How the Duke Was Won (24 page)

“No,” she said. “We shouldn't.” Even as she closed her eyes and offered her breasts to his exploration.

He stopped and pressed his head to her chest. “Your heart is saying yes.”

He stroked her breasts, reaching under cotton and filling his hands with her, rolling her nipples until they were swollen and heavy and she was moaning beneath him, the pain in her arm forgotten.

He shifted both breasts to one hand and slid his other hand down her belly and thigh, finding the hem of her nightgown and urging it up to her waist. He eased her thighs apart and dipped his finger between them.

“You're so wet and ready for me, Charlene,” he said in a low, husky voice.

Every time he said her name, she grew wetter.

Careful to avoid her bandaged arm, he kissed his way down her body, stopping to worship her breasts and belly and then each hip bone. Then he parted her thighs wider.

“I want to taste you,” he growled, his breath rasping against her thigh.

He wasn't going to kiss her . . .
there,
was he?

She startled off the bed when his lips descended.

He
was
.

She gasped as his tongue touched her, licking and nibbling until her breath came fast and ragged. He lapped and sucked and made her belly quake. His fingers slid inside her while his tongue urged her toward the precipice.

When she needed him to close his lips around her and suckle, she told him with hands in his hair, pressing him to her, and he answered her silent call, hands cradling her buttocks, sucking with his lips and flicking with his tongue at the same time until she was panting beneath him.

He was strong and slow and steady, and his hands moved to circle her waist, then closed around her nipples, while his tongue never stopped moving on her.

Desire eddied through her mind and spilled into her heart. This time the pleasure swooped down without warning, bursting like ripe strawberries on her tongue, flooding her mind with sweetness.

When he slid back up her length and found her lips again, she tasted herself on his tongue. Honey and brine.

While she was still humming with bliss, he ripped off his dressing gown and trousers and positioned himself between her thighs.

In the candlelight his eyes were nearly black. His hands were everywhere, running down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, cupping her breasts.

He pinched her nipples and Charlene moaned.

“Take me,” she said. Whose voice was that?

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the fire's embers and the dying candle.

He pushed her nightgown over her head and moved her hips up until she was cradling him between her thighs. The first touch of her sensitive flesh against his hardness sent sparks of pleasure streaking through her body.

He slipped inside her, only a few inches.

“I thought I would never see you again,” she whispered.

“I thought I would marry you today.” He pushed all the way inside, kissing her while he claimed her with slow, controlled thrusts.

He clutched her hand to his sweat-­slicked chest. Spread her fingers over his heart. She felt it beating beneath her palm.

This is the rhythm. Follow it.

She understood, going still under him, relaxing and letting him guide her into the push and arc of it, the steady, building chorus of beats and pauses.

Sensation built again in her belly and he increased the speed, moving above her, his breathing harsh and guttural.

She'd never known she needed this. She tensed, her thighs clenching his hips.

There was the faint slapping sound of their bodies meeting and parting. The slippery sheen of sweat. She discovered that if she nipped at his neck, he breathed faster, moved faster.

His lips found her eyelids, eyelashes, the tips of her fingers.

She already spoke this language. She didn't have to learn it. There was no doubt. No fear. She wanted to laugh. Cry. Both.

“That's so good, Charlene. Yes. Come with me.” He thrust one last time, shuddering in her arms as his release came. He sank against her, covering her, the weight of him stealing her breath.

This coming she experienced with him was almost violent. She clenched and held her breath until her stomach muscles hurt, then the tipping point came with a sudden release. The involuntary spasms were nearly frightening in their intensity.

Charlene knew that for every coming, every arrival, there was a leave-­taking. The pleasure could never last long enough for her to forget that. She knew that women like her were only useful for limited purposes. Temporary diversions. Illicit liaisons.

She might be in his arms right now, but eventually he'd marry his perfect duchess. And leave England. Leave both of them behind.

C
harlene was having the loveliest dream. James was in her bed, warm and solid, with his arm wrapped around her waist and his lips against her neck. He fit so nicely, cocooned around her back. She tightened his arm around her and wriggled back against his warmth and . . . hardness.

Rigid, marble-­carved hardness.

Her eyes flew open.

“Mmm . . . you're awake,” he murmured, nibbling the tip of her earlobe. “So am I.” He pushed against her thighs in case she hadn't grasped his meaning.

“James, we can't. It's not right. Please, we must talk.”

