Someday My Duke Will Come

by Christina Britton

  Questions swam in his eyes, and a tenderness that touched her down to her soul. Frightened of the feelings he was dredging up, she took his mouth in a kiss, hoping to bury the bone-deep need to confess her past sins, to accept his proposal and spend the rest of her days with him. She would forget the past, forget the future. Her entire world was here and now in his arms.

  He needed no further urgings. He kissed her with a desperation matched only by the one deep inside her, a need to lose themselves in one another, to make this coming together as beautiful as possible so it might remain with them long after their parting.

  His eager fingers grasped the hem of her nightgown, pulling it up and working it over her head. His mouth found hers again when she was free of the garment, and he pressed her down into the soft mattress, his bare chest meeting the straining tips of her breasts, making her gasp into his mouth.

  He lifted his head, his dark eyes searing into her own, the tenderness in them going straight to her heart. “So beautiful,” he whispered as he stroked a loose curl back from her cheek. “So passionate.” He shook his head in wonder. “You are amazing.”

  Tears burned. She blinked them back, wanting nothing to mar this perfect moment. “Love me, Quincy,” she breathed.

  “I do.”

  Not I will, but I do. Before the ramifications of those two simple words could destroy her, he dipped his head, letting his lips trail along the length of her neck. And she was lost.

  He worshipped her skin. That was the only possible description for the kisses he trailed over her, each one full of the tenderness that had been present in his voice, hinting at so much more. When his lips found her breast she arched up, eager for what was to come. And he didn’t hold back, his mouth opening over the straining tip. Fire pooled between her legs and she let out a low moan, her fingers diving into the soft, still-damp waves of his hair.

  His hands, too, were driving her wild, and everywhere at once, plumping her breast for his kisses, trailing down her side, gripping her hip. When they trailed over her belly, she held her breath. And then he was dipping his fingers between her legs, and she had to bite her lip to keep her eagerness from rending the air.

  “So ready for me,” he gasped, caressing her folds, the slickness there creating a dizzying sensation. She opened her legs, pressing up against his hand, silently begging for more.

  In answer he trailed kisses lower. Before she could react to the unexpectedness of it, he came to the core of her, pressing his mouth against the thatch of curls there. And everything was forgotten.

  With tongue and teeth and lips he loved her, and that part of her quickly became the very center of her universe. He drew her into his mouth, stroking his tongue over her folds, starting up a rhythm that had her rocking her hips against him. She gripped tight to his head in silent encouragement. He let loose a growl of approval, his fingers digging into her hips, and she threw her head back as the pleasure brought by his clever mouth sent her higher and higher. When he slipped a finger into her, she came undone.

  Bright white light exploded behind her lids, as if she had soared up past constricting storm clouds to find herself in brilliant sunlight. She hung there, suspended, for one incredible moment, before drifting back to earth. She opened her eyes to find Quincy beside her. He brushed back hair from her temple and smiled.

  She returned the smile, her chest light, her body deliciously relaxed. In all her imaginings she’d never dreamed such pleasure existed. And yet she wasn’t tired; not in the least. Rather, Quincy had awakened her to a joy she hadn’t thought possible. She tugged on his shoulders, letting him know this was in no way over.

  He understood immediately. Rolling from her, he removed his breeches. And then he was over her again, and sliding between the welcoming cradle of her legs, the low hiss of pleasure telling her more than words that he was as affected as she by the feel of their bare skin coming together, of his hard muscles pressing into her softer curves with nothing between them. The desire that had been sated in her burst into glorious life.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered, her lips trailing hungrily over the side of his neck.

  He shuddered, her name escaping his lips, a benediction in the quiet night air. He pushed forward, the blunt tip of him poised at her entrance before, with a low groan, he slid inside her.

  There was not a single moment of discomfort or pain. She held him tightly as he slowly buried himself, each inch exquisite torture.

  “Are you well?”

  His anxious words rasped against her shoulder, his muscles straining under her hands, his back slick with the sweat of the effort of holding himself still. There would be no words, she knew, that would ease his mind. His every concern was centered on her well-being, and would not be easily waylaid.

  To calm his worries the only way she knew how, she wrapped her legs about his lean hips and guided him farther into her.

  He gasped, raising his head, looking down into her face. She smiled, stroking a lock of hair from his forehead. “Quincy.”

  He groaned, taking her lips in a kiss, the desperation and longing in it matched by the thrust of his hips as he began to move inside her. Her fingers scored his back, her hips moving in time with his, the pleasure building higher than before until she felt she might never come back down.

  He ripped his mouth free, pressing it to the side of her neck. “Come for me, Clara,” he whispered, the words searing her from the inside out. “I want to feel you come around me.”

  And she did, breaking apart into jagged pieces before realigning into someone completely new. As the last quivers of pleasure shimmied through her trembling body he pulled himself free and, his breath harsh in her ear, spent himself in the rumpled sheets at her side.

  Sated, near exhaustion, she was hardly aware as he whisked the sheet from the bed, dragging a warm blanket up over her limp body before sliding in beside her and pulling her into his arms.

