by Lenora Bell
“Say my name.”
“Please, Your Grace.”
“My name is James,” he growled.
“Please . . . James.”
His breath rasped in her ear and his lips nipped her neck. “Very good.”
He stroked hard and fast across her core.
Abandoning all control, she moaned aloud and rubbed against his fingers.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”
He rubbed with exactly the right amount of pressure. Faster now. Sure and true.
His other hand left her belly and traveled to her chin. He tilted her head around, and when his tongue found hers, his fingers slipped inside her.
First one, an exploratory expedition. Then two. Three. Invaded, ravished, by tongue and fingers, and by his hard thigh between her legs.
Alternately stroking across the apex of her pleasure and then sliding inside her body, taking her closer. She tensed her stomach muscles, racing toward a precipice that was around the corner.
A few strokes away.
He broke the kiss. “You’re so wet,” he moaned.
If he stopped now, her wicked self would beg shamelessly.
There. More pressure. So close now. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She prayed wordlessly.
“Don’t worry, I won’t stop,” he said.
She heard the amusement in his voice. Didn’t care. Just wanted those skillful fingers to keep moving, to fill her, stroke her, faster, harder.
“Come for me,” he urged. “I need to hear you come.”
He played her body like a guitar, teasing music from her soul. When her belly clenched, he strummed faster, knowing exactly what she needed.
“Now,” he said.
The command sent her over the edge.
“James . . . yes.” The pulse between her thighs tightened and loosened to a new cadence as pleasure reverberated through her body in a shattering release.
He wrapped her in his arms, turned her so that she was cradled against his chest with her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. If she could remain Dorothea, have him a few months more, she could learn what books he liked to read. See if she could coax him to read to Flor, to admit he loved her. There was so much pain in him, a deep sense of loss that she could feel as if it had been a void in her own heart.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
James listened to her breathing slow, reveling in the slight tremors still racking her body.
When she’d climaxed, arching beneath his fingers and crying his name in a stuttering series of gasps, something inside him had shifted as well. Now, holding her in the dim lamplight, there was no driving need to find release.
He was content to stroke her hair, hug her close.
He felt raw somehow. As though she had pierced through his skin and left a tattoo on his heart. He told himself that she would be a good mother to Flor. Patient and kind.
She might not have been the perfect, blameless duchess, or even a prudent choice for a bride. She certainly wasn’t a candidate for a bloodless business arrangement. But her family name would compensate for any social gaffes.
She was scorching fire and passion, but fire always burned to ash. Eventually this heat between them would go cold. And if it didn’t, he’d be across the ocean, far from temptation.
At least that’s what he told himself.
She nestled tighter against his chest, and her yielding curves immediately made him stiffen. It would be so easy to position her hips and drive home.
But he would never do that. Not with a young, trusting debutante. She could have no awareness that ruin twitched against her belly, growing an extra inch every time her lush breasts rubbed against his chest.
What was the harm in opening a few buttons? He wasn’t going to ravish her.
Not tonight.
He reached down and opened the fall of his breeches. Took himself in hand. He turned her until her bum nestled against his stiffness.
Leaning back against the solid table, he placed his hands on her hips. He slid between her butter-slick thighs, under her sex. With the butter and her spending lubricating him, it was easy to rub back and forth without entering.
“Oh,” she breathed. “That feels good.” She rocked against him instinctively.
He smiled into her tangled curls, thinking about the months ahead, all the ways she would find pleasure. All the things he would teach her.
He tightened his grip on her hips and moved faster. Her wet sex cradled him, and the hot tunnel of her thighs quickly brought him to the brink. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to be inside her.
To claim her.
One small adjustment.
His cock nudged her entrance.
No, he couldn’t.
But she would be his duchess in a matter of weeks.
He stilled. “Dorothea,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Not tonight, but I—”
He didn’t complete the sentence because the door crashed open and Countess Desmond stood in the doorway, her pale eyes ablaze with righteous outrage.
“What is the meaning of this?” The countess’s question echoed through the room.
James set Dorothea off his lap and handed her the dressing gown from the floor. She pulled her negligee up and covered herself with the dressing gown, knotting it around her waist. James swiftly adjusted his trousers.
How had the countess known where to find them?
Dalton’s words echoed in James’s mind. You’d better keep your door locked at night, or you might have a debutante bent on ruin slipping into your bed.
He shivered. The room was cold without Dorothea in his arms. He needed to rekindle the fire. Find another shirt. Not finding anything within reach, he stood with bare chest and pulled himself up to his full height.
“Lady Desmond.”
The countess advanced, spine rigid. “Harland,” she said, deliberately refusing to give him his honorific.
Dorothea avoided his gaze. Guilt was scrawled across her shadowy face. She’d known her mother would come. They had planned the entire scene.
He’d been set up.
Ice settled in his gut, freezing emotion until he felt nothing when he looked at Dorothea.
