The Love List

by Deb Marlowe

  She let her head fall back against him. He set about pressing soft kisses from her ear to her nape as he made quick work of the fastenings of her gown and then the stays beneath it. He gave a push here and a shove there, while she gave a heart-rending little wiggle, and soon enough the hated gown was discarded and she stood clad in only her chemise and stockings. She started to turn back to him but he stalled her by pressing up against her. “Not yet,” he whispered.

  She nodded, waiting, and he buried his face in her hair. The clean, soapy smell of her had gone. She smelled like sin now, thick and rich.

  That was all right. He liked sin, too.

  He set his hands at her waist, let his breath tickle the sensitive spot behind her ear, and once she was shivering and distracted, he reached a hand up and cupped her breast.

  She gave a small, strangled sound of approval.

  He groaned his own satisfaction as he stroked the underside of her perfectly weighted flesh. A plump nipple peaked the soft linen of her chemise. He teased it with trailing fingers, then gently pinched.

  She gasped and he felt the shock of it surge through his already heavy cock.

  She was already working the tiny buttons on the chemise. In moments she had shrugged out of it until it hung at her waist. He lifted both hands now and plucked and rolled at her straining nipples. He pushed the insistent ridge of his erection against her sweetly curving bottom.

  “Now it’s my turn,” she gasped at last, after long moments of exquisite torture. She twisted in his arms and reached for him. He kissed her, hard and hungry, while she returned his favors, unbuttoning his waistcoat and lifting his shirt until he took pity on her and drew it over his head.

  She sighed with pleasure. Reaching out, she touched him and his blood ran hotter at the feel of her hands tracing a shaky path over his body.

  “Good heavens, Aldmere. You are hard all over.”

  His breath blew out. “You have no idea.” His cock strained toward her, ready to assert his dominance, stake his claim.

  He couldn’t do it. She was gently bred, and despite what she’d likely seen and heard in Hestia Wright’s house, he wanted to fulfill every girlish dream and fancy she might ever have harbored.

  Breathing deep, he reined in his impatience. He slipped around her to take a seat on the sofa, then pulled her in between his legs. Her luscious breasts hovered right before him as he arched a brow up at her. “Now, about those other talents,” he rasped.

  He took her nipple in his mouth. He took his time about it too, nipping, sucking, plucking with fingers and tongue, until her breath came in ragged gasps and her knees were buckling in desire.

  “Aldmere,” she said. “Please.”

  “Yes,” he answered. A quick tug and her chemise was over her hips and gone. He swept her up again, laying her gently against the curved arm of the sofa. She lay bare, save for stockings and a frilly, frivolous set of garters. His heart thumped, his blood surged. Her heart in her eyes, she reached a hand for him.

  And he ached, with so much more than simple lust.

  “Aldmere,” she whispered again.

  He paused, settled beside her and stroked her hair. Gathering his courage, he said, “Nathan.”

  She stilled.

  “It’s my name. Nathan Alexander Wardham Russell.” He bent and touched his forehead to hers. “I should have told you, back when first we kissed, when you asked me to call you Brynne. It’s just that . . . no one has called me by anything but the title in years. Not a soul has used my given name since my parents died.”

  Tears flooded from her lovely eyes. “I’m honored,” she whispered. “Nathan.”

  The sound of it washed over him like a benediction. God, so long. So long he’d been alone. A shiver ran through him at the thought that it might no longer be true. The cold and the dark, the pain and the guilt, they stood no chance against Brynne and her laughter, her tart tongue and her shy dreams. It was overwhelming. And he, the great bloody Duke of Aldmere, renowned for icy composure and regal reserve, started to shake.

  Brynne felt the spasms begin. Soon he shivered all over. Dismayed, she held him tight and stroked the glorious, broad breadth of his back. After a moment she ducked her head and met his gaze.

  “For now, in this moment, there’s only the two of us—nothing else matters.” She gave his words back to him.

  He nodded and pulled away.

