Forever and a Duke

by Grace Burrowes

  “I want to make this perfect for you too,” she whispered.

  “This is perfect,” he said. “You are perfect.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  Charlotte shifted, sliding back a fraction, and wrapped her hand around his erection. Flynn closed his eyes, and his head fell forward, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. Charlotte slid her fingers up the rigid length, watching his expression, gauging his reaction. Her thumb caressed the head, and she heard him grunt, his hips flexing beneath her, pushing himself harder into her hand. She leaned forward and caught his mouth with hers as she stroked down, catching his moan against her lips.

  His eyes opened. “I can’t wait,” he gasped against her lips. “I thought—”

  She kissed him hard, an open-mouthed, hungry kiss that he returned with a fierce desperation. She raised herself on her knees, positioning the head of his cock at her entrance, feeling a new pressure coil through her body as he pressed into her with a muffled moan. His hands moved from her thighs to cage her hips, hard and urgent, guiding her all the way down until he was seated deep within her, filling and stretching her completely. She twined her arms around his neck and rolled her hips slightly, sparks of pleasure instantly igniting.

  Flynn made a feral sound and thrust up against her, and the sparks ignited into a wildfire. Charlotte closed her eyes, letting him control the pace, surrendering to the timeless rhythm, feeling her body once again reaching inside itself as Flynn rocked into her. Against her ear, she could hear him breathing, harsh, rapid breaths that spoke only of his need. The tips of her breasts rubbed against his chest as he moved, adding to the maelstrom of arousal that was now burning out of control.

  Her orgasm, when it came, was just as devastating as the first. It tore his name from her lips as she ground helplessly against him, the rhythm broken. He thrust up hard once again before his hands tightened like a vise on her hips, and he lifted her forward, slipping from her heat and finding his own release between them with a guttural shout.

  Their breathing slowed eventually, the sheen of perspiration Charlotte could feel trapped on their skin cooling them even in front of the hearth. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, her fingers tracing the smooth line of his collarbone. She didn’t ever want to move. Didn’t ever want to leave this man.

  “Come with me.” His voice rumbled against her ear.

  She lifted her head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come with me to Italy.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.” His hands slid up her back.

  Charlotte shivered. “What are we doing, Flynn?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that the stars brought me to you. And the thought of letting you go is unbearable.”

  “Flynn—”

  “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  Charlotte couldn’t imagine a time when she wouldn’t be thinking about it. But there was a debt to be paid, the one that had brought her here.

  Be careful what you promise, my lady. Circumstances can change and make promises difficult to keep. It was what King had said to her. She hadn’t understood then. She understood now.

  “I promise,” she whispered.

  Chapter 11

  They had retreated to his bed, and Flynn had fallen asleep at some point, because the suggestion of dawn was starting to creep through the rafters when he woke. He should get up. Add some more coal to the hearth. Boil a kettle of water. But he did none of those things because Charlotte was curled around him, her head nestled against his shoulder, the heat and solidity of her body warming something deep within him as surely as it warmed his own skin.

  He turned his head and gazed down at her. Her lashes lay across faintly flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips were parted slightly, and her short hair was sticking up in all directions. He had never experienced a sense of rightness—of perfect peace—as the one that had settled over him at this moment. In this makeshift studio, in a town far away from where he had been born, covered in borrowed blankets on a borrowed bed, he had finally found home.

  She was home.

  He brushed a kiss across her forehead and she stirred.

  “Good morning,” he whispered.

  “Mmm.” Her hand slipped across his chest.

  He stroked his own hand down the length of her arm, careful of the stitches at her shoulder. The blanket fell away from her long limbs, leaving glorious expanses of skin glowing like alabaster in the silver light of dawn. Her hand left his chest and tried to pull the covers back up.

  “Don’t,” he said, brushing her fingers away. “I want to look at you.” He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow so that he could gaze down at her. He pushed the blanket farther over her hip, his fingers lingering, his body already straining for a woman he was never going to be able to get enough of.

  “Flynn—”

  “I’m trying to decide how I will paint you,” he said, flattening his palm against the tautness of her abdomen. He slid it up unhurriedly, circling one nipple first and then the other. She whimpered and arched into his touch, and he bit back a groan as his cock jerked. He was as hard as marble, and every tiny sound she made tested his restraint.

  “I don’t want to be painted,” she said a little breathlessly.

  He lowered his head and pressed a kiss at the hollow of her throat. “I will paint you the way I will always see you. Bold. Beautiful,” he mused, ignoring her protestations.

  “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “I’m not beautiful. I’m not even pretty.”

  Flynn lifted his head and stared down at her, a curl of what felt like anger rising through him like black smoke.

  She gazed back at him unapologetically. “It’s why Charlie Beaumont was possible,” she said. “And I would have it no other way.”

  “Define pretty,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tell me what pretty looks like.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “From your drawings, I’d say Lady Cecelia was very pretty.”

  “Perhaps,” Flynn mused. “Midnight-sky hair, pink-rose lips, chalk-white skin, sea-blue eyes.”

