Family.
The word struck Kit straight in the gut like a fist. He had never, in all his life, had a true family. He and his brother had been at odds. His father had been a cold, unfeeling bastard. His mother had died birthing him. Now, for the first time, he had that sense of belonging and love he had been seeking without realizing it. That basic human need for acceptance and caring, for a partnership…Georgie lit that fire within him.
She was his family. And he was hers. But he had brought danger close to her again and again, and that killed him with the virulence of a hundred deaths. He could not shake the belief that he was responsible for all of the danger swirling around her.
She did not deserve it. She was, as the not-butler had once said, golden. She lit every chamber she entered with her rays, and he would give anything to bask in her glow for even a bloody minute.
But he would also do anything to protect her. Any-goddamn-thing. Even if it tore him apart.
Which was why he looked the Duke of Carlisle in the eye and said, “Send me back to New York City.”
he next few days following the discovery of the bomb at Daisy and the Duke of Trent’s home passed in a monotonous blur. Kit had distanced himself from her. She spent her daylight hours shadowed by Ludlow and a coterie of armed men. She spent her nights alone, guards stationed at her door and in the street below her windows.
The heady passion that had sparked between them in the carriage that evening had dissipated as though a bucket of water had been thrown upon the flames. On the rare occasions when she did catch a glimpse of her husband, it was always fleeting. His eyes were cool, his expression reserved. They had not engaged in a single dialogue without one of the guards hovering at her elbow.
She had hoped the situation a temporary one.
Until this evening, when a new sort of upheaval had overtaken the household, from the domestics to the guards. Even Ludlow had seemed odd and reticent all afternoon. She had dined alone. Again. Had withdrawn to her chamber alone. Again.
And that was when the reason for the day’s simultaneous unease and unrest had occurred to her. Kit was leaving her.
Again.
Georgiana had undressed for the evening and dismissed her lady’s maid by the time the realization hit her. Her mind had been far too preoccupied for sleep. She was pacing the length of her chamber, worry and fear uniting in a leaden ball that weighed heavily in her stomach, and suddenly, the notion eased its way into her thoughts. Her heart and her mind were at war, and the outcome terrified her even more than dynamite did.
She had not seen a valise this time around. There had been no telling warnings. But she could feel the truth of it, almost instinctively, just the same. Kit was going back to America to fight his shadowy battle to the death.
The last time he had left her, she had scarcely known him.
This time, she loved him.
She tightened the belt of her dressing gown, studied her reflection in the cheval glass for a good minute. Her hair was unbound, her cheeks pale. She pinched them, rubbed some ruddiness into her lips. Cinched the belt a bit more to emphasize her waist. And then she marched out the door of her chamber.
Straight into the chest of an astonished Ludlow.
“Why are you outside my door?” she demanded, irritated with him for withholding such a secret from her. But then again, she supposed it was only one in a sea of many.
Why did all the men in her life persist in either abandoning her, deceiving her, or both?
He bowed formally, as though she wasn’t in a scandalous state of disrobement before him. “Forgive me. I was seeing to your safety and comfort, Your Grace.”
Naturally, she did not believe his innocent response, nor was she moved by his elegance. “Will you ever tell me the truth, Ludlow?” she asked, frustration making her voice more shrill than she intended.
“I have always been truthful with you, Your Grace, as best as I have been able,” he said carefully, his expression neutral.
She stared at him, wondering if she had ever truly known him. Wondering, indeed, if it was even possible to truly know anyone. “I know he is leaving,” she stated coolly this time, instead of asking a question he would not directly answer. “I am going to his chamber now, and if you think you can stop me, you are dead wrong, Ludlow.”
He bowed again, somber as ever. “I would not dream of interfering, Your Grace.”
“Good,” she snapped, before turning on her heel and hastening toward the duchess’s apartments. Toward her chambers. Yes, perhaps it was time she reclaimed them.
She passed a handful of gruff-looking men with suspicious, pistol-sized lumps in their jackets, averting her gaze, before she arrived at her destination and issued a firm knock. To her astonishment, she hadn’t even a breath to compose herself before the door opened, and there he was, all stark power and muscled grace, dressed to perfection in evening blacks and a white shirt. She shivered as she fell into his vivid eyes.
“Duchess,” he said formally. “What do you require?”
The question, so cold and detached, sent a violent wave of outrage coursing through her. “You,” she ground out. “Now.”
He raised a brow. “Madam, the hour is late, and I am afraid that your timing leaves something to be desired. I have—”
She brushed past him, cutting off his excuse with her abrupt action which spoke, she rather thought, louder than any words could. Deep into the chamber she strode, not stopping until she was on the opposite end of the room and he had no choice but to close the door lest they attract an audience from the guards assembled in the hall.
Georgiana spotted a trunk and two valises in the corner of the chamber. There it was, the confirmation of her suspicions and her worst fears. She stilled, staring, recalling their wedding day. If she had thought the last time hurt, she had been wrong, for the pain inside her chest at the simple evidence of his imminent departure nearly broke her in two.
He truly was leaving her.
