This Earl of Mine

by Kate Bateman

  Her eyes sparkled. “Yes.”

  He stood and pulled her in for a kiss so sweet, so full of promise and longing, that it took his breath away. Every one of his senses reached out to her and became entangled. Her skin, her hair, her lips. When they pulled apart, he shook his head, incredulous, almost afraid to trust the happiness blooming inside him. “I can’t wait to be able to call you my wife in public, not just in my head,” he growled. “I’m sick of having to sneak around. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

  Her breath came out in a rush. “Yes.”

  “Come back to the Tricorn with me. Let me love you.”

  Her satisfied sigh was all he’d ever wanted to hear. “Yes. Oh, yes. Please.”

  Chapter 43.

  It was almost three in the morning, and as physically exhausted as she was, Georgie was too excited to sleep. Benedict held her close in the carriage as they crossed a near-deserted London. She rested her head on his shoulder as they rattled along, her heart singing with happiness. He’d availed himself of the dry clothes the admiral had offered, found some linen to bandage his wound, and now they huddled together under a thick woolen cloak.

  When they arrived at the Tricorn, it was to find Mickey the doorman still awake, despite the ungodly hour.

  “Alex and Seb made it back all right?” Benedict asked him quietly.

  “Aye, sir. And that scamp Jem Barnes is dossing down in the front room. Seb said you might’ve been winged in the arm?” He shot Benedict a concerned glance.

  “It’s nothing serious, Mickey. No need to summon the sawbones just yet.”

  The manservant gave a relieved grunt. “Right. I’ve kept the fire going in the kitchen. I’ll bring you up a pitcher of warm water in a minute.”

  Benedict murmured his thanks and ushered Georgie up the stairs. As soon as they entered the apartment, she swung around and adopted a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Let’s clean off that wound, shall we? I don’t want you to catch a fever and die, Wylde. Not now you’ve just started to be sensible. Take off your shirt.”

  His smile was thoroughly depraved. “I don’t think I will ever tire of hearing those words come out of your mouth, Mrs. Wylde.”

  Without even giving her time to brace herself, he stripped off his shirt and stood there in just a pair of buff breeches and his top boots. Her mouth went dry and her insides knotted. The man really did have the most splendid physique. Mickey’s arrival with a jug of hot water, clean linen bandages, and a bottle of brandy, prevented her from leaping upon her husband and ravishing him on the spot.

  “Thought you might need these,” the servant rumbled. “’Night.” He closed the door quietly behind him.

  Benedict took a swig from the bottle and handed it to her. “Do your worst, then, woman.”

  She moistened a handkerchief liberally with the brandy.

  “Easy!” he protested. “That’s France’s best Armagnac you have there.”

  She slanted him a prim look. “Imported foreign spirits are illegal in this country, Mr. Wylde.”

  He winked. “I may have stumbled across a few barrels of unclaimed contraband while infiltrating that smuggling gang.” He washed the wound, turning the water in the bowl pink, then hissed in through his teeth as she pressed the liquor-soaked pad to his flesh. Georgie winced in sympathy. It must sting like the devil.

  He looked down as she tied a clean bandage around the wound. “Kiss me. I need distraction from the pain.”

  She was more than happy to oblige. The nearness of him, the scent of all that smooth, bronzed skin was just too tempting.

  He tasted of brandy and heat. His tongue slid against hers in a steady, sinuous rhythm she felt in her breasts and her stomach, between her legs. She smoothed her hands over the muscled expanse of his shoulders, loving the feel of him, the power, but pulled back when her fingers ran over the puckered patch of scar tissue just above his clavicle.

  “I took a bullet at Salamanca,” he said softly. “French sniper. I was lucky; it came right out the back.” He guided her hand behind him, and she felt a corresponding ridge where the bullet had exited his body. “Didn’t even touch the bone.”

  Georgie shuddered, and her stomach pitched weightlessly. The scar was so close to the throbbing pulse of his neck. It could so easily have been fatal. She bent and kissed the damaged skin, and his long body shivered in reaction. His hands went to the tie at the front of her boyish shirt and he pulled on the strings. It opened in a deep V, and she raised her arms to help him as he lifted it over her head and threw it aside.

