“Oh Hudson,” she murmured, trailing the wicked gift of her fingers up and down his spine. “I love you so.”
He had to move. The emotions were as intense as the sensations coursing through him. He stroked in and out, their bodies working together in natural rhythm. Forever, my love. Had he spoken the words aloud, or were they merely in his mind? He did not know. It did not matter when he slipped a hand between them, finding her pearl once more. He swirled over that demanding bud, wanting her to come apart again.
She stiffened and cried out, her release making her tighten on his cock with so much force that he ground out a curse and began to withdraw. But she clutched him to her tightly, wrapping her legs around his hips.
“Stay,” she murmured, a plea and a command in one. “Please.”
“If I spend inside you,” he began, only to nearly lose himself when she bucked her bottom from the bed, bringing him deeper. “Christ, Ellie…”
“I know,” she said. “Stay.”
Permission.
He seized it. Another thrust, and he lost control, emptying himself into her. The rush of pleasure had him setting his teeth on edge. He pulsed inside her, holding on to the bliss of his release for as long as he could, his thrusts slowing, growing shallower until he slipped from her body entirely.
He remained where he was, atop her, pinning her to the bed, absorbing her warmth, his heart pounding furiously. Likely, he was crushing her. He had to move, but his head was floating above his body and his mind was filled with light. He had never experienced such a potent, powerful orgasm in his life, and it had sapped all the energy from him.
He would move soon.
Did he have to?
Christ, he ought to. He had no wish to hurt her. But she stroked his hair, holding him to her when he belatedly attempted to shift.
“Not yet,” she said. “I like the way you feel. It is as if we are one.”
“Because we are one, Ellie.” He kissed her cheek, drinking in the sight of her, flushed and so very lovely. “Forever, my love.”
This time, he knew for certain he spoke the words aloud.
“Forever,” she repeated, then pulled his mouth to hers.
Epilogue
One year later
The day had finally come.
Elysande stood before her electrical utensils display at the London Society of Electricity’s exhibition, Hudson dutifully flanking her. Her eyes burned with tears of elation she refused to shed. She blinked furiously, dismayed when her vision began to blur.
“As you can see, there is no fire required to cook in this fashion,” said Mrs. Rose to the crowd gathered. “All the hours spent toiling over a kitchen fire or stove will soon belong to the past.”
Startled murmurings of excitement rose from the thronged assemblage.
Elysande had the more-than-capable woman to run her display. When she and Hudson had returned to Buckinghamshire in the wake of Chief Inspector O’Rourke’s death and the closing of the cases of Mrs. Ainsley, Reginald Croydon, and Mrs. Lamson, she had thrown herself into her work. Likewise, Hudson had devoted himself to the business of restoring Brinton Manor to its former glory, with Saunders at his side. She had finally discovered the key to creating an even electrical current using a careful blend of cement and platinum wires.
The result had been an electrical frying pan that cooked an egg perfectly in under two minutes. Her discovery had come too late for the previous year’s exhibition, but that was just as well, for she had swiftly found herself expecting a child. Fortunately, her pregnancy had been blissfully uneventful, leaving her capable of continuing her work. During her confinement, she had managed to apply the same design principles to a tea kettle and an iron.
She had received her patents and, with the business acumen of Hudson’s friend the Marquess of Greymoor as her aid, she had begun her own company, the Better Electric Company. She had set about hiring women who shared her interest in engineering and business to help it flourish and grow. This exhibition was the first step toward gaining the public’s confidence in a revolutionary way of cooking.
And now…
“Here we are,” Hudson said softly. “Standing before the fruit of all your labors. I am so bloody proud of you, Ellie. Our sweet little Margaret is fortunate indeed to have a mother like you to call Mama.”
She was filled with so much love.
Elysande sniffed. “She is every bit as fortunate to have you as her papa.”