  “You just made her sound like a travel advert for the shores of Kent County.”

  Flynn chuckled. “I did, didn’t I? And yet not one of those things makes a woman beautiful. Pretty, perhaps, but pretty is a superficial thing. A puddle of piss looks pretty if it is reflecting a sunset.”

  Charlotte snorted. “My, but you have a way with words,” she laughed. “Perhaps if art and medicine fail, you could try poetry.”

  “Listen to me and listen carefully. You, Charlotte Beaumont, are beautiful.”

  He felt her go still under his touch.

  “Your beauty, the sort that comes from within, has made me a better version of myself,” he said, searching her caramel eyes. “Because your beauty defies mere description. It is something far more intangible and something far more precious.”

  She gazed up at him, her features set into deep shadows, but he didn’t miss the way she suddenly blinked at the dampness that had gathered in her eyes. “It’s funny, in a way,” she said slowly, “because I came here to seek a better version of myself.”

  “And did you find it?” he asked, catching her hand in his and squeezing.

  “Yes,” she replied. “In pieces.”

  “Pieces?”

  “I found one part in a church when I refused to listen to a man who had his doubts about me.”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “Charlotte, I should never have—”

  “Shhh,” she said, cutting him off.

  He fell silent.

  “And then I found another part in a studio when that same man took a good look at my work and made me critique it as his equal. Arresting and hopeless in corresponding measure,” she said with a small smile.

  “I stand by my assessment of your poker-wielding angel,” he murmured.

  She snif
fed, and her smile widened before it faded again. “And then later, I found a little more when he made me believe in myself. When a man who I admired very much told me I was meant to do this.” She took an unsteady breath. “And then he compared me to his own Jeanne d’Arc, and I knew I had found the rest.”

  He brought his hand up and traced the side of her face.

  “So thank you,” she whispered, “for helping me become that better version of myself.”

  He leaned forward and caught her lips with his, kissing her tenderly, his heart hammering in his chest, emotion pushing thick and sharp into his throat. She let go of his hand and wrapped her good arm around his neck, pulling him closer, demanding more. He moved over her, his body fitting perfectly against hers.

  He deepened his kiss, and she opened beneath him, taking and giving. Her hips tilted against his, and he slid inside, burying himself deep. He heard her moan softly and broke their kiss, lifting his head to watch her face. Her hand slipped from his neck to touch his face the way she had done the very first time.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t ever stop.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  Chapter 12

  Soldier and savior.

  Both completed and both to be left behind on the morrow. The scaffolds had been taken apart and removed, the tables of paints and brushes and thinners tidied and packed. The clergy and the church directors had been brought through the studio yesterday for a final viewing, and Lisbon had relayed that they had been utterly astounded and captivated by the finished paintings.

  As they should, Flynn thought with steady appraisal. This portrayal of an archangel rising up in furious defiance was Flynn’s finest work yet. And on the other side, another portrayal of that same archangel reaching out across the heavens, offering a soul a chance at redemption. On their own, each painting was extraordinary. Together, they were breathtaking.

  Which described the last two months entirely. Months that had been unlike anything Flynn had ever experienced, and it was because of Charlotte. She had been his friend and his lover. His teacher and his student. The one person who managed to argue and encourage all at the same time. She had never asked him to be anything he wasn’t. Never allowed him to doubt himself. Believed in him wholeheartedly.

  And though it was a bittersweet moment to leave these paintings behind, he knew that he would never, ever, be able to leave Charlotte Beaumont.

  They had not spoken of love, and Flynn had cursed himself for his lack of courage. For all the emotion that he had poured out onto that panel for utter strangers to gaze upon, he had been unable to expose what lay in the very depths of his heart to the single person who mattered most. He would remedy that now, he vowed. She needed to know how he felt about her. How he had fallen completely, helplessly in love with her. Because he was not ready for them to be over. He didn’t think he ever would be.

  A familiar knock sounded. “Come in, Mr. Lisbon,” he said over his shoulder.

  Henry Lisbon let himself into the studio, his boots echoing as he hurriedly crossed the floor. “Admiring your work, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “Yes,” Flynn said simply.

  “As you should. I can’t wait to see these hung. You and Beaumont have outdone yourselves,” Lisbon said with satisfaction as he took his sleet-covered hat from his head.

  Flynn only nodded.

  “Is Beaumont here?” Lisbon asked, jerking his head toward the room that Charlotte hadn’t slept in for a long time.

  “She is not. She has gone to post a letter.”

  Lisbon made a face. “That’s too bad. I could have saved her the trip. I was just there.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a missive sealed with a blob of scarlet wax, a small emblem of a crown pressed into its surface. “This was waiting for her.” He passed the letter to Flynn. “I trust you can see that she gets this?”

  “Of course,” Flynn replied. Idly, he turned the letter over in his hands, L. C. Beaumont written in neat, precise script across the front. Idly, he wondered what the L stood for.

