by Darcy Burke
Her expression didn’t change.
He unfastened his breeches, shoving them down over his bare arse, over his ruined knee, over the leather-strapped prosthesis he hated with every thunderous beat of his heart. Shaking, he hurled the breeches across the room and rose to his feet. Completely naked. Bared to the soul. “Marry me.”
Her gaze heated. She reached behind her neck and untied her nightrail. It fluttered to the floor.
Every inch of his body was instantly alive, the cold and fear forgotten. He stepped forward. She hadn’t said yes. But she hadn’t said no. There was still hope. He pulled her into his arms and crushed his lips to hers. “Marry me.”
She wrapped her arms tight about his neck and kissed him. Her tongue was warm honey, her body heaven against his. Soft. Beautiful.
He lifted her up and set her bottom on the edge of the four-poster bed. Her hips now perfectly aligned with his. He couldn’t get enough of her mouth, her taste. He kissed her as though he were starving, and her love the only thing that could sustain him. She made him live again.
Gently, he slid his hands up over her hips, past the curve of her waist, to the edge of her breasts. She leaned into his touch. His shaft pulsed between them as he teased her already hard nipples and his tongue mated with hers. Without her, he was nothing. With her, she made him whole.
“Marry me,” he whispered between kisses.
He slipped one of his hands between her legs and slid two fingers into her slick heat. She wanted him. Even after seeing him naked. She didn’t think him broken at all.
Confidence and joy soared through him. She had helped him to find himself again. She humbled him and made him whole. His breath caught.
Finally, he had everything he wanted: Daphne. Right here in his arms. His heart beat faster. For her, there was no mountain he wouldn’t climb. No dragon he wouldn’t slay. She was his greatest treasure. He would spend the rest of his life proving it.
He lowered his mouth to her breast, suckling as he drove his fingers inside her. She clutched his hair, trapping him to her.
She needn’t have worried. He was hers, forever.
He slid his slick fingers from her, and she whimpered. He gently pushed her backward, then sank to his knees to lave with his tongue and bring her to pleasure. He would love her until she loved him back. He would love her into eternity.
She gasped, and arched into his mouth. As he licked and suckled, her legs began to tremble, holding him in place. He joined his fingers to his tongue, licking, invading, loving. She cried out, legs shaking, her muscles tightening about his fingers.
Before her contractions had even ceased, she struggled upright and tugged his hair so that he would rise to his feet. Her skin was flushed, her eyes glassy with pleasure. His heart flipped. He hoped to bring her to ecstasy for the rest of their lives.
She widened her legs and reached for his shaft. At first, hesitant. Then bolder. Squeezing. Stroking. He closed his eyes and tried to keep breathing. Each touch, each stroke, sent shivers of desire through his body. This was the woman he wanted beside him for the rest of eternity.
When she began to rub his shaft against her cleft, his heart jumped. She was ready to make love. This time, he was ready to give her everything. Body and soul.
He slid a hand into her hair, cradling her head to devour her with passionate kisses. With his other hand, he guided his shaft to her opening. Before entering, he paused to get her attention. “I’m sorry… This may sting.”
She licked his lower lip and smiled. “You’ll make it feel better.”
Or die trying.
He swept his tongue into her mouth and grasped her by the hips. Slowly, gently, he rocked into her inch by careful inch.
She gasped once, but held him even tighter until his shaft was fully seated within her. Her kisses became more heated. He hesitated, wanting to give her body time to get accustomed to being stretched like this. She wiggled against him, indicating she had no wish to keep waiting.
Thank God.
Still gripping her hips, he drew almost completely out, then drove himself back inside. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders. His heartbeat doubled. She was perfect for him. He wanted to be the same for her.
He slid a hand down so that his thumb could tease her nub as his shaft pistoned within her. Spine arching, her head lolled backward and her eyelids fluttered in pleasure. His body tightened in response, longing for release.
He lowered his mouth to her neck and touched his tongue to her throat. Her pulse raced as rapidly as his own. The proof of her desire was everywhere. The passion blurring her eyes. The slick wetness at her core. The spice of lovemaking in the air. But the proof of her love was still locked in her heart.
His muscles tightened as something unfurled in his chest. He wasn’t an incomplete man. Not any longer. He kissed her deeply. Thanks to Daphne, he had finally found himself again. Was able to give himself fully. Her legs tightened about his hips, their softness only making him harder. His blood pounded as he took her mouth with kisses. He had never felt so alive.
“Here I am,” he said as his shaft surged within her. “I bare myself before you. I give myself to you completely. What you see is what I am. This is all that I have to offer.”
Her eyes met his, stormy and passionate. She slid her fingers deeper into his hair.
