by Darcy Burke
Her body was hot, oh so hot. Her breasts ached, and pressure built at her core. His confession, his desire, sparked to life within her, filling her with warmth, and still Ophelia wanted more. She would never get enough, of that she felt confident.
Then his mouth left her altogether, and for a fleeting moment, Ophelia panicked. But then it returned—in the most unexpected place. She gasped. The sensation was so startling, she bucked against his mouth, and his arms circled her legs to keep her in place.
Ophelia had never imagined this much pleasure could be gained from coupling, and she was grateful that it was Harry whom she was sharing this moment with. His mouth explored and teased; the sensations inspired by his tongue clouded her vision with stars.
He was slaying her.
“Harry.”
His entire body shivered at her use of his name, and he pulled away when his name slipped from her lips again.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he growled against her thigh.
And then he was sliding into her. She knew but a moment of discomfort as he pierced her final resistance. She gasped at the sensation of being filled, adjusting to him while he stroked his thumb over her tiny bud of pleasure.
“Ophelia.”
Ophelia opened her eyes to meet his bronze gaze. What she read there spread fire straight to her core. Desire. Tenderness. Worship. As though she was the treasure he had sought all his life.
Then his lips were on hers again, and his arms encircled her as he drew her closer to him and started to move inside her. Her legs wrapped around him. The desk felt solid beneath her as his movements, gentle at first, became more urgent with each thrust. More filled with need. More demanding.
Ophelia had never felt like this before. . . . Felt this moment had always been meant to be, like the reason she had held out for three years, refused twenty-one proposals, and fended off so many unsavory characters had been for him.
For Harry.
Nothing in her life had felt so right.
The world exploded around her, and Ophelia soared. She spiraled. She drifted back to reality on a cloud of spent desire and happiness.
And the world as Ophelia knew it ceased to exist altogether.
Chapter 17
Harry marveled at the sound of Ophelia’s low, soft laughter. It was his favorite thing about Ophelia. They had undisputedly ruined each other, and she was buoyant. He loved the way she laughed like her world could not, at any moment, fall apart.
He loved.
He loved her.
Ophelia. The bold and the brazen.
It was as simple as that.
No questions asked. No answers needed.
It was the most marvelous revelation in the world.
“This is not how I anticipated the night would go,” she murmured against his chest.
“No?” he asked against her hair, tightening his arms around her. “You did not suspect you’d end up snuggled in my embrace, naked, on my couch after you snuck out at midnight?”
“No, but now that it has happened, I don’t want it to end.” She looked up at him, and Harry placed a soft kiss on her lips. “And you? What do you want to do?”
“Me?” Harry grinned. “Well, having you in my arms might be the most spectacular thing that has ever happened to me, so I might never let you go.”
“Be serious.”
“Very well.” Harry leaned in to give her a solemn look. “I stand corrected. The way you look at me—that is the most spectacular thing that has ever happened to me.”
A small snort. “Honeyed words. They never used to work on me.”
“I would hope so, especially when they are not coming from me.”
She sniffed and said, “What way do I look at you?”
Harry chuckled. “Couldn’t help yourself in asking.”
Her eyes narrowed on him.
He leaned in to whisper. “You look at me like I am the most spectacular thing that has ever happened to you.”
Her gasp made him laugh outright.
“You are a shameless rogue. Has anyone told you that?”
“No, but as long as that look doesn’t leave your eyes, I don’t mind that you believe me shameless.” And Harry meant every word. He never wanted that look to leave her eyes. He had found, in Ophelia, everything he ever wanted in a woman. And he was not letting go of that. Of her.
“Hah!” she exclaimed. Then, dropping back to a low tone, she murmured, “Will you visit the docks in the morning?”
Harry nodded. “Yes. Maybe someone will have heard of a ship named The Duchess.”
“You know,” Ophelia murmured, snuggling deeper into him. “I believe the tavern we visited, The . . .”
“Crown.”
“That one, The Crown. I recall a painting titled The Duchess hanging on the wall of the tavern.”
“Not uncommon.”
“No, but the reason it caught my eye at the time is that it looked rather out of place—lavish and high-priced.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“It was quite eye-catching.”
“My attention was elsewhere.” He kissed her temple.
She snorted. “Of course. Nevertheless, your father wagered five shillings each month—”
Harry stilled, his heart suddenly pounding. Five shillings? Could it be that simple?
“—which is not uncommon either. It’s a paltry sum against the other wagers, like mine. Did you know a wager on me is worth five guineas? Unbelievable. In any case, do you think—”
“Ophelia, you are a genius.”
Her brows furrowed. “Of course I am.”
“Five shillings,” Harry said, excitement taking hold of him, “amounts to a crown.”
She lifted her head to peer at him. “It does . . .” Her eyes rounded. “The Crown.”
“Where you saw the painting of the duchess.”
They both glanced at the betting book, carelessly disregarded on the floor before the low crackling fire in the hearth. Could the book really be Harry’s treasure map?
“The Duchess marks the spot,” Ophelia whispered.
