Fearless Duke, page 19
She could not find words. Indeed, she did not know precisely what it was he was doing to her. All she did know was that she wanted—nay, needed—more.
“Everything,” she said on a gasp as his tongue slid inside her once more. “I like everything. Do not stop.”
The anguish inside her grew to the same delicious crescendo as it had before. She ought to be ashamed of herself, sitting on his desk as he pleasured her. Some dim part of her mind knew this was wrong and wicked. But nothing had ever felt more right. There was something about the sight of this great man on his knees before her, golden head bent, as if he were a slave to his desire, that undid her.
He returned to the responsive bud, flicking his tongue over her in long strokes, then alternating between licking and sucking. When he delivered a playful nip with his teeth, her hips jerked. She lost herself. Bliss rippled from her center, radiating through her body in white-hot waves. She gasped his name.
Still, Benedict was relentless. He stayed with her, lapping at her, his gaze fastened on hers as he devoured her. She could not look away. She was his willing prisoner, held captive by need. Hers for him, his for her.
When the last swell of desire rolled through her, he stood. Cool air replaced the humid heat of his lips and tongue. He settled himself between her legs, aligning the prominent ridge in his trousers with her aching core, and thrust against her.
Another gasp escaped. A new need burned. She should be shocked. He had just loved her quite thoroughly, and now another, more demanding part of his anatomy was glancing over the flesh he had tormented. But she writhed against him instead, seeking more. She wanted his bare skin on hers, without the barrier of his trousers.
His gaze was fiery and intense, the slash of his jaw tensed with restraint. He cupped her face. “I want you, Isabella. So bloody much.”
She released her hold on her skirts and reached for him, clutching his shoulders. “Yes.”
He rocked against her, his hardness brushing over her in a way that made her moan. She wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing her closer. But it was still not enough.
“Damn it,” he growled, thrusting again, lowering his forehead to hers. “I cannot take you on a desk.”
She did not want to hear his denial. She wanted action. She wanted him. Inside her. Filling her. Nothing else mattered. She had crossed a divide. On one side lay the scattered remnants of her good intentions. On the other, freedom.
Isabella kissed him then, determined to convince him in the only way she knew how. His lips were slick, warm, furious. He angled his mouth over hers, held her face in his hands, and kissed her mercilessly, taking charge. He tasted different now, the sweetness of tea blended with the musk of her essence. She ought to have been repulsed, but she felt strangely elated instead.
Needy sounds tore from her. Her tongue danced against his. He ground into her again, and a new pressure began to build. Her legs clasped him tighter, and she arched into him. Still not enough.
He bit her lower lip, kissed her nose, her chin, her cheek. When his mouth settled on her ear, she shivered.
“I want you in my bed the first time.” His voice was hot, dark, decadent.
She kissed his cheekbone, the sharp blade of his jaw. Her fingers were in his hair now, sifting through the thick, silken strands. His scent mingled with hers, and he felt so big and strong against her body. He made her feel small and powerful all at once.
“Take me now,” she whispered.
She did not know what she was saying. Not exactly. Nor did she know the particulars of what to expect. All she did know was that she was on fire for him. Desperate for him. Only he could quell the feverish hunger.
He groaned, rolling his hips. “I cannot.”
Frustration surged, along with desire. She moved against him, rubbing herself shamelessly over his trousers. The friction only increased the ache inside her. She felt unlike herself, as if she were inhabited by a beast. A beast which could only be sated in one fashion.
She kissed his ear, then bit it, gratified when he growled. “Take me, Benedict.”
He froze. “Damn it, Isabella. I do not want to hurt you.”
“I ache,” she told him, pressing closer, seeking more. “Please.”
A guttural curse fled him. He kissed her throat, then reached between them. His fingers glanced over her, finding the tender bud that throbbed with awareness. “I will make you spend this way, with my fingers. This is how it must be, darling.”
How stubborn he was. But she was stubborn, too. Her hand traveled to the front of his trousers. The fabric was slick from her dew. He was long and thick. She grasped him.
“Isabella.” Her name was a groan on his lips. He bit into the sensitive cords of her neck.
“I want you inside me, Benedict,” she said, not knowing where the words came from. She scarcely recognized herself.
Her confession seemed to blast through the last of his determination to wait. His fingers left her, and then he undid the fall of his trousers. His manhood sprang free, hot and surprisingly smooth. She touched him for a moment, reveling in the way the breath hissed from his lungs at the contact.
He chased her hand away, dragging the blunt tip of his rod over her sensitive folds. Up and down he moved, making her quiver as he slicked her juices over himself. With his other hand, he cupped the base of her skull, raising his head to meet her gaze.
He looked as if he were in agony.
“You want this?” he asked, his voice strained.
She did not hesitate. “Yes.”
He kissed her then, long and slow and sweet as he slid the tip of his manhood lower, to her entrance. He moved. The invasion was sudden. Not entirely unexpected. But shocking all the same. He felt larger inside her, stretching her, filling her.