  They lay there for a time, saying nothing, as the fire in the hearth burned down and the night air cooled. She had never felt so safe as she was right now, held tight in his arms, her head on his chest and his heart beating steadily under her ear. His fingers trailed languidly over her arm, his breath blowing soft in her hair. Her eyelids grew heavy, contentment filling her. How easy it would be to drift off to sleep.

  But she would not allow it. This moment was fleeting as it was; she would not waste a second of it in sleep. Instead she would focus on every detail to better remember it, from the curling of dark hair sprinkled over his broad chest, to the strength of his thigh between her own, to the soft kiss he placed on the crown of her head.

  But her eyelids were growing heavier. Just as slumber was about to take over, however, he spoke.

  “Clara, we need to talk.”

  His voice rumbled under her ear, the familiar sound of it soothing her. So much so that, for a brief moment, she couldn’t understand the implications of his words.

  When she did, however, she tensed. “Quincy—”

  “Please, Clara, hear me out.”

  She lurched upright, breaking his hold on her, and looked down into his face. Her heart beat out a frantic rhythm, the sight of the grim determination in his dark eyes stealing her breath.

  “I told you my requirements, Quincy,” she said low. “This was not a promise of a future for us.”

  “I understand,” he soothed. “But can you at least consider—”

  “I have considered it,” she broke in, longing and frustration and anger and grief all fighting for dominance. “And I will not marry you.”

  “Will not, or cannot?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “There is every difference.” He reached up, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, his face infinitely tender. “Clara, you must know I lo—”

  “Don’t,” she rasped, turning away from him and pulling the covers up over her breasts. “Please, don’t say it. It will only make things worse.”

  He was silent for a m
oment, the ticking of the mantel clock and the faint crack and pop of the dying hearth fire the only sounds in the room. When he spoke again his voice was careful, cautious, as if he was afraid she would shatter. “Clara, I don’t care what may have happened in your past. I want you as my wife.”

  She pressed her burning eyes to her knees. “No—”

  “Clara.” He sat up, his arms going around her, his lips fervent on the nape of her neck. “I know something or someone has hurt you. And I swear I won’t press you to tell me. Whatever it is, it’s yours to reveal when you’re ready. But it won’t affect my feelings for you. I want to marry you, Clara; that won’t change.”

  She shuddered. “You don’t know that,” she rasped into her knees, fighting the desire to lean back into his embrace, joy and despair warring in her.

  “I do.” When she only shook her head he let out a frustrated breath. “Just don’t say no yet. Please. Let me prove my sincerity to you.”

  Temptation swirled in her. How easy it would be to take that leap, to entrust Quincy with this thing that ate at her from the inside. She was certain he believed his own words. The earnestness in his voice was clear even to one as untrusting as her.

  But once that Pandora’s box was opened it could never be closed again. She needed to protect her son’s memory with everything in her. And she needed to protect Quincy from himself. Even were his feelings to somehow remain unchanged, he could not know the weight that such a truth had on one’s soul, what the constant fear of discovery did to a person’s spirit. If it were ever made public—and there was every reason to believe that his mother would be only too happy to see her humiliated—he would hate her for it.

  But his arms were wrapped about her like a blanket, his lips doing tender things to the nape of her neck, his scent filling her up, and those logical arguments were losing their strength by the second. Instead they were being taken over by imaginings of what could be, small vignettes of waking beside him in the mornings, sharing quiet conversation beside a fire, laughing as they dressed for an evening out.

  Ah, God, she wanted that life with him.

  “I need time,” she rasped.

  “I can give you that,” he vowed. “I can stay beyond Phoebe’s wedding; we can work things out. You can take all the time you need.”

  “No,” she said, her voice overloud in the quiet of the room, knowing that the longer he stayed the more he would work under her skin, tempting her, when she needed this decision made on clear facts. “I’ll decide before then.”

  “Very well,” he murmured, his hands rubbing with infinite care over the tense curve of her back.

  She nodded, then made to throw off the covers and rise from his bed. His hand stayed her.

  “Please don’t go,” he whispered.

  She closed her eyes. “Quincy—”

  “I swear I won’t attempt to sway you. I only want to hold you, Clara.”

  Her body responded to the raw need in his voice before her mind could. She turned back to him, stretching out alongside his hard body, wrapping herself around him even as his arms drew her flush to him. She would focus on the here and now, and not on the impossible decision she had to make in the coming days. And certainly not on the bitter irony that, lying beside him here in the dark, her heart had finally found where it belonged.

  Chapter 18

  He knew before opening his eyes that she was gone.

  There was an absence in the air around him. The great gaping loss hit him like a blow. Glancing at the pillow beside him, he could just make out the impression her head had left on it. Proof she had been here, and not just a figment of his imagination.

  Taking the pillow, he pressed it to his chest and rolled to his side. Her scent was still there, something akin to sun-warmed linens and fragrant meadows and fresh breezes, filling him with longing. In a rush the memories of the night before came flooding in, every kiss and sigh, every embrace. She had curled against him when he’d begged her to stay, her head resting on his chest, her arm tight around his waist, holding on as if she would never let go. And simultaneously as if she were memorizing him, for there had been a goodbye in it that was unmistakable.

