“Take off your nightdress,” he ordered.
The Georgiana he had married would have flushed and balked at his directive. The woman she had become caught twin fistfuls of the fabric and hauled it over her head until she stood naked before him.
“Now you,” she said.
A thrill coursed through her when he obliged with quick, fluid motions that left his body nude for her hungry perusal. She drank him in, memorizing the rugged wall of his chest, the strength of his arms, the taut muscle of his abdomen, the sight of his cock, bold and rigid and long.
He kissed her again, his hands roaming her body as though he too sought to commit her to memory, to somehow imprint the sensation of her flesh upon his hands. He cupped her breasts, rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, swept lingering caresses over her bottom, followed the curves of her waist and hips. She kissed him back with all the fervor inside her, with all the love and desperation, the anger and confusion, the want and the need.
Their lips parted. His gaze burned into hers, his breathing every bit as harsh and ragged. “Get on the bed, Georgie.”
His low demand ignited a new spark of arousal. But she didn’t wish to make her capitulation easy for him. Georgiana nipped his lower lip. “Perhaps you should ask nicely, Your Grace.”
Their mouths fused again, and she opened for him, sucking on his tongue, her fingers sinking into his hair. A battle of wills played between them as each tried to dominate the other. If she could not make him stay, she would at least make him beg.
“Please,” he whispered into her mouth, his eyes never leaving hers.
The air between them was heavy, pulsing with emotion and desire and so much they had both left unspoken. She knew in that moment that she could not allow him to go without revealing the truth of how she felt for him. If he did not make it back to her…dear God, she could not even bear to finish the thought.
“Kit.” She framed his beloved face in her hands, took a breath, and took a leap. “I love you.”
He stilled, his expression hardening, an intensity crossing his features and glittering in his gaze. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Christopher Anthony Harcourt,” she whispered, her body and heart aching as one for him. “Come back to me. Do you hear me? Come back to me.”
“Fucking hell, woman.” He kissed her, and this time was different from all the others, ferocious and possessive but also tender. His hand found her nape as his mouth worshiped her, traveling from her lips to her cheek, her eyes, her brow, her ear.
“I love you,” she repeated when he kissed her throat. She buried her face in the soft strands of his hair, inhaling deeply of his masculine scent. He smelled of soap and pine and she wanted to stay like this forever, with her arms wrapped around him, their bodies pressed together, her love for him washing over her like a warm tide. “I want you to promise me, Kit.”
“I will come back,” he rasped, rubbing his face on her throat so that his whiskers made the most delightful abrasion on her sensitive skin. “I promise, Georgie. I will come back to you. Nothing and no one will keep me away.”
She held him to her, wishing they never had to leave this chamber. “I cannot lose you.”
“I am yours,” he said, pressing his mouth to her with a reverence that broke her heart. Cupping her jaw, he gave her a long and lingering kiss before breaking it to stare down at her, more solemn than she had ever seen him. “I love you, Georgie. I love you more than I ever imagined possible. I love the goodness in you, the heart that’s big enough for all the strays of London. I even love your bloody cat.”
Her cheeks were wet with tears. She had never thought he would return her love. “Oh, Kit.” Words rushed to her tongue, but she could not make sense of them. Could not speak past the emotion clogging her throat.
“Do not look at me thus,” he clipped then, his tone gruff. “I do draw the line at the mice, madam.”
Her heart gave a pang. This duke. This stubborn, fierce man. How she loved him. And he loved her back. Impossible. Improbable. Wonderful. She moved backward, pulling him along with her, toward the bed. Joining her body with his would not wait another moment. If he was determined to leave her and face whatever perils awaited him in New York, she was equally determined to make the most of their night together.
“Come to bed with me,” she coaxed.
He made a low sound in his throat, giving her a smoldering look as she pulled him along with her. “If you will but recall, the bed was my initial intention, wife.”