He had found his place at Brinton Manor, but he excelled as a father and a husband both. He was a constant source of support. A comforting embrace whenever she needed it. Seeing him with their daughter in his arms, the tender way he held her and the way he held her when she cried, rocking and singing to her until she quieted, never failed to melt Elysande’s heart. He had not entirely cut his ties with Scotland Yard.
Reginald Croydon’s body had been discovered buried in a shallow grave behind O’Rourke’s residence. The resulting scandal had left Scotland Yard in desperate need of reform. Hudson had been working with former Sergeant—now Inspector—Chance to weed out corruption and build the Yard’s investigative abilities. Part of that involved the slow, steady introduction of Papa’s fingerprint identification methods. These days, the Detective Duke, as he had been dubbed, was still reported on in the newspapers, but with all the respect due him. No more shadows of suspicion.
No more death and danger.
Only happiness and love and hope.
“The pan heats evenly,” Mrs. Rose was saying to the crowd, “and in hasty fashion. The perfect omelet is achievable within one minute and forty-five seconds.”
“Where is the heat emerging from?” asked an astounded gentleman. “I see no flame.”
“That is because there is none,” Mrs. Rose informed him, smiling as she cracked an egg into the warmed pan. “All the heat is generated by electricity. This is the future of the kitchen, sir.”
“Does it affect the flavor of the eggs?” a lady queried. “One would think an aberrant taste may accompany the electric charge. Is it safe?”
“It is perfectly hygienic,” Mrs. Rose reassured the lady. “There is no untoward flavor at all. Indeed, should you try eggs cooked in a Better Electric Company frying pan, I have no doubt you will find the taste quite superior.”
“Amazing,” said another lady, shaking her head.
“Wait until you see the electrical tea kettle,” Mrs. Rose said with a cheerful grin.
Hudson gave Elysande’s hand a loving pat. “It is a resounding success, darling, just as I knew it would be.”
It was all too much. The dream Elysande had been pursuing was hers. More tears of happiness rose, and she blinked, but they were trailing down her cheeks just the same. Hudson took note, catching one on his gloved fingertip.
“I have seen what I wished to see,” she said, smiling through her great bout of silly waterworks. “I am ready to go home to our darling girl.”
“Perhaps we ought to see your father’s influence machine first,” Hudson suggested.
Heavens, what a dreadful daughter she was, so caught up in her own triumphs that she had nearly forgotten all about Papa’s latest success.
“Yes, you are perfectly right,” she agreed as he steered her through the crush of guests examining the various electrical marvels on display. “He would be quite offended if we were to forget.”
His new machine was capable of generating electricity using induction, and it produced an impressively high voltage. There was no design currently available of its kind.
“Especially since he did not set any of the Talleyrand Park outbuildings aflame during its construction,” Hudson said, his tone wry.
She chuckled. “Not on this round.”
Hudson raised a brow, his expression bland. “There is always next time.”
“You are incorrigible, Your Grace.” She smiled at him, her love for him rising like a tide, strong and elemental.
He winked. “You would not have it an
y other way, my love.”
My, he was handsome. Those gray-blue eyes twinkled down at her, and she had to fight the urge to sigh.
“You are absolutely right, my darling husband,” she said instead.
She longed to kiss those wickedly sinful lips of his, but she was ever aware that they were in public surrounded by an eager audience who would no doubt be more than happy to report the Detective Duke kissing his duchess senseless in the midst of the electrical exhibition.
No, kisses would have to wait for the carriage ride home.
Unless…
Her gaze settled upon a sheltered alcove at the far end of the line of displays they were traversing. Did she dare to suggest a furtive kiss within the shelter of its shadowy depths?
“Perhaps a small detour is in order,” her husband said, seeming to read her thoughts.
“I do like the way you think,” she told him as they made their way to the alcove.
He laced his fingers through hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Good, because I bloody well love the way you think. Your mind is one of my favorite attributes.”
“Only my mind?” she teased, feeling bold.
