by Maya Rodale
Kingston just listened and held her hand.
“She didn’t leave him. Because of some notion of a woman’s noble duty to submit to her husband. Because of her honor. Because of me.”
Kingston held her gaze. She saw the flash of understanding in his eyes.
“I saw her give and give and give until there was nothing else left of her. And I saw her husbands take and take and take.” She paused, struggling to find the words. “I have something now—independence, security. I have something that is mine. And I have created a refuge for women who have nowhere else to go, except for marriages to men like Thomas, John, and Charles. I cannot risk giving it up. So, my dear duke, that is what I know about marriage.”
“And what do you know about love?”
“The dime novels that Rose and all the seamstresses read, I suppose. And you?”
“The poets, I guess.”
“What a pair we are.”
What she could not say—what she dare not say—was that she suspected that this feeling was something like love.
They were both so out of place here, yet she’d never felt more at home than this: holding his hand, confessing to the darkness of her past, her deepest fears, and her pride in the future she had fashioned for herself with nothing more than a needle, thread, gumption, and luck.
It was desire that made the heat blossom in her belly, made her achingly aware of his touch. It was desire that compelled her to press her body to his, feel the warm, firm expanse of his chest under her palms. To feel his arms around her, to feel him inside her. It was desire that inspired the wicked, sensual thoughts spiraling in her head.
But everything else might be love.
“At a moment like this, after we have bared our souls to each other, I think there is only one thing to do,” she said.
“I hope it involves holding you close.”
“Oh, it does,” she said with a laugh as she stood and pulled him to the crowd of dancers. The hours passed in a blur of temptation. Dancing meant having him holding her close. Dancing meant feeling his body move against hers. Dancing meant breathing him in. Dancing meant forgetting everything—everything—except for the feel of their bodies intertwined and moving together. There was no risk of being seen here. As long as they were just dancing, there was no risk of anything else.
When the hour had grown impossibly late, but hearts were still pounding, they clamored into a hired carriage. Kingston told the driver an address uptown.
Adeline did not protest. She climbed into that carriage with her eyes wide open.
She loved him. She could see no future together that would make them both happy. He wanted to be a man befitting his station and that man wouldn’t marry an American upstart who refused to surrender her hard-won independence.
But they had tonight.
Chapter Twenty-three
The only thing anyone is discussing is the outrageous, ostentatious display that was Mrs. Carlyle’s masquerade ball. The fact that such a gauche display of wealth even happened while people go hungry in the streets shall be the topic of conversation for weeks. Then, perhaps, society will get around to discussing what happened at the party. Or after.
—The New York World
The Fifth Avenue Hotel
The hour was late—that darkest hour before dawn—when the carriage rolled to a stop before the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
Like a gentleman, Kingston held out his hand and helped Adeline alight.
Everyone had long since retired and the usually busy lobby was desolate. This time there was no one present to watch them, save for a lone bellman who was barely awake. Any pesky reporters or gossipers and gawkers were all still at the Carlyle mansion, watching the guests depart. They would be able to slip through the dimly lit lobby undetected.
When Kingston reached a certain point, he stopped.
“It was here that I first saw you.”
Kingston stood in the exact place. He had stopped in his tracks—then and now—at the sight of Adeline striding toward him purposefully, hips swaying. It was mesmerizing.
His heart pounded in his chest.
He knew where she was going. Where this was going. And it meant something to him. Tonight, he sensed, would be one of those before and after dividing lines where nothing would ever be the same again.
She gave him a playful smile and stepped into his waiting arms. Her warmth, her scent enveloped him. Then and now, he felt her breasts brush against his chest. She tipped her head up to look at him.
“It was here that I first saw you, Duke.”
His hands slipped around her waist, as if to catch her, as if to hold her. He gazed down at her upturned face. Those sparkling doe eyes. That rosebud mouth. That sweet, coy smile. It undid him. Then, now.
“I wanted to hold you. Like this.” He pulled her closer, tighter against his chest.
“I wasn’t exactly quick to move away,” she murmured, smoothing her hands along his chest possessively and he thought, Hold on to me.
“Then I watched you walk away,” he whispered. The agonies of that moment struck him all the more intensely now.
“Like this?”
She turned and walked away now, giving an extra swing and sway to her hips and he was helpless to look away. She turned and smiled at him over her shoulder—her bare shoulder. That smile was an invitation to pleasure.
He dashed after her. Caught her up in his arms, whirled her around and set her down in front of the elevators. A little display of heroics.
“I must confess that I find you enchanting.”
“Of course you do.” She laughed.
The elevator attendant was ready and waiting to take them upstairs to his suite of rooms. If the elevator attendant found anything remotely interesting or remarkable about the scene, he did not reveal it. Hand in hand, they stepped into the enclosed velvet carriage that would take them to the top floor, to his rooms, to his bed.