“Yes, husband, but if you will also recall, you did not ask nicely,” she teased, though there was nothing lighthearted about their situation. He was departing for America, abandoning her again, and the unknown menace awaiting him—the prospect of another wounding, or worse—chilled her to the bone.
“I never claimed to have manners,” he said as they fell to the bed as one.
She landed on her back, her legs falling open as his large, hard body came atop hers. His hair-stippled chest abraded her aroused nipples, his cock, satiny soft and hot and rigid, pressed into her belly. Their lips clung. Her wandering hands traveled every inch of him they could reach, over the rippling plane of his back, cupping his firm buttocks.
He adjusted himself so that his good leg anchored him on the mattress before lowering his head to take a nipple into his mouth. She hissed a sigh of satisfaction at the delicious tug on her breast followed by a playful bite.
“You are ill-mannered and surly,” she agreed, breathless. Her fingers dug into his buttocks, relishing the firmness. Here was a part of him she had yet to explore, exquisite to her senses. She suppressed the urge to guide him to her aching entrance. They had all night, and she did not wish to rush their lovemaking, regardless of how badly she wanted him.
He released her nipple with a lusty sounding pop. “And you are maddening and eccentric. The only duchess in London who has managed to transform a townhome into a miniature zoological society.” Kit pressed a kiss to the curve of her other breast. “You astound me.” One more kiss, and then he swirled his tongue around her nipple. “And confound me.”
She knew the feeling. Her every interaction with him had been a hard-fought battle. He was more obstinate than a goat. But when his defenses crumbled, it was a beautiful sight to behold. He suckled and nipped, his mouth dragging lower still, over the hungry flesh of her abdomen, and lower yet, to the starving folds of her sex.
His hands flattened on her inner thighs, opening her to him. She felt an answering flood of wetness as his gaze scorched her, his handsome face so near that she need only jerk her hips and his luscious mouth would land upon her.
“Your pussy is so bloody beautiful, Georgie.” His tone was raw, reverent. “Pink and wet for me. So fucking wet.” His tongue slid along her seam before running a slow, torturous circle around her pearl. He raised his head then, looking up at her, and she had never seen a more erotic sight than her husband’s beautiful face hovering over her mound, about to make her spend. “You taste so sweet. Sweeter than honey. I could lick you all night long.”
She would have spoken, perhaps protested out of a misplaced sense of modesty, but he lowered his head once more. His tongue was upon her, fast and slick. It was as if her entire being had been condensed into her pulsing core. The pleasure he visited upon her was so intense that it was all she could feel. There was no room for anything else. Not breathing. Not thinking. Not speaking.
Oh.
Her mouth fell open. Head fell back against the bedclothes. They were soft and smelled of him, and his tongue was inside her now, thrusting before returning to her pearl once more. He sucked her into his mouth the same way he had her nipples. And then he gently scored her with his teeth.
She was close. So close.
And then, his fingers were inside her, probing and deep. Knowing just where to strum her, as if she were an instrument and he the virtuoso. Such sweet bliss, such divine torture. She wanted him to stop and she never wanted it to end.
> He stroked her, bit down on her pearl, and that was all it took. She spent violently, a fresh rush of liquid dripping from her. Still, he pressed his face deeper, inhaling, prolonging her climax until she was trembling and sated, gasping for breath and staring at the ceiling of the chamber, its familiar plasterwork of roses and fleur-de-lis.
He rose over her. “Never forget that you are mine while I am gone.”
“Never,” she agreed. “I am yours forever.”
Kit guided his cock to her entrance, stroking her needy sex with the engorged tip. “And I am yours,” he said, and then he sank home inside her. One thrust of his hips, and he was seated so deep that a fresh wave of pleasure ricocheted through her.
He rained kisses on her breasts, her throat, her ear, tonguing the patch of skin directly beneath that drove her to distraction, all while he rocked inside her, fast and hard. They moved together, becoming wild in their mutual frenzy. Her nails raked his back. His teeth clamped on her nipple. Again and again, he withdrew and then slammed back inside her.