“God no,” he said, his voice low and wicked and doing all sorts of naughty things to her in all the right places. “I also love your hips. Your saucy mouth. Your delicious breasts. The curve of your waist. The mole you have on your inner right thigh that never fails to drive me to distraction. Your stubborn chin, that silken hair. Have I mentioned your ankles? Or your cunny, always so perfect and wet for me. Shall I go on?”
“No,” she said weakly, breathless. “I do believe that shall do.”
By the time they reached the alcove and slipped inside, she was practically throbbing with need. He pulled her into his arms and she grasped his lapels, tugging his mouth to hers. She kissed his smiling lips, heart overflowing.
Thank you for reading Hudson and Elysande’s happily ever after! I hope you loved their story, and if you’re wondering what’s happening to Barlowe now that he’s the earl, you won’t want to miss his story, The Playboy Peer. You can catch the Duke of Northwich’s story in Lady Brazen (a scorching second chance romance), or start with Book 1 of that series, Lady Ruthless, a sizzling enemies-to-lovers tale. Now, do read on for a sneak peek at Zachary Barlowe and Lady Isolde’s story, The Playboy Peer…
The Playboy Peer
Unexpected Lords
Book Two
Lady Isolde Collingwood’s future was happily secured until the man she intended to marry threw her over for another woman. Heartbroken and betrayed, she has every intention of running wild across London and setting polite society on its ear. But when she becomes embroiled in a scandal with a wicked earl, there’s only one way to solve her latest dilemma if she wants to protect her sisters: marriage.
As an unnecessary third son, Zachary Barlowe thoroughly enjoyed living his life on his own terms, amassing a fortune, traveling the world, and doing whatever he bloody well pleased. Although the untimely deaths of his brothers left him the new Earl of Anglesey, he is determined to allow the line to die with him. After he unintentionally ruins the innocent Lady Isolde, however, he has no choice but to make her his wife.
A dazzling rake like Anglesey is the last man Izzy would have chosen to wed. Still, as he offers her a bargain she can’t refuse, she finds herself torn between old desires and new. And the more time Zachary spends aiding his unexpected wife in her quest for revenge, the more he realizes he wants her for himself. Not just for one night, but for forever.
Chapter One
Autumn, 1886
Izzy supposed it was only fitting that, after two years of endless love letters exchanged between herself and the Honorable Mr. Arthur Penhurst, he had chosen to end their betrothal in the same fashion he had conducted much of their courtship. But the familiarity of his masculine scrawl, slanted upon the page in measured, precise penmanship, provided precious little comfort. True, many of the letters had become hopelessly obliterated by the profusion of tears which had rained upon the ink over the last few weeks since she had received it. However, much of the terrible, soul-crushing sentences remained perfectly intact.
Darling Isolde,
I regret to say that I have found myself drawn in a different direction. It would seem that the time of preparation for our wedding, deemed far too lengthy by yourself, was instead a boon. For it granted me the opportunity to realize I harbor feelings for Miss Harcourt that I cannot in good conscience either deny or ignore…
Miss Alice Harcourt.
An American heiress who had been attending Cowes Week, where Arthur had also been spending his time. He had been taking in the sea air to aid his lungs at the urging of his physician. And apparently attending balls. And falling in love with someone else.
Betraying her.
His reticence concerning their marriage had made bitter, terrible sense when August had come to an end, then September as well, and he had made no effort to return. Instead, he had written to her, suggesting they delay their nuptials until nearly Whitsuntide.
Now, she knew why.
Was it worse that he had referred to her as his darling in the salutation? Of course it was. He might have called her anything else. Dear would have sufficed. A simple Lady Isolde would have stood as well in a trice.
“Oh Izzy, you are not reading that despicable letter again, are you?”
Isolde gave a guilty start and stuffed the hated epistle into the book she had been pretending to read before slamming it closed. She looked up in time to see her beloved sister Ellie, now the Duchess of Wycombe, crossing the threshold with a knowing expression on her face.
