by Darcy Burke
He began to move his lips across hers, showing her that kissing could be varied and exploratory. After a moment, he touched his tongue to her flesh, eliciting a soft gasp. She drew back slightly, her eyes opening just after his.
“Perhaps that’s enough.”
“No, that was nice. I was just…surprised. I’d forgotten about the tongue part.”
He could only imagine the awful way in which Rufus had tried to kiss her. Kit battled between drawing a halt to his madness and wanting to show her that not all men were animals, that she could enjoy this.
“I liked that.” She wiggled slightly on his lap, making his cock even harder, if that were possible. “I trust you to make sure I like the tongue part.”
She trusted him. He couldn’t turn her away. And he couldn’t screw this up.
“If you want to touch me, you can. With your hands,” he clarified.
She put her hands around his neck. “Like this?”
“Whatever you like. I’m fairly certain there isn’t a bad way you could touch me.”
Her eyes darkened, and in that moment, he knew she was thinking of all the horrible ways in which she’d been touched.
“Oh, Verity, my love.” The endearment fell from his lips without thought. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you—or Beau. I would protect you with my life.”
“Kiss me. I would like to forget every other kiss but yours.”
Kit clasped her waist with both hands and eased her from his lap as he stood from the chair. Disappointment flashed across her face. She thought he meant to dismiss her. Nothing could be further from his plan.
He cupped her face, intent on doing precisely what she asked, on banishing every other memory. “From this moment on, you will only think of my lips on yours. Of my tongue in your mouth. Of yours in mine. Of our mouths moving and dancing together and giving each other pleasure. Nothing but pleasure.”
He gazed at her intently and drew her flush against his chest as his mouth descended on hers. He moved more purposefully this time, his lips molding to hers, his head tilting to fit himself better to her.
This time when he slid his tongue along the crease of her mouth, she opened slightly. He thrust inside, carefully, reverently, his tongue sweeping against hers. He stroked her back as he held her close, his hands working in concert with his mouth to coax her body into a state of bliss.
She put her arms around his neck, her hands clutching at his bare flesh beneath the collar of his shirt. Need pulsed through him, but he kept himself in check. Everything depended on his control, on his mastery.
He bent her back slightly, and she had to hold on to him tightly. He moved one hand up to cup her nape as he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth. Then he pulled away, giving them a brief respite of air before taking her into another kiss. She moaned softly into his mouth and pressed her body up into his, her breasts warm and soft against his chest.
On and on he kissed her—driving forward and easing back, holding her all the while as if she were the most precious cargo he’d ever possessed.
Her fingers wrapped around his shirt, tugging on the fabric so that it dug into his neck. Her body moved against his, her pelvis stirring beneath his.
The bed was so close…
He eased back one last time and brought her to a straight standing position. He couldn’t let this go on. As it was, he was going to have to frig himself the minute she left.
“Was I successful?” He shouldn’t have asked, but if he’d failed, he reasoned he’d have to try again. Or so he hoped.
“Very. Perhaps too much.” Her lips curled into a faint smile, and his knees went weak. She dropped her hands from his neck and took a tiny step back. “Thank you. I should go to bed.” She retreated another step.
“That’s probably wise.”
Her eyes widened briefly, and she gave her head a shake. “I need to get the ointment. Wait here.”
He wanted to tell her they’d apply it in the morning, but knew it was an argument he’d lose. She was the master of this castle, and he liked it that way.
In her absence, his ardor cooled, thanks in part to his brain telling his body to calm the hell down. He slipped the letter and the ledger from his garments and tucked them into a dresser drawer.
When she returned, she applied the ointment, then wrapped a bandage around his hand. “I’ll re-dress this tomorrow. We’ll tell Beau you had an accident in the lumber room. Some wood splintered and cut your face as well as your hand.”
That was a far better excuse than what Kit had come up with. “I was going to say I fell down the stairs. Your tale is less detrimental to my pride.”
She laughed, and his ardor stirred again. Everything about her made him want her. Fiercely.
She picked up his basin and the bloody cloth.
“You don’t have to take those.”
“I don’t want the maid to find them tomorrow. It’s fine. This is what mothers do—not that I’m your mother.”
He winced. “Never that, please.”
“No, never that,” she agreed softly, her eyes fixed on his mouth.
And suddenly, his cock was at full staff again. “You’d better go,” he rasped.
She gave a sharp nod. “Good night. Sleep well.” Then she turned and walked to the door, which she’d left ajar when she’d returned with the medicine.
He followed her and held the door for her as she walked over the threshold. “Sleep well, Verity.”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, and he thought she might say something. In the end, she turned her head back and walked toward her room at the end of the corridor. He watched her until her door was closed, then he went into his chamber and shut the door, immediately collapsing against the wood.
Well, this had been an eventful night. He’d been alarmed as hell to learn that someone knew he wasn’t the duke.
And now he knew Verity didn’t think he was either. He would bet his life she wasn’t the person who’d told Cuddy—that made no sense given the timing of Cuddy’s departure and the nature of her relationship with her former steward.
