Elysande’s back stiffened, and she drew herself up, taking care to make certain her breasts remained beneath the surface of the water. The bath was transparent enough, but somehow, remaining beneath the surface mollified her affronted sensibilities.
“You cannot order me about,” she countered sternly.
“I would never dare attempt so.” He reached for her, his hand settling on her kneecap. “I am suggesting that it is not a place for a lady.”
“I was there before,” she pointed out.
“Once was enough, and I should not have presumed to take you there then either.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not a fragile society flower, Hudson. I may have been born a lady, and I may have learned all the silly, supposedly feminine accomplishments intended to make me the perfect duchess, but I have also spent the last few years at my father’s side in his workshop. I have learned the way electricity works. I have toiled with my hands, and I have been dirty, and I have had oil-stained hands and dresses. You once told me that you are nothing like my set, and that may well be true, but I am not like them either. I never have been, and I never shall be.”
She was quite impassioned as she finished her speech, uncertain of where it had emerged from. Perhaps from her suppressed outrage that she lived in a world that believed women—regardless of their intellect and passions—ought to pursue only the traditionally feminine roles allotted them, as wife and mother. Papa loved her, but she did not fool herself that his edict she marry had been founded in anything other than the same antiquated notions. He valued her mind and her assistance with his inventions and in his workshop, but he also wanted her to be what society expected of her. To marry.
And she had done so to please her family and to facilitate her sister’s happiness.
Hudson’s arms were around her waist, plucking her from her madly whirling thoughts as he pulled her into his lap. She went without a struggle, settling against his chest but still feeling quite mulish.
He kissed her crown. “Of course you are nothing like the ladies in your set. Indeed, I doubt any of the women in your family are. I value your intellect and I know you have had oil-stained dresses.”
At this declaration, she had to interrupt him. “You do?”
“Yes.” Another kiss to the top of her head, this one lingering. “There was a distinct odor of it on the day I came to settle the marriage contract.”
Oh. So he had smelled it, then. He had not said a word. And he had offered for her afterward, making that bargain with her on the terrace.
“I had overturned a lamp in Papa’s workshop just before you arrived,” she admitted.
His arms tightened around her. “Damnation, woman. You are fortunate you did not light yourself on bloody fire.”
Her lips twitched, but she suppressed her smile, for she was still vexed with him. “It was not lit.”
“Thank Christ,” he muttered.
“You see? I did not need a protector then, and I do not require one now,” she countered, pleased with herself for drawing the parallel. “I am accompanying you, Papa, and Royston at dawn.”
He sighed. “Your father is the one who suggested you remain here with your mother and sisters. He feared a second look at all the…the evidence would prove too distressing. I did not disagree with him, because I understand from my own experience that often, the first time someone is confronted with the aftermath of violence, it is easy to be so shocked, that you fail to realize what you are seeing.”
She should not be surprised the idea had belonged to Papa, and yet she could not deny that the realization caused a splinter of hurt to burrow its way into her heart. She considered the water’s glistening surface, the low lights reflected on it, her body entwined with Hudson’s. He made her feel so safe, secure, and wanted. Just as she was. Just as she had always longed to be seen.
“I understand how Papa is,” she said slowly. “He wants to protect me, and he is still somewhat gripped by the old thoughts of what a woman’s role must be. But I’ll not be coddled, Hudson. I want to be by your side tomorrow.”
His lips brushed her ear. “I would never dream of coddling you, love. I was only attempting to appease your father and spare you further anguish. You have no notion of how much I hate embroiling you in this godforsaken mess.”
“This is my fault as much as yours. I wanted time to perfect my electrical frying pan, and all I did was push you away,” she confessed on a rush, relieved to be free of the guilt which had been eating away at her. “If I had not requested three months, you never would have left me at Brinton Manor, and if you had never left Brinton Manor, this horrid Chief Inspector O’Rourke could never have attempted to see you wrongly accused of murder.”
“No.” His wet hand cupped her face, turning her toward him. “You do not bear any of the responsibility for this, Ellie. I am the only one to blame. If I’d possessed a single bloody wit, I would have stayed with you in Buckinghamshire. Instead, I followed a trail of crumbs all the way to my own downfall.”
She was not so willing to admit defeat. “This has not been your downfall, Hudson. You are a duke.”
“Dukes are not protected from the law or charges of murder.” His counter was soft and hushed, though steeped in a subtle hint of reproach.
He was reminding her they had yet to beat O’Rourke at whatever evil game he played. That Reginald Croydon remained free from prison. That the dangers facing her husband were as real as the scars marking his abdomen. But he had survived that terrible wounding, and he would survive this as well.
“You are an innocent man, and we will prove it in every way we must,” she vowed, searching all the wonderful planes and angles of his face.
On any other man, his features would have been described as harsh, and yet there was something about his brooding sensuality, and perhaps the plush fullness of his lips, that softened the effect. He fascinated her in a way she had never imagined anyone could.
He kissed her cheek. “Sweet Ellie. Your loyalty is humbling.”