He broke the kiss, raising his head to stare down at her, concern and restraint evident in every tense line of his face. “Isabella? Shall I continue?”
This was different, so different than anything she had anticipated. It was so much more. “Yes.”
He moved again, slowly, another shallow thrust, lodging himself deeper. A pinch of discomfort accompanied his next thrust. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She had known to expect pain. But the pain paled in comparison to the frenzy. She needed to answer the ache.
He kissed the corner of her lips, then worked his way to the pulse fluttering in her throat. Her heart was beating so fast, she feared it would pound out of her chest and fly away.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he commanded against her skin. “Let me in.”
She had clenched her inner muscles without realizing it. His words and the tender kiss he pressed below her ear soothed her. She relaxed, her legs opening wider. His hands found her hips, holding her still as he moved again. One deep thrust, and he was seated inside her.
All the way.
They sighed as one. His other hand slipped between their joined bodies, his fingers brushing over her swollen bud. Ruthlessly, he applied pressure there, and the bliss he had given her before rose like the waters of the Thames at high tide. Any twinges of pain she felt were chased away by the excruciating joy of him inside her, of his fingers dancing over her intimate flesh.
“Kiss me,” she begged, all her pride gone. She was still seeking, searching for more. For release.
He took her lips then, and he began to move again. Slowly, he withdrew, then thrust, then withdrew only to thrust again, striking up a new rhythm. It was a revelation. Desire careened through her, sparking from deep within and exploding everywhere. His possession of her was exquisite. He was inside her so deep, touching a part of her she had not realized existed, and she was coming apart in a new way.
In and out he slid, over and over again. His pace increased. So did her desperation. The sounds of their ragged breaths filled the chamber. His thumb glanced over her, and she was lost. Something inside her tightened, bringing him deeper, and she came apart in a thousand splintering shards of herself.
She cried out, and he sealed his mouth over hers, silencing her with another kiss. His tongue was in her mouth. Another furious pump of his hips, and he groaned, stiffening beneath her touch. A hot spurt of warmth flooded her as she clamped on him, holding him. Her legs were locked around his waist, her arms around his neck. She never wanted to let him go.
He broke the kiss, caressing her cheek gently, his gaze searing hers. “Isabella, I—”
A knock at the study door ended whatever he had been about to say. “Your Grace?”
Reality came crashing down upon Isabella. She froze, aware of the precarious nature of her situation. She had just been deflowered by the Duke of Westmorland on his study desk in the midst of the morning. And now someone was at the door.
He slid from her body as if he had been caught committing a crime, tucking himself back into his trousers and fastening them. “What is it?” he asked curtly.
As if he had not just been inside her.
As if her world had not just forever changed.
Stunned, the mind-numbing pleasure vanquished by the interruption, she flipped down her skirts and shimmied from his desk. Good God, where were her drawers?
“An urgent message has arrived for Your Grace,” reported Young from the other side of the door. “It would seem there have been several explosions.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” Benedict growled, raking a hand through his hair as his gaze remained fastened upon Isabella. “Just a moment, Young.”
At last, she found her drawers, a bright reproach cast upon the dark wool of the Axminster. What had she been thinking?
“Isabella,” he said softly, his hand upon her shoulder as she bent to retrieve her drawers. “I must see to this. But we need to talk.”
She snatched up her drawers, stepping into them as if she were an automaton. “There is nothing to talk about,” she denied, her pride belatedly returning to her.
“There is everything to talk about,” he countered grimly. “I lost my head. I had no intention of… By God, I ought to be horsewhipped for this.”
She turned her back upon him as she lifted her cumbersome skirts to button the waistband of her drawers. Her modesty, like his obvious regrets over what they had just done, came too late. What had happened between them could not be undone.
“I lost my head as well,” she murmured. “Think nothing of it. You must go, see to your messenger.”
Reports of explosions could only mean one thing: the Fenian menace had struck again.
Hands clamped on her waist, spinning her about as her hems fluttered to the floor. His expression was grim, uncompromising. He was starkly beautiful, and she had never loved him more.
“I will return as soon as I am able, and we will discuss this,” he vowed.
“There is nothing to discuss.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “What happened was a mistake. It will not be repeated.”
For the sake of her heart, it could not be.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Like hell it will not be repeated. You are mine, Isabella Hilgrove.”
Yes, she was. Far more than he knew.
“I am mine,” she countered with a calm she did not feel. “You must go, Benedict.”
“Yes.” He kissed her again, swiftly, and she kissed him back, fool that she was for him. “But I will return, and when I do, we will talk.”
With that stern edict, he turned and strode from the study.
Chapter Fifteen
Benedict returned home far later than he had intended, nearing midnight.
He was weary to the bone after having spent the entire day caught up in investigations following bombings in the armory at the Tower of London and the House of Commons. The Fenians had brought their campaign of destruction to a whole new, devastating low.
Worse, he was likely to blame for it.
He had diverted a notable number of his agents and Scotland Yard detectives, tasking them with finding the men responsible for Isabella’s abduction. Innocents had been injured. The damage at Westminster was great—the Peers’ gallery had been decimated, great pieces of stone and wooden beams dislodged and blown apart. A fire had spread in the wake of the Tower of London bomb.
