As if reading her mind, his fingers found the part of her that clamored for him with a desperation that made her rock against him, a moan tearing from her lips. His thumb swirled over her nub in teasing circles. He kissed her silk-clad breast once more before claiming her mouth again in a ravaging, powerful kiss. When his fingers slid inside her, slow and deep, a delicious spear of pleasure radiated from her center. She tipped her hips, seeking more. He added another finger to her channel, curling it, stroking an extra-sensitive spot that had her gasping.
“Best of all, here,” he said into her mouth, nipping her lower lip as he worked her into a mindless frenzy. “Every delectable bit of you is mine.”
It was. She was.
His.
All of her. Especially her heart.
She didn’t bother to deny it, for what was the point of further dissembling when he’d proven the truth to the both of them? Instead, she clutched at him, kissed him back with a savagery that took even her by surprise. Her good intentions faded away, and all that remained was the way he made her feel and the way she felt for him.
She gave in to the desire, to the delicious aching want. A trill of pleasure shot through her, like lightning bursting in the sky. It didn’t take her long to unravel. This time, the force of her climax took her by surprise. She jerked into his hand, tightening on his knowing fingers, wanting more, wanting harder, faster, just wanting. And he knew precisely what she needed, quickening his pace, adjusting the pressure, until he sent her over the edge.
As the carriage swayed to a halt, she came violently, her release shuddering through her as he stroked her to a crashing crescendo. A gush of liquid pooled between her thighs, soaking his hand, and the wet sound of his fingers slipping through her folds was itself as riveting as his touch. She should have been shocked by the vulgarity of it, by the crudity of her own body, but it only served to draw out her release.
She returned to reality in stages, becoming aware of her mewling cries, the halt of their vehicle, the busy street sounds jangling beyond the thin walls that separated them from the outside world. The jangling of tacks, cries of drivers, the plod of hooves and din of conversation brought her back to earth along with the warning rap on the carriage door that announced to them that they had arrived at their destination.
Kit pressed another kiss to her lips before withdrawing from her and discreetly wiping his hands on a handkerchief before helping her to rearrange her skirts.
“Rather crushed, I’m afraid,” was all he said as he surveyed the damage he’d done to her silk and satin.
“Wrinkled beyond repair,” she agreed with a frown. “Daisy and Trent will take one look at me and know.”
“Yes.” A satisfied grin curved her husband’s mouth, lending his dark good looks a rare, boyish air. “They will.”
And there was not a crumb of contrition to be found in either his voice or his expression.
Kit noticed the smoke before he saw the box. At first, he told himself he was imagining the gray cloud lingering on the heavy summer’s air as he escorted Georgie to the Duke of Trent’s townhouse. He was so discomfited by his tumultuous—and bloody delicious—carriage ride with his wife that of course his faculties were not in their proper working order. His cock was still stiff enough to suspend a bucket of coal from it, and his ballocks ached with the need for release. Surely his mind was suffering from a lack of proper circulation.
But as the stupefying effect of making the gorgeous woman at his side come all over his hand with such sweet abandon gradually wore off, his wits returned to him. And still the smoke hung in the air, bitter and acrid, mingling with the familiar London scents of horse dung and hearth fires, blending in with the evening’s steadfast fog.
The hackles on his neck rose as he focused on the smoke, his spy’s senses returning to him. This smoke was out of the ordinary. Something was bloody wrong here.
Dynamite.
Fucking hell.
His eyes lit on the rough-looking wooden box tucked against the far corner of the Duke of Trent’s townhome in the same instant as he saw the burning end of a fuse protruding from it. Good God, the thing was short. There was no time to think, only to act. He pressed his palm to the small of his wife’s back and shoved her forward, without regard to her comfort, desperate in his need to put some distance between her and the bomb that was about to detonate.
“What in heaven’s name, Leeds? You’ll push me to the ground!”