  She understood this time, knew exactly where it would lead. And she welcomed it. She wanted it all—the darkness, the passion, the heat. Him.

  Her linen shift was tucked into her breeches and her heart thudded against her ribs as he tugged her forward by the waistband. The back of his hand slipped against her stomach as he undid the buttons at the fall.

  “These damn things have been driving me mad all night,” he growled.

  She toed off her boots and stockings, removed the breeches and her shift, and heard him draw in a deep breath when she stood naked in front of him. The look in his eyes made heat curl low in her belly.

  He caught her and kissed her, holding nothing back, and she felt as if she’d been burned, scalded by his kiss, his strong body, and his big hands. He opened his mouth against her, tasting the corner of her lips with his tongue and then plunging deep inside. She threaded her hands through his hair and felt his fingers encircle her wrists. He didn’t push her away; instead, he tightened his grip and held her in place, a thrilling, willing bondage.

  Georgie quivered all the way to her bones. Lust dragged her down like a whirlpool, an undertow impossible to resist. She didn’t even want to come up for air. She lost herself in him, inhaled his scent, drew him into her lungs, into her heart.

  With staggering steps, they made it to the bedroom. She knelt before him as he sat on the edge of the bed and helped him remove his wet boots. He made quick work of his breeches and lay back, gloriously naked, and Georgie couldn’t contain a breathless laugh of triumph. Hers.

  She put her knee on the bed and prowled up his body, and for a while he was content to let her explore. She trailed her hand down, over the marvelous bumps and ridges of his chest and abdomen, down to the intriguing line of hair that started at his belly button and speared, like a wicked arrow, straight to his thoroughly aroused shaft.

  Georgie swallowed, suddenly overcome by nerves. She hadn’t seen this part of him the last time.

  His eyes glowed. “Touch me.”

  She’d wanted to do this ever since she’d felt him through his breeches in the submarine. Gently, she wrapped her hand around him and gasped as he pulsed under her palm. He was shockingly warm, his skin soft with a layer of rigid muscle beneath. She stroked experimentally, and he groaned and arched up into her hand. “Do you like this?” she teased.

  “Yes!”

  “I love this sleepy, sulky look you get,” she said. “It must be whenever you’re thinking of this. It makes me all hot and muddled.”

  She bent and put her mouth on him. He hissed a breath between his teeth, as he’d done when she’d touched his wound with the brandy, but feminine instinct told her this was in pleasure, not pain. She flicked her tongue. Her senses reeled at the incredible feel of him, his taste. He filled her senses. There was only him, only delight.

  “That’s enough,” Benedict groaned. “No doubt a courtly swain would let you have your wicked way with him all night, but a scoundrel like myself can only take so much.” In a lightning move, he reversed their positions so she lay beneath him on the bed. He sent her an insolent pirate’s leer, once again her beloved prisoner from Newgate. “Now, I have you in my clutches, Mrs. Wylde.” He curled her hair around his fist and dragged it to his nose. “I know you, wife. I know your scent. The way you move. You’re mine.”

  Georgie shivered.

  “Let’s see how much torture you can stand.” He stroked her, from her throa
t, down the center of her body between her breasts, and back up. “I love your body’s reaction to me. Your skin flushes, your nipples tighten to little peaks.” He brushed his fingers over them to underscore his point, and Georgie gasped at the sensation. Jolts of lightning shot through her. He chuckled. “Your breath is coming in pants, Mrs. Wylde. Should I infer that you like this?”

  Georgie arched up into his touch, and he took pity on her and cupped her breasts. She moaned. His hands molded to the contours of her skin like water, a perfect fit. He leaned over and paused with his mouth suspended over her, one taut peak inches from his mouth. At the last moment he made a detour and traced the soft underside curve of her breast with his tongue instead.

  “I surrender!” Georgie panted. “You win. Stop teasing.”

