Elysande was beneath him, her orgasm still trembling through her, his tongue deep in her cunny. To prolong his own pleasure, he made her come again, licking the plump bud of her clitoris until she was thrashing beneath him, begging. His name was on her lips.
“Please, Hudson.”
Yes, that was what he wanted. He wanted her desperate and needy and out of her mind with wanting him. He wanted her writhing in the grass with her skirts around her waist and the mounds of her glorious breasts pink-tipped and waiting for him, begging to be sucked. He wanted her moaning and screaming and taking whatever he would give her and then pleading for more.
He returned his attention to her pearl, then plunged his fingers deep into her channel. She was so tight and hot, all his. So sweet and responsive on his tongue. He buried his face deeper into her slick folds and inhaled. Her hips were working furiously as he pumped into her, alternating between licks and sucks. She came again on a moan and his name.
Yes.
Fuck yes.
In the tub, Hudson palmed his length with faster, more furious motions as he held his breath. He was hovering on the edge of ecstasy, his ballocks drawn taut, ready to explode. He could not recall ever taking himself in hand and experiencing so much desire. That was how bloody much he wanted her, how wild she had made him.
Nothing but an animal.
He lashed her cunny with his tongue and sank three fingers deep in her as she tightened and spasmed and coated him with her dew. When the hold he maintained on his restraint threatened to break, he raised his head and pressed a kiss to her mound.
“Tell me what you want,” he told her.
“You,” she said. “Your cock in my mouth.”
The Elysande in his mind was bold and filthy and he bloody well loved it. He rose over her, feeding her his cock, and those pretty pink lips latched on his shaft, taking him deep down her throat…
With a hoarse cry, Hudson came, the violence of his orgasm taking him by storm. His seed jetted into the warm bath waters, draining him, and he gasped out a breath as his pounding heart threatened to tear from his chest. He had never come so hard, or so much, with nothing save his hand. All because of her.
Damnation. He required distraction. To think of anything other than Elysande, his desire for her, and what he had just done. Dimly, he recalled the correspondence Greene had left for him, sitting forgotten on a salver within arm’s reach.
The first missive on the pile was enough of a shock to pull him from the almost delirious fogs of lust. The scrawl was familiar, from the Duke of Northwich. Hudson’s last case had involved the duchess, whose previous husband had been part of an insidious crime ring, quite unbeknownst to her.
Hudson quickly reviewed the contents, shock and denial hitting him with the force of a fist to the face. The words swam together…
He sat up in the tub, sending water crashing over the lip and nearly dropping the letter in the process. It was painfully clear that a return to London was in order.
Today, in fact. Not a moment could be spared.
He hastily finished his bath and then dressed before asking Greene to oversee the packing of his meager belongings. Despite what he had shared with Elysande that morning, Hudson could only think that his departure would be for the best.
Although Brinton Manor had appallingly few servants to assist in the running of the household, even the paltry number of maids and footmen created quite a flurry when tasked with a cohesive duty. And that was most assuredly what was happening now. Trunks were being carried. Footsteps and voices interrupted Elysande in her place of hiding.
Someone was traveling.
And since that someone was not she, it could only be one person, for such a commotion to have been raised.
Her husband was preparing to take a journey, and he had not informed her of his plans. After what they had shared this morning by the lake, he was…he was…leaving.
No, she told herself. It cannot be.
But a hasty jaunt to the main hall proved otherwise.
She waylaid a passing footman and asked him who the trunks belonged to and where they were going.
“His Grace’s, Your Grace,” the young man answered. “He is leaving for London this evening, as I understand.”
There was no mistaking either the words or the ill-disguised look of pity the servant directed at her. Elysande’s husband was planning to abandon her. Likely, the realization should have given her a sense of peace. At least she would be assured she could work on her design, unimpeded. And yet, her body was still humming with the after-effects of the pleasure he had given her. She could still hear the words he had said, feel his tongue on her.
Her cheeks went hot with a combination of embarrassment and fury. “Where is His Grace?” she asked the footman.
For like her husband’s plans, his whereabouts also remained unknown to her.
“Speaking with Mr. Saunders in the study, I believe, Your Grace,” answered the man, shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly eager to return to his duties.
She thanked him and dismissed him, her feet taking her toward the study before her mind could dissuade her. The door was ajar, but she rapped on it anyway, venting some of her irritation upon the undeserving portal.
“Come,” called that low, decadent baritone she had come to know so well.
The same voice that had praised her earlier, asking her for permission to touch her body and bring her pleasure.
Tamping down all reminders of her earlier folly, she swept over the threshold.
Both men looked up at her entrance, and she steeled herself against the effect the sight of her husband had upon her. Curse him, but he was handsome. Dressed in country tweed, he might have been the consummate gentleman. Only she knew what lurked beneath the layers of his civility. The reminder of his scar and his warnings to her merged with the strange yearning she could not seem to quell.
“Duchess,” he said, unsmiling as he bowed in her direction.