Sisters could always sense each other’s misery. Izzy was certain it was an innate skill they had all been born with.
“Of course not,” she lied anyway, forcing a pleasant smile for Ellie’s benefit. “I was merely reading some Shakespeare.”
“Hmm. That rather looks like a compendium of the London Society of Electricity’s journal for the year 1884,” Ellie pointed out shrewdly.
Izzy glanced down at the leather-bound volume and discovered that her sister was correct. Drat. Of all the tomes she could have plucked from the shelf, feigning an interest in this poor choice most certainly gave her away. It was the sort of nonsense only Ellie, with her love of engineering and electricity, would read.
“Oh yes!” Izzy aimed for a bright, cheerful note, but it was difficult indeed when her heart was broken into a million irreparable shards and she was discreetly sniffling to keep the snot from running out of her nose.
Her vision was blurry.
She blinked furiously to chase away the fresh wave of stubborn tears pooling in her eyes. Tears she would not shed. Enough had fallen for Arthur Penhurst already. She would not allow another to—
It slid down her cheek, hot and quick, then landed with a splat on the top of her hand.
“That was a tear,” Ellie observed, settling next to her on the divan. “And your nose is rather red, my love.”
“How dreadful of you to notice,” she muttered.
“It is dripping as well.”
“My nose does not drip,” she denied.
But the snot she had been trying her utmost to withhold made a liar of her, escaping her left nostril and gliding down her philtrum, before pooling in the seam of her lips. It was humiliating and disgusting all at once.
Ellie extracted a handkerchief and dabbed at Izzy’s nose and mouth in motherly fashion, drying up the detestable signs of her weakness. Her gaze was sympathetic, and it was all Izzy could do to hold still for her sister’s ministrations. She wanted to run away and hide. To bury herself beneath the covers in her guest bed and never emerge.
“You were reading the letter again, and you were weeping,” Ellie said quietly.
“Yes,” she admitted, for there was no point in continuing her charade.
“Neither the letter nor Mr. Penhurst are worth your time, your tears, or your heartache.”
Oh, Ar
thur. How could you do this to me? To us?
Izzy fought off another prickle of impending waterworks. “Tell that to my heart.”
At this very moment, she was meant to be in Paris, visiting the House of Worth, choosing the design and trimmings of her wedding gown. Instead, she was in her sister’s library in London, trying desperately to distract herself from her misery by losing herself in the social whirl of the Season.
A near impossibility when everywhere she went, the whispers and pitying looks, along with the occasional titter hidden behind a fan, hounded her. Everyone knew she had been jilted. Just as everyone knew Arthur would be marrying Miss Harcourt two months hence. The wedding of the year, the newspapers trumpeted with glee. An American princess had ensnared the youngest son of the Earl of Leeland, who had previously been promised to lady Isolde Collingwood. The gossips were positively atwitter at the spectacle which would unfold. Details were already being reported, including the diminutive size of Miss Harcourt’s waist: an impossible, gossamer nineteen inches.
Ellie finished dabbing at Izzy’s nose and considered her solemnly. “Come to Lady Greymoor’s ball tonight, hold your head high, and show that miserable scoundrel that you are far stronger than he could ever hope to be. You do not need him. Indeed, you are far happier without him. He is a coldhearted scoundrel and a coward for sending you a letter to throw you over for another. Truly, you ought to pitch that letter into the fire, darling.”
She sighed, fear and worry tying her stomach in knots. “You know I cannot attend, Ellie. Arthur will be there, and so will Miss Harcourt.”
It would be the first time she had crossed paths with Arthur since his defection and the first occasion upon which she had ever set eyes on Miss Harcourt. Privately, Izzy hoped the woman was larger than a stout old milk cow—even if reports of her waist suggested otherwise—and that she sported a hairy mole on her chin and brayed like a donkey when she laughed. Izzy knew such thoughts were beneath her, that she was meant to forgive Arthur, to carry on with her life.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 27
