The Unthinkable

by Monica McCarty

  They’d spent the day with her family and departed for her manor at dusk, promising to return the next day.

  It was dark when they arrived, but the house was charming—everything she’d wished for. Genie turned to look at Huntingdon. Well, not everything. Her house could wait, Huntingdon could not. The staff had been alerted of their arrival. Too quickly she found herself alone with Huntingdon in the master’s bedchamber. Despite her certainty that this was what she wanted, she couldn’t hide her nervousness.

  He took off his coat and helped her with her pelisse. Spinning her around, he began the long process of helping her remove her gown. She shivered at his touch.

  “Tell me.”

  Her heart stopped. Fear prickled along the back of her neck. She knew what he wanted, but what would he think? Would he judge her? No. He loved her. Suddenly, she wanted to tell him. But she’d held on to the truth for so long, she didn’t know where to begin.

  So she started at the beginning with finding herself on the ship to America, pregnant. She explained her heartbreak at the loss of their child, the illness that had ravaged her, and the maid’s perfidy. She told him of the kind sisters who’d nursed her, and of her early attempts to find work as a governess. Of the difficulties with her employers, how she’d tried to starve herself to appear sickly, and finally, of the man who had attacked her.

  Huntingdon still stood at her back so she couldn’t see his expression, but she felt his body tense when she spoke of her near rape, of the letter opener, her time at Madame Solange’s and finally of Edmund’s timely arrival—before she’d been forced to make a decision as to her future. When she was done, she felt as if an enormous burden had been lifted off of her shoulders.

  Silently, Huntingdon picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Without her realizing it, she was completely naked.

  Huntingdon listened to her story with a mixture of sorrow and rage. Sorrow for the difficulties she’d met and rage at the men who’d hurt her. No wonder she’d turned cold at his lovemaking.

  Gently, he placed her on the bed and quickly removed the last of his own clothing. This time, damn his raging lust, she’d be in control. Even if it killed him.

  He slid in next to her and nestled her body against his. “Thank you for telling me. You’re an incredibly brave woman. I didn’t think it was possible, but I love you even more after hearing about all that you went through and all you did to survive.”

  She looked surprised. “You’re not repulsed?”

  “Repulsed? Yes, of the vile bastard who attacked you, but certainly not of the strong, amazing woman who fought back. Of her, I’m incredibly proud.”

  His fingers skimmed the curve of her waist and hips, he fought to control his arousal at the sensation of her velvety skin. But when her hands splayed against his chest and her fingers slid across his chest, his control deteriorated. She stroked his stomach, exploring the way his muscles flexed under her fingertips. When the back of her hand brushed against the head of his erection she stopped. He waited, teeth clenched, for her to decide. Tentatively, seductively, she traveled the length of his cock with one finger, exclaiming with sweet little gasps as his erection grew under her fingertip. She traced the long, bulging vein and he groaned. Her thumb found the silky drop and rubbed it over the top of his head. By the time she’d circled him with her hands, his control was nearly gone.

  “What do you want, Genie?” His voice sounded hoarse with desire.

  “I-I,” she stuttered. “I want you, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to experience pleasure again.”

  “Do you want me to go on?”

  She nodded.

  “If you want me to stop, I will.”

  She nodded again and he kissed her. Ravishing her mouth with his. She matched his urgency with her own. Her full breasts pressed sweetly against his chest, the firm, tiny nipples hard with desire. He lowered himself down the long length of her body, focusing all of his considerable attentions on her pleasure. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, every part of her body… except for one.

  She might not know what she wanted, but her body did. She writhed in his arms, her skin hot and pink. He could smell the sweet honey of her arousal. He wanted to sink himself deep inside her and bring her to release, but he had to be sure.

  So he continued his wicked onslaught. When he thought she was close, his mouth found the inside of her thigh and she stilled. He teased her, flicking his tongue agonizingly close to her slick little entry.

  “Tell me you want me,” he whispered. His hands slid up her sleek thighs and gripped her round bottom, lifting her hips to his mouth.

  She didn’t answer, but circled her hips, silently begging. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “Your mouth.”

  He buried his head between her legs and gave her what she wanted.

  Genie couldn’t believe what he was doing to her. The sheer intimacy stunned her—and thrilled her with naughty excitement. She nearly jumped off the bed at the first sweep of his tongue. He chuckled, but all she could think about was his mouth on her, the scratch of his beard on the inside of her thigh, the pressure of the burning sensation building inside her. He parted her with his fingers and flicked his tongue over her swollen flesh. The burning sensation intensified, lifting her body to the highest peak until his mouth closed over her and she exploded.

  Boneless, it took her a moment to realize what had just happened. She’d found passion again. And now she wanted more. Their eyes met and something passed between them, a connection long broken now made stronger than ever. She could see that he was pleased to have brought her pleasure, but his fiery gaze still burned with unspent desire.

  She reached for him, circling her hand around his stiff erection. He fell back on the pillow, his eyes closed and his head rolled back as she pumped him, finding his rhythm, until he strained under her hand. Tiny white drops beaded on its head.