At his floor they stepped out of the elevator.
They were alone in the dimly lit corridor.
“New York City girls are different from the ones in London,” he said softly.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” she murmured, twirling around him in a swirl of white silk.
“Show me.” This time it was a fervent wish, a plea.
He opened the door to his suite and immediately shut it behind them.
“We talked about finding the one,” he whispered between kisses. He could kiss her now, because they were alone and no one could see and because he couldn’t not kiss her now.
Kingston pulled back to gaze down at this woman—this one woman who refused him. Who didn’t fall for the trappings of his title or his position. Who was here because she wanted him and that was the most erotic thing he had ever encountered.
“And then I was enchanted. And then I wasn’t thinking about talking at all.”
“So let’s not talk,” she murmured.
And so they did not.
He claimed her mouth with his for a kiss that revealed what he didn’t have the words to say. God, he wanted this. Her. To lose himself in only this moment with this woman. To forget about before and after, why he should not and all the reasons he must not. He refused to think of duty and honor and all those things. He sank into this kiss, with this girl, on this night, in this moment. He was prepared to give up everything, but the funny thing was, it felt rather a lot like finding himself. Like whole pieces of his heart coming together.
The riot of thoughts in Adeline’s head disappeared the minute Kingston’s mouth claimed hers. All questions of what if and what next fled. She had been thinking about what she was doing here. She hadn’t forgotten all that she risked by being here with him. But she believed in him and she believed in what her body demanded: his touch, his kiss, him.
And so the only thoughts in her head now were yes and please and don’t ever stop.
He tugged at the silk and tulle artfully arranged around her shoulders. With that out of the way
, he pressed kisses along her bare skin and, oh.
More of that, yes, more.
He kissed her again, a deep need-you-like-air kind of kiss. He sank his fingertips into her coiffure and she didn’t care at all that it was wrecked in an instant.
If dresses were a lady’s armor and protection as she went out into the world, a dress was unnecessary here. Now. At this hour and with this man, there was no question about stripping it all away and laying herself bare to him. She wanted to feel like a woman—just a woman—without all the things that held her in and slowed her down.
But the thing with dresses was removing them.
“You could just rip it off,” she gasped, between kisses, as he was fumbling with the buttons at the back of her gown. “I’m given to understand that men do that. Apparently women love it.”
“And violate this work of art? Oh, no. Slowly and carefully removing it will be its own kind of exquisitely agonizing pleasure.”
He gave her a smile that set the butterflies in her belly into flight.
The duke was right.
The anticipation of being nude before him for the duration of a slow, careful dress removal was just . . . insane. She thought she’d go mad waiting as his fingers took care of each button and lace.
Finally, the gown was slipped off and tossed aside, nothing but a heap of virginal white silk draped over the settee. But still, there were layers and layers of fabric between them. Each petticoat or chemise or scrap of silk was another chance for her to say no. To say never mind. To say I’ve given the matter some consideration and. . . .
Yes. God, yes. She had given the matter some consideration and decided to remove his jacket. She started tugging it off, and then some of Saville Row’s finest tailoring fell to a heap on the floor, where it belonged. At least for tonight.
All the other pieces and underthings followed, and she felt freer and more wanton with each piece that landed on the floor.
He pulled her chemise off and cast it aside, then she made short work of the buttons on his silk vest.
They continued like that, back and forth, exchanging one layer for another until there was nothing left but him and her and the undeniable, palpable desire between them.
“You’ll need to design something far more easy to remove,” he murmured as his mouth found hers in the dark. She shuddered with the pleasure of it and in anticipation of the pleasure that was to come.
“I do.”
“But only for me and only for you.”
“I will,” she whispered.
I do. I will. The words aroused him like nothing else. Those were yes and forever words, which was good because Kingston knew there was no going back to his previous plans after this night. The rest of his life would be divided into Before He Saw Adeline Naked in the Moonlight and simply After.
Nothing would ever be the same for him again.
For better or for worse.
He lay her down on his bed. Dark eyes, gazing up at him. Dark hair fanned along his pillow. He gazed down at her—the smooth expanse of skin, the swells of her breasts and the dusky pink centers, down to the round of her belly, the curve of her hips, and the dark thatch at the vee of her thighs.
“You’re so beautiful, Adeline. I feel lucky to look at you.”
He lowered his head to kiss her again, tasting sweetness and champagne on her lips. He kissed her, skin against bare skin, until he was so hard and so ready that he could scarcely think of anything besides being inside of her. Kingston kissed her, drawing a sigh from her lips. He moaned when she threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him deeply.
“I haven’t forgotten that time with you in the carriage,” she whispered between kisses.
“Yes.” His palm closed around her breast and she gasped.
“I think about it every night.”
“Yes.” He toyed with the pink center of her breast and she moaned.
“I imagine . . . more.”
“Me too.”
