“Oh, Griffin.” She ached for him, for the pain he must have endured, not unlike hers. And just like that, she was embracing him, throwing both her arms around his lean waist and holding tightly, as if she could absorb some of his pain and heartbreak. “I am so sorry. Did he…”
“In the end, it was his heart.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I tell you not to earn your pity, but so you know you are not alone. I have had similar fears and concerns in the wake of my father’s madness. The fear I will become him. The fear I am already in the process of becoming him. I think it is only natural for us to have these concerns. We are all fallible, are we not? And each of us is vulnerable, horridly so, though we would prefer to think otherwise.”
He was right, of course, and she took strength from him, a calm settling over her. Perhaps it was the soothing reassurance of his deep voice and the words he uttered, or the effortless physical strength he emanated. Mayhap it was his decadent scent—pine and musk and best of all, husband—or the way his arm drew her protectively to his broad body in a way that suggested he would fight for her. Perhaps it was merely him. Merely Griffin.
She did not know.
All she did know, was she felt, for the first time in a long time, the strange, soothing, perfect sensation of being precisely where she was meant to be. She could not shake it. Did not wish to. Being the Duchess of Strathmore, sitting at this man’s side, leaning into his embrace, belonging to him, it felt…
Right.
Oh so very right.
Swallowing down a fresh knot in her throat, she lifted her head from his chest, looking up at him. His handsome face was near, those beautiful, sullen lips within kissing distance. Close enough his warm breath fanned over her mouth in the parody of a kiss.
“I am sorry for running,” she whispered.
“Don’t be.” He lowered his head, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was not carnal—a mere, closed-mouthed press—but was somehow one of the most intimate and personal kisses she had ever experienced. It was a kiss of understanding and compassion, a benediction of sorts, a kiss that said he understood her. He lifted his head, ending the kiss as abruptly as it had begun, his gaze burning into hers.
“Wherever you run, from this day forward, I will follow. You are mine now, and I am yours. If you hurt, I hurt. If someone hurts you, I will hurt him. If you are hungry, I will feed you. If you are lonely, I will be by your side. That is the way of it.”
She stared at him, at this beautiful, glorious man, the duke who had fallen precipitously into her lap, felled by her own crocheting, and understanding dawned. It dawned like the sun rising on a glorious summer day, bright and rife with promise and so bold she could scarcely drink it in.
She loved him.
She was in love with the Duke of Strathmore.
And her brother, whom she also loved, was hell-bent upon casting him into prison.
She gathered it within her, the horrible and the hopeful all at once, and she kissed Griffin. She kissed him with everything seething inside her, all the passion, all the longing, every fear. She kissed him until they were both breathless, breaking apart and staring as if they were seeing each other—truly seeing each other—for the first time.
But reality intruded, reminding her they had a wedding breakfast awaiting them, along with their hosts, who were undoubtedly wondering where they had disappeared to, and why.
“Thank you,” she told him simply, instead of confessing all to him.
“I do not want your gratitude, spitfire,” he said. “All I want is you.”
If she had not already lost her heart to him, she would have, then and there. “And all I want is you.”
“You have me,” he swore, before dropping a kiss upon the bridge of her nose. “Christ, but I love your freckles.”
She could have cursed the sun and their lengthy jaunt to Harlton Hall in the rickety cart, but in truth, she would do it all over again just to have the Duke of Strathmore gazing upon her as he was now, as if she were necessary to him. As if she were the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
“You can have my freckles if you wish,” she said then, severing the moment because she had to, lest they hide themselves away in this dilapidated tower forever. “I shall not mind giving them over one bit. But perhaps we ought to return to the wedding breakfast, should we not?”
His gaze warmed, and the slow smile he gave her made her heart lurch. “Are you certain, my dear?”
“Of course.” She tried for bravado and failed, settling for a sheepish grin and an attempt at humor instead. “My arse has fallen asleep.”
Chapter Fourteen
That evening, Griffin stood in the hall, staring at the door separating him from Lady Violet.
Violet, he corrected himself inwardly. Not Lady Violet, for if she were to be referred to by any title after this morning, it would be the Duchess of Strathmore.
His wife.
Though hours had passed since he had solemnly offered his vows to her in the small chapel before their tiny crowd of guests and the vicar, it seemed a dreamlike lifetime away. They had eschewed tradition, since there was no honeymoon for a bride and groom marrying in sudden secrecy, particularly when the dark clouds of suspicion and uncertainty haunted the groom like a predator. And they had then spent the bulk of the day apart, as he worked alongside Carlisle, Ludlow, and O’Malley to determine a course of action for both clearing his name, and uncovering the true villain hiding within the League ranks.
It seemed, in fact, with the sun down and the house blanketed in nighttime quiet, surreal they had married at all. As if it had never happened. Part of him expected to wake in bed at Lark House, still imprisoned, longing desperately for one gorgeous, rose-scented woman to join him.
Longing for his dark-haired spitfire with the mouth that would not cease calling to him. With a past to rival his. With the kind heart and laughing eyes and delectable curves. She was so damned beautiful, she made him ache, even when he was not in her presence. Too good for him, it was certain. He did not deserve her.
