But he also had a powerful need to claim her as his own. Take what would only ever be his. Her maidenhead.
He lifted her then, finally pulling her body against his. As their skin came together, they both groaned, her arms threading around his neck.
He lay them both down, her legs twining about his, and his manhood pressed into the soft, slick folds of her seam then sliding deeper into her channel.
“Charlie, I know you’re mine, love. You’ll be mine forever. I swear to you that I’ll care for you to the best of my abilities—”
“I know you will,” she answered without hesitation.
Raithe squeezed his eyes shut. He’d needed her to say that. Deep down, he’d always felt that he’d failed his first wife and he couldn’t fail Charlie too.
“Sweetheart,” he groaned as he slid deeper inside her. “I need you so much.”
She peppered kisses along his face, her hands combing through his hair. He pushed up against her maidenhead and with a quick thrust, broke it open.
She stiffened, her legs and arms tightening as she ceased her trail of kisses. It was his turn to brush back her hair, murmuring soft words of comfort as her body adjusted. Charlie was his. His to love, worship, care for the rest of his life. “I love you,” he murmured against her ear.
“I love you too,” she answered, relaxing in his arms.
He slowly slid back out of her and then back in watching her face. He never wanted to hurt her. She gave him a small smile, her body relaxing further. “That was far more pleasant.”
He kept the pace languid despite the tension building inside him. He held her close as her hips arched toward his, meeting his thrusts.
That was when he quickened the pace. Her arms tightened as she panted, calling out his name. “Raithe.”
He loved the sound on her lips and he gave her a long hard kiss before he lifted to look down in his eyes. “Say it again.”
Her breath fluttered. “Raithe.”
His own finish was roaring nearer, but he held off, wanting her to finish first.
She stiffened, crying out his name again and then Raithe couldn’t hold back another moment. He shuddered out his climax, holding Charlie tight to his chest.
They lay locked together for long minutes before Charlie stroked back his hair. “I can’t believe we just made love.”
He chuckled. He could believe it. He’d been dreaming of this very moment for months. Her dark hair lay in a silky mass, fanned out across the bed. He stroked his fingers through the strands, kissing her cheek, the column of her neck. “You’re going to have to get used to it, I’m afraid. Now that I’ve got you in my bed, I don’t know that I’ll ever let you out.”
She giggled, sliding her hands along his back. “You, my lord, are in my bed.”
He laughed then, rising from the bed and crossing the room. She propped up on her elbows as she watched him. “Where are you going?”
“To lock the door,” he answered, crossing to the French doors that led out onto the balcony. “We can’t have any surprise visitors tonight.”
“No?” she asked, giving him a devilish smile.
The lock sounded with a resounding click. “I’m not even close to done with you, my lady.”
Epilogue
Two months later…
* * *
Raithe stared down into the eyes of his bride as they stood in the Seabridge Gate church. The lovely little chapel sat at the very end of the town common. Despite the summer heat, the morning air was refreshing as the doors stood open wide.
Just in the pews, sat Mr. Moorish, his five daughters, and their new husbands.
Cassandra was also there, beaming a smile at her friend, her new husband with his arm wrapped possessively about her shoulders. Raithe grinned. He had to confess, he had not seen that match coming.
“Do you, Lord Balstead, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The vicar asked, his words pulling Raithe back to the present, back to his bride.
He couldn’t wait another moment. The past two months had been torture. They’d been able to find a few stolen hours to be together but not nearly enough for his liking. “I do.”
Charlie squeezed his hands. “And do you, Lady Charlotte Summerset, take this man to be your husband?”
“I do,” she said, her smile only growing wider.
The vicar’s words flowed over him until he announced, “You may kiss your bride.”
Swooping down, he captured her lips with his own. It had been a long journey, but he was finally home.
They swept out of the church, stopping to kiss their family and friends.
Rathmore patted him on the back, giving him a wink. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Balstead grinned. “I’m aware of your doubts. My stomach still aches from all the hits I took.”
The other men chuckled as Craven stepped up next to him. “You know, you’re not so bad after all.”
“Not so bad?” Mr. Moorish joined the well-wishers, kissing Charlie’s cheek. “Without Lord Balstead I would have never caught the pirates stealing from me.”
“Did they finally capture him?” Raithe asked. Mr. Moorish had sent a fleet of ships after the man and his crew.
“They did. Sunk his vessel I’m afraid and captured whomever they didn’t kill. Captain Montague was his name.”
The group fell silent. “I’m glad that was solved, Papa.” Ophelia took her father’s hand. “But let’s allow these two in the first carriage back to the house for the wedding breakfast. Today is a day of celebration.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Moorish answered. “I’ve reserved a fine case of champagne for the occasion and chosen my favorite sonnet for the toast.”
A chuckle rose from the crowd, and then Raithe and Charlie climbed into the vehicle.
The door had no more snapped closed before Raithe had his new bride in his arms.
“I should tell you,” she whispered in his ear. “I didn’t wear pantaloons.”
In response he tugged down his trousers even as she lifted her skirts. She was already wet and he groaned with satisfaction as he slid into her slick heat. They made love hard and fast, their cries muffled by each other’s lips.