“I am your wife.” But that was not the only reason for her allegiance. She loved him, too. The emotion was there, burning and brilliant and real.
It simply was.
But she was not prepared to confess that to him now, with the feelings so new, coupled with the uncertainty of whether or not her love was returned. They had enough to face on the morrow.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, he kissed the tip of her nose. “The hour grows late and we have an early start to the morning. We ought to finish our bath and then get some rest.”
She had a suspicion rest would not be easily achieved.
Hudson jolted awake before dawn to darkness and the silken heat of his wife curled against him. His heart was thudding in his chest, and he experienced a sudden, swift relief. The nightmare gripping him in its relentless clutches had been nothing more than a chimera.
But then, reality returned with the grim portent of a death knell.
He had exchanged one nightmare for another. His dream had been filled with blood and chambers from which there was no escape. There had been screams surrounding him, echoing in his mind, and he had been bound with rope at his wrists and ankles, immobile. Helpless to save whoever it was that had been screaming for his aid. Trapped in a prison of someone else’s making. Knowing he was stuck, writhing and flailing and doing everything in his power to free himself, yet still incapable of escape.
But the hush of the night surrounding him was scarcely any different from the nightmare. It, too, was inky black. And there was danger beyond his reach, waiting for him. There were no screams in the night, and he was free of the ropes and locks which had subdued him in his dream. But he may as well have been just as hopelessly bound. O’Rourke would not wait long to pounce on him, and the knowledge filled him with an ever-blooming dread.
He had failed to find Reginald Croydon.
He had not been able to keep Maude Ainsley from being killed.
And now, O’Rourke w
as hellbent upon pinning her murder on him.
Perhaps sensing his restlessness, Elysande shifted, making a sleepy sound in her throat and reaching for him. Her palm settled on his bare chest. As always, her touch sent a spark of pure electricity sweeping through him.
Last night, they had both been too exhausted to make love. His body was reminding him of their omission, his cock slowly stiffening beneath the bedclothes. His heart steadily thumped, calming down now that the fear infecting him during his relentless nightmare abated. Taking deep, calming breaths, he forced himself to focus upon the comforting weight of her palm on his chest.
For a moment, perhaps he could lie here and pretend there was not a very real possibility he would have to leave her. That he would be arrested for Maude’s murder. But for now, for this sliver in time, she was his and he was hers. He could think of no one he would rather have beside him in his bed or in his life.
How fortunate he had been to marry her.
She was intelligent and brave and loyal. Fearless and persistent and good. She was bold and graceful, everything he could have wanted in a wife and then some. But she deserved more than he could offer her. The truth hit him as he pressed his hand over hers, gently guiding hers until it rested over his heart.
He was in love with Elysande.
Their marriage of convenience had turned into a love match. Christ, he would not have believed it, merely a month ago, that he would be brought so low by any woman, let alone her. But his attraction to her—undeniable as it was intense—had kindled the flames that ultimately burned into raging fires. She had selflessly thrown herself into aiding him however she could, and he would never be able to thank her enough.
There is one way I can, he realized, though the very notion of it was akin to a dagger to the gut, which was a sensation he was more than familiar with.
Divorce.
He hated the thought of never being able to hold her, kiss her, or touch her again. The idea of her being no longer his but another man’s…Christ, he loathed it. But he knew he would have to. If he was unsuccessful in proving his innocence, and if O’Rourke arrested him for Maude’s murder, he was going to have to do what was right and fair for Elysande’s sake.
“You are awake,” she whispered, cutting through the quiet and the heaviness of his thoughts.
“I had a nightmare.”
The admission was given easily, for theirs was a comfortable intimacy. Chief Inspector Stone would never have confessed to such a vulnerability. The Duke of Wycombe, however, did. There was no one he trusted more than Ellie. If he was forced to leave her, he would mourn the loss to his dying day.
A stark recognition for a man who had always believed himself to be like his surname, cold and hard as a stone.
“Do you want to tell me?” she asked, understanding him so well.
Another lady might have demanded to know.
“No,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers. He had brought enough darkness into her life. He would not make the demons chasing him one more.
She scooted nearer to him, her lips finding his shoulder. “Shall we rise, then?”
“Not yet.” He found himself reluctant to leave the haven of this chamber.
It was hers. He had not bothered to settle himself in the duke’s apartments, for he felt more as if he belonged here than anywhere else. Their bond had been forged not merely in the vows they had spoken, but in the trials they had faced together. Her willingness to trust and believe in him still awed Hudson.
But he could not shake the foreboding tightening around him like inescapable bands, the fear that once he left the quiet comfort of this chamber and her side, that he would never have the chance to return.
However, he did not give voice to that.
No need to worry her unduly.
He raised her palm to his lips, pressing a kiss to the satiny center. “I want to keep you here forever just like this.”
“Silly man.” Her lips were on his shoulder once more. “You do have me forever.”
Maybe not. Maybe I only have you for the next minute, the next hour, the next day.
The words shook him. Regardless of how much time he had remaining with her, it would never be enough. Not even an eternity would suffice.