  “Now, I believe I was promised a repertoire of many talents. I’ve counted two so far.”

  He tilted his head. “Why don’t I dust off a couple of more, then?”

  “I think you should—if only in the interests of keeping your promise.” She sighed and moved against him. “And Nathan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps you won’t mind getting around to it sooner, rather than later?”

  He snorted, but then good heavens, he made good his promise. And if she’d wanted to hurry things along earlier, then she’d made a complete reversal now. Slowly, with fingers, teeth and tongue he strummed her body like an exotic instrument, and she wanted to slow time, to put off indefinitely all the trouble that awaited them and make this an endless night of discovery and sharing.

  Soft tender spots she’d hardly considered sang for him, until she’d discovered her own repertoire of noises she’d never made before. Somehow, somewhere his trousers had come off. She marveled at his manhood, at the size and smoothness of it, and the fascinating, amusing way it seemed to move of its own will.

  Tempting, teasing, he drew her pleasure out until she was his, body and soul. He pushed her to her limits, until her body vibrated with tension and her head thrashed.

  “Brynne. Look at me.”

  Was that keening coming from her?

  “Brynne.”

  His voice commanded. She opened her eyes to see his face, powerfully demanding. “Stay here, Brynne. Here with me.” His gaze has fastened on her mouth. “I want us both present for all of it.”

  She couldn’t keep back a stab of fear. “What if it is too much?”

  “It cannot be. Not between us. It can only be just right. Perfect.” His voice grew hard again. “You are strong enough to take what you want. Now do it. Do you understand?”

  She sighed and the tension and fear drained away. “Yes.”

  He kissed her, slow and deep. A promise of a kiss. And he touched her, right where she hadn’t known she’d needed it, in the wet cleft between her legs. Slowly he stroked her, teasing until she writhed, watching her all the while and forcing her to stay present, with him.

  Finally he propped himself over her. He shifted, dragging his manhood along the same place his fingers had awakened, and her legs opened wider of their own accord.

  He frowned concern down at her. “Brace yourself,” he warned.

  She didn’t have the chance before he thrust home.

  She gasped at the sting, but it was quickly gone. The strangeness lasted, however. She felt odd, full in a completely alien way. And then he moved, and she understood.

  Good heavens, this was what all the rest of it was for, to get them to this point, where they rejoiced together, functioned as one. She could see the same pleasure she felt echoed on his face, along with a fierce, conquering joy. It thrilled her, excited her. He kept moving and she kept climbing, unable to do anything but surrender to the longing pulling her higher.

  She was moving too, now. Meeting him as he stroked down to her. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his arms. He was tense all over, fighting . . . something. And then he drew out one last, perfect stroke and she lost herself. Lost him too, for a moment, despite his hoarse cry. But then her eyes closed, her body shook and shook and her soul sang a new song, an enchanting duet, as it soared high, stronger for being entangled and entwined with his.

  Nineteen

  Morning came and with it: Truth. You may have guessed, dear Reader, that it was not Captain Wilson in my bridal bed. It came as a shock to me. It was Lord M—lying next to me, nearly trembling with triump
h as he delivered the news. Captain Wilson was long gone, having exchanged me for the forgiveness of a debt. I now belonged to Lord M—, body and soul. Or so he informed me.

  —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Aldmere woke up some time later, curled around Brynne on the sofa, his arse end hanging off the plush cushions. He didn’t care. He tightened his arm around her while she slept and tried to quiet the ceaseless roaming of his mind.

  It was no good. His thoughts were caught in an endless circle between Tru and Brynne, between what had just happened and what still waited for him tonight. At last he gave it up as a bad job and rolled carefully away. He stood for a moment, gazing down at his brave, brave girl. Her hair had come down. It lay in soft waves, ebony against the pale beauty of her skin. She looked so fragile, lying there, infinitely breakable. A grand illusion, that.

  Could she be right? Could his future shine so much brighter than his bleak past? He sent up a silent, fervent wish that it could be so—that hers might be the love that could lift him high instead of dragging him down.