“We'll talk in the morning,” he said. He turned her over, rolling her onto her stomach. He swept her hair off her neck and over the pillow.

Gently, he lowered his weight onto her back, and she was completely pinned against the soft, crisp linens. He took his time, nudging her legs apart, slowly kissing the back of her neck, telling her she was beautiful and that no one had ever made him feel like this before.

He stroked her, reached underneath her body to knead her breasts. She was half asleep and pliant under his fingers, allowing him to shape her. Her moans were swallowed by the pillow as his large hands lifted her hips and his knees nudged her thighs apart.

He was completely in control, so huge on top of her, pressing her into the bed. But she knew that he only did what she allowed him to do.

Searching fingers explored her thighs and discovered the source of her longing. Shamelessly, she spread her legs and lifted her bum off the bed, grinding against him.

She loved surrendering like this. Loved that her thighs were spread so wide they trembled with the strain. He grasped her waist with both hands, circling her, preparing her. Then he was sliding inside her. So easily. Her body already knew his girth.

The pillow muffled her cries, and, as he drove her into the bed, she cried his name over and over again as unseen tears soaked the linens.

She gave herself to him.
Please don't ever stop
.
Don't let the moon fade and the sun rise again.

Afterward, Charlene rested her head on James's chest, and he clasped his arms around her. She traced the roughness of his cheek. He was falling asleep; she could feel his body loosening.

They shouldn't fall asleep again, but her eyes were so heavy, and his breathing was so deep. She would rest her eyes, just for a few moments.

Later, she would hate herself for allowing this to happen. Right now, all she wanted to do was nestle into his arms, find that perfect hollow between his neck and shoulder to shelter her.

She wound him closer, knowing that once she let him go, he would be gone forever.

 

Chapter 29

I
t was the same nightmare. The one James had been having nearly every time he fell asleep since the voyage back to England.

He stood in front of a mound of earth heaped over a wooden door frame. It was a church, although no one in England would have recognized it as a place of worship.

A priest wearing a brightly striped wool shawl crouched beside the door's dark maw. He lifted his gnarled hand, crossed the air, and began to keen in Latin mixed with some language that was only guttural clicks and soulful whirs to James's ears.

In his nightmare, James walked past the priest and entered the church. Inside, it was damp and dark. A table was laden with fruit, fermented corn beer, water, and bread.

Then he saw them.

Mother. Brother. There, hovering around the table. Faded and shimmering.

Muertos frescos.
The freshly dead.

Another phantasm floated next to them, its back turned. Long gold hair, loosely braided. A thin white nightgown.

The spirit turned around.

Charlene.

He rushed toward her, tried to touch her, but his fingers went right through her arm.

She doesn't know she's dead. I can't let her know.

The priest walked under the wooden mantel. He dipped his fingers into a mug of beer and sprinkled some over the bread. When he began to chant, Charlene stared at James.

“Where am I?” she whispered. “
Where am I, James
?”

James bolted upright, wide awake. His chest was drenched with sweat. The fire had burned to ash. He'd fallen asleep.

Did Charlene have a fever?

He touched her brow. Slightly warm, but not feverish. He bent down, listening to her breathing. Slow and measured.

He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He got out of bed and lit another candle.

Light from his candle danced over wicked curves. Her hair was alive, absorbing the candlelight until all he saw was twining golden curls.

He set the candle on the nightstand and slipped under the covers, burying his face in her hair. There was no girlish scent of tea roses. She smelled of sun-­warmed lavender and the comfrey leaves Josefa had applied to the burn. Practical, soothing scents.

She sighed as he nestled her against him, wrapping his arms around her. She fit so perfectly in the cradle of his arms.

Propped up on his fists, he gazed down at her with wonder and a touch of fear. To care about someone was to face the knowledge that they could be taken from you. It was bittersweet, like cocoa nibs coated with honey.

Golden hair spreading over his sheets. Full breasts above a small waist and flaring hips. Remarkably, he was already stiff and ready for more.

He nudged her thighs apart.

“Oh, James,” she sighed, keeping her eyes closed.

He stroked her sex with his finger, watching the flush spread from her cheeks down her neck and over the tops of her breasts.

He found her mouth and lost himself in sweetness. Her fevered response made his blood simmer and his brain cloud. Her tongue danced with his. He'd never felt this sense of wonder before. This feeling that they belonged together.