  She leaned down to flick her tongue over his sweetness and he cried out, a pained, guttural sound that flooded her with heat. Her mouth hovered over him, he was so tense with desire she couldn’t believe the strength of his control. Remembering what he’d done to her, her tongue circled the thick head of his manhood. He made another sound, something that sounded like “please,” and she took him deep into her mouth and sucked. Stroking him with her tongue, pumping him with her mouth. The swollen vein running down his length began to pulse and she knew he was achingly close.

  She moved over him, reveling in the power of her position. She braced herself on his shoulders and slowly lowered her body down on him. He was agonizingly long and thick; her body did not take him easily. Every muscle in his body bulged, but still he did not move to help her. Finally, with considerable effort, he was inside her, filling her, stretching her. Making her complete.

  She slid over him, easing him in and out, slowly at first then with increasing speed. She rode him hard, the burning sensation building inside her again. Faster and faster, her breasts bounced and his bollocks slapped hard against her bottom. She heard him grunt, felt him throb and pulse, and when the warmth of his seed shot inside her, she screamed, coming apart in the violent storm of a shattering orgasm.

  Exhausted, she collapsed on top of him. More sated than she’d ever been in her entire life. Never had she felt so happy or so secure. This is where she belonged, in his arms, forever. “I love you,” she whispered.

  He took her chin and tipped her eyes up to meet hers. “I’ll love you until the end of time.”

  EPILOGUE

  Two months later

  The Duke of Huntingdon’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of Huntingdon House. Thanks to the Dowager Duchess of Huntingdon, they were back in London. A few weeks ago, a mysterious marriage license had materialized, attesting to the marriage between Miss Genie Prescott and Mr. Robert Preston. Nonetheless, despite the “proof” refuting the gossip, the duke and duchess decided to spend some time at Genie’s manor to weather the storm of gossip. The past couple of m
onths had been magical, but at the Dowager Duchess of Huntingdon’s request, they had returned to London to face the fading scandal together.

  Much had happened since he’d come to find her at the rectory. The most important was that Genie had begun to repair the relationship with Lizzie and her parents, confiding most of what had happened to her over the past five years.

  Fanny was rusticating at one of Huntingdon’s distant estates in some kind of self-imposed penance. No matter how Genie assured her otherwise, she blamed herself for what had happened. Huntingdon and Edmund seemed to reach some sort of accord, but it was Genie’s mission to one day repair the damage she’d unwittingly done to their friendship.

  But it was her relationship with Huntingdon that most astounded her. Each day was a miracle of discovery. The young love she’d experienced paled in comparison to the complex emotion she felt for him now. With his help, she’d finally erased the demons of her past. She smiled. Under his expert tutelage, her passion had bloomed.

  The butler greeted them at the door. Genie noticed a spattering of cards on a tray on the sideboard. Certainly a good sign, but Genie knew that winning over the ton wasn’t going to be easy.

  Huntingdon sensed her disquiet. He eased the lines of worry from her forehead with his fingers. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not going to be easy.”

  “No. But with time, they will forget.”

  “But you won’t have a happy ending. Your plans, your ambitions…”

  His finger stroked her cheek. “Don’t you understand, my love? A happy ending doesn’t mean everything is perfect. Life is fraught with difficulties. But as long as we have each other, we will survive whatever the future has in store. Together. This is only the beginning.”

  Genie’s hand fell to her belly, a small knowing smile turned her lips. Huntingdon was right, perhaps the best ending was a beginning.

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  Please continue on to read an excerpt from another Regency romance from Monica…

  Excerpt from TAMING THE RAKE

  They are known as the Rake Slayers… Tired of the different standards applied to the men who flout society’s rules, three young ladies seek a little primitive justice and hatch a plan to bring a few of London’s most notorious rakes up to snuff before refusing them. But they soon learn exactly what it is that makes rakes so dangerous.

  Tasked with bringing down the most notorious rake of all, the always capable and efficient Lady Georgina “Gina” Beauclerk is determined to show the wicked Earl of Coventry just what she has to offer… by promptly turning his dissolute world on its ear. Instead she finds her own world spinning out of control. Because even after she has organized his household, rid his home of alcohol, and paid off his mistress, she can’t help but see that there is more to the handsome earl than first she realized.

  Forced into respectable society to escort his debuting sister, Coventry intends to find her a husband posthaste so he can return to the freedom and debauchery of his clubs. After the death of his unfaithful wife, the disillusioned Coventry has no intention of ever marrying again—especially not to an interfering busybody who won’t take “no” for an answer. No matter how much she tempts him.

  An Excerpt from Chapter One…

  Mayfair, Tuesday, 30 March, 1812

  They were a scurrilous bunch. Three highly marriageable young ladies thoroughly dissatisfied with their lot—a veritable tempest of ennui waiting to explode in rebellion. Gina gazed fondly at her two companions. Cecelia’s ink-black head was bent in apparent concentration over her tambour frame, and Claire, as fair-haired as her twin was dark, was fighting to keep her eyes open as she half read a salacious novel that had somehow escaped the watchful eyes of her mother. Gina shook her head. Looking at the three of them, who would have guessed what restless turmoil lurked below the deceptively placid surface?

