Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  Within moments her body reawakened, turning to fire, and she took over the gyrations, drawing Rowen long and slow, then fast, not letting him escape from her depths.

  Growling against her onslaught, against his body demanding release, Rowen held on, his thumb sliding into Wynne’s folds, plying her until her body pitched against him with desperate violence.

  Unable to hold on, she could feel him expand, filling her completely as he exploded deep within her. It sent her over the edge of sanity, releasing a current so powerful it ripped through her body, driving her past screaming.

  She collapsed onto him, weak, lost in darkness with flashes of light flickering through her mind.

  His arms wrapped her, holding her to this world.

  Holding her to the reality she had never thought to have again.

  { Chapter 21}

  On top of him, Wynne’s skin still twitched, and Rowen’s hand trailed up and down her spine, counting the bumps, relishing the feel of her under his fingers. Her full weight on his body.

  He could stay this way for a thousand years. Sweaty and sated and wrapped up in this woman that could wreck him with the merest breath.

  Without any effort, most of her blond hair had fallen from the pins holding it up, a now wondrous haphazard crown that tickled his chest. Wynne turned her head, nuzzling her nose into his neck.

  “Your skin—the smell, the feel of it—I had held onto the memory of it, but my memory did not do it justice,” she murmured into his neck. “I tried so hard, but I was never able to convince myself I did not need this. Need you.”

  He turned his head, kissing the top of her head, inhaling. Still sweet honey. “Wynne, do you realize you should not trust anyone like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Blindly.”

  He could feel her smile into his neck. “Not even you?”

  Rowen’s hold tightened around her back. “I know how much I could hurt you. Did hurt you. You should not give that power to anyone, Wynne.”

  “Do you not know by now that you cannot control my emotions, Rowe?” Her head popped up, and she pushed herself to hover over him, her face above his. “You ask for my trust, but then tell me I should not trust you? I love you, Rowe, and I have to trust you to do that. I have to give up all that power. Give it to you. I give you my trust, because you asked, and I believe to the depths of my soul that you will not hurt me.” She shook her head in awe. “I did not know that very fact until I saw you tonight.”

  “You did not?”

  “Part of me did, I am sure. But I refused to acknowledge it fully. I knew my heart never healed—knew that you would always haunt my dreams. But I did not know upon seeing you that it would be so raw—that I would give up anything to be with you again. Anything. I would. Mistress or not. My soul going to hell or not. At Notlund, I did not know about your world—I did not know that this was how it was done here in England. My grandfather taught me how to survive in the woods—on a mountain. Not how to survive in a society like yours.”

  He brushed a blond tendril free from her left eye. “What are you talking about, Wynne? How what was done?”

  “That you cannot marry a commoner. I must be your mistress. And you must marry and have children solely for the title.”

  Rowen shot upright and Wynne slid down, landing on his thighs. He grabbed her shoulders. “What? What on earth? Who told you that?” He growled. “Wait. I know exactly who told you that.”

  Wynne’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it is not usual for a duke to marry a commoner—but I am not usual, and neither are you.” His hands moved up, cupping her face. “I mean to marry you as soon as humanly possible, Wynne. I am not going to ever give you the chance to leave me again.”

  “What? You can? You are?”

  Rowen could see her mind reeling.

  “But what about the woman—Miss Dewitt? Lady Southfork said you were to propose, and I saw her tonight, and she is beautiful.”

  “You know Lady Southfork?”

  “I am painting her. That is how I knew where to find you.”

  “And you saw Miss Dewitt? What did you hear?”

  “Nothing. I saw her by the stairs with you. I was watching you while you were waiting there—is that why—did you propose and then she spurned you?” Wynne pushed away at his chest. “Oh no—am I consolation, Rowe? I saw how mad you were.”

  He grabbed her wrists, pulling her back toward him. “What you saw was me questioning what the hell I was doing. Everything was wrong about it. So very right on the surface, the veneer of it. I did not want to move on from you, Wynne, but I knew I had to, no matter how hollow. And she reminded me of you. And I was lying to myself.”