He dimly registered Georgie’s affronted exclamation. His mouth went dry at the thought of her in the shadow of such grave danger. The Fenian bomb that had exploded in Salford a few short months ago had killed an innocent young lad and blown apart the wall of the military barracks in addition to decimating a butcher shop.
“There’s a bomb!” he shouted at her, his voice hoarse with fear.
Fear was new to him. He had never known it before. The only difference between this and other dangers he’d faced headlong was that this time the wellbeing of the woman he loved was at stake.
Yes, the woman he loved.
He knew it now for the stark truth that it was, blatant and irrefutable in this sudden moment in the grip of life and death. And it terrified him. All of it.
“A bomb?” She swung to face him, her expression one of disbelief.
He shoved her again, needing her to move. To get as far away from the potential explosion as possible. “Run, Georgie! Get as far away from here as you can.”
Her eyes went wide. “Not without you.”
“I need to attempt to defuse it,” he said without preamble. “I haven’t much time. Now for the love of Christ, woman, go!”
“But—”
“Go!” he roared, and then he spun on his heel, running for the box without heed for his own safety or the scarcely healed wound in his thigh. The desperation of the situation dashed any discomfort he may have felt. His entire body was numb, because it had to be. Because that was what a soldier of the Crown did, he did his damnedest to protect those entrusted to his care.
And there really was no telling how long the fuse would last or how much time any of them had. Depending on the quantity of explosives inside the thing, the entire row of stately homes could be savaged.
He hoped like hell that the obstinate woman would listen. He couldn’t bear to lose her. Not now. Not ever, damn it. She was everything, and she was all he could think about as he raced to the box, which had begun to billow with smoke. Time was running out.
He reached the bomb, breathless, half out of his mind. And did the only thing he could think of doing. Bracing for impact, he covered his head—though he knew it would accomplish nothing at this proximity, he did not have a desire to die today—and crushed the burning fuse beneath the sole of his evening shoe.
eorgie grabbed fistfuls of her skirts and raced after Kit, her heart hammering against her chest. One moment, they had been an ordinary couple, walking calmly to dinner. And the next it was as if she had returned to the war-darkened days of her childhood. The reminder that life was precious and also capricious hit her now with the force of a slap as she chased after her husband, who was a great deal faster than she with the encumbrance of her skirts, even with his healing wound.
He was sprinting toward a smoking wooden box that had been laid against the cornerstones of the Duke of Trent’s townhouse. It looked innocent enough, almost like a small travel trunk that had been inadvertently left behind. Only the smoke emerging from it told the true story—it was a Fenian bomb. In Belgravia.
She raced after Kit, breathless, calling his name into the wind. But horror and worry had decimated her voice, leaving it little more than an ineffectual rasp that was easily drowned by the busy noise of the street.
“Kit!” she called, cursing her heavy skirts and impractical train. “Leeds!”
He either could not hear her, or he ignored her, for he was unerring in his path, not stopping until he reached the bomb itself. What in heaven’s name was he thinking? Did he imagine h
imself invincible?
She cried out, rushing for him, frantic to remove him from harm’s way. How did he think he could possibly face an explosive laid by the dynamitards and live to see another day?
“Kit!” she called again, feeling as though she were trapped in the unrelenting bowels of a nightmare. He had to get away, to run, to find safety somewhere. The papers had been filled with the horrible story of the bombing in Salford, the dead boy, the wounded woman, the destruction…if something happened to Kit…she could not bear…she loved him so much…how could she ever…no. She would not even allow her mind to entertain such a thing.
He ground his foot down on something alongside the box, and gradually the smoke seemed to dwindle as she reached his side, gasping for air, still calling his name. “Kit! What in heaven’s name are you doing? Have you not a care for your safety?”
His brows rose, creases marking his high forehead, shock glinting in his gaze as he caught her around the waist and pulled her against him. He pressed a fervent kiss to her hair. Another to her ear. Then to her jaw.
