Fearless Duke, page 26
“I do, Benedict. I love you so very much.” Soft, womanly fingers stroked his hair.
He wanted to move toward that touch like a grateful cat, but the energy was not in him. He was weary to the bone. But not too weary for the question he needed to ask her most. “Marry me?”
“Yes, my love, my wonderful, fearless duke. It would be my honor to be your wife.” He did not think he imagined the tremble in her voice as she spoke the words.
But he was too exhausted to open his eyes and test his theory. He managed a smile. “I will…hold you to your…promise.”
Her lips fluttered over his brow. “I would expect nothing less. Sleep now, my love. You need your rest to heal.”
He obeyed his future duchess. Queen Mab claimed him.
Isabella woke to morning light and an aching back.
The last few nights had been spent in the chair at Benedict’s bedside. Between herself and Callie, they had tended to him without fail. He had never been alone. To her credit, Callie had not argued about propriety. Certainly, it was shocking for an unmarried lady to be tending to the sickbed needs of a man who was not her husband. But Isabella had vowed she would not go. Not until Benedict was well again.
She owed him her life.
He had saved her.
His bravery still astounded her, days later as she stretched in the uncomfortable chair, raising her arms over her head and stifling a yawn. Her gaze took in his supine form, making certain—as she had done hundreds, if not thousands, of times—that his chest rose in steady, even breaths beneath the bedclothes.
After days of being in and out of consciousness, it had truly seemed in the depths of the night that he had turned a page. It had been the most lucid she had heard him since he had been wounded. His gaze had been clear, and his brow had not been feverish.
She prayed he was finally returning to himself. She would never have forgiven herself if he had died to save her. Especially after the manner in which she had doubted him. Thinking of the way she had treated him now filled her with shame. His past had been none of her concern. And in truth, she had allowed Lady Entwhistle to prey upon her own feelings of inadequacy.
She had been wrong. So wrong. And as a result, she had almost lost the man she loved. Twice over. She would do everything in her power to keep that from happening again.
Gently, she placed her hand on his forehead, making certain it was not too hot to the touch. In sleep, he looked so innocent, almost youthful. She traced over his brow, then brushed his golden hair back from his forehead. Touching him was a gift. There had been a time when she had not been certain she would ever be able to touch him again. When his life had been hanging in the balance.
The bullet had traveled straight through his shoulder, but the damage had been significant. He had lost a great deal of blood. All to save her.
He had made the ultimate sacrifice. For her.
“Oh, Benedict,” she murmured. “What am I to do with you?”
“Marry me,” he said, his eyes opening to reveal the startling, sky-blue orbs she had fallen into so many times before.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked, trailing her fingertips over his cheek next. His whiskers had grown a great deal over the time he had been an invalid. The coarse stubble pricked her fingertips. She relished it, as she relished him. He was so vital, so alive, and she was so incredibly thankful.
“Long enough to know you must be deuced uncomfortable in that chair,” he told her, smiling boyishly. “Join me?”
“That is positively scandalous, Your Grace,” she told him teasingly.
They both knew they were well beyond the bounds of propriety. Had there been any remnants, they had been thoroughly banished by her presence here at his sickbed. She did not care.
“Humor me.” His expression turned serious. “I thought I had lost you forever. All I want now is to feel your body against mine.”
“I thought the same thing.” Without hesitation, she rose from the chair, ignoring the ache in her lower back, and settled upon the bed at his right side. “I still cannot believe you were willing to give your life for mine. That was dreadfully reckless and foolish of you, my darling.”
His left shoulder had been injured—she still suspected the Fenian who had shot him had been aiming for his heart—so she curled against his right side, loving the weight of his arm around her.
She buried her face in his neck and pressed a kiss to the place where his pulse was a steady, reassuring thrum. What a beautiful gift—his life. This man had been a blessing to her. The sunshine at dawn, chasing away the strains of night. She had never imagined love could be like this. But she rather fancied this was the way Mama and Papa had felt about each other—their feelings so strong that they had been willing to overcome any obstacles in their way, just to be together.
“I would do it again,” he said, his voice low. He kissed the crown of her head. “I would do anything to see you safe. That is the definition of love, is it not? I would give my life for yours. Protect you over myself. You are my heart, Isabella Hilgrove, and I want nothing more than to have you at my side forever.”
He humbled her, this man. His fearlessness inspired her.
She kissed his neck again, that sweet and steady promise of life that was his pulse. “I love you.”
“I love you, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead, the fingers of his right hand tangling in her hair. “Did you mean it when you said you would marry me?”
How could he question it?
“I have never meant anything more.” She kissed her way up his neck, over his strong jaw, to his lips. Her mouth moved over his slowly, tentatively, waiting for him to respond.
And respond he did. His lips settled over hers. This was not an erotic kiss by any means. It was a kiss of understanding. A kiss of love. A kiss of reunion. A kiss of brightness and potential after the darkness.
“Mmm,” he said against her mouth. “If we are not careful, I will have you on your back in this bed in the next five minutes.”