Harry exhaled a deep breath. “I am not sure,” he looked at her, “but it’s the first real lead we’ve got.”
“We?”
Harry groaned at the unmistakable tone of excitement in her voice—the thrilled note he’d come to recognize. A tone that revealed her bold nature.
“Me,” he corrected.
“But I wish to go with you.”
“This is something I must do alone,” Harry said and chuckled when she peered at him with an expression ripe with peevishness. “With Hanover out for your dowry, it is best we do things properly from here on out.”
“Proper? That ship sailed long ago.” She shrugged. “Though I suppose I should give propriety a try. But they say it’s so tedious.”
Harry chuckled. “Nothing with you could ever be called tedious.”
“You are certainly right about that,” she replied, lifting her chin in mock superiority.
Harry bit his lip to keep from smiling. He was struck with the damnedest desire to slide his hand around her waist and taste her sweet, deliciously plump lips once more. But dawn would soon break, and he had to get Ophelia home before her family discovered her gone.
“All right,” she sighed. “I shall go home and wait for you to handle the various matters.”
On top of his list: Hanover.
He would need to bribe a servant to retrieve that damn earring. He’d do that first. And while he waited for that to play out, he would head over to The Crown and investigate the lead on the painting. They had a day or so before Hanover, the bastard, returned with the special license. But Harry wanted the man out of the way and dealt with immediately so as not to risk Ophelia getting hurt.
Looking at Ophelia, he grinned. “If you say so. But first, we make you presentable,” he said.
She suddenly sat up straight, the twinkle in her eye suppressed by a serious mien. “What happens now,
Avondale?”
“Avondale? I like it better when you call me Harry.”
“This is an Avondale moment, not a Harry moment.”
“Can all moments not be Harry moments?” He leaned in close. “I’d really like it if all moments were Harry moments.”
She swatted his chest playfully. “This is serious, Harr—Avonda—urgh, now you have me all confused!”
“Better than clearheaded. You’re quite sharp, you know.”
She jabbed a finger in his chest. “What happens now?”
Harry’s face softened. “Now?” He cupped her cheek. “Now you go home and let me handle Hanover. Then we discuss the rest.”
“Very well. I shall trust you to handle that lecher.” She leaned over to fish something from her scattered jacket and placed it in the center of his palm. “But, I’d rather settle the rest now.”
Harry peered at the small creation in his hand. “What’s this?”
“A ring.” She lifted one shoulder. “Made of twigs.”
“You made this?”
She nodded. “On my way over. At first, I didn’t know what I was making. I just fiddled with the twigs because I was nervous. But it has become clear to me now.”
Harry cocked his head in question.
“Marry me, Avondale.”
His jaw slackened. Well, not slackened, really. It hung, but Harry snapped it shut. He stared at Ophelia, who was gloriously rumpled and thoroughly loved. He was at a loss. For words. For thoughts. For heartbeats. Her green eyes held nothing but trust. Harry’s belly knotted. His universe was reflected in those green eyes.
“Harry,” Ophelia said, placing her hand over his pounding heart. “No matter what happens—with Hanover, the betting book—we have already found each other.”
“Ophelia . . .”
She silenced him with a finger on his lips. Her touch was soft and sure.
“Nothing matters but this.” She leaned in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”
Christ, she was killing him.
“I am aware I should not say the words,” she ventured on. “Probably not first, probably not before you have declared your intention. And I am not sure if I have ruined any chance with you by saying them, but there. I’ve confessed, and I shan’t take it back.”
“Never take it back.”
Harry closed his fingers over the ring.
Her eyes lowered to his enclosed fist. “Is that a yes?” she whispered. “Because you are supposed to say yes.”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
The words were there, right on the tip of his tongue. Solid. Sure. But he held back. He couldn’t say them now. Not yet. But he would, Harry vowed. He would confess before the day was out. And when he did, he, too, would never take them back.
“I will hold on to this ring with my life.”
He would hold on to the ring with his life.
Ophelia scowled.
What did Harry mean by that? Not a yes to her question of marriage, certainly. And yet not a no either. He would merely not let go of the ring. With his life. But did that mean he’d just carry it in his pocket all day? Would he offer her no answer? Lud, had she finally been too bold? She had asked the man to marry her. A measure of shock was to be expected. But did it imply no answer was forthcoming? And if no response was coming, did that mean she had been rejected? How could she be certain? Did he intend to leave her dangling in suspension?
Her spiraling mind, of course, avoided what really bothered her.
He hadn’t said he loved her back.
Panic set in. His answer or lack thereof to her proposal mattered little if he did not love her.
A throat cleared.
Startled, Ophelia turned to find Charles regarding her, his features devoid of expression. Where had he come from?
“Charles, why are you up so early?”
“I rise at five, my lady.” His gaze flicked to the clock. “It’s ten past seven.”
Ophelia blinked. She’d been pacing the foyer for over an hour? It was confirmed, then. Madness had descended upon her.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.
“Since your ladyship arrived.”
“No, no, no,” Ophelia said. “You have?”