He was hard and ready to give her everything in his power to give her. His love, his attention, the pleasure from his touch.
So he kissed her. Her lips, yes, he started there, slipping his tongue against the seam of her mouth so she opened to him and kissed him deeply.
He traveled lower tasting every inch of her skin—the column of her throat, that little hollow between her collarbone, her breasts. Oh, damn, her breasts. He tasted one, then the other, teasing her with his tongue. He licked, he sucked, he lavished his attentions on those pink buds of pleasure until she was gasping for breath and writhing beneath him.
Then he went lower.
Leaving a trail of hot kisses across her belly.
And then he went lower still.
“Adeline,” he whispered. And all she said was “mmm . . .” and that was all he needed to hear. He kissed her there. With his tongue he licked and teased her hot center. Each moan, each yes drove him deeper. He made slow, determined circles around that center of her pleasure until her sighs and moans were more intense, louder. He slid in one finger, then another. She was tight around him, and so wet with wanting. Maybe even almost as much as he wanted her. Right here. Right now.
But first: her. Kingston had all night. Days. Forever. He kissed and stroked, licked and sucked and reveled with the frantic pace of her breaths, the increasing crescendo of her cries and then . . .
. . . And then Adeline couldn’t take it anymore. The warmth of his body, the fire of his touch; it was all too damn much. The way his fingers stroked her to increasing heights of ecstasy. Too, too damn much.
That unbearable pleasure made her cry out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t control anything . . . and so she surrendered. Fully, completely, utterly surrendered. And that meant more waves of pleasure crashing and . . . Oh.
She had imagined this each and every night and it paled compared to the reality of his touch, his mouth, his constant, relentlessly loving attentions.
And this was only the beginning. She felt his hot, hard length against her thigh, against her belly as he dragged himself up to kiss her on the lips.
Kingston pulled back to gaze at her and was intoxicated by the way he looked at her, like bringing her such pleasure was the single greatest thing he had ever done.
“Tell me what is next, Adeline.”
He hovered above her.
She felt a wicked smile on her lips.
“Everything,” she whispered. “Everything.”
His gaze raked over her body—her bare breasts, the curves of her belly and hips, her naked thighs—at once curious and possessive. She saw the rake and rogue that he had been and she saw the powerful man he was becoming. There was no missing the way he adored her. If there was any doubt in her mind, he soon made it very, very clear.
Kingston hovered over Adeline, enjoying the view of her bare skin in the moonlight, the tempting glimmer in her eyes, the seductive way she bit her lip.
“Everything,” she whispered. “Everything.”
“Let me give you everything,” he whispered, after he slipped on a protective sheath and rolled above her. He lowered his lips to hers and lowered his weight upon her. His cock was hard and straining at her entrance. She felt ready—warm and wet for him—and if he had any doubt, the way she wrapped her legs around him and arched her back made it very clear.
Everything meant she wanted him inside her. Now.
A gentleman always obliged a lady.
And that was the last thought about gentlemanly behavior he had.
This was a moment—the before and after moment—that he wanted to remember forever. So he went slow, inch by tantalizing and torturous inch. Nothing would ever be the same, he knew that, but he couldn’t resist the way forward. Not when she was this warm and wanting.
“Oh God, Adeline,” he rasped as he sank fully inside her.
“Yes,” she gasped, rocking her hips. “Yes.”
And he started to move
inside her. They were unsteady and uneven at first, but they slowly and surely found their rhythm together with each thrust and rock of her hips rising to meet him. Each thrust went deeper, each thrust brought them closer together, and each thrust added to that steadily increasing pressure building inside him. So. Much. Fucking. Feeling. He couldn’t get enough, he couldn’t catch his breath, he couldn’t do anything but this.
He sank his fingers into her hair, she raked her fingers down his bare back.
He kissed her deeply.
She moaned in his ear.
Like that they moved, shifting positions but always tangled up in each other. He learned the little things that drove her wild—a nibble at her earlobe, a hard suck on her fingers, taking her breasts in his mouth—all the little things that made her her, the one and only woman he wanted to know like this. The only woman who cried out like that as orgasm after orgasm crashed over her.
Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed hard, he held on tight, and he surrendered. When he came, he shouted out her name. And then it ended as it began: with a kiss.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Duke of Kingston must have a very good reason for not having proposed to Miss Van Allen yet. One can only imagine what it might be.
—The New York World
The next morning
Kingston awoke with Adeline in his arms. The first light of morning drifted through the windows, which revealed an impressive view of the city just starting to wake. But the scene inside the room was more captivating, more enchanting.
Adeline in his bed. Adeline in his arms. Her body entwined with his.
The events of the previous evening, namely the implosion of his courtship with Miss Van Allen, seemed like a lifetime ago. All he had done was go downtown with Adeline. All he had done was make love to her. But in baring his body and baring his soul to this enchanting woman, something had happened.