The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides
Page 23
She fled.
Chapter Eight
Nothing was going to keep Philip from marrying Sarah and making her his countess. Not time. Not distance. Not scandal.
And certainly not the Duke of Elsmere.
Which was why he had spent the last week doing everything in his power to make certain Sarah’s father would relent. It was also why he was pacing the floor in Duncan Kirkwood’s office at The Duke’s Bastard, waiting for him to return with Elsmere. It was why he had acquired a special license after rather a great deal of effort and coin.
He had lost her once, and he would not lose her again.
Not this time.
The door opened at last, revealing the startled expression of Sarah’s father.
“Markham,” he bit out, his nostrils flaring. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I asked him to be here,” Kirkwood said smoothly as he crossed the threshold at the duke’s back. “Markham relayed to me the rather unfortunate manner in which he has been unable to reach you for an audience this week, and I offered him my aid.”
Twin patches of red flagged Elsmere’s jowls. “What is the meaning of this? I have no wish to speak to this cur, not now, not ever. He has caused enough irreparable damage to my family as it is. I will not give him the opportunity to cause a minute more of pain to either myself or Lady Sarah.”
“You cause her pain in keeping her from me,” Philip said, striding forward, doing his damnedest to keep his anger under control. “Mr. Kirkwood was kind enough to assist me in garnering a meeting with you today at last.” He nodded to Kirkwood, a powerful man he would be more than happy to count his friend.
Kirkwood nodded back at him before looking to Elsmere. “You have ample reason to listen to Markham.”
“I do not have to listen to a word the blackguard utters,” sputtered the duke.
“You are wrong, Your Grace,” Kirkwood said quietly. “Have a look at the stack of books in the corner of my office.”
Elsmere’s gaze traveled to the slim leather volumes in question. Although Sarah’s volume of poetry naming Philip as a seducer of innocents had already been printed in a small quantity, Kirkwood had seen almost all of them destroyed. What they had planned was rather a gamble.
“Lady Sarah wrote a volume of poetry,” Philip added. “Did you know that, Your Grace?”
“A volume of poetry society may find particularly interesting for its subject matter,” Kirkwood added. “Word of her predicament reached me in just enough time. You may find her recollection of a footman named Bernard, along with letters written by your other daughter.”
Elsmere went pale. “You would not dare to do such a dastardly thing, Kirkwood.”
Kirkwood raised a brow. “Wouldn’t I? While I have enjoyed an excellent business relationship with you thus far, Elsmere, I cannot countenance using my funds to benefit a man who denies his daughter the right to marry the man she loves. Nor one who conspired to ruin the reputation of a man I hold in high regard.”
“You have no proof,” the duke countered.
“The proof is in Lady Amelia’s letters,” Philip added, still fighting to maintain calm. “And now printed in Lady Sarah’s book as well, for all the world to read.”
“But there is another way we can do this, Elsmere,” Kirkwood said then. “Since I own the printing press which produced them, I can see each one of these books destroyed. I will also maintain my business relationship with you and refrain from withdrawing my funds from our current and future endeavors. In return, you will grant Markham permission to marry Lady Sarah.”
“I have a special license,” Philip told Elsmere. “I am prepared to wed her today.”
This very bloody minute, if possible.
All the fight left Elsmere then. “Not a word of what happened, Kirkwood. And those books get destroyed.”
Kirkwood inclined his head. “You have my word as a gentleman.”
“And you,” the duke addressed Philip, his lip curling. “I will have your promise as well. I never wish to hear Lady Amelia’s name being muddied by scurrilous gossip.”
Philip’s hands curled into fists at his side, but he would not thrash Elsmere as the man so richly deserved. “It is a damned shame, Your Grace, that you do not care nearly as much for your daughter who lives as you do for your daughter who is in the grave. But fortunately, I love Lady Sarah enough for the both of us.”
“I love both of my daughters,” Elsmere said.
“I sincerely doubt you even know what love is.” Philip’s voice was cold and hard as he stared down the man who’d had a hand in almost destroying his life and robbing from him the chance at love and happiness with Sarah. “But I haven’t another second to waste upon you, sir. I have a bride awaiting me.”
Without another word, he offered a mocking bow, and then he turned and left Kirkwood’s office.
“The Earl of Markham, my lady,” intoned her father’s butler.
A rush of hope and an equally quick burst of surprise shot up within her with so much force, she leapt from her chair. And promptly upended her inkwell in the proceedings. Ink blotted the paper upon which she had been scrawling a poem. It grew, ever larger, until the darkness encompassed the entire surface of the desk and covered every trace of her words.
But never mind that. Her words could be rewritten again.
Philip had come.
“Please send him in at once, Prosper,” she told the domestic awaiting her response.
She had no chaperone, and she had not been expecting any callers, least of all him, but she would lie upon a pyre of flames just to see him once more.
“As you wish, my lady,” Prosper said, not a hint of inflection in his tone. “Would my lady require a maid to attend to the spilled ink?”
She thought for a moment before smiling. “No. Not now, Prosper. But I do thank you. Please see Lord Markham in.”
