The Right One (One and Only Series)

by Samanthya Wyatt

  With a feather light touch, one finger slid across her cheek. Her eyes closed. His thumb traced the line of her bottom lip, from one enticing corner to the other. Her lids fluttered. She gave a siren’s smile. A jolt went through his belly.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Unable to resist, he lowered his head and briefly touched his lips to hers. Soft and so damned sweet, just like he’d anticipated.

  His palms gently gripped her shoulders and pulled her closer. Her breasts meshed with his chest. The hitch in her breathing had been music to his ears, but her eager response staggered him. He held her mouth open while he plundered the secrets within. Hoping he did not scare her, for she made it damned difficult to restrain his passion, demanding to be released.

  Morgan let his lips linger, and then he forced himself to pull back. Encouraged she did not resist him, he placed a gentle kiss on her temple. He kissed her brow, her eyes, her nose. Leaning back, he searched her eyes for breathless moments. Then, he ever so slowly, lessened the distance, and once again, tenderly put his mouth on hers.

  Sensations he believed long dead swept him. His lips moved over hers, needing more. He touched the tip of his tongue to the seam of her lips. When his tongue teased its way into her mouth, her hands tangled in his hair and he caught her gasp of pleasure. A deep sense of satisfaction filled him. He took advantage. Kissing her slowly, leisurely—savoring every drop of her fervent embrace.

  Good God. She moaned.

  His mind reeled. The sweet sound urged him on. One hand reached for her breast before he realized what he’d done.

  She gave herself, willingly. Such hunger from an innocent.

  He could not lose his head. With disciplined strength, he pulled away.

  An ache spread through his lower region. He studied her, flush from his kisses, her lids closed. The need to possess—the urge to protect . . . Blood and the devil. He’d never been so consumed with a woman. His stomach tensed to rock hardness. She’d plagued his thoughts for weeks. He could not lose control now. He loosened his hold.

  “What? No whack up side my head,” he whispered.

  She smiled before opening her eyes. “At the moment my hands are otherwise occupied. My disposition is such I shall ignore your teasing and enjoy this occurrence.”

  Morgan exhaled a deep sigh. “You have me at sixes and sevens, Katherine. I never know what to expect from you.”

  She pulled free. “You should not expect anything, my lord.”

  “My lord? Why so formal after . . .”

  She placed her fingers over his lips. “Please. Don’t ruin it.” She puckered her lips and whispered, “Shhhhh.”

  His mouth slightly opened and he drew one finger inside. He sucked the tip while his eager tongue laved her sensitive flesh. At her gasp, his chest lurched and his cock thickened. Forcing his mind to govern his urges, he ignored his baser instincts to throw up her skirts and satisfy his gnawing hunger.

  Suddenly, withdrawing her fingers, she blew him a kiss. The damned minx. Then she lifted the hem of her gown and hurried back to the manor.

  Chapter 20

  Morgan holed up in his study with the insane thought that if he buried his head in paperwork, the effort would keep him from thinking of Katherine. He agonized over every note, every figure, forcing his mind to concentrate on the Whetherford accounts.

  It was useless.

  She’d been gone three days. Not an hour of the day went by that he didn’t ache for her. He envisioned his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her face closer, closer for his kiss. And what a kiss. Her response had rocked him to his toes. What kept him from taking her there in the garden, he had no idea—for he’d wanted her badly.

  He leaned back in his leather chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Her scent still lingered in the air. He closed his eyes and saw luxurious waves of amber silk. He imagined getting lost in that cloud of velvet while spread across his pillow. He imagined alabaster breasts with aroused beading nipples. Long sleek thighs open in invitation.

  Blood and the devil.

  He shoved out of his chair with the force of a strong wind. Frustration propelled him out of doors. Determined to push her from his mind, he’d saddled his stallion. Spirited as ever, Thunder pranced, anxious to make a mad dash across the open field. Morgan gave him his head and they took off at a furious pace, racing until both were exhausted. Orange streaks grazed the evening sky, alerting him to the lateness of the hour.

  An owl hooted in the distance. A lonely sound. He clicked his tongue and brought Thunder about. Then, sinking in the saddle, he gave Thunder free rein—the stallion knew his way home. With a lazy rhythm, Morgan rocked as hooved footfalls plodded home.

  He peered at the stars and wondered if the man in the moon was lonely. He had been lonely most of his adult life. He’d never allowed the feeling to enter his seclusion—at least he’d never admitted his lonesomeness. Looking back, he’d been too busy putting his neck on the line to let the emptiness sink in. But it was there. Pulling at him—enticing him to sink down in further misery—deeper depression. The loss of his family nearly devastated him. Cocky in his youth, he thrilled at adventure and spit at danger. What idiocy. He often wondered if his parents’ spirit had kept him safe. Watched over and sheltered him from his own folly.

  A light glowed from the stables, outlining a man’s form. George. One of many men Morgan had met while on his road to destruction. Even though he’d been branded a dark devil, he managed to make lifelong friends along the way. He tugged the reins and brought Thunder to a halt.