Which meant there absolutely was a third person who knew Kit was lying. He had to find that person and make sure they kept the secret. Because he meant what he’d told her—he wasn’t going to leave. Not now. Not if she didn’t want him to, and maybe that would change once she learned who he really was and why he’d masqueraded as Rufus in the first place. He had to tell her the truth, and probably sooner rather than later. He winced, thinking she might very well toss him out and that he’d deserve it.
But until she did, this was a secret he’d do anything to protect.
Chapter 12
Nearly every morning, Beau woke up and came into Verity’s chamber. Sometimes it was very early and sometimes it was later, but the routine was the same. He’d come in, and if she was still abed, he’d climb in with her. If she was in the middle of her morning toilet, he would sit with her while her maid helped her prepare for the day. Someday, perhaps soon, that might become awkward for him—to see her in a state of undress. Then he’d probably just wait in her chamber. Until he went off to school. How she dreaded that day.
But today was not that day, and he sat on a chair in her dressing area, his legs dangling as he pumped his feet impatiently. “Can we go on another picnic today?” he asked.
Verity glanced toward the drizzle hitting her window. “I don’t think so. It’s raining, unfortunately.”
Beau exhaled. “We could have it inside.”
Yes, she supposed they could. Her maid finished the last touches on her hair, and Verity turned toward her son. “You have a very creative mind. Ready for breakfast?”
He bounded from the chair and dashed through her study to the staircase that led down next to the kitchen. From there, she followed him along the short corridor to the small dining room where they’d begun taking breakfast shortly after Rufus had returned.
The sound of Beau’s shriek made her hurry into the
room, and she immediately saw the reason for her son’s distress. Rufus—or whoever he was—was already present in all his wounded glory. She winced at the dark purple bruise marring his cheek. And of course there was the long cut on the other side of his face, hidden if he held himself at a certain angle.
“Papa, what happened?”
She’d expected to be bothered by hearing Beau call this man—this confirmed stranger—Papa now. Shockingly, she wasn’t.
“I’m afraid I had a bit of an accident in the lumber room. But I’m just fine. Come and sit, and I’ll tell you about it.”
Beau sat in his regular chair at the table, while Rufus took his. Verity went to the sideboard and served her son’s plate.
“You’re truly fine?” Beau asked, sounding doubtful.
“Quite. It’s actually rather humorous.” He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “I was trying to cut a piece of wood, and it splintered in a rather spectacular manner. One piece sliced my face here.” He indicated the cut on the side of his face. “And another cut my hand.” He held up his bandaged left hand.
“That doesn’t sound very funny,” Beau said.
“Not particularly, but it’s what happened next. You see, I was so surprised that I spun about in an effort to avoid further injury. But in doing so, I lost my balance and fell into the wall rather hard. Hence this lovely bruise.” He lightly patted his cheek. “I’m glad you and your mother weren’t there, for it was my most graceless moment to date.”
Beau’s eyes were wide, but now they narrowed with laughter as he giggled. “I wish I’d been there so I could have seen it. Also, I would’ve taken care of you.”
Verity set the plate in front of Beau, her heart swelling at the concern he displayed for the man he thought was his father. As for him… Verity turned her head toward him, in awe of the ease with which he’d told this story she’d concocted and how he’d woven it into something amusing and charming, erasing Beau’s apprehension about the event. He was, in a word, wonderful.
“Can I dish up your breakfast?” she asked.
His eyes reflected a flash of surprise. “Thank you. I’ll take—”
“I know what you like.” She gave him a smile as she served him a meat pie, smoked herring, bacon, and two rolls, one with honey and one with marmalade.
As she put the plate in front of him, he looked from it to her with admiration. “You do know what I like.” And then his gaze settled on her mouth, and his meaning was clear—he’d liked kissing her.
Well, good, because she’d more than liked kissing him. She had absolutely nothing to compare it to, but the sensations of joy and pleasure and overwhelming heat had kept her awake nearly until morning. She ought to have been tired and lethargic, but instead, she was excited and energized to meet the day. To meet him.
She stared at his mouth another moment, recalling the feel of his lips on hers, of his tongue in her mouth doing all manner of wicked things, of his hands on her, stoking a fire she didn’t know resided deep inside herself.
Abruptly, she turned and fetched her own breakfast and quickly returned to the table to eat.
“Papa, I want to have an indoor picnic today because it’s raining. Can we?” Beau shoved a roll into his mouth.
“Not so much at once, Beau,” Rufus said before Verity could, because she’d been chewing. He effortlessly inhabited the role of caring parent. Who was this man? Did he have other children? It seemed he must, for he was unaccountably excellent at being a father, and yet she couldn’t imagine him leaving them. A horrible thought struck her: what if he’d had a family and lost them to tragedy? Her breath caught at the notion. “An indoor picnic is an inspired idea,” he said, drawing her back to the present. “However, today I will be busy at the other end of the estate all day. There’s a bridge that Thomas and I need to see about repairing.”
Verity swallowed a bite of bacon. “Over that gully where the stream runs through?”
Rufus nodded as he speared a piece of herring. “It won’t survive another winter, and there are a handful of tenants who use it regularly.”
“Will you repair it, Papa?” Beau asked.