For now, she wanted no barrier between herself and Philip. No hovering maid. An ink spill was not sufficient to deter her. Let the whole dratted desk stain; she would not care one whit.
And she had not long to wait, for Philip must have practically run to reach her. He crossed the threshold after Prosper announced him. Sarah must have thanked the butler and excused him, but she had no recollection of doing so. All she did know was that in one breath, he was striding toward her, and in the next, she was in his arms.
“Philip!” she cried out, cupping his beloved face in her hands. “You have come.”
“I would have come sooner, my love, if I could have.” He kissed her swiftly, just a brush of his lips over hers, fast and hard, over as quickly as it had begun. “Your father refused to see me.”
Worry seeped through the cracks in her delight at seeing him again after an entire sennight of longing for him. “Father will be enraged if he discovers you are here. Did you get my letter?”
With the help of her loyal lady’s maid, Sarah had been able to smuggle a letter to Philip. In it, she had explained her confrontation with her father. She had also told him of her father’s opposition to their union and his assertion she would marry someone of his choosing.
“I did indeed,” he confirmed, his arresting gaze traveling over her face. “That is why I am here.”
Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”
“Your father has seen reason, my love.” The smile he gave her was blinding. His lone dimple revealed itself.
Hope rose within her, but she ruthlessly tamped it down. A week had passed, and Father had yet to relent. What could have changed? And how?
She shook her head, trying to comprehend. “What do you mean, Philip? What has happened?”
His grin deepened. “Mr. Duncan Kirkwood is an excellent ally to have, I have discovered. Thanks to him, I was able to persuade your father that using the special license I have obtained to make you my wife is in the best interest of all parties. He has agreed to give his consent.”
Joy, so stunning she could not form a coherent word,
hit her then. She tugged his face back to hers for another kiss. When he fitted his lips to hers on a groan and his arms tightened around her, she could not help but open. And when his questing tongue met hers, she brazenly answered with her own. All restraint fled her. Her hands were in his hair, grasping and tugging. She bit into the succulent flesh of his lower lip in her ardor.
She wanted to kiss him forever.
She wanted to keep him here, the warmth and strength of his body burning into hers, the steady reassurance of his beloved scent enveloping her. The strongest burst of happiness she had ever known unfurling.
He kissed her back with a frenzy to match hers. He nipped her lip. His lips trailed fire along her jaw, to her ear. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she cried out, at last finding her ability to communicate. “When? Here? Now? Today?”
He kissed the whorl of her ear, his chuckle sending a puff of heat over her skin that left an answering pulse elsewhere. “Today, if you wish it, my love. Do you wish it?”
Drawing her head back so their gazes met, she smiled back at him, the beautiful man she had almost lost to the deceptions of those she had trusted most. “I would like nothing better, my love,” she told him. “Now kiss me again.”
She did not need to issue her request twice.
Chapter Nine
Sarah awaited her husband in her new bedchamber.
Her lady’s maid had unbound her hair, leaving the golden curls falling down her back to her waist. She wore a simple night rail, for the haste of her nuptials with Philip had not allowed for time to prepare a proper trousseau. All about her remained evidence of the suddenness of her change of circumstance. A small army of Philip’s servants had descended upon Elsmere House, packing up all Sarah’s belongings, from gowns to chemises, books to paper, to combs and jewels.
Though they had dutifully gone about the business of settling her in the Countess’s apartments at Philip’s sumptuous townhome, a few trunks remained. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day next, she would wade through her things and determine where she wished to store them in her new home.
“Home,” she said softly to herself as she cast her eyes about the beautiful chamber that was now hers.
How right it felt. How wonderful. Philip had made an obvious effort to please her, for the wall coverings were new, and an entire wall was filled with shelving and volumes of poetry. A writing desk was situated before the window, paper, ink, and quill at the ready.
A knock sounded at the door adjoining her chamber to his, and she could not contain her smile. “You may enter,” she called.
He stepped inside, an answering smile on his lips. She drank in the sight of him, astounded for a moment he was, at long last, hers. Just as he had always been meant to be. And how beautiful he was. He wore a dark robe, she noted, beneath which his feet and calves were shockingly bare.
His large body moved with leonine grace, eating up the distance.
“Lady Markham,” he greeted her, his voice tender as he reached her.
“Husband,” she returned with equal formality. “I never thought I would be able to call you by that name.”
His large hands settled upon her waist, drawing her nearer, and he leaned his forehead to hers for a moment. “Nor I, my love. But I am thankful, more thankful than words can express, to finally claim the honor.”
She closed her eyes, inhaling his beloved scent, finding her footing. The magnitude of it all threatened to overwhelm her. “As am I.”
He tipped his chin forward, bringing their lips together. The kiss was slow, his mouth feathering over hers with the lightest of touches. Tantalizing. Tempting. Savoring. With a sound of need, she clutched him to her, kissing him back.
With a low groan, he ended the kiss, lifting his head. “I promised myself I would go slowly with you.”
A new host of sensations coursed through her body. Need. Want. Hunger. Her body was flushed, her breasts tingling, a heaviness in her belly, and a delicious ache between her thighs. She scarcely knew what any of it meant.
All she knew was that she would surely perish if he did not touch her everywhere soon.