  George waited with his arms braced on his hips. “Out kinda late. Was thinkin’ maybe I ought to come fetch ya.”

  With a smile, Morgan shifted in the saddle. “Worried about me, were you?”

  “Nah,” George said. “A mite worried about the horse.”

  Morgan grabbed the saddle-horn and dismounted. Holding the bit, he brushed Thunder’s mane. “You hear that, boy? He thinks more of you than me.”

  “That’s cause I know you can take care of yourself.” George leaned to the side and spit a stream of brown juice in the dirt.

  Five years ago, on a grievous mission, George had been a contact. Morgan quickly learned the man’s worth. When the time came for him to return to Whetherford, he offered George a position—which was a good thing, for he’d saved Morgan’s hide in that London back-alley. “Even after my fiasco involving a pretty redhead?”

  “You’re here, ain’t ya?”

  “Thanks to you,” Morgan replied.

  George grunted. “Giles’ man rode over here a while ago. Left a note at the main house. I’ll take Thunder.” George reached for the reins. “Come on, boy. I got a big bag of oats for ya.”

  Morgan sharply turned on his heel and headed for the manor. As soon as he closed the door, he yelled, “Frederick?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  He came out of nowhere. The man was a damned ghost.

  “I understand the Duke’s man was here.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Frederick held out a folded parchment with the Duke’s seal. Morgan tore it open.

  “Good, God.” He folded the missive and marched to his study—the sound of his booted heels impatient. He closed the study door and walked behind his desk. Pulling the note from his pocket, he smoothed the parchment open and stared at the words.

  We found him.

  You’ll be happy to know he’s in one piece—barely.

  Giles

  Albert picked up his pipe and ambled to the hearth. Propping an elbow on top of the ledge, he took a puff of tobacco and lifted his face toward the ceiling. Rings of smoke swirled in the air. Heat penetrated his skin, but the warmth inside came from knowing his nephew had been found. Thank God.

  By thunder, I knew Giles was the man.

  Giles—not
the duke—had lived up to his reputation. From the sound of things, he had been the perfect selection. The duke also had a reputation. Spotless. Honorable. A nobleman descended from a long line of respectable dukes. Both men, dualistically speaking, were praiseworthy. His first choice, Whetherford, had to occupy his niece, so he moved on to his second choice—equally proficient.

  Yes, he’d been aware of his niece’s behavior. He prided himself as an excellent judge of character and interpreting a person’s body language. His instincts had never failed. And he had directed many exploits on his correct assumptions.

  The door behind him opened.

  “Albert. You sent for me?” Elizabeth stood with her hand still on the doorknob. His heart twisted at the anxious look on her face. The love he had for his wife went beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Raw emotions bubbled to the surface. He turned his back to the burning logs.

  “Come in, my dear.” Albert strode to his desk and placed his pipe in a marble bowl. When the door closed, he held his arms open. He loved this wonderful woman. For thirty years she’d been by his side. They’d shared many blessings, and he considered Katherine one of their best. Even though he and Elizabeth had no children of their own, the love they shared made his life complete. There was nothing like the warmth of a good woman.

  Elizabeth slid her hands around his middle. “You’re scaring me. Has there been news?”

  “Can I not enjoy holding my wife?” Albert pulled her close. “Yes, my dear. I won’t make you wait. Stephen is safe.”

  Elizabeth jerked back. Her anxious eyes stared up at him. “Stephen? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Lizzy. He’s coming home.” Albert caressed her cheek with his thumb. “I hope those are happy tears.”

  “Oh, Albert.” She hugged him fiercely. All the months of keeping her fears in check suddenly dissolved as the floodgates holding her tears burst open.

  He held her until her sobs quieted and her shoulders stopped shaking, all the while soothing her with long strokes up and down her spine. When she calmed, she stepped back and brushed at her face.

  “We must tell Katherine. Right away.”

  “Tell me what?”

  When Aunt Elizabeth turned, tears shimmered and she hurriedly dabbed her eyes. Kat’s blood chilled.

  “Oh, God. Stephen.” She flung her hand to her throat in despair.

  As if her uncle realized her thoughts, he took a step forward with out-stretched hands. “Stephen is safe.”

  Her eyes darted to his. Once his words registered, she wobbled. “Thank God.”

  He rushed forward and put his arm around her shoulders. “My dear, he’s all right.”

  “My head is spinning.”

  “He’s coming home.” Elizabeth said in a choked voice. She swiped a bead of moisture off her cheek.

  “When I saw your tears . . . I thought.” Kat rested her gaze on her aunt, and choked back a hysterical laugh. Then she turned to her uncle. “It’s true?”

  His gaze softened and he smiled in reply.

  Her mother and father had died. She feared Stephen had met his fate. She waited for her aunt and uncle to take her seriously when she voiced her apprehension. They ignored her, kept her in the dark. She didn’t like being told all was well and she not concern herself—given any number of excuses. She hadn’t wanted to disappoint them with her brazenness, but she’d known her brother was in trouble long ago. And she’d not changed her mind in the months since. Missing her brother as she did, she wasn’t one to sit back, like a prim and proper miss, and do nothing.