She smiled, then kissed the well-defined philtrum that so oft had driven her to distraction. “You do not have the strength, you wicked man.”
“Test me, and you shall see,” he teased back, sucking her lower lip, then nipping it.
She lifted her head after a few moments of kisses so sweet, they brought tears to her eyes. “I am sorry about what happened before, about my reaction to Lady Entwhistle.”
A cloud seemed to pass over his countenance, and his jaw hardened. “Isabella, we need not—”
She held a finger to his lips, staying his words. “Yes, we must. Or rather, I must. I owe you an apology. I allowed Lady Entwhistle to heighten my worries about not being worthy of being your duchess. That was wrong of me, and I am so very sorry. You deserved better.”
He kissed the pad of her fingertip and then moved his head, dislodging her. “I should have been honest with you from the start, and I should have been honest with her as well. I could have saved us all a great deal of heartache and pain. It was never my intention to cause you upset. I cannot imagine any woman more worthy of being my duchess than you. There is no one else I would have by my side. No one else I have ever loved in the way I love you.”
He was breaking her heart. “Oh, Benedict.” She cupped his face. “I have never loved another the way I love you, either. It would be my greatest honor to become your duchess.”
He caressed up and down her spine, his hand traveling slowly, as if he savored her. And she clung to him too. They were quiet for a moment, reveling in the rare understanding of a man and a woman who had nearly lost each other forever. She breathed deeply of his scent, relishing the tactile beauty of his large body against hers.
“Did I kill that bastard?” he asked suddenly.
She thought again of the horrors of that day, a shiver going down her spine. “Yes, darling. You did.”
“Thank God.”
“And according to the Times, his death enabled Scotland Yard to find the last man responsible for the Westminster bombings as well,” she told him. “So you see? You did not just save me. You saved all London as well.”
She thought back upon the frantic moments of that day. She had found the driver and footman, and the two had hauled Benedict’s bleeding, lifeless body back to Westmorland House. The doctor had been summoned, and then Isabella herself had sent word to the Home Office and to Scotland Yard.
The Fenian’s body had been collected from her school, and she had been forced to close its doors while she tended to Benedict and hired staff to clean the blood from her new schoolroom. Part of her wondered if she could bear to ever set foot inside the establishment again, given what had happened there.
But that was a worry for another day, because Benedict had not died that day. He was here, so very alive and loved.
“We did it together, sweetheart,” he said then. “If not for your calm in the face of such violence, neither of us would have survived.”
“Together,” she agreed, kissing him again.
Chapter Twenty
April, 1885
Isabella decided there was no better sight in all the world than that of her husband standing before her in his dressing gown.
“Husband,” she greeted him, trying out the word.
It sounded good.
It sounded right.
Perfect, in fact.
“Wife,” he returned, offering her an elegant bow at odds with his state of dishabille.
She curtseyed to him, holding the silk of her dressing gown as if it were the finest ball gown. In truth, it was as fine as any ball gown. Part of the extensive trousseau Benedict had insisted upon commissioning for her in preparation of their nuptials, it was fashioned of ivory lawn and lace. His edict had been definitive: no black.
They had married earlier that day in a grand ceremony attended by all current and former Special League members. Their wedding breakfast and subsequent trip to Manning Hall had passed in a pleasant blur. Now, at last, the moment she had been waiting for was upon them.
“Is your shoulder paining you?” she asked him tentatively.
“Nothing could pain me now.” A charming grin curved his lips, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I feared this day would never come.”
Her heart gave a pang. So much love for him filled her. “I am sorry we had to wait so long.”
Though he had wanted a hasty wedding, his recovery had taken time. He had stepped down from his role as leader of the Special League, and she was heartily glad for it. No more danger would chase them ever again.
He drew her into his arms then. “The wait was more than worth the reward, my love.”
She cupped his face, gratitude rushing over her anew that he was alive and that he was hers. “I love you.”
His smile turned tender. He feathered a sweet, fleeting kiss over her lips. “I love you, my wife, my love, my duchess, my heart.”
“You did not always speak of me in such glowing fashion,” she could not resist teasing him. “Do you recall that first day? You called me Miss Killjoy.”
“What an arse I was.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “It is a miracle you deigned to return. I was right about the joy half of the word, however. You are the source of all mine.”
“And you are mine, Benedict.” How she meant those words. Today had been the happiest of her life. Knowing she was his forever, and that he was hers, filled her with a new sense of wonder.
The warmth burning inside her burst into flame as longing pooled between her thighs. They had not made love since the night she had spent in his bed at Westmorland House, seemingly a lifetime ago. She pressed her mouth to his once again. He instantly deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding along hers.
She opened for him, eager for more.
His delicious scent inundated her. He groaned when she sucked his tongue, and she slid her fingers into his thick mane of golden hair. Her nipples tightened. The need built steadily as she nipped the fullness of his lower lip.
He broke the kiss, staring down at her with storm-tossed-sea eyes. “My Love, my own. If you do not take care, this evening will be over before it has begun. It has been far too long since I last had you in my bed.”