“I’m waiting for an explanation,” the countess said.
“You might ask your daughter why she came here wearing only a scrap of satin and lace and a liberal dousing of perfume,” he said.
The countess swept an arm around Dorothea’s hunched shoulders. “She’s an innocent. She doesn’t know any better than to go wandering about in her nightclothes.”
He’d been on the verge of asking for her, but having his hand forced in this sordid fashion made him angry. “Did you have to resort to trickery?” he asked Dorothea.
She didn’t answer, didn’t deny anything, and she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“How dare you,” the countess exploded, not giving her daughter a chance to respond. “She is sullied, compromised. I found her bed empty and was forced to go searching. This is a mother’s worst nightmare.”
“You win,” he said.
The countess fixed him with a cold stare. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You win. Lady Dorothea will marry me. I expect an heir within the year.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Now leave.”
Lady Dorothea stretched her hand toward him with tears in her eyes, and the tightness in his chest loosened a fraction. Then, as if a steam valve had been adjusted, she dropped her hand, exhaled, and met his gaze.
“I accept your proposal,” she said coolly.
“Fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ll be married in three weeks, by license, here at St. Peter’s of Warbury.”
“Three weeks?” The countess�
�s eyes widened. “That’s not nearly enough time to plan a wed—”
“I only have a few months left in London. I set sail before the hurricane season. Expect me to call upon Lord Desmond next week regarding the articles.”
Lady Desmond regained her composure. She inclined her head. “My lord husband will be pleased to receive you.”
“I’m quite sure he will,” James said sarcastically. He sketched the barest of dismissive bows.
Dorothea opened her mouth to speak, but her mother gripped her arm. “Come along, Lady Dorothea. There’s been quite enough excitement for one evening.”
“Goodnight, James,” she whispered before her mother pulled her away, into the darkness.
Chapter 20
The countess had won her prize. Lady Dorothea would be a duchess.
Charlene was nothing more than a guilty secret shrouded in black and smuggled out of the house before dawn, before anyone but the maid-of-all-work was awake. The countess sat in silence across from Charlene on the padded silk carriage cushions, and it was clear there would be no discussion of what had transpired.
The velvet green Surrey hills would soon give way to narrow streets hemmed in by gray stone and closed shutters. Every revolution of the carriage wheels carried her farther from James and Flor.
She told herself she didn’t care. She tried to hate him. But he’d done those things. Those wicked, revelatory things.
Did you have to resort to trickery?
He’d been furious at their deception. Pain stabbed her chest when she thought of it, as if one of his knives was lodged there.
Would the reward be worth the price?
She’d repeat the question again after the debt to Grant was paid, when her mother stopped coughing, and Lulu was happily up to her elbows in paint in Essex.
Charlene squeezed her eyes closed, imagining Lulu breathing pure country air and painting meadows dotted with purple flowers, like the meadow James had found after he’d rescued Charlene from drowning. He’d lifted her out of the river, only to throw her into something deeper, a treacherous current of longing that had eroded the embankment around her heart and swept her back into his arms.
She leaned her head against the cream silk brocade caught in festoons along the walls. Her world was toppled end over end. What was bad now? What was good?
Surrendering control could feel good.
Dukes were not all bad.
It was time to set her world back to order. This had only been a means to buy back their freedom from Grant and give Lulu the chance at a new life, away from the perils of the bawdy house. When Lulu was ensconced in her new life, Charlene would have the satisfaction of knowing she’d done what she’d had to do to provide for her sister’s future.
“We’ve nearly arrived, Miss Beckett,” the countess said. “I expect you to depart for Essex with your sister the day after tomorrow, before the duke arrives in London to meet with Lord Desmond. My family can have no further association with you.”
Charlene gripped a silk tassel that hung near her head. “I doubt the duke and I run in the same circles.”
“One never knows. Gentlemen of his ilk do frequent houses of . . . houses like yours. I can’t run the risk.”
Charlene hadn’t even thought of that. “Of course.” She matched the countess’s wintry tone of voice.
The countess returned to staring out the window.
The situation was more complex than Charlene had anticipated. Now James was angry with Dorothea for manipulating him, when Dorothea had done no wrong. Charlene wanted the chance to explain everything to her half sister.
No, not everything. Not the lapses when Charlene had allowed her heart to open. But certainly she wanted to explain about Flor and about the workers at the duke’s factory.
She wrapped her arms tighter around her chest. “I must speak to Lady Dorothea when we arrive in London.”
The countess’s head swiveled. “Out of the question.”
“But I have so much to tell her.”
The countess’s blue eyes frosted over. “I can’t have you associating with my daughter,” she said, as if the very idea made her skin crawl.
Stung, Charlene’s breath puffed out her veil. “I see. I was good enough for your purposes, good enough to impersonate your daughter, but I couldn’t possibly be allowed to speak with her.”