Their connection earlier, when she had fled from the wedding breakfast, had taken him by surprise. But now, and with the aid of some whisky he had enjoyed with Ludlow, Carlisle, and Cullen following their reconnoitering, it made perfect sense. With just enough spirits to dull his self-doubts, he felt as if he could conquer the world.
Or as if he could face his wedding night with the best, loveliest, and most selfless woman he had ever known. Her belief in him, and determination to aid him in proving his innocence, continued to defy both logic and common sense, but he would take it. He would take it happily, and he would take her…
Damnation.
He went rigid, right there in the hall, staring at the surface of a bloody door. Alone. In the dark. His cock was harder than it had ever been, raging against his trousers, his ballocks tight.
How ridiculous he was, as if he possessed not a modicum of control over his own body. As if she ruled him already, only hours into their union. My God, was he as helpless a case as Ludlow and Carlisle? He hoped not, for both men had lost their heads for their wives.
He took a deep, calming breath, knowing he could not stand about in the corridor forever, fist raised in anticipation of announcing his presence. He would have to set knuckles to wood. Would have to make himself known. Would have to cross the threshold and face the breathtaking spitfire he had made his wife.
Quiet had already descended upon the sprawling home for the evening, and he knew he had tarried for too long with his friends, fretting over what was to come after he rendered this union. He had promised her everything that morning, first within their vows, and later in the sheltered cove of the old tower she had retreated to. And he had no guarantee he would be able to live up to those promises.
He knocked.
Once.
No answer.
A second time, and still no answer.
He knocked a third time, much louder, and for several beats. Five succinc
t knocks in a row. Still not one response met him from the other side of the door. Perhaps she was already asleep. It was possible. Their whirlwind dash from Lark House across the countryside, coupled with their hasty marriage vows and a wedding, all whilst surrounded by people who, while warm and loving and wonderful, were all unfamiliar to her, would be more than enough excuse.
It was just as well, he told himself. He could return to his chamber, use his hand to—
The door clicked open, and there she was, enough to take his breath. Her hair was unbound, running down her back in a trail of rich curls. She wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, her trim ankles and elegant feet peeping from beneath the hem.
For a moment, he simply stared at her, just drinking her in, incapable of speech. Christ, but she was lovely. So lovely, she made him ache. That she was his seemed a reverie. An impossibility.
Her countenance was solemn.
“Wife,” he greeted her softly, testing the word on his tongue. He had said it before, but it was yet new and strange and, somehow, also sacred.
It was also apparently the right choice, for her expression instantly softened, a matching smile curving her beautiful lips. “Husband.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. “I was hoping you would join me.”
Her admission set off an answering spark inside him as he crossed the threshold and closed the door at his back. He stood opposite her, overwhelmed by his emotions and her beauty, and the deep-seated need roiling inside him to touch her. To take her at last. “You were?”
Her prim smile deepened. “Of course.”
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. This moment felt larger than the both of them, the beginning and the end and the middle, all at once. While the raging beast within him hungered for her as he never had wanted another, he knew he had to proceed with caution. To treat her with the respect and care she deserved.
“We are married now, Violet, but I want it to be clear between us, you need not feel obligated to share my bed this evening. Our union is new and sudden, and Lord knows I am not worthy of you or the sacrifice you made for me. I shall not fault you if you tell me to go to the devil.”
Please, please do not tell me to go to the devil, he added silently.
For he did not think he could bear going to bed without her for one more night. But neither would he rush her. She was worth the wait. Worth any wait, however long.
“I do not want you to go.” Her cheeks flushed as she made the admission.
“No?” Unable to repress his relief, he smiled, closing the distance between them.
The scent of roses hit him right in the heart.
She shook her head slowly. “No.”
Thank fuck.
He was not sure which one of them moved first. Mayhap it was Violet, mayhap it was him. All he did know was, in the next breath, she was in his arms, precisely where she belonged. He held her to him tightly, dipping his head to take her lush lips for his own. This kiss knew no restraint. It was wild and wanton and wicked. A marriage of tongues. It was wet, open-mouthed, hungry, and unabashed.
This kiss said she was his and he was hers.
This kiss changed him, rattled him, cut straight through to his very marrow.
He kissed down her throat, worshiping the creamy, smooth skin, inhaling deeply as he went. Roses, Violet, his, all his, and so lovely. She made a soft sound of surrender, her breath catching as he kissed his way to the place where her neck and shoulder met.
And suddenly, it wasn’t enough. He gently bit her there, just a soft nip of her flesh, the scrape of his teeth and beard on her. He found the vee in her dressing gown and pulled, dragging it down to her waist so his hands could travel unencumbered over more skin. Nothing but skin, softer than silk, warm and supple.
Christ, she didn’t have a nightdress on beneath the robe. Not one single stitch of fabric. What a revelation. He kissed the delicate curve of her shoulder and then paused in his mouth’s tour of her beautiful body so he could see what he had revealed.
