The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel 3)

He bowed his head, holding it in his hands as he struggled for breath.

“Mal—”

“Will this matter?”

He was not looking at her when he asked, and for a moment she did not understand his meaning. “I don’t—”

He turned back, his beautiful eyes nearly black with emotion. “I don’t just want to fuck you. I want to love you.”

Her lips parted at the word, the way it whipped around them. The way it sent wicked pleasure pooling through her. It should have shocked her, not stirred her.

But it only made her want him more.

“Am I not able to have both?” she asked.

“God help me, I don’t think I would be able to stop myself,” he said, and she heard the self-loathing in his word. “I think you could tell me it did not matter. I think you could tell me it meant nothing at all, and I would do it anyway. I’ve never been able to resist you.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to.”

She left the rest unsaid. You matter. This matters.

None of that had ever been at issue.

For a long moment, she thought he might stop, after all. And then he moved, bending to remove his boots before he stood, his hands going to the falls of his trousers, unfastening buttons and sliding fabric down his legs, turning to her, hard and perfect.

Pleasure spooled through her like silk at the portrait he made. “You are beautiful,” she said. “You always have been. From the moment I first saw you.”

Color rose on his cheeks at the words, as though no one had ever told the Duke of Haven he was handsome. He made to reach for her and she shook her head, wanting to watch him more, wanting to explore.

Wanting to give of herself.

“Wait,” she whispered, and the magnificent man did, a muscle ticking like mad in his cheek, the cords of his arms and thighs straining when she sat back on her heels and spread her thighs, testing his resolve, loving the way his gaze fell to the place she so brazenly revealed.

He tore his attention from it instantly, as though he was embarrassed to have been caught staring, but she saw the way he tensed. Knew what he wanted.

He nearly leapt from his skin when she touched him, running her fingers over the muscles of his chest, exploring the dips and rises of his warm body, reveling in the way he labored to breathe beneath her touch.

She let her fingers dance down the ridges of his torso, and he caught her hand in his before she could touch him where he strained, proud and stunning. “No,” he said.

She looked up at him, twisting her hand from his grasp. “Yes.”

He shook his head, something like pain chasing over her.

She came up on her knees and kissed him, long and slow and lush. “You said you would give me anything I asked.”

He groaned. “You are too good at our game.”

It was her turn to shake her head. “Not our game, Mal. This is our due.” Her hand slid lower, finding him hot as fire and hard as sin, and they both sighed at the touch. “Show me,” she whispered.

And he did, without shame, wrapping her hand in his, showing her just how he liked to be touched. She leaned forward, her lips skating over his chest, her hands learning his pleasure. Reveling in it until he released her with a groan. “No more.”

She did not stop, instead looking up at him, capturing his gaze. “Do you not wish it?”

He laughed, the sound pulled from him in disbelief. “I have wished it for three years, love. For longer.”

She stroked, long and lush, loving the way he responded, the way she controlled him. “As have I.” She watched her hand working over him, riveted to the beautiful strength of him, to the smoothness, to the way she could command his breath. “I have wished for more than this.”

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of him, never feeling so powerful as she did when he swore, harsh and angry and full of want, his hands coming to touch her, to slide into her hair. “You shouldn’t—”

But he did not stop her, and if he had tried, she would never have allowed it. Of course she had to. If this was to be the only time she could take this pleasure with him—this power—of course she wanted it.

She could not stop herself, licking over him, breathing him in, and he was tight as a drum, his hands trembling as they hovered, barely touching her, as though he was afraid to let himself go.

She adored the barely-there edge of his control, reveled in it, played at it with her hand, her breath, her lips, sliding over him with a feather-light touch, claiming his size and strength and his desire. Marking him as hers.

So much so that she whispered there, “Mine.”

“Always,” he replied without hesitation. “Forever.”

She ignored the last, knowing it wasn’t true, but wanting to believe it in the moment. She licked over him, testing the salt and sweet of him, suddenly wild for it, for him, and he groaned, his hands coming to hold her more firmly even as he refused to move her, to take what he wanted.

She smiled against him. “Show me what you like, husband.”

And the word undid him, as it did her, sending a pleasure pooling hot and heavy to her core as she parted her lips and took him long and slow and deep, hard and hot as he lost control of his words, cursing and praying in equal measure as she licked and sucked and drew him deep, wanting nothing more than to give him pleasure and to take her own.

There had been times when she had imagined being with him like this, imagining what it would be like to drive him mad, to send him over the edge. Imagined how they would have found all the ways to pull each other apart and then piece each other back together. Night after night. Just as he’d said. Forever.

But she did not have forever. She had now.

His hands tightened in her hair as he released another groan, louder and wilder than before, and a thrum of pleasure coursed through her. “Sera, Angel . . . I cannot . . .” He paused, breathed deep as she gentled, licking over him, tasting him. Thrumming with passion. “Love, I’ve waited too long. I want to be with you when it happens.”

The words, honest and beautiful, stayed her, and she released him, raking her gaze over his strong, lean, beauty—drinking him in, willing herself to remember every inch of him. “I want to be with you, as well,” she whispered, coming up to her knees and kissing him long and deep. “I want every inch of you on every inch of me. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without sorrow.”

“Yes.” He caught her to him, cupping her breasts, playing at the hard tips until she sighed and rocked against him, making him groan. “God, yes. Whatever you want.”