  “So you did ask her?”

  “Yes. But she, luckily, did not commit, so I can end it with minimal drama.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Yes. She is a good woman.”

  A flicker of fear ran through Wynne’s hazel eyes. “More than me?”

  “No. Hell, no. I like her because she is a good soul. A friend.” His hands went down to her backside, lifting her toward him until her chest was touching him. “Make no mistake, she is not you, Wynne. You are the only one I want.”

  “Truly?”

  “Do not vex me, Wynne. I never want you to question me again on this particular topic. It is you. You and only you. And I will not let you change the topic from marriage.” He kissed her, tasting her lips, still plump from his earlier onslaught. “That is, if you will have me as your husband. I should have demanded this that day at Notlund. I never should have left. Never should have left you that note.”

  “So why did you?”

  Rowen sighed. “I have some things to tell you, Wynne. Things that could ruin me. Ruin what you think of me.” He paused, not wanting to continue. But Wynne deserved to know the truth. The truth about what could happen. “You should know before we marry. You may…”

  “What? Change my mind? Not want you? Not love you? Impossible.”

  Half in avoidance, half because goose bumps still dotted Wynne’s arms, Rowen lifted her, moving forward until his legs dropped off the bed, and then he set Wynne beside him. “Let me stoke the fire.”

  She did not let him escape that easily and pulled the coverlet free from the bed to wrap it around her as she trailed him to the fireplace. She sat on the arm of a leather chair by the hearth, her now bare legs dangling.

  “What is it, Rowe? Tell me.”

  Rowen poked at the embers and flipped a log, contemplating.

  Wynne could very well decide to walk out of his life after this, and he had to prepare himself for that real possibility. Could he really let her go if that was what she chose to do—if she looked at him with disgust?

  A few more embers nudged, and Rowen set the heavy iron poker next to the fireplace and faced Wynne.

  It was back in her eyes. Complete trust.

  He swallowed hard.

  “Do you recall, long ago, when I made mention that I never should have existed?” he asked, voice heavy.

  Wynne nodded.

  “I am a bastard, Wynne.”

  “What?” She went to her feet, her face growing pale.

  “The man who truly sired me was the duke. My mother was his mistress for many years, even before he married the dowager. The duke convinced his younger brother to marry my mother to give me a legitimate lineage. But even with that, the marriage happened a day too late. I was already born. Born a bastard. So they lied. Everyone lied.”

  Rowen took a deep breath, trying to force the words quickly, hoping it would be less painful that way. “But I know the truth, who my true father is. How I was born. The dowager knows the truth. It is why I left. She threatened to tell you if I stayed, and I could not face that. How you would look at me if you knew the truth. I am as the duchess has always said. Worthless. If the world knew, I would lose everything—no claim to the title, to the estates, to the holdings. Everything.”
/>   Wynne’s hand flew over her mouth and her head dropped, her face hidden.

  Rowen watched in silence as her shoulders started to shake, tears dropping from her eyes and soaking into the coverlet wrapped about her chest.

  Rowen hardened. “Do not hide from me, Wynne.”

  He stepped forward, grabbing her shoulders. “Show me your damn eyes, Wynne. You will not hide from me.”

  Her face whipped up to him, head shaking and voice bitter. “How could you even think…even think I would care, Rowe? I never wanted a duke. Never wanted a title. I wanted you, Rowe. I wanted the man. The man who owns my heart. Never anyone—anything more.”

  “Wynne—”

  She jerked her shoulders away from his grasp, jumping up and stepping backward. “Dammit, Rowe—I trusted you with everything—everything of me, and you could not trust me with this. You left me instead of trusting me.”

  He didn’t afford her any space, closing the gap between them. “I did not trust myself, Wynne. I did not trust what I knew of you—who you are. Not until it was too late.”

  The tears stained her cheeks, not yielding. “Do you not understand how this hurts me?”

  He could see. He saw very well the pain in her eyes. Pain he put there. “I never wanted you to know, Wynne. Never wanted to take the chance that you would look at me like that. Like you are. With disgust.”