She clutched him, her arms going around his neck.
“What in the bloody hell are you about, madam?” he demanded, his tone both forbidding and frigid. “Do you never listen to a bloody word I say?”
It was not precisely the response she had expected.
Georgiana didn’t care. All that mattered to her was that he was alive and well, and he was in her arms. The bomb had not exploded. He was safe. He was here. And she was so incredibly thankful that he could say anything to her, regardless of how cutting. She was simply grateful for his strong arms enveloping her, the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscled form pressing into hers.
She kissed his clean-shaven cheekbone, inhaling deeply of his beloved scent. “You are safe, thank heavens. When I saw you chasing after the bomb, I was terrified.”
“Come.” Grimly, he tugged at her, guiding her away from the still-smoldering wooden box. “It is not safe here. Goddamn it, Georgie. Why do you think I told you to run? Why do you think I advised you to seek out safety, to protect yourself? You could have gotten yourself killed, curse it. What in the hell would I have done then?”
As he spoke, his hands roamed her person. She was dimly aware of shouts and commotion about them as others gradually became cognizant of the smoke, the odd box, and the unmistakable smell of burning sulfur.
“I do not know,” she said stupidly, standing there with him, not ten feet from a bomb that had nearly torn the both of them asunder. She could not help feeling in that instant that everything between them had been forever altered. “What would I have done if I had lost you?”
She did not even wish to contemplate such a travesty. She needed him. Far too much. Having just found him, she was not prepared to lose him so swiftly. Or ever, for that matter.
Kit’s hands cupped her face before traveling lower, down her throat, grazing her sides, her spine, the flare of her hips, her upper arms to the lower, and finally her wrists and her hands. He twined his fingers with hers, still breathing harshly, his eyes dark and unfathomable.
He yanked her to him then and kissed her, hard and swift. There was nothing gentle or tender in his claiming of her mouth. It was infused with desperation, rough and shocking and deep. Right there on the street, in plain view of the fashionable world, he kissed her so thoroughly that she almost melted.
And then he gripped her shoulders, thrusting her away, a scowl darkening his handsome face. “The next time you do something so damned foolish, I’m going to throw you over my knee and—”
“Good God, Leeds!” The Duke of Trent was upon them like an avenging angel, and Georgiana did not miss the flash of a pistol secreted beneath his parted jacket. “Cease mauling your duchess on the street, if you please, and by all means lower your voice unless you would like your affinity for corporal punishment to taint the whispers of every drawing room from here to New York. What is the meaning of this?”
She had been so caught up in first the mayhem of the bomb’s discovery and then Kit’s kiss that she’d failed to notice his presence. She flushed, aware of the sight they must have presented, frantically kissing and berating each other in equal measures before half of Upper Brook Street.
Kit’s expression was still savage, however. “Now isn’t the time for witticisms, Trent. A bloody bomb was laid outside your residence. We need to call for Carlisle.”
Trent was grim as he swore a violent oath that put even Kit’s wicked vocabulary to shame. “Escort Her Grace inside, and warn my wife to stay within doors and out of trouble, if you please. I’ll have my men on this posthaste.”
As if on cue, a half a dozen men, varying in age but not in physical menace, swarmed them. Orders were shouted above the din, but Georgiana could not seem to make sense of any of it. Shock continued to render her half numb.
The change that had overcome the ordinarily affable Duke of Trent alarmed her. He did not even seem surprised to hear that a bomb had been placed virtually on his doorstep, though his countenance was dark with rage. What manner of world was this in which they lived? Where an unseen enemy would attempt to destroy the homes of the innocent? Kit had almost lost his life in the pursuit of his duty. What would be next?
And who?
She found herself being unceremoniously hauled to the front door of the duke’s townhome by her husband, but her mind was too disarrayed to form a protest. To his everlasting credit, the perennially elegant butler did not appear at all ruffled by the shouting bustle that had erupted outside, along with cries of “dynamite” and “bomb.”