  She shivered suddenly and shifted on the sofa. Aldmere reached for his coat to cover her. It would be best if she slept through the coming meeting with Marstoke. She’d suffered such turmoil lately, she might even sleep right through—and give him something worthwhile to come home to.

  He paused with the coat still suspended, wishing for a blanket or something more voluminous, and suddenly remembered her cloak. Stepping quietly, he made his way back into his study and found it draped over a chair. Not until he was spreading the soft folds wide to cover her did he notice the weight on one side and the feel the bump of metal against his thigh.

  He stilled. Surely not. With growing disbelief he explored the outline of the object. Reaching in, he pulled out a delicate lady’s pistol.

  Long seconds passed as he stared at her. What was she planning to get up to? He was damned sure that between the pistol and the costume, she was up to something.

  Snippets of memory raced through his brain. This is because I suspected you would be difficult and I had to make my own plans, she’d said when he asked her to explain her get-up tonight. If you hadn’t brought me along, I’d be following behind, she’d laughed when he’d worried over involving her in this mess. Certainly she had a history of taking rash, independent action.

  He set the pistol aside, covered her with the warm cloak, and dressed with haste and quiet. Then he went to his study to pace.

  Hell and damnation, what a mess. Brynne was everything courageous and determined, full to the brim with stubborn loyalty and a willingness to fight for both herself and others. She had to know how much he valued all of that about her. But this . . . this was different. This was Marstoke, for God’s sake, and Hatch, and unknown and unnumbered others. Nothing was certain about this meeting tonight, except for the danger it represented and the fact that he would face cunning, treachery and deceit.

  Daunting enough, even for him, but to think of exposing Brynne to such evil, to risk losing her—

  Shock cost him his forward momentum, generated by an unthinkably foul notion. Every muscle in his body tensed in revulsion. He loosed a volley of silent, violent curses.

  Was this to be his punishment, then? The price that Fate meant to demand for his desertion? Had he truly turned the corner, changed the course of his life, or was this the old pattern, asserting itself again?

  I’ll gladly pay the price, he’d whispered to Brynne tonight. But now he found it had been a lie. He would not—not if she was to be the price.

  He exploded into motion again, striding into Flemming’s office on silent feet. He pocketed the pistol. At the desk, he stopped to scratch out a quick note, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. On the threshold he paused, staring back at her lovely, sleeping form.

  She might never forgive him. No act could be more repugnant to her. If he did this, he stole away her most treasured possession—the freedom to make her own choices, to act for herself.

  He flinched at the thought of her anger, at the incredible feelings of betrayal she would suffer. They would be made all the worse because he knew what this would do to her—and he was doing it anyway.

  He gripped the doorframe. He’d known since that first morning that she was destined to be hurt—he’d just never expected to be the one to deal the blow.

  With resolution, he shut the door—and locked it. He crossed to his desk, picked up the Love List and left the study. He locked that door too.

  Turning, he found Billings and a housemaid staring at him from the entry hall.

  He straightened. “The lady—my guest—is resting and will remain here tonight, or until I return. She is not to be disturbed. No one goes in my study and no one comes out. Is that understood.”

  They gaped at him. Billings was first to recover. “Yes, your Grace.”

  “No matter what you might hear from inside, the door stays locked.”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  Without another word, Aldmere gripped the Love List and strode out the front door.

  Brynne might indeed hate him for this. But she would be kept safe. He might lose her, but he was willing to take on that burden, right along with his others.

  * * *

  Brynne woke with a horrid crick in her neck. Stretching, she blushed. Clearly this sofa had not been intended for the sort of use they had put it to.

  Had she been foolish? Her worries were waking with the rest of her, and they brought with them a sense of finality. She’d left her old life firmly behind her with this day’s choices.

  She realized the thought troubled her not at all. Instead she felt . . . happy. Whole. The cold, dark knot of uneasiness inside of her had burned away. She’d been strong. She’d decided what she wanted and she’d pursued it. And Aldmere hadn’t retreated. He’d touched her, every part of her, and given her the knowledge of her own strength.