“I may, or the tenants might do it themselves. Thomas and I will assess the situation, and I’ll provide the materials.”
“You take good care of the estate,” Beau said. “I’m going to do that too.”
“Starting with your goats. Do you need to milk Jane today?” Rufus asked.
“Not today. Every other day is what Mr. Maynard said.”
Rufus looked at him with approval, making Beau beam. “You’re learning very well.”
Verity couldn’t quite believe her life right now. This man had stolen in barely a month ago and had become such an integral part of their family. He couldn’t leave. And though he’d said he wouldn’t, she feared he would. Why was he even here?
Does it matter? a voice in her head asked.
Rufus asked Beau what he and his tutor would be learning today, and they were shortly done with breakfast. Beau was reluctant to go upstairs for lessons, but took himself off, leaving Verity alone with Rufus. Again.
They’d stood from the table, and he reached for his hat, which sat on a long, narrow table in front of the window. “I’m off to meet Thomas.”
She rounded the table to where he stood. “Let me see.” She lifted her hand but didn’t touch him until their eyes connected, and she asked in silent question if it was all right.
He gave a slight nod, and she lightly touched his jaw, turning his head slightly so the light from the window splashed across his bruised cheek.
She winced. “Does it hurt?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Some ice would help. I’ll have some fetched from the ice house, if you like.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you. I did apply a cold compress this morning, and that seemed to improve matters.”
“It’s rather ghastly. No wonder Beau was so distressed.” She removed her hand with some reluctance.
“I regret that immensely.”
She shook her head. “Don’t. What you told him was wonderful. How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know exactly what to say to him?”
He looked mildly uncomfortable, his gaze darting away briefly as he shrugged. “I don’t think about it.”
She stared up at him, loving that his eyes were green and not hazel as they should have been. “And I can’t stop.” Thinking about it—about him.
He looked back at her, and the moment between them stretched until he put his hat on and broke eye contact. “I should go.”
“You said you were going to tell me about what happened.”
He looked out the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was gray and dreary. He returned his gaze to hers. “I will, but I can’t right now. Tonight?”
“After Beau goes to bed. Come to my study.”
The invitation hung between them. They could very easily have met in his office or in the Knight’s Room, either of which would be far removed from a bedchamber. Whereas her study was located within her apartments. Where temptation was close.
He nodded, then left, passing by her close enough that she could feel the air move and the heat he left in his wake.
She closed her eyes and suspected this would be the longest day of her entire life.
This had been the longest day Kit could remember. Could it have been the incessant rain that had chilled him to the bone and required him to bathe before dinner? Or the frustration they’d encountered with how to reengineer the bridge? Perhaps it had been the rock his horse had picked up in its shoe that had delayed his trip back to the castle.
No, it was entirely Verity and the fact that she was waiting for him in her study and that she’d invited him there.
Next to Kit, Beau sighed in his sleep, having dozed off while Kit was reading Robinson Crusoe. They were nearly finished, but the boy just hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open.
Kit set th
e book on the table next to Beau’s bed but didn’t get up. For when he did, he’d have to go see Verity. Not that he wasn’t looking forward to that. On the contrary, he’d been consumed with the coming interview all day. How could he not be after last night?
It was, of course, far more than the kisses they’d shared—and that would have been enough to upset his equilibrium. But what she’d said had occupied his mind just as much, if not more.
She knew he wasn’t Rufus. What’s more, she didn’t seem to care. No, what mattered most to her was whether he would leave.
Her question had startled him. Frightened him. Shaken him to his core. Not because she’d asked it—well, a bit because of that—but because of his answer. He’d said he didn’t plan to go, which had been an absolute lie.
Until that moment.
Until he’d heard the longing in her voice and the fear of what his leaving would do to Beau. He couldn’t do it.
And what the hell did that mean? He’d spent all day asking himself that question, and the answer was always the same: no ship, no privateering, no more Christopher Powell. He’d agreed to be Rufus Beaumont, Duke of Blackburn, husband, father, estate owner, member of the House of Lords.
It was all he’d ever wanted, wasn’t it?
Once, it had been. As a thirteen-year-old boy, when his father had brought him here and showed him the life he could have had if not for the circumstances of his birth. It had felt like a taunt—come see what you can never have. He’d gone to sea and never looked back, certainly never imagining he’d be here and be the duke.
With a wife and a son.
He looked over at Beau and felt a surge of love so strong and so sure that he knew his life was forever changed. In just a few short weeks, he’d found something he didn’t even know he was looking for—home, family, love.
And not just for this darling boy, but for his mother. He was so unbelievably in love with her, and suspected he had been from almost that very first day. She was an astonishing woman—with grace, strength, and more courage than many of the men he’d met in his travels.
Yet hanging over this joy was the knowledge that someone out there knew he wasn’t the duke. That someone could easily bring this idyllic situation crashing down around them. He couldn’t let that happen. The only thing he could think to prevent it was to be formally recognized as the duke. Which meant doing what he’d hoped to avoid—going to London and taking his seat in the Lords. He couldn’t avoid it now, not if he meant to fully inhabit this role for the rest of his life.