Something about the fury of their passion drove her over the edge. Another thrust and she was coming apart all over again, her pussy tightening on his cock, spasms beginning to shoot through her in steady licks. When she exploded, it was almost violent, a cry tearing from her throat as she seized on him, dragging him deeper into her body. His body stiffened, the tendons in his throat going taut, his jaw clenched as he found his release in the next moment, and his seed filled her.
Kit collapsed on her, resting his head over her madly thumping heart. Her fingers toyed with the thick strands of his dark hair as the last threads of pleasure unwound within her. In that fleeting silence, with nothing and no one to come between them, a perfect and blinding clarity hit her like a runaway carriage.
She had never been happier than she was here and now.
Time passed with indistinct certainty. It could have been hours later, or it could have been days, and Georgiana would not have known the difference. All she did know was that she and Kit were cuddled beneath the thoroughly rumpled sheets of her high tester, holding on to each other as if they were the only passengers on a ship that was steadily sinking into the sea.
She tightened her hold on him, inhaling deeply as she buried her face in his bare chest. “I still don’t understand why you must go.”
His hand passed over her spine, up then down again in a caress that made her ache for yet another session of lovemaking. A third to add to the first and second. “I’m doing my damnedest to protect you.”
She had not intended to quarrel with him, but every part of her was clamoring for any means through which she could convince him to stay. His imminent departure hung in the air between them, heavy and unwanted, rife with dread.
“You seek to protect me by abandoning me and returning to more of your secretive assignments in New York City?” Her nails skated over his chest, following the trail of hair that led directly to his groin. She stopped before her inquisitive hand met with his cock, for then her ability to reason and question would once more flee her. “Forgive me if I fail to see how that could possibly protect me.”
She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. For lying here with him now, after they had shared so much, after they had confessed their love for each other, felt like the same betrayal as their wedding day magnified by a thousandfold. It was a burning, festering wound inside her, hotter than the sun. Bleaker than a garden starved of rain.
“Threats have been made against you, Georgie,” he said then, plunging her into an even greater whirl of confusion. “Because of me, there is a price on your head. And because of me, there are Fenians with nothing left to lose who know who I am, who you are, who know where to find us and strike. Do not think for a moment that the bomb that was laid at Trent’s townhome was an aberration, or that it cannot happen here. It can, and it will, unless I take action.”
She lifted her head to study him, shaken by his revelations. “A price on my head? What do you mean?”
“For your death, damn it.” His expression was dark, his jaw hard. “Someone wants you dead, Georgie, and I am at fault for that. Between that and the Fenian menace, I have no choice but to take action. The only thing for me to do is to go to the source of the danger and pull it from the root. Otherwise, like any cloying weed, it will continue to regrow.”
Someone wanted her dead.
Georgiana swallowed, a sinking sensation in the pit of her belly, as she thought about the letter she had received from Uncle George’s lawyer.
It is my duty to inform you that Mr. Dumont has requested access to the separate funds held in trust for your future heirs…
“I know precisely who it is that wants me dead, Kit,” she said, feeling numb. “I can spare you the trip.”
t should not surprise him that she took his revelation in stride. After all, she was better suited to a halo than a coronet. But hearing her say the words aloud affected him in a way he had not been prepared for. She could not know. Could not possibly have an inkling that it was her own bloody father.
Kit would hunt the bastard down in New York and watch the light ebb from his eyes as life flowed from him. He had killed before in the name of duty, and he would not hesitate to do so now to protect his woman. He had yet to decide upon a manner of death, however.
A bullet to the head was far too efficient and painless. Many shallow cuts with a knife…choking the breath from his cowardly neck…drowning him in a tub of his own piss…these were all means of murder Kit had entertained over the last few days.
“I haven’t the slightest idea who is trying to hurt you, but rest assured that I will personally deliver him his justice,” he spat.