  Her cloak fell away as she sat up. Shivering, she clutched it close again. No wonder she had slept, given the warmth of the cloak and the shadows in the closed room. She swung her feet over. Aldmere was thoughtful, but they had to confer before tonight’s adventures. He didn’t yet know what she had planned.

  Finger combing her hair, she tucked it back up as best she could. She dressed quickly, managing, with some creative contortioned poses, to get about half of her buttons done up. Her body felt . . . different. Just a little sore, perhaps. Flushing, she touched her lips, knowing that she was going to look a disheveled mess despite her efforts. Ah, well. Looking a woman well loved could only fit in with her plans tonight.

  She looked toward the door. Was Aldmere working? Reviewing his strategy for meeting Marstoke? And wasn’t she just a woman of the world, contemplating the confrontation between her lover and her former betrothed?

  Lover. It felt daring just thinking the word. But it also felt right. They were lovers. Partners. It felt a miracle. Amazing, that they’d fought their way past strife and scandal, over opposite situations and seemingly insurmountable emotional barriers to come together. She blushed, but she had no doubt. Aldmere hadn’t taken everything they had just done lightly. He’d stretched past his boundaries, reaching for her. What lay ahead of them would not be easy, but they’d come too far to fail now. They would work together to free Lord Truitt, defeat Marstoke and forge a path, together, into the uncertain future.

  Hurrying, she stepped into her shoes. Now that her body was sated and her heart full, her mind had begun to race. She reached for the door, eager to tell Aldmere—

  She stopped. The knob had stuck. She rattled it, impatient to discuss tonight’s various strategies—

  The knob wasn’t stuck. She rattled it again, harder.

  Locked. The door was locked.

  Her mind blanked. No. No. It was a mistake. Her fists clenched. Aldmere would never do such a thing.

  Striving for calm, she knocked on the door. “Aldmere,” she called. “Help me out, if you would. The door has stuck.”

&n
bsp; No answer.

  She knocked again, loud and long. “Aldmere?” She swallowed. “Nathan?” Laying her head against the door, she increased her volume. “Is anyone out there? Someone? I need assistance!”

  She listened. Called again. No answer. No footsteps. No hurrying of servants. There must be dozens of them in the house. Surely someone had heard her, even back here.

  Inspiration struck and she hurried back to pick up her cloak. But she knew as soon as she lifted it clear of the sofa—the pistol Hestia had tucked in her pocket with a whispered warning was gone.

  She knew, then. The old panic rushed her. Knocked her backward with the strength of its return, reached down her throat and stole her breath. Her chest wouldn’t move, wouldn’t draw in the air she needed. She was helpless once more, consumed by that cold knot of terror that she’d thought she’d banished forever.

  She fought to breathe. To move. Light. She needed light. The shadows were thickening, which only fueled her sense of fear and urgency. She forced her limbs to move, her feet to take one step and then another. Crossing to the desk, she reached for a lamp—and froze at the sight of a paper propped there.

  Snatching it up, she held it up to catch the dim light.

  I know. I’m sorry. But I think of you hurt—or worse . . . and I know that is a price I cannot pay.

  Numb, she stared at the thing. Then she balled it up and cursed as she threw it into a corner.

  It didn’t help. How could he have done it? Aldmere was the one—the one who would have known how this would hurt. He’d led her along, giving her a glimpse here and a peek there, then tonight he’d opened the door wide and shown her what it truly meant to dream. He’d let her have a good long look at everything she’d ever wanted—trust, respect, partnership and passion—only to slam the door closed again. This was betrayal as thorough as her father’s, bullying as heinous as Marstoke’s.

  She sank down onto the floor next to the desk and began to sob. Wracked with pain and sorrow and a burning foolishness, her sobs welled from the sort of loneliness she hadn’t felt since those first, ugly days at Hestia’s.