“Charlene,” he moaned. “You're not biddable, or prudent, or even polite most of the time. But you're mine. The first day I met you, when we were sitting in the salon and the others were playing cards, I pictured you standing next to me on the deck of a ship.”

“That's. Odd,” she gasped.

He pushed two fingers inside her, loving the noises she made in the back of her throat. So fierce. She was very close to finding release. Her belly contracted. “I want to travel with you, Charlene. I want us to climb ancient stone terraces carved into precipices. Feel our lungs working and know we're alive. Civilizations rise and fall . . .”

His fingers rose and fell inside her, riding the swell of her passion. She ran her hands down his back, urging him on.

“The wide sky,” he said. “The stone steps. They will wend into our hearts and create wider, steeper thoughts.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh James, yes.” She was very close now.

“Later we'll go to a dim, raucous tavern and drink homemade spirits flavored with cardamom seeds. I can see it so clearly, you're wearing a thin silk gown, which keeps slipping off one shoulder. It's driving me mad.”

He kissed her shoulder.

“I'm longing to touch you . . .
here . . .”
He moved his hands to her breasts, lightly pinching her nipples. “
. . .
only I have to wait until later. I can kiss your fingertips, one by one. Something I'd never be able to do in public in England.”

He followed his words with action, capturing her fingers and kissing each one.

“I pull you to your feet,” he said. “We dash through the warm rain. We swim nude in the ocean with the sun on our backs.”

“Nude?”

He resumed stroking her sex. She was so close now.

“Completely nude. And then . . .”

“Yes?” she gasped. “Then?”

“I make love to you as the sun sets over the ocean.” She came undone beneath his fingers, moaning and shuddering. Only then did he claim her with his cock, pushing inside her with slow, measured thrusts.

There were no more words.

Only the familiar pleasure of losing himself in sensation and the new, unfamiliar desire for more than mere physical communion.

He clasped her head in his hands and kissed her with deep, strong intention. He wanted her to know how much he needed her. How he couldn't imagine leaving her. Her hair swirled against the pillow as she called his name.

He wouldn't last much longer.

She arched beneath him, urging him to move faster. “James,” she gasped. “Come. Climb with me.”

And he did.

And she was right there with him.

Where she belonged.

 

Chapter 30

I
n the morning, when the light streaming through a crack in the drapes woke her, James was gone.

He'd told Charlene they would talk, but he was gone.

This was how it would be in her luxurious apartments in a fashionable neighborhood with her maids and her footmen and her diamonds. He'd visit her in the evening, warm her bed, and then leave before dawn.

While she was in his arms, she'd tell herself it didn't matter. She would allow him to weave more fantasies, to lull her into complacency. When he left, the world would go bleak and cold, with nothing but her dreams to warm her.

She couldn't do this. Leave Lulu, leave her mother. Become his mistress.

She had to leave before he returned and broke down her defenses. It was better this way. She'd avoid the moment when he offered to set her up as his mistress and she searched for the fortitude to refuse.

Her arm was stiff and sore, but the herbal compress Josefa had used was still easing the worst pain. She rose, found the water closet, and tied her hair into a knot as best she could. She discovered a plain cotton dress on a shelf in an adjoining room, with her petticoats and boots brushed and neatly laid out.

She had managed to struggle back into her gown, although impeded by the bandages around her arm, when she heard a small voice behind her.

“Lady Dorothea?”

“Flor? I didn't know you were here.”

“Papa brought me here for your wedding. I'm so glad you'll be my mother.” She narrowed her eyes. “You're not going to die, are you? Josefa told me you were sick, and I couldn't come to you last night.” She sniffed. “Please don't die.”

“Oh, sweetie, I'm not dying.”

“Good. Then you can read me more Swiss Family.” Flor recovered swiftly, pulling the book from her pinafore pocket. “Papa read me some, but he can't do the voices as well as you.”

“Flor, I have to tell you something.” Charlene pulled her to a chair and knelt in front of her. “My name isn't Lady Dorothea.”

Flor cocked her head. “It's not?”

“No, my name is Charlene.”

Flor regarded her steadily. “It was a game. You were pretending to be Lady Dorothea.”

“That's right.”

“Sometimes, when I'm reading my history book, I pretend I'm Mistress Anne Boleyn and I cut off that mean old King Henry's head before he can cut off mine.”

Charlene smiled. She was going to miss Flor so much. “I'm quite sure King Henry wouldn't have stood a chance.”

“Did you know that Papa sent Miss Pratt away?”