“I love what I see. I love what I feel.” Her inner muscles clenched against him as she rocked against him. “You’ve always been enough, Bartholomew. There is no one I want more.”
“Then marry me,” he begged desperately as his hips slammed into hers. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. “Please.”
Her fingers tightened in his hair and she gasped into his mouth. “Only if you promise to do this every night.”
Victory shot through him. She’d said yes. “With pleasure.”
The moment she arched and her inner muscles contracted about him, he welcomed his own climax at last, releasing himself into her with every thrust of his hips, every beat of his heart. Spent, he cradled her in his arms and held her close.
He had always been hers.
And now, finally, she was his.
TWENTY-FIVE
The next afternoon, Bartholomew and his very real fiancée made the trek to Maidstone to visit his parents. With Daphne at his side, he was finally ready to face his brother’s empty grave.
His parents met them at the small gravesite at the far end of the garden.
His mother held flowers. His father held his hat to his chest. Bartholomew held tight to Daphne’s hand.
A few months earlier, he hadn’t thought himself strong enough to face this moment. To face his devastated parents, or the accusing letters carved into his brother’s tombstone.
It wasn’t easy.
He would never forgive himself for failing to save his twin. Nor did he deserve his parents’ forgiveness, or Sarah’s. He had failed to keep Edmund safe. Failed to bring him home at all. There was no need for a false grave to remind him of what he’d lost. He lived with that failure every single day.
Daphne handed him a clutch of flowers they’d clipped together that morning.
He accepted them with cold fingers, and went to join his mother and father before the chiseled stone. Before laying the flowers on the undisturbed ground, he turned to his parents. Daphne was right. They did love him. Even though Edmund’s death was on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. I’m sorry I ever suggested we give up our foolish rakish lives and purchase a commission to go fight that godforsaken army. I’m sorry I—”
“Son.” His father’s brow creased as he laid a hand on Bartholomew’s arm. “We never blamed you. Edmund was his own person. His death is not your fault.”
Bartholomew felt as if the world had ceased spinning.
“My darling boy.” His mother wrung her pale hands. “We all lost Edmund that day. Not just your father and me. You
lost your twin. And I… we… I’m your mother, and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make anything better. I put up this stone to at least give us something, a symbolic way to unite our family again. But I made it worse. We were still broken. You stopped speaking to me. Your father stopped eating. We were lost. A mother is supposed to keep her family together, and I failed all of you.”
Bartholomew’s heart cracked. He reached for his mother and hugged her tight. “You never did, Mama. You never did.”
“I was no better,” his father said gruffly. “I didn’t know what to say or what to do. Everything I tried came out wrong. I couldn’t console my wife. I couldn’t even console myself. We weren’t avoiding you, son. I thought you’d heal faster without us.”
“No one can heal without their family,” Bartholomew said quietly. It had taken him a long time to figure out the truth. “Healing is family. It’s letting other people in, even when you’re angry or frightened.”
His father’s arms wrapped around them both. “Forgive me, son.”
Bartholomew held them close. “There is nothing to forgive. We’re a family again. From now on, we’ll miss him together.”
EPILOGUE
They had the wedding in Maidstone, in the nave of her father’s church.
Daphne couldn’t have imagined a better location. Her only regret was that neither her father nor Bartholomew’s brother were still alive to share the moment with them. Her husband’s parents were thrilled, however, and their happy excitement made the ceremony just as joyful.
Afterward, with her hand tucked inside her husband’s, they made their way to his carriage. Bartholomew had managed to politely decline his mother’s repeated invitation to move in with them, but settled on having the wedding breakfast at his parents’ house instead.
Daphne begged him to swing by the vicarage before continuing on to the Blackpool estate, in order to thank the servants who had risked their employment to mail her the stolen betrothal contract. They had valued her happiness above their own, and deserved to know that she was absolutely, positively, euphoric. She was in love with a man who was in love with her. They would forge their future together.
Nothing could have made her happier.
As the landau approached the old vicarage, Bartholomew turned to her with a nostalgic smile. “The last time I directed my carriage to this address, I hadn’t anticipated pitting myself against three men and a pirate for the chance to win your hand.”
“You won then, and you won now.” She blushed. “There was never any contest.”
“Of course not. You were destined to be mine.” His grin was all arrogance. “Only the most lovesick of swains would have pursued you up a tree and over a balcony in the rain.”
She kissed his cheek and whispered, “If you ever do anything that foolish again, I’ll kill you.”
Within moments, they pulled up before the vicarage. Bartholomew leaped out of the carriage to circle around and hand her down. They had scarcely reached the front door when it swung open from within.