  His chuckle vibrated against her skin. She caught his hair and pulled him up to her breast, and he captured one nipple in his mouth. She let out a ragged sigh.

  “I suspect you like this too,” he whispered, and his hand slid down her stomach and over the springy hair below. He stroked between her legs, found the telltale slippery wetness, and groaned. “I want to be inside you.”

  “Yes!” Georgie gasped. “Now.”

  “Now,” he echoed hoarsely.

  He lowered himself over her, and she felt his hand at her inner thigh, guiding himself to her. He took her mouth at the same moment he slid into her, one sure, deep thrust, and he caught her soft moan of pleasure on his tongue. It was a shock, a revelation, a miraculous filling and stretching. He stilled, fully inside her, and looked deep into her eyes. Georgie felt the connection right down to her soul.

  He was buried deep, hard and hot. And then he started to move, and she arched her back and caught the rhythm. Soon, she was trembling, lost in that dark, wicked place where there were no words, only sensations. He increased the pace, deeper, harder, until she was straining for more, gasping his name. She hovered on the peak of agony for what seemed like forever, and then she hurtled over the edge, and it was like Guy Fawkes and his gunpowder again—only this was her own personal detonation. Blistering. Earth-shattering. All-consuming.

  He let out a soul-deep groan, and his entire body went rigid over hers. Instead of pulling out of her, she felt him pulsing deep within her in his own blissful release. He collapsed onto her chest, then rolled them both to the side and lay breathing hard, great gusts of his chest, as her own heart hammered and pleasure liquefied her limbs.

  “Say it again,” she panted. “What you said at Woolwich.”

  He stroked her hair away from her temple. “What? That I love you? Yes.” He pressed a kiss to the end of her nose. “My love. My life. Stay with me. Always.”

  “Always,” she breathed.

  Chapter 44.

  She awoke in his arms, with the light of morning hardening on the wall, and sat up in a flurry of sheets. The clock on the mantel showed almost eight o’clock.

  “Oh, goodness, I have to go home and tell Mother we’re engaged before she hears it from somebody else. Admiral Cockburn’s wife will make it the talk of the town by lunchtime.”

  Benedict’s sleepy chuckle warmed her heart. “Would you like me to come with you? We could speak to her together.”

  Georgie shook her head. “No, it’s all right. I’ll talk to her on my own first. You can come over for tea this afternoon. She should be over the shock by then.”

  He tugged her back into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. “All right.” He left the bed and strode, unashamedly naked, over to a mahogany dressing chest, giving Georgie a wonderful view of his long back and firm buttocks. He opened the doors to reveal three sliding drawers below a space for hanging garments and selected a clean shirt for her to wear. It was too big, but it smelled of him.

  Georgie grimaced as she pulled on the grimy breeches from the previous day. She couldn’t wait to have a bath. She padded over to join him and a forest-green garment caught her attention. “Is that your uniform?”

  He stroked the jacket’s sleeve affectionately. “Yes. The Rifles.”

  “Why isn’t it red, like the rest of the army?”

  “The Rifles are sharpshooters. Snipers and skirmishers. We’re supposed to blend in. You have to admit that red is a ridiculous color for a soldier. It makes the perfect target.” He leaned over and reached inside a cut glass bowl, apparently searching for something. A muddle of assorted items swirled around haphazardly, and Georgie gasped as she caught sight of his campaign medals lying carelessly amongst the cufflinks and penknives.

  “Why don’t you ever wear your medals?”

  He let out a tired sigh. “Because I don’t deserve them.”

  “What? Of course you do! You were at those battles, were you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why—?”

  He stared at the bowl as if struggling to find the words. “I suppose I still feel guilty, for making it through the war almost unscathed when so many of my friends didn’t. I didn’t earn those medals for anything other than staying alive. I couldn’t control whether a bullet hit me or the man next to me. I couldn’t change the trajectory of a shell. It was more dumb luck than skill.”

  Georgie’s chest contracted at the pain in his voice.