When Charlie slumped against him, he wrapped her in a deep hug. “I love you, my sweetheart.”
She nuzzled his neck. “I love you too.” Then she lifted her head. “But there is something I have to tell you.”
“What?” he asked a knot tightening his lungs.
She licked her lips. “I…I haven’t bled since that first night we were together.”
He closed his eyes for just a moment, processing those words. “A baby?” Joy and fear danced in his gut. “Already?”
She nodded, holding his face in his hands. “Are you happy?”
“Of course.” He kissed her again. Despite his worries, he couldn’t wait to see her round with his child. He brushed his hand along the flat of her stomach. “A baby.”
“If it’s a boy.” She smiled into his neck. “We’ll name him Raithe, of course.”
“Not Charlie?” he teased, lifting her chin to kiss her mouth again.
“And if it’s a girl,” she wrinkled her nose at his joke. “I thought we’d name her Jennifer.”
A lump clogged his throat. “Charlie…I…” He tried to push out the words. “I don’t know what to say.” Those words filled his heart to the brim. She’d promised to honor his first wife. But this…
She kissed him again as the carriage came to a stop. “Don’t say anything. Except that you’re happy you changed your mind and decided to marry me.”
“I’m so very happy, love.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb.
“I’m happy too,” she gave him a giant smile. “But I’m also hungry. My appetite has been voracious. Are you ready for our breakfast?”
Ready? He was ready for the rest of his life with his beautiful wife.
When to Dare a Dishonorable Duke
Romancing the Rake bo
ok 7
Tammy Andresen
When to Dare a Dishonorable Duke
Mrs. Cassandra Winterset sat in an overstuffed leather chair near the fire, assessing the flames as they danced in the grate. Outside the clouds rolled overhead, splattering the windows with rain. The perfect backdrop for her mood.
It was summer, and the sun had been shining for nearly a week straight, mocking her inner turmoil with its bright warm cheeriness. But finally a cold front had rolled in, bathing the house in frigid rain and allowing her to sit in front of a fire and…brood.
She smiled at the word, normally better suited for a man but it fit her today as she reflected on the past four years of her life. Her smile slipped as she rested her chin on one of her palms.
Two and twenty and already a widow. And a penniless one at that.
The flames crackled, spraying a shower of sparks along the grate. She’d married her childhood friend, the Honorable John Williams Winterset at the tender age of eighteen because he’d needed her, because she cared deeply for him, and because she’d had some romantic notion that this grand gesture made her a better person.
However, she’d failed to consider that marrying an already ill man would rob her of much of her energy, youth, and vitality. And that when John finally succumbed to the illness, she’d be left poor, exhausted, hurt, and devoid of a future for herself.
She shook her head, waving her thoughts away but they returned anyway. Most men of worth did not marry a woman who had no dowry, no inheritance, no proof that she’d provide a child. She’d been married for three years after all. Most wouldn’t understand that John had been too ill for most of their marriage to participate in such amorous activities. Or perhaps they would, if they listened to her long enough for her to explain it. But many would simply pass her by as they looked at fresh faced debutantes.
She sighed, settling back into her chair. She shouldn’t dwell so, she was far luckier than many. She’d grown up in the shadow of the house she now lived. She, John, and Raithe having been fast friends since childhood. They’d done everything together as children. Raithe had eventually inherited the title of Baron of Balstead and when John had died, he’d taken her in as his best friend’s widow. He’d even offered to marry her himself. A generous offer to be certain and one she likely should have accepted. Except…she’d married a childhood friend once and it had nearly broken her. She simply couldn’t do it again. Raithe was like her brother, it didn’t feel right.
So he’d offered to help her in another way.
He’d collected a group of lords, all excellent prospects for marriage, to arrive at this very house. They thought they were coming for a party. Instead, they were perspective grooms.
Raithe assured her he’d picked men who operated on the fringe of society. Rakes, gamblers, drinkers, they were not the most upstanding gentleman, and, therefore, they’d be more inclined for the unconventional match she presented. Yet each was wealthy and stable in his own way making him a suitable enough husband.
She wasn’t looking for love, or even desire. She wasn’t even really interested in another union, but it was a necessary evil.
If she were going to enter into another marriage, her husband may as well provide for her financially, even if his wealth didn’t make her happy or fulfilled or… she closed her eyes. She was casting judgement before she’d even met any of the men.
She curled into the chair, clearly a man’s seat, oversized and overstuffed but perfect for drawing up one’s knees and sulking. At least this match would be about her future comfort and care. Her insides twisted into knots. Was it wrong that the very idea of another marriage filled her with dread rather than excitement?
“Mrs. Winterset,” the butler called from the door. “The first of Lord Balstead’s guests has arrived.”
She unfurled from the chair, standing and turning toward the butler. Raithe had extended invitations to six men, five of whom had accepted. They each thought they were arriving for a week of debauchery.
But the party was supposed to have started days ago and none of them had arrived. In complete frustration, Raithe had left to find them, sure something had happened on route to delay their arrival. Raithe had assured her there was no possible way they’d learned of the deception. He must have been right because one guest had finally come. “Who is it?”