And she had borne a great deal in her life. The death of her mother, the hatred of her father, a marriage of convenience to a stranger, moving to another country where she knew no one and had no friends to speak of, being lambasted in the press, and yet not one of those things—and not even the sum combined—compared to the way she felt now.
Devastated. Hollow. Lost.
“Georgie,” he said from behind her, his voice as rough and deep with emotion as she fancied hers would be if she dared to speak. “Why are you here?”
Because I love you.
Because I cannot bear for you to leave me again.
Because I want you to stay for me, to fight for me and with me. To know we can defeat this together. That whatever comes to pass, regardless of how difficult or frightening, we can weather the storm together.
And have I mentioned that I love you hopelessly, desperately, irrevocably?
But she said none of those things, for they were far too perilous to speak aloud, and she was not strong enough to accept his rejection of her love. It was better, easier if he didn’t know. At least she still had her pride.
She swallowed, staring at the assembled trunk and valises, unable to look at him directly. “When were you intending to tell me that you are leaving me?”
“I am not leaving you.” His hand, large and hot, pressed against the blade of her right shoulder, as if in supplication.
It may as well have been a branding iron for all that his touch scorched her. She felt him through the thin layer of silk as potently as if his bare palm had been upon her naked flesh. “How would you define the trunk and valises packed with your belongings?”
“I am departing, yes, but out of duty and necessity.” His other hand was upon her now, and he was so near that the heat of his body radiated into hers. “I mean to put an end to the danger.”
She arched and tilted her head back, desperate to be closer to him in spite of her anger and frustration. He was the other half of her, the darkness to her light, the hardness to he
r soft, and no matter what came to pass between them, regardless of how much time came and went, she would always want him with a fervency that shook her.
The unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed into the cleft of her bottom. A breath hissed from her as need, sharp and debilitating, scored her from within. Too much time had passed between the moment he had last been inside her and now.
“I am your duty and necessity,” she whispered, unable to resist rubbing herself against him. The part of her that ached for him most throbbed as his erection dug into her flesh.
His breath was on her ear, hot and humid. “You should not be here.”
Of course he would say so. If she had been meek and obliging, she would have remained at the opposite end of the hall, alone. But that was not what she wanted, and while she had not been entirely certain of her intent in storming the sanctity of his chamber, she was now. She wanted this man. Desperately. And he wanted her.
She reached behind her, fingers connecting with thick, soft hair. She cradled his skull, raked her nails on his scalp, and turned her head to meet his lips. They kissed, a swift joining of mouths. But it was not enough. It was too tame, far too tepid, and his words were still haunting her.
“Why should I not be here?” she demanded against his firm lips. He had not shaved for the last few days, and she was grateful for the abrasion of his whiskers on her skin.
“Because I cannot resist you,” he confessed on a groan. “Not like this. God, you smell so bloody good. You feel even better. Jesus, Georgie. What did you come here for? I have been trying to be a gentleman, to make my departure easier for you.”
“I do not want a gentleman,” she denied swiftly, and as she said the words, her left hand traveled behind her, wedging between the curve of her rump and the placket of his trousers. She felt bold enough to dare. To be wicked. Searching fingers found the shape of him, thick and long, through fabric. She stroked him, squeezed him, hungered for more.
The breath hissed from his lungs. “You do not know what you want, madam. If you had any inkling of how grave this is…”
She caressed his length, yearning for the cloth barrier between them to be dispelled. Touching him so intimately made her ache. Made her want more. “Don’t leave me,” she said, not even caring if it sounded more like she was begging rather than pleading. “Please, Kit.”
He sighed into her ear. Kissed it once, twice. Ran his tongue along the shell. Meanwhile, his hands drifted from her waist. They migrated higher, sliding over her abdomen to her breasts. His hands, so large and knowing, cupped her, his fingers finding her nipples through the insubstantial layers of her dressing gown and nightdress. He tweaked the buds, rolling them between his capable fingers.
“Oh,” she said on a sigh, increasing her pressure on his cock, still trapped, erect and thick and full, beneath his trousers. She longed so badly for him to be inside her.
His hips jerked into her touch. Here, at least, in lovemaking, they were in accord. They wanted each other. The rest—and its resulting argument—could wait. What she wanted now more than anything was this man around her, atop her, behind her, inside her. So deep inside her that it felt as if he would never go.
Because she didn’t want him to go. Not now, and not ever. But that was another battle for another day.
“Damn,” he gritted in a low voice that suggested he was about to lose control. “I want to fuck you so bloody much it hurts.”
He nipped the shell of her ear, and she could not resist a moan. His raw, crude words settled within her with a delicious trill. She liked him wicked. She preferred him crude and raw and unfettered, for it aroused an answering part of her she had never known existed until he had brought it to life.
With her free hand, she untied the knot holding her dressing robe in place. Three plucks of her fingers, and it opened. One shrug of her shoulders, and it was on the floor, only the fine fabric of her nightgown keeping her bare skin from him.
“Then do it, Kit.” She hesitated at the crude word, never having uttered it before. But if he had said it, why could not she? Stroking him, she plunged forward on a deep breath, her daring taking her to new heights. “Fuck me.”
