath coming in shorter, hotter gasps.

“Am I hurting you?” she whispered. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. She knew what went on between a man and a woman; she had more older cousins than she could count, and several were quite indiscreet. But she had not expected him to be quite so... solid. His skin was soft and smooth as velvet, but underneath...

She wrapped her hand around him, so intent on her exploration that she did not even notice the indrawn breath that shook his body.

Underneath, he was hard as stone.

“Is it always like this?” she asked. Because it didn’t seem comfortable, and she could not imagine how men fit it into their breeches.

“No,” he rasped. “It... changes. With desire.”

She thought about that, her fingers continuing to stroke him until his hand closed over hers and pulled it away.

She looked up at him apprehensively. Had she displeased him in some way?

“It’s too much,” he said raggedly. “I can’t hold out...”

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

He shuddered as his lips rejoined hers, nipping and teasing. His movements, once languid and seductive, grew hot and needy, and she gasped as his hands splayed over her thighs and pushed them apart.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he growled, and she felt him at her entrance. “Please tell me you’re ready.”

“I-I think so,” she whispered. She knew she wanted something. When he’d pressed his fingers into her earlier, it had been the most amazingly intimate sensation, but his member was so much larger.

His hand snaked between their bodies and touched her the same way he had before, although not as deeply. “My God, you’re so wet,” he groaned, and then he pulled his hand away, bracing himself above her. “I’ll try to be gentle,” he promised, and then his manhood was back, slowly pushing forward.

Sarah’s breath caught, and she tensed as the friction increased. It hurt. Not a lot, but enough to dampen the fire that had been burning within her.

“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

She nodded.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m almost all right.” She gave him a weak smile. “Really.”

He started to withdraw. “We shouldn’t have—”

“No!” She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Don’t go.”

“But you—”

“Everyone tells me it hurts the first time,” she said reassuringly.

“Everyone?” He managed a shaky smile. “Who have you been talking to?”

A nervous bubble of laughter crossed her lips. “I have a great many cousins. Not Honoria,” she said quickly, because she could see that was what he was thinking. “Some of the older ones like to talk. Quite a bit.”

He braced himself above her, leaning on his forearms so as not to crush her with his weight. But he didn’t say anything. From the look of intense concentration on his face, she was not sure that he could.

“But then it gets better,” she murmured. “That’s what they say. If your husband is kind, it gets much better.”

“I’m not your husband,” he said in a hoarse voice.

She sank one of her hands in his thick hair and drew his lips down to hers, whispering, “You will be.”

It was his undoing. All thought of stopping was swept aside as he captured her in a searing kiss. He moved slowly, but with great deliberation, until somehow—she was not sure how they managed it—their hips met, and he was fully sheathed within her.

“I love you,” she said, before he could ask if she was all right. She wanted no more questions, just passion. He began to move again, and they tumbled into a rhythm that brought them to the edge of their precipice.

And then, in a moment of blinding beauty, she quivered and tightened around him. He buried his face in her neck to muffle his shout, and he thrust forward one last time, spilling himself within her.

They breathed. It was all either of them could do. They breathed, and then they slept.

Hugh awakened first, and once he assured himself that they were still several hours from dawn, he allowed himself the simple luxury of lying on his side and watching Sarah sleep. After several minutes, however, he could no longer ignore the cramping in his leg. It had been quite some time since he’d used his muscles in such a manner, but while the exertions were delightful, the aftermath was not.

Moving slowly so as not to wake Sarah, he slid himself into a sitting position, stretching his injured limb before him. Wincing, he dug his fingers into the muscle, kneading through the stiffness. He’d done this countless times; he knew exactly how to locate a knot and jab his thumb into it—hard—until the muscle quivered and relaxed. It hurt like the devil, but it was an oddly good sort of pain.

When his fingers grew tired, he switched to the heel of his hand, moving it against his leg in a tight, circular motion. This was followed by a firm, sweeping motion, then—

“Hugh?”

He turned at the sleepy sound of Sarah’s voice. “It’s all right,” he said with a smile. “You can go back to sleep.”

“But...” She yawned.

“It’s hours yet until morning.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then returned to his slowly relaxing muscle, going back to using his thumbs against the knots.

“What are you doing?” She yawned again, pulling herself into a slightly more upright position.

“It’s nothing.”

“Does your leg hurt?”

“Just a bit,” he lied. “But it’s much improved now.” Which wasn’t a lie. It was feeling almost well enough for him to consider exercising it in exactly the manner that had got him into this situation.

“May I try?” she asked quietly.

He turned in surprise. It had never occurred to him that she might wish to minister to him in such a manner. His leg was not pretty; between the fracture and the bullet (and the doctor’s ungraceful probing to remove the bullet), he’d been left with skin that was puckered and scarred, pulled tight over a muscle that no longer held the long, smooth shape it had been born with.

“I might be able to help you,” she said in a soft voice.

His lips parted, but no words emerged. His hands were covering the worst of his scars, and he could not seem to lift them from his leg. It was dark, and he knew she would not be able to see the angry, pinching welts, at least not well.

But they were ugly. And they were an ugly reminder of the most selfish mistake of his life.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, placing her hands near his.

He nodded jerkily and covered one of her hands with his own. “Here,” he said, directing her toward the most intransigent of the knots.

She pressed her fingers down but with not nearly enough pressure. “Is that all right?”

He used his hand to push hers down harder. “Like this.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried again, this time reaching that awful spot deep in what was left of his muscle. He groaned, and she immediately let up. “Did I—”

“No,” he said, “it’s good.”

“All right.” She gave him a hesitant look and got back to work, pausing every few seconds to stretch her fingers.

“Sometimes I use my elbow,” he told her, still feeling somewhat self-conscious.

She looked at him curiously, then gave a little shrug and tried his suggestion.

“Oh, my God,” he moaned, falling back against the pillows. Why did this feel so much better when someone else did it?

“I have an idea,” she said. “Lie on your side.”

Honestly, he didn’t think he could move. He managed to lift one hand, but only for a second. He was boneless. There couldn’t possibly be another explanation.

She chuckled and rolled him herself, turning him away from her so that his injured leg was on top. “You should stretch it,” she said, and she held his knee in place as she bent his leg, bringing his ankle to his buttocks.

Or rather, halfway there.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded, shaking from the pain. But it was— Well, maybe not a good pain, but a useful one. He could feel something loosening in his flesh, and when he lay again on his back and she gently massaged the aching muscle, it almost felt as if something angry was leaving him, rising through his skin and lifting away from his soul. His leg throbbed, but his heart felt lighter, and for the first time in years, the world seemed to be filled with possibility.

“I love you,” he said. And he thought to himself, That makes five. Five times he’d said it. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“And I love you.” She bent down and kissed his leg.

He touched his face and felt tears. He hadn’t realized he was crying. “I love you,” he said again.

Six.

“I love you.”

Seven.

She looked up with a perplexed smile.

He touched her nose. “I love you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Eight,” he said aloud.

“What?”

“That makes eight times I’ve said it. I love you.”

“You’re counting?”

“It’s nine now, and”—he shrugged—“I always count. You should know that by now.”

“Don’t you think you should finish the night with an even ten?”

“It was morning before you got here, but yes, you’re right. And I love you.”

“You’ve said it ten times,” she said, coming close for a soft, slow kiss. “But what I want to know is—how many times have you thought it?”

“Impossible to count,” he said against her lips.

“Even for you?”

“Infinite,” he murmured, sliding her back down to the mattress. “Or maybe...”

Infinity plus one.