“Why slow?” she managed to ask.
“You are an innocent.” His jaw hardened. “I need to take my time, to accustom you to my kisses, my touch. To my body.”
“What if I do not wish you to take your time?” she asked brazenly.
His sensual lips parted. “Bloody hell. I am trying to be a gentleman, Sarah, but if you say such things and continue to look upon me as you are, I make no promises.”
Promises.
Suddenly, she was catapulted back in time, to two years ago and that softly lit chamber at the Bellingham ball. The memory was bittersweet. “You once asked me to promise you something. Do you remember?”
“Your kisses.” His eyes darkened. “It was wrong of me to ask it of you, and I repaid you by allowing myself to become ensnared in your sister’s plot. If I had—”
“Hush,” she interrupted, laying a finger against his lips to still them. “You asked me to promise you all my kisses, and I did. I saved them all for you, Philip. No other man ever compared to you. No one else was you.”
He made a strangled sound. “No one else?”
She shook her head. “No one else, my love.”
“Hell, I do not deserve you.” His mouth was on hers in the next breath.
She opened for him, welcoming him. A sweet benediction played over her body, a combination of rightness and the knowledge this was meant to be. Though the road they had taken to find each other had been long, winding, and fraught with strife, they were together at last. They were Philip and Sarah, husband and wife, reunited in love and a raging passion neither one of them could deny.
As one, they moved toward the bed, kissing, clinging to each other as they went. His hands roamed her body, molding her curves, cupping her breasts until the ache inside made her cry out. Planting greedy kisses on her throat, he found her nipples through the thin fabric of her night rail, teasing them with his thumbs until they were distended peaks. And then his mouth closed over the tip of her breast, sucking.
Warm heat stole through the fabric barrier, making an answering wetness pool between her thighs. An instinct rose, telling her she wanted nothing keeping her skin from him. He seemed to understand her needs better than she did, for he caught the night rail in his hands and gently lifted it over her head.
Cool air kissed her nude skin, and for a moment, she shielded herself from his fevered gaze. But he entwined their fingers, pulling her hands to the side, and the expression on his face made her forget any embarrassment.
“You are more beautiful than I even imagined.” There was no mistaking the reverence in his voice.
They kissed again, and this time, it was carnal and voracious, a marriage of tongues and frenzied need. He released her hands and guided her onto the bed. Hot, firm male flesh replaced the fine smoothness of his dressing gown against her. She was lost to everything but him, to the desire burning wildly inside her.
His lips never left hers as he gently positioned her on her back, his large body settling between her spread thighs. She arched against him, seeking more contact. His rigid length glanced tantalizingly over the apex of her thighs. Hunger washed over her, her entire body ablaze with new sensations. Surely this was what heaven felt like, she thought wildly, the bliss of the man she loved in her arms.
She never wanted it to end.
His countess was deliciously responsive.
And if Philip did not take care, he was going to spend before he was even inside her. But with her lips beneath his and the lush feminine curves of her body tempting him, his cock was hard, his ballocks already drawn tight. She was so sweet. So beautiful. And she was his.
It seemed a dream.
But the dream was real and thank Christ for that.
She was moaning into his mouth, her nails biting into the flesh of his shoulders with a delicious combination of pleasure and pain. He wanted to
feast upon her, to lick and bite and claim every bare inch of her skin. His hands moved over her, learning the fullness of her hips, the heaviness of her breasts, the lush curve of her belly, where she was soft, so soft.
As he kissed her, his fingers trailed lower, skimming over her mound. She gasped as he parted her flesh where she was wet and slick to find the pearl of her desire. When he stroked her, she moaned again, her body bowing from the bed, seeking more.
And suddenly touching her was not enough. He had to taste her, too. Breaking their kiss, he dragged his mouth down her throat, over creamy skin that was soft and decadent as velvet. He was going to savor her. To devour her. She was everything he had craved, and he had longed for this night for what seemed like a thousand others.
Down her body he traveled, kissing as he went. Her breasts, so full and round, her nipples, the blush of a new rose, matching her gorgeous lips. He could not resist flicking his tongue over each hungry little tip, sucking long and hard as his finger continued to play over her cunny. She was like a fine instrument beneath him, and he was attuned to her every inhalation, to the tenseness rising within her, the breathy sounds of need hatching from her throat.
She was close to spending already. He increased the pressure on the bud of her sex and then gently bit her nipple. It was all she needed. She stiffened, then shook as her release washed over her. But he was greedy, and he wanted more. He dragged his lips over her belly, then lower still, until his hands framed her hips.
“Philip?” she asked, her eyes wide as they met his.
He was so close the musk of her essence teased him. He could not speak. Nor could he wait another moment. He parted her thighs wider and buried his face between her legs where she was pink and perfect and so very wet. His tongue traced her seam and then settled upon her pearl as she quivered against him. Slow pets at first, then longer swirls of his tongue. Again and again, the taste of her blossoming on his tongue, earthy and delicious.
“Oh, Philip!” she cried out, thrusting against him, as ravenous to receive pleasure as he was to give it. Her fingers had found his hair, stroking. “Please.”