He caught the hand that was teasing his arousal, gripping it and hauling it away. His tongue found the hollow beneath her ear. “If you keep touching my cock like that, I won’t last long.”
Her capacity for speech fled her, and all that would leave her tongue was a hum of satisfaction. “Mmm.” She shivered as he kissed a path to the curve where her throat and shoulder met before settling his teeth into the sensitive flesh there.
There was something about him behind her, his large, powerful body demanding and hungry at her back, that made her weak. She had never felt such a powerful urge before, such hungry desperation. Of its own accord, her hand migrated back to the delicious bulge tenting his trousers. The evidence of his desire for her pleased her as much as it sent an answering pulse straight to her core.
“Naughty wench.”
He ensnared her hand again, but this time, instead of merely removing it, he guided it around her waist, settling it over her belly, just above the flesh that begged for fulfillment. Through the fabric of her nightdress, he bit her shoulder. His other hand left her breast, sliding down her abdomen to her thigh, where his fingers fisted in the soft fabric. Slowly, he raised the frilled hem of her nightdress.
Up it went, over her calves to her knees.
“I like touching you,” she whispered.
He made a low sound in his throat, not stopping in his progress as he hiked her skirt higher still. Night air kissed her thighs. “If you like touching so bloody much,” he said, his lips back on her ear, “then perhaps you should touch yourself.”
Her cheeks went hot at his suggestion. Surely he could not mean…
Her hem reached her waist, leaving her entire lower body bare. And then he guided her hand, urging it down the gentle slope of her belly and lower still, until as one, their fingers slipped inside the wet folds of her sex.
Oh.
For a moment, the pleasure was so intense that she could not speak. She had never touched herself so intimately before. Even in the bath, a cloth always obscured her hand, but this—his fingers guiding hers, so that the only touch on her flesh was her own—was divine. Depraved, but divine.
“Why so quiet, my love?” His deep voice teased her ear, his lips nuzzling as his fingers worked hers more firmly below.
She wanted to respond. To say something flippant or bold. But she had nothing. Her entire being was focused upon what he was doing to her, what he was making her do to herself. As one, they circled the sensitive nub of flesh at the center of her folds. When her hips bucked, he held her still to linger on the spot that had caused the response.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” He bit her earlobe and rolled his hips against her so that his steely length ground into her from behind. “You’re so fucking wet that it’s running off your fingers onto mine.”
Still, she could not force a coherent word past her lips. She was coiled up, tight as a watch spring, the bliss flooding her so intense that she could weep. Together, they pleasured her faster, harder, with sure, quick strokes. And then she couldn’t hold on another moment.
She was coming apart and soaring at the same time. When her climax arrived, it was swift and violent, so deep and delicious that she could feel her channel contract and spasm. So wonderful that a blissful dizziness overtook her, dark stars swirling at the edges of her vision as she collapsed against him, gasping for breath.
“When I’m gone, touch yourself like that and think of me,” he said lowly. “Think of me when you spend and remember my fingers on yours, bringing you to release.”
The imperatives, issued on the heels of such beautiful pleasure, hit her with the effect of a pail of ice water. He still intended to go. The realization was akin to a dagger in her heart.
“Stay with me,” she urged. “Do not go, Kit. Please. Can you not see how much I need
you here?”
“Georgie.” He kissed her throat again, then her cheek, burying his nose in her temple and inhaling. “Do not ask of me what I cannot give you.”
She stiffened, straightening away from his heated body at her back. Wrenching free of his hold, she tore her hem out of his grasp, spinning to face him. “Why? Why do you need to leave me again? Tell me, and do not say duty and necessity. This time, be honest. You owe me that much.”
He reached for her, hands clamping on her waist and hauling her back to him. “I owe you everything, my love. That is why I must go.”
My love. The endearment plucked at her heart. She wanted to believe it. Longed to believe that he cared for her, that he could perhaps even one day return a fraction of her love. But if he cared, why would he abandon her again?
Her arms went around his neck, anchoring him to her. She searched his gaze, trying to find the answers she sought and finding none. “You do not have to go.” She rolled to her tiptoes then, pressing her mouth to his.
His lips moved against hers, her name leaving him like a benediction. “Georgie.”
“Stay,” she whispered against his lips, licking the seam that bisected them. “Stay.” She flitted to the corner, then to the defined bow of his upper lip, to the whisker-roughened dip of his philtrum. Here, she inhaled the essence of him, sharp and sweet and beloved. “Stay.”
“I cannot.”
“You can.” She kissed him again. “You must.”
A growl tore from him, and in the next moment, whatever tentative hold he’d had on his control snapped. He cupped her face, kissing her deeply and with a depth of emotion that took her by surprise. In that moment, she wasn’t sure what would happen when the sun rose, but all that she was certain of was the love she had for him, burning within her. If this was the last night they had, then she would not waste it.
She pulled at his jacket as she returned his kiss, opening to his questing tongue. Next came his waistcoat, and finally his shirt, until her hands traveled with slow appreciation over the chiseled planes of his back and the muscled wall of his chest and abdomen. When she reached the fastening of his trousers, he tore his mouth from hers.
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 26