Captain Steele stood there to greet them, wine glass in hand. “Good morning, lovebirds. Lost, are we? Now that my ward is married, this is no longer her direction.”
Daphne blinked up at him. “How did you know—”
“How wouldn’t I know?” Captain Steele wiggled his brows. “I sent you the betrothal contract, didn’t I?”
Her mouth fell open. “You sent the contract?”
“No one else could have done. The first thing I did when I inherited this old place was change the combination to the safe.” He swirled his glass of port. “Besides, ’twas your birthday. What with that pittance you call an inheritance, I figured either you’d marry the man you’d rushed into a betrothal with, or you wouldn’t.”
She nearly choked in outrage. “Rushed into a betrothal? You were the one who invited a random assortment of completely unsuitable men in order to pack me off to the first bidder—”
“Not precisely.” Captain Steele cleared his throat and flashed a mischievous smile. “I may have implied that was the case to you, my dear, but Mr. Whitfield and Mr. Fairfax hadn’t the least idea of your existence before they arrived on these premises.”
“Then why—”
“Believe it or not, a man can have business with another man that does not involve marrying one of the lads off to his termagant cousin.” He sipped his port. “I did invite Lambley for you, though not as a suitor. I told him you had become quite despondent when your father died. After that heart-wrenching rejection you’d sent in response to that Ross chit’s soirée invitation—”
“You read my letter to Katherine?” she sputtered.
He arched his eyebrows. “I read all your letters, Mr. Caldwell. Or are we Mr. Smith today?”
Her cheeks heated. Of course he had read her letters.
“At all events,” Captain Steele continued. “I told Lambley what a wet blanket it was to have you mope around all maudlin, locking yourself in your chamber for days on end, pretending to be bourgeois gentlemen and whatnot. Didn’t seem healthy. I thought the duke might be able to cheer you up, or at least talk you into going somewhere else. Your depression was beginning to wear on my nerves.”
“Then why did you tell me you intended to give me to one of those men?” she demanded. “You threatened me with Bedlam if I didn’t comply.”
“I knew you’d have none of it, of course.” He drained the last of his port. “As inventive and stubborn as you are in fighting for your ‘causes’, I knew my best hope for marrying you off was tricking you into doing it yourself. You sent for Major Blackpool here within minutes of my little fib, and you brought him up to scratch quite nicely, I daresay. Well done.”
Her mouth fell open. She slanted a disbelieving gaze toward her husband. “I cannot credit that he lied about forcing me into an unwanted betrothal just so I’d pick someone I did want.”
“That is devious,” Bartholomew admitted. He swung her into his arms and spun them toward the carriage. “But I can’t say I’m displeased with the outcome.”
“What are you doing?” she hissed into his shoulder. “You can’t just pick me up and turn our backs on the captain without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Why not? I’m sure he does that sort of thing all the time,” Bartholomew answered drolly as they reached the landau. “’Tis our wedding day, my love. If you’ll recall, you had me make you a certain… promise?”
Her neck flushed as she remembered the feel of him driving into her as he begged her to marry him. How she’d wanted him to make love to her again and again. She settled herself into the carriage and curved her lips into a seductive smile. “I believe you vowed quite convincingly that you’d be interested in repeating the act?”
“Quite interested,” he agreed. He swung onto the seat beside her and stole her breath with a heated kiss. “Every day for the rest of our lives.”
She spread her fingers over his chest. “And every night?”
“And every minute.” He wrapped his fingers about the reins and glanced over his shoulder at the empty road. “I can park this carriage around the next corner if you’d prefer not to wait for a proper bed.”
She grinned wickedly and slid her hand into her husband’s lap. “Perhaps you’d better.”
They arrived forty-five minutes late to their own wedding breakfast, and quite suspiciously disheveled.
But they couldn’t have looked happier.
The End
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Darcy Burke, Emma Locke, Jackie Barbosa, and Morgan Edens for their advice and encouragement.
I also want to thank my incredible street team (the Light-Skirts Brigade rocks!!) and all the readers in the Dukes of War facebook group. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.
Thank you so much!
MORE IN THIS SERIES
Dukes of War Series
The Viscount’s Christmas Temptation
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
The Major’s Faux Fiancée
The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride
The Pirate’s Tempting Stowaway
The Duke’s Accidental Wife
ABOUT ERICA RIDLEY
ERICA RIDLEY learned to read when she was three, which was about the same time she decided to be an author when she grew up.
Now, she's a USA Today best-selling author of historical romance novels. Her latest series, The Dukes of War, features roguish peers and dashing war heroes who return from battle only to be thrust into the splendor and madness of Regency England.
When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.
For more information, please visit ericaridley.com.