  He’d wanted to howl and curse into the cool night air. This miracle that had fallen into his lap, the possibility of a life with this woman he loved, was slipping through his fingers, and he felt there was nothing he could do to stop it. Every instinct in him screamed to bombard her with affection and charm and persuasive words until she couldn’t help but accept him.

  Instead he’d held her tighter, and prayed as he hadn’t since he was a child.

  Now he stared at the strengthening light streaming in through his window, feeling the fracture in his heart grow. Whatever horrible thing had happened in her past, she would not easily let it go. It had rotted her self-worth for so very long, he feared she would never be able to break free of it. He suspected what that tragedy might be; she had not been an innocent. And his heart broke, thinking of what she might have suffered, and was still suffering. He had been tempted to tell her, in no uncertain words, that he knew and didn’t care, that he loved her regardless. But that was her secret to tell, and forcing it from her would only cause her to withdraw further.

  He let loose a frustrated breath, hopelessness washing over him. Phoebe’s wedding was less than a week away. Scaling the years of hurt and pain and grief that rose up about Clara would take time. And time was one thing he didn’t have.

  But lying here thinking of her would not help one bit. Rolling from the bed, he strode to the adjoining dressing room. He longed to bare his heart to her as she hadn’t allowed him to last night, but he knew in his state of mind he would only muck things up further. And so he dressed quickly, hurried out to the stables, and was soon on his way.

  The fresh air was a balm to his soul as he let his horse have its head. The faint scent of salt and sea filled his lungs, the coolness of it on his face and the tug of it in his hair helping to clear some of the turmoil in his breast. He would take the morning to think. And, with luck, he would return to Danesford knowing just what to do in regard to Clara. Though he doubted it would be so easy.

  The small town that butted up against the beach, the center of all social activities for residents and visitors alike, was just waking as he rode down the main thoroughfare. The grocers were opening their shutters, the baker already hard at work, the scent of it making Quincy’s mouth water. On impulse he stopped, dismounting and tying up his horse before heading inside.

  His purchase was quickly made, and soon he was stepping back out into the bright early-morning sunlight. Removing a warm bun from its wrapper, he bit into the soft, fragrant bread before starting off down Admiralty Row. Synne’s main avenue, leading down to the beach and the endless sea beyond, was wide and clean, and already beginning to bustle. The Isle was at its height of popularity in the summer months, and its season was just beginning. No doubt in a week or so these streets would be teeming with humanity. It was just the type of location he gravitated toward, a bustling town that never seemed to sleep. It was why he’d been more than happy to settle in Boston all those years.

  But for the first time in perhaps his entire life Quincy didn’t want company. Which might be a dangerous thing, for it gave him too much time to think. The more he pondered what to do about Clara, the more mired in doubts and frustrations and fears he became. He knew she cared for him. She would not have lain with him last night if she didn’t. But she was so adamant that there could be nothing more between them. Even the idea that he might declare himself to her had sent her into a panic. As it stood, he could not see a way past that, did not know how to breech the walls she had put up about her.

  So caught up in his tumultuous thoughts, he didn’t immediately hear his name being called. It was only when the person doing the calling stepped in his path that he was aware of anyone around him at all.

  “Your Grace,” the man said. “I say, you’re in your own world, aren’t you?”

&nbs
p; Quincy blinked, looking into not one but two familiar faces. “Mr. Dennison, Lord Fletcher. My apologies. I’m afraid you’ve caught me eating my breakfast. I was quite entranced by the deliciousness of these rolls.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit,” the house agent replied. “Mrs. Lambe is a wizard with flour and yeast. As I can attest to.” He chuckled, patting his generous girth.

  Quincy forced a smile, wanting nothing less than to be pulled into small talk. But he couldn’t very well snub the men. “What were you gentlemen doing up and about at such an early hour?”

  Lord Fletcher, exuding his typical energetic air, spoke up. “We were discussing when we might visit Swallowhill. I’m quite anxious to finalize the sale.” He chuckled. “Although this proof of my eagerness can only work to my detriment. There’s no way I shall haggle a good price now.” He faltered, a concerned look passing over his face. “Are you well, Your Grace?”

  “What? Oh! Yes, I’m quite well.” Quincy forced a smile. “I didn’t sleep last night, I’m afraid.”

  “Strange, that, with such healthful sea air to lull you to sleep,” the man quipped. “But were you off to anywhere in particular this fine morning?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Splendid. I don’t suppose you have time for us after your meal? I’d love to see Swallowhill as soon as possible.”

  It was on the tip of Quincy’s tongue to refuse. He had no wish to accompany these men today to visit the property. He hadn’t set foot there since his mother’s cruel confirmation of what Miss Willa Brandon had been to his father. The idea of going there now, when his heart was so troubled over Clara, and knowing he would see the place with new eyes, made his skin crawl.

  But mayhap it was for the best. After last night, and the decision he was waiting for Clara to make regarding their future, he was more determined than ever to move forward with the sale. If she accepted him, he was eager to whisk her off and show her the world. And if she refused, he wanted to leave England as quickly as possible.