Only one suspect had been arrested, the man presumably responsible for the Tower bombing. The villains who had laid the bombs in the House of Commons and the Westminster crypt had seemingly slipped away. Also his fault.
His conscience was heavy as he made his way to his chamber. The lights had already been lowered for the evening, with only a footman still awake to greet him when he returned, but the darkness enrobing the halls fit his mood. Guilt threatened to eat him alive. Not only had he failed in his duty, but he had also taken Isabella’s maidenhead on the desk of his study and then promptly fled.
What must she think of him?
Christ, he scarcely knew what to think of himself.
She had never strayed far from his thoughts throughout the course of the day. With every moment, as he had coordinated between the Special League, Scotland Yard, and the Home Office, he had been contemplating what he would do.
The answer that came to him was always the same.
He was going to make Isabella Hilgrove his duchess.
Benedict crossed the threshold of his chamber, closing the door at his back. The lights were low in anticipation of his return. He stripped off his coat and waistcoat, deciding to forego ringing for his valet to assist him. After the day he had just endured, going from the bliss of making love to Isabella, straight to the fires of Hades as he scrambled to chase down leads and witnesses along with the team of London’s finest, he wanted to be alone.
He was unbuttoning his shirt when he took note of a letter laid on the table in his dressing room. He snatched it up, his eyes scanning the typeface. Of course she would have typed the damned thing.
Snippets of the letter, impersonal in nature and yet just personal enough, worked their way through the haze of self-loathing clouding his mind. When he reached the final sentence, rage chased away all other emotions.
You will find all the reports in your study prepared… I cannot help but feel it would be in the best interest of all that I should leave tomorrow, returning to my home.
His blood boiled.
He crumpled the letter.
Over his dead, mangled corpse. She was not returning to her house, not with the men responsible for the Westminster bombings still out there somewhere. Perhaps looking for her. After all, she had seen their faces as they approached her. Only one man was in custody, and two had taken her. Even if the man arrested for the Tower bombing had been one of her captors, the other remained out there somewhere.
Without a thought for the consequences of his actions or a fear that he would be seen, he stalked from his chamber. In a dozen angry strides, he was at her door, and in another eight, he was standing over her bed, still clenching the letter in his fist.
“You are not going anywhere, madam,” he announced to the silent darkness. “You are going to remain here, where you are safe, and that is final.”
She said nothing.
The absence of electricity humming in the air whenever he was in her presence filled him with initial suspicion. He patted the bedclothes, finding them carefully drawn. Perfectly flat.
Isabella was gone.
Fear clambered up his throat. Surely she had not returned already? Or what if, worse, she had been taken again? Dear God, what if those villains had come for her? He stalked from her chamber, dread tangling around his heart like ivy, squeezing tight.
He would spend all night searching for her if he had to. He would stop at nothing.
Determined, he strode from her chamber, descending to the next floor. And that was when he noted the faint glow beneath the door of the library. He did not know how he had failed to see it when he had first entered, but he could only suppose he had been too caught up in the heaviness of his thoughts.
Hoping and praying she would be within, he jogged to the other end of the hall and threw open the library door. The hint of a small, flaxen-haired head was visible above one of the overstuffed wingbacks positioned near the hearth. As the door bounced off the shelving lining the wall, she jumped and stood, spinning about to face him.
She was clad in a dressing gown, the hem of a long, virginal night rail peeping from beneath. It was high-necked and prim, much as he would have expected. When she was his duchess, he was going to have her dressed in nothing but the most seductive silks and lace. No more buttons to her bloody chin, he vowed it. She was too beautiful to hide herself away beneath all those layers.
“Your Grace,” she said, her eyes wide.
This was not the response he expected from a woman he had made love to just that morning. The woman he wanted to make his wife.
“Benedict,” he growled, his ire getting the best of him. He closed the library door at his back with more force than necessary and stalked toward her, the offensive letter still crumpled in his hand. “What is the meaning of this, madam?”
“Forgive me.” Her voice was hesitant, quite bereft of her ordinary sangfroid. “I hope you do not mind my trespassing here in the library. I could not sleep.”
“I am not speaking of your presence in this chamber, Isabella.” He did not stop until he was close enough to haul her into his arms where she belonged. He resisted. Just barely. “I am speaking of this.”
He held up the crumpled remnant of the letter she had left him.
“An explanation.”
“No,” he bit out.
Her brows rose. “Yes, it is.”
“Perhaps, but not one I accept.” He strode past her, toward the fire crackling low in the grate, and pitched the letter into the flames. “You are not leaving Westmorland House tomorrow.”
Of course, there was still the matter of where she would be staying, after they were betrothed. Unless they married within the next few days. Yes, sooner would be better. Tomorrow, if possible.
He could have her in his bed instead of on a bloody desk.
“What happened earlier cannot be repeated, of course,” she said coolly. “It is improper for me to remain here after this morning’s folly.”