“Duke,” she returned, “Mr. Saunders.”
The young steward offered her a bow and made haste in excusing himself, perhaps perceptive enough to discern from her expression that she wished to speak with Wycombe alone. She waited for the door to click closed at his back before venturing deeper into the chamber.
“You are traveling,” she said, a statement rather than a question.
An indiscernible expression passed over his face as he moved across the study to meet her halfway. “I am.”
Although his confirmation was precisely what she had expected, it nonetheless did nothing to ameliorate the sting of the discovery he intended to go. She licked her suddenly dry lips and tamped down a surge of irritation.
“When did you intend to inform me, or does everyone else in the household take precedence over your wife?”
The moment the question left her, she wished she could recall it, for she could not deny the tone of her voice was equal parts bitter and resentful. She was allowing herself to be far too vulnerable where he was concerned. One stolen moment of kissing in the grass, one morning of passion, and look at what she had become.
His generous mouth tightened into a thin line as he stopped before her. “You are vexed with me.”
Was she? Vexed seemed a mild word for the tumult of emotion churning through her. She was confused. Nettled.
Outraged.
“I am perplexed,” she said, trying to calm herself. After all, was not time and distance what she wanted? “You said nothing of your plans to leave this morning.”
He raised a brow. “As I recall, we were otherwise occupied.”
His reminder made her flush with a combination of remembrance and shame. And it also brought an unwanted pulse of awareness to the apex of her thighs. “We conducted conversation aplenty,” she said, attempting to keep her voice cool and imperturbable.
What a nearly impossible feat. She was already far too involved in him, far too affected by him. She, who had always been far more concerned with exp
erimenting and building prototypes than with gentlemen. Old Elysande would have scoffed at New Elysande.
Heavens. New Wycombe had turned her into New Elysande. The realization was as sobering as it was maddening. This was not meant to have happened.
“I did try to find you,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back in a gesture that only served to draw her attention to the impressive breadth of his chest. “However, you were not in your chamber, and none of the maids knew where you had gone.”
Guilt pierced her, for she had been hiding, it was true.
Still, how hard could he have looked for her?
She frowned. “I was only in the library.”
“I was going to check there next,” came his smooth reply.
Oh, he was wickedly handsome, was he not? Even knowing he was preparing to leave her without having consulted her first, she could not help but to admire the masculine slash of his jaw, already boasting a delightful shadow of whiskers though he was clean-shaven. Or the manner in which his tweed was fitted to his strong form. For a brief, wicked moment, the sight of him, naked and glistening with water returned, and she forgot to breathe.
But then she remembered and forced herself to concentrate.
“You were planning to check the library for me after you had spoken with Mr. Saunders and the footmen had loaded all your trunks?” she asked, unable to keep the tart note from her query.
“The word I received from London was sudden.”
Was that a note of apology in his voice? She could scarcely determine.
Elysande searched his blue-gray eyes. “Word from London?”
He inclined his head, his expression shuttering. “It would seem there is a matter which requires my attention concerning a previous case. My last case, to be specific.”
“Scotland Yard has contacted you?” The thought was enough to turn her to ice after the terrible evidence of the past danger he had faced.
“Not Scotland Yard,” he allowed. “But a friend. A gentleman who was involved in the case.”
“You are a duke now,” she pointed out.
“Reluctantly.”
She did not know whether to sputter, to cry out, or to grab him by his handsome lapels and shake him. “You cannot think to return yourself to danger.”
She had seen, had traced with her own fingers, the lingering proof of how close he had come to an untimely end at the hands of a murderer. Thoughts of him returning, willingly putting his life in jeopardy, had her mouth going dry.
His jaw clenched, and he released his careful stance of hands clasped behind his back to rake his fingers through his dark hair, setting it on end. “I am hardly returning myself to danger. I will be perfectly safe. London is a vast city.”
“Of course it is. However, you have just said you have received word from London concerning a previous case of yours. What else am I meant to think but that you will face further peril?” she demanded.
“You are meant to think that I am giving you the time you required. Three months, was it not?”
His pointed words served their purpose, digging pointed little barbs into her conscience. Yes, she had requested that time. But for good reason. She was very near to perfecting her design. With some more time—free of distraction and her father hovering over her shoulder—she was certain she would settle upon the solution. She had not worked this long or this hard only to abandon her goal solely because she had married.
Never.
She nodded, attempting to compose herself and rein in her feelings. “Do you think to turn my request against me? Is this some sort of punishment you have settled upon? To lure me in, make me fret over the threats you have faced, and then abruptly cast yourself into the maws of danger yet again?”
“I can assure you that my intentions are not nearly as diabolical as you would suppose.”
He spoke to her so formally. The lover from that morning, bare-chested and slick with lake water, did not resemble this grim man in the slightest. She wondered if this was what he had been like before, as a detective. His eyes burned with a singular intensity, his entire demeanor utterly changed.
“If not diabolical, then foolish,” she countered. “What is the matter you referred to?”