  If only her uncle had told her and not concealed the fact he not only had concerns, but had acted on them. Finding out her uncle was as worried as she had her conflicted. Scared that he shared her fears, yet glad he searched for Stephen.

  She’d waited so long for news. Tears of relief stemmed her eyes.

  “You’ve heard from him? When?”

  “Come. Sit.” He led her to the sofa and she collapsed. “I’ll explain.” He gestured to the opposite settee. “Please, Lizzy.”

  A frantic expression crossed her aunt’s face.

  “I’ll tell you what I know.”

  He guided her to the cushion and then sat beside her.

  Katherine’s nervous fingers pulled at her skirts. Unable to remain still, she leaned forward on the edge of her seat. “Where is he?”

  Trepidation glittered in his eyes. He glanced to Elizabeth, then back to her. “India.”

  “India?” An uneasiness settled into the pit of her stomach. “What is he doing there?”

  Elizabeth leaned forward and placed her hand over Albert’s. In turn, he cupped his hand over hers and squeezed. “Stephen’s ship crashed upon some rocks in Indian waters.”

  Aunt Elizabeth jerked her hand, covering her mouth.

  “But he survived.” The first thing her uncle had said assured her Stephen was alive.

  “Yes,” Albert replied. “He was hurt and has been recuperating.”

  “Why didn’t he send word before now? Uncle. How bad was Stephen hurt? Are you sure he’s alright?” Her anxiety grew.

  “Katherine, my dear. I assure you. Stephen is well and on his way home.”

  Kat sat on a velvet cushioned stool in front of her looking glass. Had Morgan been responsible for finding her brother? She’d done the right thing in approaching him. And now Stephen was coming home.

  One hand held the silver brush, as the other twisted a strand around her fingers. Remembering Morgan’s kiss, she studied her lips, noting their fullness. She raised her hand, placing her fingers over her mouth. Her eyes closed and his image flourished clear in her mind, reawakening sensations. The man sure knew how to kiss.

  Dear God, how she wanted to experience his touch again. He made her want to do things. Like kiss him forever. Touch him in ways that a woman would touch a man.

  She caught herself. Certainly understandable why young girls needed chaperones.

  Morgan.

  She couldn’t help it. He fascinated her like no other man she’d met. The London dandies had been more interested in themselves, than in her. Rakes flirted outrageously, and what her uncle called young bucks had gone out of their way to get her attention. Even at her coming out, she’d not found anyone who caught her interest. She’d been curious about kissing, but no one made her desire a second one. No one made her mind fog over, let alone her toes curl.

  This dark, threatening, brooding, mysterious man pulled at her heart strings. She’d never felt these perplexing feelings before. Why now? What was different about Morgan?

  The man could be maddening. Keeping her locked up in a room for weeks. But then, she shouldn’t blame him entirely for the mistake. Oh how she’d grown to hate that word. And it really wasn’t his fault. If not for the blunder in identities, she would never have met Lord Whetherford.

  Morgan.

  Since meeting him, she’d done her share of naughty thinking. She’d had lurid notions. Shocking ideas. And she just couldn’t help herself. Every moment she spent with him lifted her mind and her spirit, creating a mystical excitement. An awakening within that roused her with burning curiosity.

  A sudden image of Charity flashed in her mind—a dreamy look of contentment.

  It will be something like you’ve never felt before in your life.

  After that kiss, there was no doubt—Morgan was the man she wanted. Never had a man triggered such an impact on her sensibilities. His kiss lured her into a world she’d never experienced before. Oh, how she wanted to explore the feelings that had sprung to life. That quivered her flesh right down to her very bones. Morgan was the one she fancied to teach her passion. The one to answer the craving of what she had yet to learn. She knew she would never find this magnetism with another man. With him, maybe she would experience w
hat Charity and Byron shared.

  She held the back of her hand against her mouth to suppress a yawn. The lamp cast a soft glow about her form while highlighting her crimson hair. A mirror image?

  The other woman popped in her head—the woman she’d been mistaken for. Doubts assailed her. Could Morgan be attracted to her because she resembled the one he tried to find in London? What was Juliana to Morgan? Did Juliana have a place in his heart?

  She shook the unwelcome thought away. She was not jealous. Besides, Morgan searched for Juliana because she stole from him—nothing more.

  Kat laid down the brush and strode to the window, her fingers pushed aside the sheer covering. As she gazed into the darkness, she saw dark eyes—black as midnight. Curly blue-black hair—she craved to run her fingers through its silky softness again.

  I suppose I should thank him.

  It’s the proper thing to do.

  Yes, she would go to Morgan and thank him for his part in finding her brother. A note would not do. She must thank him in person.

  With that decision made, the next one would be much harder. She strode back and forth across the hand-woven carpet at the foot of her bed. What reason could she invent to go to Whetherford Manor?

  None.

  None that would satisfy her uncle.

  Chapter 21

  Frustration of this kind was making him unbalanced.