Her hands drifted to his shoulders, relishing the warm strength of him. “For a man who proposes to despise poetry, you certainly do speak a lot of it.”
“Minx.” He kissed her again. “I still think it is all lovesick twaddle.”
Her husband did not fool her.
She could not suppress her smile. “I caught you reading the volume from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, you know, Your Grace.”
“So you did, Your Grace.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Mayhap I was bored on the train ride here.”
“Is that so?” She caressed down his chest. He was so vital. So powerful. She vowed to never again take him for granted. To always be thankful for his presence in her life. For his love. “I suppose I should have done a better job at distracting you.”
“You distract me endlessly.” He kissed her cheek. “Deliciously.” Her ear. “Wickedly.” The sensitive patch of skin beneath it. “I read the poetry so I would not toss up your skirts and ravish you in the railcar.”
Her right hand paused over his heart, absorbing its steady thumps. “Perhaps I wanted you to ravish me.”
“If it is a ravishment the duchess wants, then a ravishment she shall have.” Sensual intent simmered in his baritone. He caught the hand over his heart. “Feel what you do to me.”
With her free hand, she found the belt keeping his dressing gown in place and tugged. It gaped, revealing his bare chest and the lean plane of his abdomen. But also revealing his long, thick cock jutting proudly outward. She grasped him boldly, wrapping her fingers around his shaft.
“I do feel it,” she whispered, rising on her toes to kiss him again.
The luxury of touching him so freely was not lost upon her. Nor was the delicious weight of him. His hips rocked forward. He kissed her back, hard. She savored the bruising intensity, stroking him from root to tip. A low growl sounded in his throat, telling her he liked what she was doing.
So she thrust her tongue into his mouth and did it some more.
He ended the kiss and tore off his dressing gown in two savage motions. The scars on his shoulder were still pink and new, though they had healed. She kissed him there on the everlasting symbol of the day he had saved her life, reverently, gently. All the while, she continued to stroke him.
“I love you,” she said against his skin.
“And I love you, my sweet darling.” His fingers began to work upon the line of buttons fastening her dressing gown. “Blast it, Isabella, I thought I told you no more buttons to your neck.”
She laughed at his teasing. “It is not black, however.”
“No, it is not,” he agreed. His hands trembled as he worked the buttons free. “An improvement, to be sure. But not as good as this.”
Tenderly, as if he unwrapped a precious gift, he slid her dressing gown from her shoulders. Beneath it she, too, was naked. His hands were upon her, then. Cupping her breasts, fingers stroking her puckered nipples. Caressing the curves of her waist, her hips. Liquid seeped from the head of his cock as she grasped him more firmly. She slicked it over the crown with her thumb.
On another low sound of pleasure, he began moving them as one to the bed. Their lips clung, hands roaming everywhere. In a blur of sweetly escalating desire, she found herself on her back, legs spread to accommodate his big body between them. He leveraged himself with his uninjured arm, his cock pressed against her aching center.
She wiggled beneath him, the friction of him on her slick folds sending pleasure radiating through her, along with need. He bowed his head and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking. She arched into him, her fingers once more sifting through his silken hair.
Benedict released the greedy peak. “You are perfection.”
She had many faults and she knew it, but in the intensity of his gaze, love blazing there, she felt more beautiful than she ever had before. “There is nothing perfect about me,” she said, breathless.
He licked her nipple, then bit it. “On the contrary, my love. Your breasts are perfection.” He kissed the swell, then drew her other nipple into his mouth.
Wet heat engulfed her. The suction made an answering pulse pound deep in her core where she wanted him most. He abraded her nipple with the sharp, white edge of his teeth.
Air hissed from her. “Wicked man.”
“See? Perfection.” He nipped her. “Perfectly sensitive. Perfectly delicious.”
The pressure between her thighs grew almost unbearable. She undulated against him, and when the tip of his rigid cock glanced over her pearl, she could not suppress her moan.
He kissed his way down her belly. “Utter.” Kiss. “Perfection.” He tongued the impression of her navel, making her shiver. “Every part of you is so damn beautiful.” Kiss, kiss, kiss, all the way to her mound.
When his tongue dipped between her folds, it was as if she had been touched with an electric current. He flicked over her in wet, quick strokes. Liquid pleasure shot through her.
“You are perfect here, too,” he said. “Pretty and pink and so wet.”
He sucked hard on her pearl. Her hips lifted from the mattress. A moan fell from her lips. His tongue moved lower, to her entrance, and he licked into her. She grasped his hair, undulating against him. Needing him to fill her. To stretch her. To take her. The slick intrusion was too much, and yet it was not enough.
She was restless. Wanton.
“Perfection,” he said, licking back up to her pearl, his eyes intense upon hers.
She could not look away. The sight of his handsome face between her thighs was unbearably erotic. As he sucked once more on the bud of her sex, he slid one long finger deep inside her channel, stroking as he had done with his tongue.
She twisted beneath him, trying to drag him deeper. As he tortured her with his mouth, a second finger joined the first. She gripped him, this new sensation atop the decadent pleasures of his lips and tongue sending her careening dangerously close to the edge.