“A prisoner has escaped,” he said.
“You are no longer a part of Scotland Yard,” she pointed out. “I fail to see why your presence is required.”
Oh, what was she doing? Attempting to dissuade him from his course? She ought to be relieved he was going, should she not?
“Because this is a prisoner I was responsible for jailing, and I may have information concerning the case that will aid in attempts to recapture him,” he explained, his voice softening. “Forgive me for the suddenness of my departure. The timing is regretful, but I am afraid my presence is necessary. This man is…”
“Dangerous,” she finished for him when his words trailed away. “That is what you intended to say, was it not?”
A shiver traveled down her spine at the thought of Hudson putting himself in a position where he could be wounded once more. Or worse. She may not have wanted a husband, but he was hers now, and she cared for him.
His jaw tensed. “For the sake of my conscience, I need to do everything in my power to offer them aid in this man’s capture.”
Hudson’s decision had already been made. She could see it in the harsh set of his countenance, the sternness in his voice. But as stringently as she told herself his departure was likely for the best, she could not seem to convince her heart.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked, instead of attempting to sway him from his course.
“A few days, perhaps. Not long.” He stepped nearer to her, his head lowering, and he brushed a kiss on her cheek. “I will send word.”
Some foolish part of Elysande longed to turn her head and feel those lips on hers once more. But she did not. Instead, she took a step in retreat to save herself from further embarrassment and nodded as if she understood.
Chapter 6
As was his customary habit, Hudson rose at dawn. This morning, however, he was no longer in the countryside, sharing a leaky roof with his wife.
Wife.
The foreign word, along with thoughts of Elysande herself, gave him pause. As if she were here with him, he could almost detect the sweetly floral fragrance of lily of the valley. His lips tingled with remembrance of the taste and feeling of her. Yesterday morning had been damned unexpected. And he wanted more.
But more was dangerous, and it was all a moot point when he was far from her side. Instead, he was in his old, familiar cramped quarters. How easy it was to fall into the same patterns and paths. Rather like a train on a track, relentlessly powering on to its destination.
With grim determination, he dressed and shaved, scarcely paying any notice to his own reflection in the cracked mirror atop his battered dresser. The town house he had inherited along with the title, part of the badly indebted entail, had been stripped of most objects of value by the previous duke, including much of the bloody furniture. And so, in a decision that was decidedly unlike a Duke of Wycombe, upon his arrival last night, he had established himself in his bachelor’s quarters once more.
He had charged the efficient Greene with overseeing the preparation of the town house and returned to life as he had once known it. The familiarity of the small, unassuming space brought with it some small measure of comfort. However, he could not pretend he was once more Chief Inspector Stone, without the weight of a dukedom on his shoulders, and a new wife as well. Nor could he forget the reason he had left Buckinghamshire in such haste.
How surreal it felt to be returned, without the woman he had so newly married. He could almost persuade himself that his sojourn in Buckinghamshire, inheriting the title, his nuptials at the Talleyrand Park chapel, the wedding breakfast and that glorious moment by the lake with his wife had all been nothing more than a dream. Only the visceral reaction of his body to thoughts of Elysande reminded him it had all be
en real.
Guilt lanced him. What manner of man abandoned his bride with such unprecedented haste after the wedding? He ought to have taken more time, better explained to her the necessity for this return. It had never been his intention to leave her. He had been determined to linger in the countryside and do his duty. To sit with Saunders and oversee all the repairs and changes necessary at Brinton Manor.
But then Northwich’s frantic note had arrived, and he had been stricken. Not just because the Croydon case had been his last. But because it had been one of the ugliest. Because the Duke of Northwich was a friend, and because no one would be safe from Croydon until the evil bastard was once more rotting in prison where he belonged.
Still, he was honoring her request, he reminded himself. She had asked him for three months, and he would give them to her. Perhaps he would simply remain in London for the entirety of the allotted time. Being in London while she stayed in the country certainly aided his restraint. Lord knew when she had been within touching distance, he had possessed none.
On a sigh at the rather extraordinary predicament in which he found himself mired, he left his rooms and walked as he had done so many times before, to Scotland Yard. The city bustled around him as it always had, scents and sounds and sights as familiar as his rooms. And yet, the London he had returned to was changed; the very air felt as if it were charged with a strange new sense of danger. He had descended to the platform yesterday knowing Reginald Croydon was somewhere, evading the justice and punishment he so richly deserved. Someone had helped him to escape from Dunsworth prison.
And damn it all, Hudson was going to find whoever it was and make him pay.
Croydon had been the ruthless orchestrator of a vast criminal web. For a price, he had been willing to commit any deed. From forgery to murder, stealing to child prostitution, no crime had been beneath him. After deciding one of his partners was too greedy, he had murdered the man. When he had been threatened with discovery, he had murdered another fellow conspirator. He did not deserve to be free. Until he was caught and imprisoned once more, anyone who had been involved in his case was potentially in peril, to say nothing of the other innocents with whom he might come into contact.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 8