  He glanced over at her and met her eyes. “That’s why I work for Bow Street now. If I can foil plots like that one yesterday, maybe then I’ll have done something actually worthy of a mention in dispatches.”

  She wound her arms around him and hugged him tight. “Well, you’re my hero, Benedict Wylde, whatever medals you’ve earned. And we should both be extremely proud of what we achieved yesterday. Think of the trouble Napoleon could stir up if he ever escaped St. Helena.”

  He grunted in grudging agreement. “Ah, here we go.” He hooked a familiar chain from amid the clutter, and Georgie saw it was her wedding band—which had been joined by his plain gold ring. The last time she’d seen that, she realized, was at Newgate; she’d assumed he’d pawned it or sold it.

  He uncoupled the clasp of the chain and slid both rings free, then took her left hand and solemnly slid hers onto her fourth finger. Her heart glowed with pride and love.

  She winced when his fingers touched her palm, however, and he frowned as he turned her hand over and noticed the skin was red and torn from handling the submarine. “You idiot,” he chided softly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

  Georgie shrugged. “I truly didn’t notice at the time.”

  He pressed his lips to the tender skin on the center of each palm, then straightened and kissed her mouth. “God, the next month is going to be torture. We’ll have to wait three whole weeks for the banns to be read, and we’ll be under the eagle eye of the ton the entire time. I’ll actually have to behave myself.”

  She chuckled, and he looked into her face with a wry smile and a shake of his tousled head. “I still can’t believe you want to be married to me. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? What if I turn out to be a terrible husband? I don’t have the first clue how to be happily married. My own parents barely spoke to one another. They ended up living apart for almost twenty years.”

  “We are nothing like your parents, Benedict. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

  He tilted his head as another thought struck him. “I still need to introduce you to my brother, John. He’d have been a far better choice for you, you know. He’s the earl. He’s solid. Dependable. Steadfast. He can run an estate. Organize tenants. He doesn’t run around getting himself thrown into prison.”

  Georgie shook her head. “You’re a good man, Benedict Wylde. Despite what you might believe. It’s you that I love.” She sent him a teasing glance, determined to lighten the mood. “Do you think it’s actually legal to marry the same man twice?”

  “Of course. One wedding doesn’t cancel out the other. That’s not how it works. We’ll just be doubly married.” He bent and kissed her again. “Besides, I don’t care. I’ll marry you every week if that’s what it takes to keep you happy.”
His expression clouded, and he glanced down at her warily. “You don’t want to get married at St. George’s, Hanover Square, do you?”

  “No. The Caversteed family will provide the ton with quite enough entertainment with Juliet’s wedding there. How do you feel about a small, select wedding at my home in Little Gidding?”

  He let out a sigh of obvious relief, gave her another quick kiss, then swatted her playfully on the behind. “Perfect. Now, go and tell your mother.”

  * * *

  “Mother, I have a confession to make.”

  Georgie, freshly bathed and dressed in a flattering morning gown of sprigged muslin, strode into the drawing room. Juliet and Simeon had gone for a drive in the park. Mother looked up from pouring the tea with a questioning look, her brows drawn together.

  “Not another one. Really, Georgiana, I do think you should consider my poor nerves. I’ve come to live in dread of you saying things like that. What is it this time? Should I brace myself for the revelation that you’re leaving us to join the circus? Becoming a clairvoyant?”

  Georgie stifled a laugh at her mother’s peeved sarcasm. “Cousin Josiah was blackmailing me.”

  “Blackmailing you? About what?”

  “My husband. Josiah discovered the truth about him.”

  Mother sniffed. “Oh. Well that’s hardly a surprise. I told you marrying a convict was a recipe for disaster, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. You did. But I didn’t actually marry a convict. I married Benedict Wylde.”

  Mother appeared temporarily struck dumb—a miracle in itself. She opened and closed her mouth a few times then managed to croak, “Wylde? Morcott’s brother? That Wylde?” She closed her eyes as if praying for strength, then sent Georgie the patented what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this glare. “Georgiana Caversteed. Well, I never.”