“The Duke of Danesbury,” the man said with a frown.
She covered her midriff with her hands. Had he met Raithe on the journey here? Did he know the other guests were delayed? He surely didn’t understand that there were no other women, no gambling, no drinking…just Cassandra.
“Show him in,” she murmured, her stomach turning over once again. She wished Raithe were here now.
He nodded and pivoted back out the door, disappearing down the hall. She turned back to the fire, leaning against the mantle and once again watched the flames. Her hands began to tremble and she drew in a long slow breath to steady her nerves. Then, she schooled her features into a blank mask, placing a hand at her stomach to keep the butterflies at bay. Would this Duke of Danesbury be angry to discover the party that should be in full swing wasn’t happening, was never even a real possibility?
She drew in a long breath, wishing again Raithe were here now. This was his idea. Lying had never been her strong suit. Perhaps if it had been, John would have been happier with his choice to marry his childhood friend.
A rustle at the door told her the butler had returned and she pushed off the mantle, closing her eyes for just a moment before she swiveled to greet her guest.
“May I present the Duke of Danesbury,” the butler announced.
She dipped into a deep curtsy, before she straightened, meeting the gaze of the man who Raithe had tricked into attending this gathering. “Your Grace.” But her voice caught on the end of the second word. Before her stood the most frighteningly intriguing man she’d ever seen. Tall, well over six feet, broad and muscular, his dark hair and penetrating grey eyes stabbed into her. His nose was a bit crooked, his jaw hard. She barely held in a gasp as he turned his head slightly to the left, revealing a large jagged scar slicing from his eye to his mouth, dividing his cheek into two mangled sections of flesh.
He frowned, rubbing the scar. “I expected more people to be in attendance.”
Well, that was direct. She pressed her lips together, drawing in a deep breath. How did she explain? “So was I, Your Grace.”
His brows drew up as his gaze travelled down her frame. “I’ll take a whiskey. Neat.”
Her eyes widened for just a moment before she pressed her lips together straightening her shoulders. “Mr. Harris, would you please tell the kitchen to prepare a tray for our guest? He must be hungry after his journey.” Then she crossed the room to prepare the drink.
“I didn’t say I was hungry.” Danesbury crossed to the fire, holding out his hands to the flame.
She poured the whisky, her hand trembling a bit as she attempted to hold the crystal decanter steady. “I won’t force feed you, then.” She returned to the fire, drink in hand while the other one coiled into a fist.
He notched his chin to the side as he assessed her, his scar on full display as he raised a brow. “I think I might like to see you try,” he said with a bit of a grin, as he watched her moving toward the fireplace.
That made her relax, her shoulders lowering and her breath coming out in a long slow exhale. They were jesting. Good. “I would never dare.”
He laughed then, a little chuckle that sounded far more melodious than his speaking voice. She unfurled her fingers from the fist at her side, glad this meeting had taken on a light mood.
She’d reached the fire and she held out the drink to him, her fingers steadier as they reached toward his very large outstretched hand. But he didn’t take the whisky. Instead, he reached for her wrist, his long tapered fingers wrapping about the bare skin exposed between her sleeve and her glove.
His hand was hot, firm, commanding, making her breath catch as he
slowly drew her closer. “I’m glad we understand each other already,” he said in a voice that was deceptively soft. Despite its low tone, it still carried a command that she felt powerless to disobey as he drew her closer. “I think you’ll do fine.”
Her brows drew together even as her lips parted. Understand each other? She didn’t understand anything as she tilted her chin up to look in his face for answers. What she saw was raw, dark power. The kind of power that stole her breath in a bit of fear and, if she were being honest, excitement. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
But her words were cut short as he lowered his mouth to hers.
Damian assessed the woman before him. Dark hair and large hazel green eyes were not to his usual taste. Neither was her slender build. He generally preferred more buxom blondes but something about her was fetching none-the-less. Perhaps it was her delicate features, or the plumpness of her lips.
Her shoulders were narrow, her slender frame the same, adding an air of vulnerability to her gentle curves.
Pulling her closer, he grasped her natural waist, his palm fitting in the indent snug and perfect. Her lips parted in what was a clear invitation even as her eyes widened. Swooping his head down, he captured her lips with his own. She tasted of tea, fruity and clean, refreshing, as her soft lips stilled under his. Then, after a few moments, her lush mouth softened, melding into his for just a moment.
Satisfaction and desire rolled through him. Something about the way her lips clung to his didn’t speak of a woman pretending at passion. Her yielding mouth was far more of a surrender and victory roared in his veins, making his ears thunder with the rush of blood.
He slanted her lips open and claimed the soft inside of her mouth with his tongue. She tasted even better as her smaller tongue gently probed back. Fire coursed through his veins as he gathered her closer. He knew he was barreling toward something and he should slow this kiss down but his body craved her already.
He’d gone a long time without a woman. As a duke, many of them would fall willingly into his bed, he knew that. But he tired of their barely concealed disgust at the mangled side of his face. They hid it, but there was always a tell in the second before they placed a mask over their repulsed reactions.
Who Wants a Brawling Baron: Romancing the Rake Page 10