  “Hell, yes, I’m disgusted, Rowe. But I do not care a wit about who your father was. You did not trust me with the truth—I gave you all of me—every damn piece of me—and you could not do the same.”

  The realization of her words sank in. Rowen took another step forward, trapping her to the chair. No escape. “You do not care?”

  “What?”

  “I am a bastard, Wynne. I could lose everything if it was revealed. The title. The homes. The money. All respect.”

  Unable to move past him, her arms crossed over her chest as a last line of defense. “Yes, I heard—you already said that.”

  “And you do not care? You do not care that I am a bastard?”

  “No.” Her chin jutted out at him, her eyes rolling. “Dammit, Rowe, listen to me. I am furious with you. Beyond angry with you. And you are asking me if I care about your parents? Hell, no. I will say it again and maybe you will hear it. Hell, no.”

  Rowen wrapped his arms around her, his mouth finding hers. She did nothing but struggle against the kiss. His head pulled back, but he kept her captive in his arms.

  “I am still mad at you.”

  Rowen covered her lips again, taking all of her rage. Gladly taking all of it.

  He gave her room for a breath.

  She squirmed in his arms, glaring up at him. “Still mad.”

  “I know.” He kissed her again, smiling to himself. She struggled less this time.

  He stopped, meeting her livid look.

  “Still. Mad.” The glare did not leave her eyes.

  “I do not care, Wynne. Be mad at me all you want. You do not have a knife to my neck. I know you are not going to leave me.”

  “My knife on your neck—that is the bar of how you judge my anger?”

  Rowen shrugged. “It preceded the worst thing that has ever happened to me—you leaving—so yes, as long as your knife stays off my body, I am happy to have your glare on me. Just as long as your eyes are on me.”

  She harrumphed. “Did you consider that it is just that I do not have my knife with me?”

  Rowen laughed, brushing back a wild curl from her forehead. “I love you, Wynne.”

  Her arms loosened in front of her, her face softening. “Do not misunderstand—I am going to be mad at you for a stretch of time.” She stared at him, a devilish twinkle taking hold over the ire in her eyes. He could tell it was begrudgingly, but her arms slipped around him.

  “But that—those words—are so much better from your lips, Rowe, than in a damn note. Say it again.”