“Did he?”

“Yes, and you're to choose my next governess.” Flor leaned toward Charlene. “If you ask her questions first, don't forget to find out how she feels about bonnets.”

Charlene patted her cheek. “You're not understanding me, dear. I'm truly not Lady Dorothea, and I can't be your mother.”

Flor's lower lip jutted out. “Why?”

How to explain the tangled lives of adults to a six-­year-­old judge and jury?

“Remember how King Henry had so many wives? Well, instead of chopping off my head when he tires of me, your papa won't marry me in the first place.”

Flor shook her head. “That doesn't make any sense.”

Charlene sighed. The girl was too precocious for her own good. “You're right. Let me tell you a story then, about a very foolish girl and a dangerous duke with broad, strong shoulders and piercing green eyes.”

“Oh,” Flor breathed. “A romantic tale.”

“Yes, but this one doesn't have a happy ending.”

“What? Those stories
always
have happy endings,” Flor informed her with the duke's self-­assurance.

“This duke must marry a highborn lady with a spotless reputation.”

Flor tossed her head. “Why must he?”

“Because he's not free to marry anyone else.”

Flor shrugged. “Why?”

Charlene could tell this conversation was going to go around in circles, and she needed to leave before James returned. But she didn't want to hurt Flor.

Why did life have to be so heartbreaking?

J
ames made some important realizations as he rode through the early-­morning mist in the gray stone jungle of London. He saw everything so clearly, as if he'd emerged from a fog after being half blind, as if his thoughts were rendered in brilliant detail.

The first realization was that he'd fallen in love with Charlene, and he didn't give a damn that she'd been raised in a bawdy house.

The second was that this bone-­deep longing would never, ever flag. It was an elemental pull, as if she'd been the north pole and he'd been a compass needle, and he'd sailed across the globe until he'd finally arrived home. Into her arms.

The third flash of blinding clarity was that he truly didn't care where he lived, as long as she was there. He could appoint Josefa and other trusted associates to manage his affairs abroad. If he stayed in England, he could take his seat in Parliament and argue for the abolition of slavery in person, just as Charlene had suggested the first night he met her.

So wise, his future duchess. And scorchingly passionate. England would never be too cold with her arms around him.

What he didn't know was whether she felt the same way. He couldn't bring himself to believe that she'd been pretending last night. No one was that skillful an actress. If she loved him, if she would have him, he was going to marry her and never leave her side again, as long as he lived. He'd wanted to buy respectability by marrying the right woman. But James didn't have to be respectable.

He could be both the renegade and the duke. That was the fourth, and final, realization. The one that made him turn his horse around and head for home. He guided his mount around a jagged hole in the paving stones. He'd rather have been in an open field, able to give the stallion a long lead, of course, but if they had to learn to navigate the narrow London streets, they would.

She would be his refuge in England or in the West Indies.

When he reached his town house, he handed the reins to a groom and hurried upstairs. There were voices coming from his room, so she had to be awake. He couldn't wait to tell her everything he'd realized. He opened the door. Charlene was kneeling in front of Flor, who was seated in a chair by the fire.

“Sweetheart, the duke doesn't love the foolish girl,” he heard Charlene say.

“You mean Papa doesn't love you?” Flor's brow wrinkled. “Why not?”

“I don't know . . . life is complicated.”

“But you love him, don't you? You love me?” Flor's voice caught, and she sounded close to tears.

“I do love you, so very much,” Charlene said. “But I have to leave.”

“Because you're not Lady Dorothea?”

“Something like that.” The hurt and frustration in Charlene's voice was real, and it was all the proof James needed.

“I have to leave, sweetheart,” Charlene repeated.

James strode into the room. “Why?”

“Yes, why?” Flor's eyes were ferocious.

Charlene turned from one pair of green eyes to the other.

“Because you're a duke and I'm a . . .” She raised that sharply pointed chin and stared at him defiantly. “I will never be owned. You can't tempt me into it. I will never be your mistress.”

“What's a mistress?” Flor asked.

Charlene gasped. “Oh, sweetheart.” She brushed aside her skirt hem and rose. “I have to leave,” she blurted, and ran from the room.

“Charlene,” Flor called. “Don't go!”

Her eyes narrowed, and she put her fists on her little hips. “Papa, run after her!” she commanded. “Bring her back.”

James bent to kiss his daughter's adorable, imperious head, and then he did exactly that.