“Kindly direct us to the Duchess of Trent,” Leeds said grimly.
“Of course, Your Graces.” The butler remained unperturbed, as though it were commonplace for a duke and his duchess to rush the door after a bomb had nearly blasted the edifice in which he stood to pieces. “You are expected. Follow me, if you please.”
A distraught-looking Daisy rushed toward her when they entered, throwing her arms around Georgiana. “What is happening, Georgiana? There was such a commotion, and Sebastian charged out of the house like a madman.”
“Oh Daisy,” Georgiana whispered. A sudden, suffocating rush of horror attacked her belatedly. “There was a bomb.”
A gasp tore from her friend’s throat. “Dear God.”
“I’m afraid God has nothing to do with this,” Kit said grimly. “Ladies, remain within, if you please. Trent and I will return as soon as we are able.”
Georgiana withdrew from Daisy’s embrace, reaching for him, but he had turned on his heel and was stalking from the room.
“Welcome back, Leeds.”
The words were what Kit had been waiting for. What he had longed to hear ever since he’d been informed of his excommunication from the League.
But hearing them now, issued by the dark-eyed, unsmiling Duke of Carlisle, did nothing to ameliorate the restlessness or the dawning sense of fear clawing within him. “I would thank you, but I cannot say gratitude seems the proper sentiment.” His tone was wry. “There was thirty pounds of gunpowder inside that goddamn box, Carlisle.”
“Had the thing exploded,” Trent added, his face a mask of barely concealed rage, “it would have destroyed the front of my home and possibly injured my wife and babe. Or worse.”
Silence descended. None of them wished to consider what ”worse” would have been. They were seated in Trent’s study, the duchesses nearby in a drawing room under heavy guard while this inevitable meeting of the minds occurred.
“It has all the hallmarks of the bomb attempt on the residence of the lord mayor,” Carlisle gritted, the first to break the quiet. “There is a distinctive ring at work here, and thus far they have managed to compromise the identities of not one but two of my finest agents.”
“You have a rat in your midst,” Kit said bluntly. “Someone is feeding information to the Fenians from within the ranks of the League. It is the only explanation.”
“And it sure as hell isn’t Leeds,�
� the Duke of Trent added. “I cannot countenance the daftness that allowed Leeds to be expelled.”
Kit was startled that Trent had taken up the cudgels for him so swiftly. They were not good friends, though as League members, they often traveled in the same circles.
Carlisle lifted a hand of dismissal, almost as if he waved away a troublesome gnat. “Home Office wanted him rotated out of service pending a more thorough investigation into the ambush. I knew he would be restored in time.”
“Who was their source that named me?” Kit demanded, for he could not shake the feeling that somehow all of these events—the ambush, the betrayal, the attacks on Georgiana, and now this bomb—had a connecting thread.
“The informant was anonymous,” Carlisle said.
“How convenient,” Trent drawled.
How bloody vexing. It seemed that everywhere he turned led to yet another brick wall. “I need to find out who is responsible for all of this,” he bit out. “I will not stop until the bastard is in the grave or in prison.”
“Nor will I,” Trent added, his face as hard and grim as his tone.
Carlisle inclined his head. “That makes three of us. Gentlemen, it would seem we have some work to accomplish.”
“We have some traitors to root out like the swine that they are,” Kit corrected him, feeling the pulsating warmth of a need for violence burst inside him. “And when we accomplish that, God help them because it isn’t going to be pretty.”
If someone had laid a bomb at the doorstep of the Duke of Trent, nothing would stop the unseen menace from doing the same to others. Between this newfound danger and the attempts being made on Georgie, his rage was a boundless, swelling force that threatened to sink his ship and take everyone else he cared for down with it. Including Georgie. The Fenian menace had to be stopped.
“We will end this,” the Duke of Trent said, his voice dark with the promise of certain death to their foes. “One way or another, our families will be safe.”
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 25