Charles nodded.
Oh, dear Lord. What he must think of her! Ophelia had hoped to sneak in through the servant’s entrance, unnoticed. And perhaps she would have, had she not ended up pacing in the front hall, restless and feasting on her nails.
“Charles,” Ophelia began, but she was silenced by a rude, unwelcome knock on the door.
Even Charles, always the steadfast and indifferent butler, frowned, though he quickly smoothed his expression.
Who would call at such an ungodly hour?
Ophelia pressed herself into the shadows as Charles turned to the door, commencing with his duty to receive whoever was on the other side. For his efforts, Charles was rudely pushed aside. The figure of a tall, lean man marched past him and straight into Ophelia’s home.
“I demand an audience with Rhodes.”
Ophelia gasped.
Hanover.
But she had at least another day. Didn’t she?
Hanover turned at her catch of breath, his shrewd eyes spotting her in a trice. “Ah, Lady Ophelia.” His gaze raked her up and down, his eyes narrowing on her attire. “Dare I believe you have been waiting for me?”
Ophelia stepped boldly into the light. “Never,” she hissed. “Why are you here?”
He advanced on her. “I decided there was no reason to wait. After all, it is not you who will decide your fate but rather your father and me. We can discuss terms without a special license in hand.” He paused, taking in her tousled appearance and her wild, mussed hair falling from their pins. “Is this how you sneaked into White’s? Or is this your attempt at running away from your fate? To present yourself disheveled like a mad woman?”
“You must not know me very well, Hanover, if you believe I’d run away from a fight.” Ophelia cast her most withering look his way. “And I do not tolerate men coming into my home and insulting me with rude comments.”
He shrugged. “I meant no insult—only to make the point that we will marry, and our marriage will be one of convenience.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You mean if your father refuses?” He arched a brow. “I have the earring. I know it was you who stole the book. Think about what I could do with that knowledge.”
“I will deny everything.”
“Of course, I’d expect nothing less. But your stellar reputation would have already been tarnished, and your father would have no choice but to secure a husband—whoever would even be willing to take you, as you are not the only heiress on the market at the moment. If he secures me now, your reputation will not suffer.”
“Oh, but it will, Hanover. I’d be married to you. No one will believe I married you for anything other than you finally succeeded in compromising me.”
He shrugged. “Tell them what you will. You can at least craft that romantically, if you prefer. But I mean to leave this house only one way, and that is with a betrothal contract in my hand.”
“You must be a desperate hound,” Ophelia snapped, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever Avondale had planned to do, it was too late. The snake had already slithered through the cracks. They were out of time.
“I am, and I make no qualms about—”
Thump.
Hanover crumbled to the floor.
Ophelia blinked, her shocked gaze shooting to Charles, who arched a brow. “I had quite enough of his ramblings.”
“Goodness, Charles.” Ophelia watched Charles replace the candlestick on the side table. “I believe I had enough too.” She squatted to feel for a pulse in Hanover’s neck. Alive. Thank heavens.
“I pride myself in being sharp with my duties.”
Ophelia snorted. “Yet I recall a day you tarried.”
“And I seem to recall a morning you arrived home r
umpled.”
She shot him a narrowed-eyed look. “Touché, Charles. Touché.”
He motioned to Hanover. “What are we going to do about him?”
“I don’t know. You are the one who—” Ophelia clamped her mouth shut at the sound of advancing footsteps.
“Quickly, Charles, shut the door,” Ophelia commanded, patting down Hanover. No need for an outside audience to witness any of this. Oh, how she wished she’d never left Avondale’s embrace. Not even two hours had passed, and already she had to deal with an unconscious scoundrel, an impertinent butler, and whoever was about to catch them committing a crime.
Ophelia’s fingers grazed a small, jewellike object in his coat pocket.
The earring.
“What the devil is going on here?”
Oh, dear.
Dread filling her, Ophelia palmed the bauble in her hand and straightened over Hanover’s body.
“Ophelia?”
She sighed, turning to confront her fate.
“Father.”
Chapter 18
Harry’s hand rested on the door of The Crown.
He was on the verge of discovering the fate of his financial future. A fate that meant more than ever now. Earlier, he’d wanted nothing more than to declare his love for Ophelia and list every wicked intention for her body. But he could not—not until he could ensure that Ophelia never doubted that he wished to marry her for love and not her dowry. He could at least give that certainty.
It wouldn’t resolve everything—he’d still have to beg forgiveness for the list and how it’d spiraled out of his control—but it would be something. She’d know without a doubt that he did not see coin when he looked at her, that all he saw was the upward sweep of her lips and the way her eyes sparkled whenever mischief was afoot.
Harry pushed open the door and entered the dimly lit establishment. It was still early, and the tavern boasted less than half a dozen sots in their cups. He took a seat at the bar, fished in his pocket for the scrap of paper that had his father’s wager scrawled in Harry’s hand, and placed it before the bruiser who appeared behind the counter. He hoped to hell there was someone in this place that could give him information.