“It is my father.”
Her simple, knowing sentence stole the breath from his lungs. She knew.
Of course she did. His Georgie was far too perceptive, far too intelligent, to be deceived or pacified. She had discovered for herself his secret work as a spy when he had been able to preserve his cover for a bloody decade.
She shook her head then, tears glistening in her eyes and rendering them even more vibrant green. “Do not lie to me, Kit. You may be able to hide yourself from your enemies and those who aren’t well enough acquainted with you, but I know you.”
Damn it all. Had he become so rusty, a fish flogging on the ground out of water, without his comfortable mantle of spy? Was it that he could no longer manage subterfuge with the slick ease he once had? Or was it that he could not hide from the woman who—impossibly—saw him at his worst and loved him in spite of himself?
She lay against him in not a stitch of clothing, and she had never been more beautiful. His senses were filled with her scent, her sweet curves, her soft, creamy skin. The sound of her blissful cries when she came. The wetness of her spend on his tongue. Fucking hell, he never wanted to leave her side. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t. But he had none.
“Kit,” she prodded. “Be honest with me. I am not a child, and I do not require you to shield me from the truth, however ugly and painful it may be. My father has never cared for me as a parent ought to for his child, and I am aware of the clause in our marriage contract that reverts the portion of my fortune held in trust back to my father, along with any residuals, in the event of my demise in the first year of our union should I fail to produce your heir.”
“Failure to produce an heir is my fault.” He hadn’t meant to say it, to reveal all to her, but the admission left him of its own accord. Ever since learning from Ludlow of her father’s attempts on her life, Kit’s own selfish treatment of Georgie had haunted him.
His duty to the League had always been paramount, but the woman in his arms had changed all that. He should have never left her. He should have remained, retired from the League, attempted to be the husband she deserved. Instead, he had been so bloody caught up in his own hubris that he had failed her. And he had failed himself as well.
Going to New York had not saved anyone’s life. It had not earned him any
accolades. He’d spent the better part of his time drinking Irish whisky in the stews of New York, ingratiating himself to the diabolical Fenians who would later lead him into an abandoned factory building and attempt to slaughter him like a fattened hog. All he’d managed for his troubles was a gunshot wound and a trip across the Atlantic in infamy.
“You must not blame yourself for my father’s moral failings,” Georgie said then, her tone, like her expression, resigned. “I read the provision myself. Do not imagine for a moment that I did not pore over the document, reading each word. I may be a farm girl, but I taught myself to read and do arithmetic when I was but five. In the time since my Uncle George’s death, I have voraciously devoured every piece of literature within my reach. I knew what the marriage agreement said. I agreed to it all. I was foolish enough to believe that my father would not wish me harm, and the blame for that is mine and mine alone.”
“Georgie.” His heart ached as if it were being split in two in his bloody chest. He slid his fingers into the rich strands of hair at her nape, holding her to him when she would have retreated. “You cannot blame yourself.”
Her eyes flashed emerald fire at him. “Do not lie to me, Kit. I know the manner of man my father once was, and I know the manner of man he has become, after the wealth. The two are not so disparate, except for the ruthlessness he now possesses. Nothing will stop him from achieving what he wants. And what he wants is more money and more power, regardless of the cost.”
“Even if the cost is you,” he agreed quietly, for he could no longer restrain himself. Georgie was too intelligent, far too insightful, and she deserved to hear the truth, ugly though it was.
“Even if the cost is me.” The admission appeared to break her. She lowered her gaze to her hand, still resting on his chest.
“Georgie,” he tried again, covering her hand with his, hating her pain. For this precise reason, he had been attempting to avoid a conversation in which he revealed to her the horrifying betrayals of her own sire. How much easier would it have been to leave without ever having to lay bare his soul to her? Without ever having to watch her hurt?
Her Deceptive Duke (Wicked Husbands Book 4) Page 27