“Miss Beckett, do try to view matters from my perspective. Unfortunately, news of the duke’s gathering spread, and I’m told wagers on the outcome were placed in all the clubs.” She shuddered. “Utterly distasteful that my Dorothea was the subject of such lurid speculation.”
“But I must speak with her, only for a moment.”
“Absolutely not. Whatever you think you have to tell her is irrelevant. Your work is finished.”
“Maybe he’ll be able to tell she’s a different person,” Charlene muttered. “If I don’t prepare her.”
“What did you say?”
Charlene lifted the veil and swept it over her bonnet. “I said perhaps the duke may discern that Lady Dorothea is not me. Have you considered the possibility?”
“I expect he’ll find her vastly improved.” Lady Desmond’s lip curled. “The refined duchess he always desired. Infinitely more suitable for his purposes.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Charlene couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. It coated her throat, like tansy tea. It might never wash away.
“Even if he does find her changed, that’s only natural,” said the countess. “People alter from one day to the next. They grow distant . . . keep secrets. Disappoint you.”
Charlene sensed she wasn’t talking about the duke anymore.
“The duke said he’d be leaving for the West Indies soon,” the countess continued. “He will leave and Dorothea will remain in London, the duchess, with the respect and privileges she’s due.”
To the countess it was the ideal marriage—a husband who hid his infidelity across oceans, instead of flaunting it in her face.
“No one will laugh at my daughter now. No one will call her a wallflower. He may be uncivilized, but he’s a duke.” The countess slashed a hand through the air. “They’ll have to genuflect and bow to her. It will be ‘If it please Your Grace’ and ‘Please attend our ball, Your Grace.’ ”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Charlene repeated dully. She replaced the veil and sat back against the cushions. There was no use reasoning with the countess. She could never understand the urgency of Charlene’s need to speak with Dorothea. The needs of illegitimate daughters weren’t to be considered.
If she couldn’t tell Dorothea about the conversations she’d had with the duke, he would marry a complete stranger who had absolutely no knowledge of Flor’s fragile emotional state and need for sympathy and guidance.
Guilt cramped her stomach as familiar streets unfolded and the old watchfulness returned, sharpening her senses for the battle to come, steeling her for combat. She didn’t know how Grant would react when she repaid the loan, and whether he would attempt to find another way to control them. Leaving London and traveling to the countryside would take Lulu out of harm’s way, at least.
The carriage jolted to a stop, springs jouncing and horses whinnying. Charlene realized they were already on Henrietta Street, across the Covent Garden piazza from home.
The countess slanted her eyes at the carriage door. “You may keep the cloak and gown— Blanchard burned your old clothing. Good-bye, Miss Beckett.”
Never bother me again, Miss Beckett, Charlene supplied to the end of the countess’s cold dismissal as a footman handed her down. The carriage door slammed and the wheels began to turn.
The piazza was still uncrowded. Evidence of last night’s festivities clogged the gutters. Empty gin bottles, theater bills, a lone white glove muddied by boot heels.
Vendors set up stalls overflowing with flowers and vegetables. As Charlene walked by, a bird seller tipped his broad-brimmed hat and smiled, revealing a row of rotting teeth.
“ ’Ere, miss, see the pretty goldfinches.” He pointed to a cage. “If you don’t like finches, try a lark.”
Charlene slowed, her mind racing. She stared into a cage. Finches with red masks and velvety-white underbellies balanced on perches, their small heads bobbing and tilting in constant motion, except for one little bird that cowered in a corner of the cage.
She’d taken the employment for Lulu’s sake, and now she would be able to change her sister’s life.
“Them finches are a bob apiece, and thrupence for the cage,” the seller said, sidling up to her, a hopeful glint in his eyes.
“Why do the other birds peck at that one?” she asked, watching as one of the birds swooped down to peck at the poor bird shivering in the corner.
“Dunno.” The seller shrugged.
One of the birds burst into an aria. “teLLIT-teLLIT-teLLIT,” it sang.
“That’s a champion, that one,” the man said.
Yesterday flying free over a meadow and today beating their wings against a wooden cage, sold for sport.
“I’ll take the lot,” Charlene said, following a sudden impulse.
“You won’t be sorry, mum.” The seller pocketed her coins and handed her the cage full of finches. She took a few steps, then set the cage down on a pile of crates and opened the hatch.
“ ‘Ere now, what you doing?” the seller called after her.
Charlene reached into the cage and shooed the birds toward the door. They burst through the opening in a flurry of gold and red, warbling as they rose into the wide sky.
Even the injured bird escaped. He was soon a speck over the rooftops of Covent Garden.
The seller cursed and his friends laughed.
Charlene hurried across the piazza to set her sister free.
She reached the house and paused on the front steps, gathering her resolve. When she entered, she would be Charlene again. She’d scrub the last trace of roses from her skin, remove the fine muslin, and never dream of glittering green eyes again.