He kissed her inner wrist, which was supple and soft, the delicate tracery of her veins alive and pulsing against his lips. “I am grateful you are mine, Ellie.”
For now.
Damn it all, how had they come to this? The fault was his. His damnable pride, thinking he would be the one to find Reginald Croydon and send him back to prison where he belonged.
“And I am grateful you are mine, too,” she murmured.
Her lips moved, finding his neck. And then the sharp nip of her teeth tore a groan from him.
“Damn it, wife. What you do to me.”
“Tell me.” Her words were a hushed whisper of sound against his ear.
Bloody hell. Was she seducing him? Just before dawn when the morning and the day could bring any manner of hailstorm?
She kissed his ear, then his jaw, and he had his answer.
Yes. She was.
And it was working.
She tugged her wrist free of his loose grasp and smoothed her hand down his chest. Two could play at this game. He caught her hand in his once more and moved her touch lower, sending fire in its sensual wake. When she reached his cockstand, she made a soft sigh of appreciation as her fingers encircled him.
“This is what you do to me, love,” he said, releasing her as she stroked his shaft. “You make me hard.”
You make me love you.
But those were words he tucked into his heart, a confession which was not yet his to make. If he was not able to prove his innocence and he faced prison or worse, that declaration would only make the necessity of their goodbye far more painful. So instead, he closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the pleasure.
To the present.
To Elysande’s knowing hand. Her thumb traced his tip, coating his leaking seed over him. He wanted her so much, he could scarcely breathe. Yes, desire. This was what he needed to concentrate on. Not anything but her.
“I love touching you,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his lips.
He plunged his fingers into her silken hair, cupping her head and bringing her where he wanted her. Their lips met in a kiss that was hard and hungry. He had wanted to be gentle, to show her the way he felt for her in the care he took with her body. And yet, now that her lips were on his and she was stroking his cock, he was on the edge of madness.
His other hand found its way to her hip, so curved and perfectly feminine, then slid over her thigh to find the center of her where she was hot and wet. So wet. He parted her seam, discovering the plump bud of her clitoris awaiting his eager fingers. Knowing how she liked to be touched, he toyed with her, withholding the pressure he knew she craved.
She made a sound of frustration and nipped his lower lip.
She wanted him too, then. Good. He would give her himself. Give her everything he had to give. If this was to be the last time they made love, he wanted her to remember it.
To remember him.
Even as his heart railed against the impossibility of being torn from her, his mind acknowledged the possibility. All he had was here and now.
He slid a finger into her cunny, pleased when she moaned again and rocked her hips, bringing him deeper. Yes, this was what he could deal in. Pleasure. Raw and carnal and physical. He could only control what happened here and now, between them.
Nothing more.
The tight clench of her around his finger and the stroke of her hand on his cock became his sole concerns. Those, and the breathy mewls of need hatching from her throat. He fucked her lightly, slowly, using his thumb to work her pearl. She was slick, but he wanted her wetter. He wanted to ruin her for any other man who might follow, should he go to prison.
He was selfish and greedy and he wanted to be the only man. He would do everyth
ing in his power to make certain that was possible. But part of him remained practically cynical. He had witnessed the ugly side of human nature, the depths of evil, far too many times. Nothing was certain. Nor was it guaranteed. Not his freedom, not this woman.
Hell, not even his next breath.
Life was a gift.
She was a gift.
And he intended to treat her as such. Her hand constricted as she gained confidence, but he was determined to win this battle of seduction. His middle finger joined the other, and he was rewarded by another rush of dew when he crooked his fingers in the way he knew drove her wild. He simultaneously pressed his thumb against the hooded bundle of flesh.
She tightened on him, gasping as she came, flooding his fingers. Wetness dripped from her in a rush, pooling on the bedclothes. He wanted to lap it up, but she had not released her hold on him.
For a moment, she stilled, simply holding his aching cock in her tight grip. So tight, he feared he would spend in her hand. His rod twitched and his ballocks pulsed. The familiar build of tension began, a knot being drawn, gathering in his cock. Licking up his spine.
That would not do. He wanted to be inside her. At least for a few thrusts. For as long as he could last. Wanted her every way he could have her.
Ah, yes.
The idea was a seed, taking hold and growing root. It would not be denied. He wanted to be deeper than he had ever been before.
He kissed her as the last ripples of her pinnacle shuddered through her, sinking his fingers to the hilt, stretching and pleasuring her even after the height of her crisis had eased. Until she was shuddering and writhing beneath him, kissing him as if she wanted to consume him.
Yes, my love. Come undone for me. Be wild for me. If this is to be our last, or one of our last, let us make it eclipse all the suffering which shall inevitably follow.
“Oh, Hudson.” She tore her lips from his, gasping as another sudden spasm of pleasure went through her, her grip on his cockstand going slack.
It didn’t matter. Bliss. That was what this was.
God, he loved this woman. This wonderful, loyal, intelligent, fearless woman. This brilliant woman who was perfecting a damned electrical frying pan, of all things. Who had stood by his side in a bloodied room and believed in him. Who was fighting for him still. He would show her in deed if not with words.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 21