Her breasts were full and round, easily enough to fill his hands and then some, her nipples the same rosy pink as her well-kissed lips, standing erect. Calling for him. With shaking hands, he cupped her.
A groan tore from him. He had scarcely even touched her, and already he was ready, blood singing in his veins, ballocks aching, cockstand almost painful. “My God, Violet, you are beautiful.”
“Ara offered me a nightdress in addition to the dressing gown, but I did not want to borrow one.” Her voice was hesitant, halting. “I…I hope I have not shocked you.”
How could she believe for one moment he would be anything but delighted by the sight of her, glorious and nude, before him? Clearly, he needed to devote himself to worshiping her this night, to showing her just how gorgeous and perfect she was. Just how much he wanted her.
“Never,” he reassured her. “This, you, are a gift. The best gift I have ever received.”
He dipped his head and kissed down the creamy arc of one breast, gratified when she sighed and arched her back, presenting herself to him like an offering. He flicked his tongue over the tautened bud of her nipple, playing over it until it was puckered and wet, and then he sucked, drawing it into his mouth deep.
“Oh, Griffin. Oh my.” Her fingers sifted through his hair.
He caught her between his teeth and gave a tender tug.
She moaned, her grip on him tightening. It felt good, so good. He scraped his whiskers along her inner breast, rubbing his face up and down between the twin swells, and even here, she smelled sweet and floral and delicate. Like something he could devour. So devour he did, seeking out her other nipple, running his tongue in a teasing circle around it, again and again.
Slow and steady whorls, pinching her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger at the same time. Her breaths became small, ragged pants. She moaned again, low and husky, and the sound settled in his ballocks. He needed to be inside her, so deep. He needed her body beneath his, welcoming him, bathing him in heat and wetness.
“Please, Griffin,” she begged, as he continued to torture them both.
He loved how responsive she was for him. How in tune with her own need for pleasure, how greedy she became, desperate for release. She was enough to set him aflame, even half-clothed and standing upright in the midst of a room.
“Please what, spitfire?” he could not resist asking, glancing up at her to find her watching him from beneath lowered lashes, her kiss-swollen lips parted. “Tell me.”
“Take me in your mouth,” she whispered.
Those words, coming from Violet, were nearly his undoing. The breath fled him, and it required every bit of his self-discipline not to take her up in his arms right then and throw her upon the bed to have his wicked way with her.
How had he gotten so damn fortunate? Violet was a wild woman in his arms, beneath his touch. Her innocent desire spurred him on, her embracing of pleasure and passion, of him. He sucked her nipple into his mouth at last, drawing on it greedily, flicking it with his tongue until she cried out his name again, her nails raking his scalp.
His cock surged, and he knew he would not last much longer. He found the knot on her belt and made short work of untying it. The silken robe fell at her feet. He scooped her into his arms, and she was naked and soft and heaven. Just pure heaven.
He kissed her as he carried her to the bed. She kissed him back with just as much ferocity, her tongue sliding into his mouth. All he could think was, Yes, Christ yes! She was so perfect for him. Everything he needed. Everything he had never known he wanted. Here, in this moment, passion threatening to burn him down, he did not even care she was Arden’s sister, or that wedding her had bought him the time he needed to clear his name. All he cared about was her.
How, of all the women in the world, was the one who could save him, also the one who could bring him to his knees?
He stopped when his legs connected with the pliant give of a mattress, and slowly, breaking the kiss only because he ha
d to, he lowered her to the bed. She lay back on it, green eyes drunk with desire. Her dark hair spilled on the pillow, fanning out in silken contrast against the pale ivory of the bed linens.
He shrugged out of his jacket and waistcoat and toed off his shoes and stockings before he joined her on the bed, still wearing his shirt and trousers. Even as consumed as he was by need for her, he remained aware of his scars, of how ruined his flesh was.
He did not wish to shock or repulse her. He would not even show himself to her this evening, but would wait until she had some time to acclimate herself to him in her life and in her bed. What she had seen before had been only a small slice. His entire body at once was grotesque.
He spared not another second of thought for himself when her long, luscious legs slowly drifted apart on the bed, and she revealed herself to him once more. The sight of all that glistening pink skin, the dark thatch of curls, the plump bud of her pearl…it was too much. He had to have her again.
Reverently, he skimmed his hands over her calves and thighs, parting them more to grant him greater access. The scent of her desire, musky and sweet, made his mouth water. He bowed his head, burying his face between her legs. He sucked and licked, tracing her seam, teasing the bundle of flesh hidden in her folds until she cried out, stiffening beneath him as she spent. And even then, he did not stop, not until she shuddered once more and her cream was on his tongue.
He kissed his way back up her body, lingering over the dip at her hip bone, then her stomach, before returning to her lush breasts once more. As he suckled, he slid his fingers through her slick folds, tracing her seam, until he reached the treasure he sought. Her pearl was swollen and smoother than silk. She bucked and writhed against him, making the breathy sounds he loved, the sounds suggesting she was desperate for him. On fire. Just how he wanted her.
Dangerous Duke Page 19