  “I wanted to thank you again for your progressive objectivity, Mr. Rutledge,” Lisbon said. “There are many men who have and would have refused to work with a woman. Your decency and honor once her identity was revealed are to be commended.”

  Flynn continued to stare down at the neat lettering, quite sure Lisbon wouldn’t think him honorable or decent if he knew just how much of Charlotte Beaumont had been revealed. And how much she had enjoyed every minute of it. Repeatedly. He had made sure of that.

  “Given your tribulations with the Lady Cecelia and her ilk, I wasn’t sure you would be quite so forgiving,” Lisbon said.

  Flynn raised his head, frowning. “Charlotte has absolutely nothing in common with Lady Cecelia,” Flynn said, a little harsher than he had intended.

  “I’m glad you could recognize that,” Lisbon said with a brisk nod, “given the trouble she went through to hide both her gender and her title for this opportunity.” The architect jammed his hat back on his head. “I must be off again. See that our Charlie gets her letter, aye?”

  Flynn might have nodded, but ice had crystallized in his veins and everything seemed to have slowed. Betrayal cut deep, confusion and hurt and anger bleeding from the gaping wound.

  Outside, the wind rattled a shutter somewhere, and sleet continued to batter the windows. Minutes passed. Or maybe it was hours.

  “Flynn?” The sound of his name brought his head around. Where Lisbon had been, Charlotte now stood, pink faced from the cold, wrapped in a warm coat and looking at him with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “You lied.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What is your name?” he hissed.

  “Flynn, what—”

  “What is your name?”

  “Charlotte. Beaumont.” Her face had gone pale. “Why are—”

  “Your whole name.”

  Her warm eyes dropped to the paper in his hands. He could see a muscle working along the side of her cheek. “Lady Charlotte Beaumont,” she said evenly. “Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Edgerton.” Her eyes climbed back to his. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  It was suddenly hard to breathe. She wasn’t at all who she had pretended to be. Every whispered promise, every shared confidence, every piece of what he had believed to be real had been built on a foundation of lies. He had been played the fool.

  Again.

  He tossed the letter in her direction. “That was what I wanted to hear months ago. Before you lied to me and then kept lying. You’re one of them.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Was I an adventure for you too? A titillating, erogenous experience on the wrong side of civilized before you wed a man twice your age for his money and his wealth?”

  “You think I’m like her? Like Cecelia?” she whispered, her eyes pools of brown against a pale face.

  He didn’t think that, did he? But fury and shame were making it hard to think. She had lied. Over and over. And he had trusted her. Trusted her with his secrets and bared all the dark parts of his soul where insecurity and fear and vulnerability lay.

  And she hadn’t even trusted him with the truth. With her bloody name.

  “You would think I would have learned by now,” he said, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “You would think I’d be able to know when I am being used.”

  “I never used you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You want to know why I didn’t tell you who I was?” she asked, her voice rising. “Because Lady Charlotte no longer exists. Lady Charlotte was a miserable, isolated woman who was nothing but a disappointment and a duty to her family.” Her expression was stark. “It was simply Charlie Beaumont from Aysgarth who came to Coventry. To stand on her own two feet and to be judged by her work and her character, unfettered by bias.” She took a shuddering breath. “I am exactly who you know me to be.”

  “I have no idea who you a
re.”

  She looked as though he had struck her. “I am the woman who loves you.”

  “Loves me?” he sneered, something withering in him. “You don’t love me. You never even trusted me.”

  She looked at him sadly. “And if I had told you my name at the very beginning? Would you have reacted any different than you have now? Would you even have spoken to me? Or would the demons from your past have simply become mine earlier?”

  Flynn’s fists clenched and unclenched. He spun, heading for the door. He couldn’t stand here in the face of her duplicity. Worse, he couldn’t stand knowing that he didn’t have an answer to her question.

  “I regret that I didn’t tell you my name. I regret that mistake, and I regret that you’ve chosen to believe the worst of me,” she said to his back.

  He paused at the door, pride not allowing him to turn around.

  “But I don’t regret falling in love with you, Flynn.”

  He stepped out into the sleet and didn’t look back.

  Chapter 13

  Lady Charlotte.” King glided into the room with soundless stealth. His eyes slid over her altered appearance, though his expression didn’t change. “You look…well.”

  Charlotte remained mute.

  King stopped near his desk and leaned on his walking stick. “I was beginning to think that perhaps you didn’t receive my summons. Or perhaps you had had…second thoughts about our agreement. I was becoming concerned that you had chosen to travel elsewhere from Coventry.” There was a brittle quality to his words that Charlotte didn’t mistake as anything other than a threat.

  She lifted her chin, strangely unafraid. Maybe because she had already lost everything that mattered. “My apologies if my temporary absence caused you undue worry. I can assure you I have no intention of reneging on our agreement.”

  King eyed her coldly and silently.

  “But you are partially correct. I did not travel to London directly from Coventry,” she continued. “I stopped at Jasper House to collect something that I think will interest you.” She gestured to the two covered canvases that were propped up against a massive bookcase behind her.