  Cecelia tossed her needlework aside with disgust. “I’m bored,” she said, summing up the situation succinctly, if unimaginatively.

  Claire smiled softly, her eyes still clouded with the vestiges of the afternoon nap she’d taken in her chair. “How can you be bored, dearest?” she asked. “The season has only just begun.”

  Cecelia ignored her younger (by ten minutes) sister and stood up.

  “You could play the pianoforte,” Gina suggested.

  Cecelia put her hands on her hips, her mouth drawn in a tight line. “I always play the pianoforte.”

  “Then work on your watercolor,” Gina countered indifferently, knowing that when one of Cecelia’s moods hit, she was virtually impossible to placate.

  Cecelia gave her the evil eye.

  Gina laid down her own needlework in a nice, neat pile. “Very well then, what would you like to do? You haven’t alphabetized your offers in some time.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Do you really alphabetize?” Claire’s eyes rounded. She thought for a moment then nodded her head in apparent understanding. “I suppose it would be helpful as there are so many to consider. Father and mother are forever losing track of who has actually proposed. Perhaps you should advise them of your method?”

  Gina looked at Cecelia and shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?” Claire was hopeless when it came to sarcasm—or any kind of subtlety for that matter.

  “I’m tired of the same parties, the same drawing rooms, the same callers,” Cecelia lamented. “Nothing ever changes. Day in, day out, it’s all the same.”

  Gina shook her head. Cecelia was only giving voice to what they all felt. Nevertheless, Gina felt it was her duty to rein in Cecelia before she did or said something outrageous. “What did you expect? That you would return from rusticating all winter in Staffordshire to an entirely new crop of suitors? The beau monde is rather limited in its members, Cece. As the daughter of a marquess, there are only so many suitable men to choose from.” Gina grinned. “Though Prinny is rather appallingly fond of you: perhaps you could ask him to create a few more peers to expand your realm?”

  Cecelia shot her a look of mild disgust. She wasn’t too fond of her sobriquet, “The Queen of Broken Hearts.”

  “As the daughter of a duke, your choices are even more limited, Lady Georgina Beauclerk,” she said tartly. “I see your barely concealed grimace when you are partnered by the same men dance after dance. And you’ve had two seasons to choose to our one, so don’t pretend you don’t know to what I am speaking.”

  “It’s appalling,” Gina mocked. “The dusty shelf of spinsterhood looms ever closer.”

  “Jest all you want, but there is talk. Five proposals, five rejections over two years is ‘not the thing’ at all. I would think you would be aware of this today of all days.”

  Gina grimaced, properly chastised. Today was her twentieth birthday, though she was doing her best to ignore it. Cecelia was right. Gina wasn’t completely immune to the gossip. But she would not settle for a husband just to satisfy the likes of some narrow-minded dowager with nothing better to do than tally the numbers of proposals per debutante each season.

  Satisfying her father, the Duke of St. Albans, however, was another matter. Gina knew her time to make a decision was running out, but having tasted freedom, she was reluctant to relinquish it. For years she had managed her father’s many properties with little interference.

  She bit back the feelings of bitterness. His recent marriage had changed all that. She didn’t blame him for remarrying; her mother had been gone for almost ten years now, but did he have to choose Lady Louisa Manners—a woman not much older than herself? A young woman intent on staking her claim to the household. And usurping all the tasks that Gina took pride in. Left with little to do for the l
ast few months, Gina had felt utterly rudderless.

  She shook off the unhappiness caused by thinking about her new “mama” and turned back to Cecelia. “So what do they say about ten rejections in one season?”

  “Twelve, counting the two in the country,” Cecelia corrected automatically, scowling when Gina smirked.

  “I feel utterly pathetic with only three,” Claire chimed in.

  “Chin up, love,” Gina teased, patting Claire’s hand. “Give it some time. You still have an entire year before you reach the lofty age of twenty.”

  “It’s not just the men,” Cecelia continued. “It’s everything. Sometimes I feel like I’m being smothered by rules: ‘That is just not done, Lady Cecelia’ or ‘You mustn’t do that, Lady Cecelia,’” she mimicked in the haughty, slightly bored tone universally adopted by the ton’s matrons. “My every movement, my every conversation is controlled by what is deemed proper for a well-born, fashionable young lady.”

  She was right. Society was a tough, unforgiving taskmaster. “But what is the alternative?” Gina asked. “Would you ignore society’s dictates and end up like poor Lady Alice?”

  All three girls fell silent, the unfortunate fate of their friend appallingly fresh in their minds.

  Claire broke the silence. “There does seem to be something patently unfair between what is acceptable for a lady and what is acceptable for a gentleman. Lady Alice was forced to flee to the wilds of Scotland”—she shuddered dramatically at the very idea (who in their right mind would want to go to Scotland!)—“to escape scandal, yet Lord Coventry is welcomed at whatever ball or assembly he deigns to attend. Outwardly Lord Coventry is condemned as a rake, but the condemnation is tinged with admiration.”

  Gina and Cecelia’s eyes met again, both struck by one of Claire’s rare moments of insight. With her sweet disposition and innocent naïvety, it was sometimes easy to forget that Claire was a thoughtful young lady.