  “I love you, Wynne.”

  ~~~

  The polite rap on the door made Rowen tear his eyes away from Wynne’s sleeping face. He had kept her up far too long last night—hell, she had kept him up far too long last night, and now it was late morning.

  Good thing the door was still locked.

  The rap sounded again, this time more insistent.

  Wynne flopped sideways on the bed, throwing her arm over his chest and her leg over his thighs. No need to keep quiet at this point, since the knocking wasn’t about to disappear.

  “Yes?” Rowen bellowed in the general direction of the door.

  “I am sorry to wake you, your grace, but there is a young lady, a Miss Dewitt, who is in the front drawing room,” Rowen’s steward said, his voice muffled by the heavy oak door. “She has a chaperone, of course, and has insisted on seeing you. She has refused to leave until doing so. What shall I do with her, your grace?”

  Blast it.

  Miss Dewitt. He had to break it off with her. He just hadn’t planned on doing so this very moment. Not when his plans had been to ravage Wynne again the second her eyes opened.

  Instead, Wynne sat up, her palm flat on the divot in his chest and a worried look on her face. “Miss Dewitt—she is the one you were to marry?” Wynne asked in a whisper.

  “Possibly marry, yes. And you can remove the worry from your eyes. You need to trust me, Wynne.” Rowen kept his own voice low—no need for anyone but him to know Wynne was in here. “The first thing I had planned to do today was visit the offices of the Archbishop to arrange for a special license. We can marry with that within a few days, but you will need to stay with the duchess until then so there is no scandal—that is, did you actually agree to marry me last night? Now that I think on it, I never received an answer from you.”

  She thwapped his chest, smirking. “Yes. More than happily. And considering where my lips were on your body last night, I had better marry you.”

  Rowen chuckled, grabbing her wrist and bringing it to his mouth. A simple kiss on her palm turned into her forefinger slipping into his mouth, and he sucked, wicked gaze on Wynne.

  “Your grace?”

  A muttered blasphemy, and Rowen turned his head to the door. “Tell Miss Dewitt I will be down in five minutes.” He sat up, setting Wynne’s hand in her lap as his voice dropped. “And you will not move. I plan on finishing that thought I just put into your mind when I return. Then I will need to sneak you out of here so your reputation remains intact.”

  “Devil.”

  “Yes, well, I lived nothing but an upstanding life before I met you, my dear Wynne.”

  { Chapter 22 }

  Never had Wynne endured such an excruciating hour as the one spent in Rowen’s bedroom, waiting for him to return from his almost-betrothed.

  She felt awful for Miss Dewitt—Wynne had already lived through her heart being crushed when Rowen left her, so she could easily imagine what was happening in the drawing room. But the woman was beautiful, and from what Rowen had said, she was a good person, so Wynne was certain Miss Dewitt would move on successfully and lead a wonderful life—with someone other than Rowen.

  But the longer the seconds ticked by, Wynne’s pity for Miss Dewitt could not help but mix with a touch of jealousy—and doubt. During the past weeks, it had been Miss Dewitt smiling at Rowen, laughing with him, staring at his face—his eyes.

  Wynne paced Rowen’s room, the dark blue sheet from the bed draped around her. He had made the decision to move on with his life—move on with Miss Dewitt. What if in merely talking to her, he was having misgivings? What if he looked at her beauty and decided he would rather look at that face for the remainder of his life, instead of Wynne’s? What if she demanded he not retract his proposal, and he had to marry her? She scanned her mind—was that what the duchess had said often happens in the peerage? Scandal and then marriage? The duchess had told her so much of this world Rowen lived in, but Wynne now realized the dowager’s truths were somewhat suspect.

  Her feet wore an even quicker path on the bedroom boards. She was
quickly finding that the trust Rowen asked of her was difficult when the devil awoke and wormed around in her mind.

  The doorknob turned and Wynne flew to the leather chair by the fireplace, landing and tucking her feet under her before Rowen had the door ajar.

  Breathless, she feigned calm patience, but Rowen took one look into her eyes, and laughed. He closed the door, locking it.

  “You can remove the worry from your eyes. I told you to trust me.” Holding what looked like a tan muslin dress draped over his forearm, he looked about the room. “What have you been doing, pacing?”

  Wynne’s eyes narrowed at him. The man still saw far, far too deep into her mind, which wasn’t particularly fair. “How did your meeting with Miss Dewitt go?”

  “Amusing, actually.”

  Her eyebrow arched.

  Rowen stared at her, silent.

  She jumped to her feet, grumbling. “And you are drawing this out merely to get my hackles askew.”

  “Punishment for not trusting me.”

  “Tell me this instant.” She poked the bit of his bare chest that showed in the V of his shirt. “How was it amusing? And do not tell me that you find breaking hearts amusing—you are a far better man than that.”

  “Amusing, because she was here only to tell me that we are to part ways. She is to marry the Earl of Clapinshire in a few days.”

  “Truly? So you broke no heart?” Wynne shifted the sheet around her, clasping it with one hand, while her free hand went to her hip. “You did not mention me at all, did you? You just let her suffer through all the unseemliness of it.”

  Rowen shrugged. “I was gracious in my acceptance of her rebuff of me.”

  “What a weasel, you are.”

  He smirked. “It was fortunate—I will not deny that. And Miss Dewitt started in right away, so by the time I could interject, it would have just mucked up the conversation. She will find out soon enough that we are to marry.”

  “I like that she is to marry another,” Wynne said. “It takes away my guilt.”

  “If anyone should feel guilt it is me. I pursued her when I had no business doing so—and I see that so clearly now. I cannot imagine if I had married her and then you suddenly appeared. A torture like no other. I owe fate unending gratitude for not allowing that to happen.”