Those words, again. So different from what he’d offered her long ago. So different from what she’d asked for. “I want you.”

His hands came up, cradling her face, holding her still so he could watch her. “You have me.” So plain. So honest. So late.

Tears pricked with the past. With the soft, unsettling whisper of a question—what if he’d offered himself to her years ago? What if they’d had another chance?

“I love you,” he whispered.

What if they had one now?

But they didn’t. There was no way to overcome the past. To put away the way they’d slung weapons at each other. And there was no way to erase the most basic of truths—the life they could never have because their only chance at it had disappeared in the cold January snow three years earlier.

She kissed him, because she could not find another reply.

Because she did not want to think of one.

He pulled away almost instantly, his lips clinging to hers even as he pushed her away, as though he knew what she was thinking and wanted to discuss it. “Sera,” he said, and she heard the intention in her name.

She shook her head. “Not now, Mal. Not here. Not when I’ve been waiting so long. And you, too.”

And then she lay back, spreading herself on the bed, one knee bent, arms wide, welcoming. Wanting.

His eyes flashed with desire and his lips flat

tened. “After.”

She nodded. “After.”

She would have promised him anything then. Anything to ensure that he would make good on his promise.

Gloriously, he was on her then, just as she’d asked. Every inch of him over every inch of her, the glorious, straining length of him notched against the wet heat of her, pressing perfectly, teasing her. His arms came up to cage her between them, her hands stroking over his beautiful broad shoulders as he rocked into her, against the place she wanted him more than anything. Pleasure shot through her and she gasped at it and the sudden, desperate ache that came from it.

She wanted him. Immediately.

He repeated the motion, teasing her, the head of him hard and firm against the place where he had always been able to make her wild. “You like it, don’t you, Angel?”

“I do.” The words came on a moan about which she refused to be ashamed.

He kissed her deep and did it again. A reward for her honesty.

“Tell me how,” he whispered. “Tell me what you wish.”

And she did. “Harder,” she insisted. “Again.”

He did it, and it was perfect.

“Mal.”

He rocked against her, pressing firmly until they found her edge, and he played there, lingering, pushing her nearly over and then pulling her back from it, until she was biting her lip and thrashing on the bed, begging for release.

“Mal. Inside me.”

He did not obey. “No. I want to watch.”

She opened her eyes, finding his gaze. “You can watch while you’re inside me, dammit.”

The bastard laughed, rutting against her, rude and perfect, as though she weren’t dying of need to have him where she wished him. Immediately. “Now . . .” She panted. “Mal, don’t you wish to have me around you?”

He closed his eyes and stilled above her. “Christ, yes.”

She spread her thighs wider and said, “I wish it, too. I will it.”

And the glorious, wonderful man did it, pressing into her slowly, perfectly, a thick slide of pleasure that had them both sighing before he stilled. “Sera?”

The concern in the word was her undoing. She turned her lips to meet his, sliding her tongue deep, scraping her nails down his back, lifting her hips to him, forcing him deeper. He moaned at the movement, and took up the rhythm even as he took over the kiss, claiming her in every way possible, rocking deeper and deeper until she was filled with nothing but pleasure and him.

She tore her lips from his. “All the time we were apart—”

He nodded. “I know.”

He didn’t, though. “Everything I ever imagined this could be . . .”

“I know.” He kissed her again, reaching between them, finding the spot just above the place where they were joined.

She came off the bed like a bow, and he caught her to him, pulling them both up to a sitting position, giving himself more access to her body. He leaned down, taking the tip of one breast in his mouth, sucking long and slow as his fingers worked magic, all in concert with the rhythm that was proving to be her slow, perfect destruction.

And then she was thrusting, moving against him, reaching down to clasp his wrist and show him all the ways he could touch her, all the paths to her pleasure. “Faster,” she whispered. “Harder.” Though she did not know if she was speaking to him or to herself, because she, too, was moving faster. She, too, was coming over him harder and more forceful, as though she could imprint this moment in her memories.

Forever.

And then she looked into his eyes, desperate for release, and recognized the edge in him, saw the way they catapulted toward it. “Mal,” she whispered. “I love you.”

The words wrecked them both, tipping them over that magnificent edge, deep and fast and powerful. She reached for him, her fingers sliding into his hair. “Look at me,” she whispered. “Show me.”

He did, and she watched as he found his pleasure before taking her own, throwing herself into it, not caring if she ever returned, because there was nothing in the world she would ever want as much as this magnificent, unbearable, terrifying release.

And for the first time since she’d left him, Sera found peace.

They collapsed against each other, breaths coming in great heaving gasps that made it impossible to know where she ended and he began, and perhaps it did not matter. It did not matter. Sera could not stop herself from basking in it, this single moment, when they were not simply the aches of the past and the imperfect promise of the present, but all the magnificent moments between.

Long minutes passed as their breathing returned to normal and Sera returned to the room and the day and the life they’d built. And the promise she’d made to herself—that after this, she would leave.

Because nothing had changed.

She remained too overwhelmed by him, by the feel of him, by the unspoken promises of him. Even now, as they clung to each other like partners, like lovers, as though the future was theirs for the taking, she struggled to find herself in it.

I love you.

He unwrapped himself from her, pulling her down to the bed with him, kissing her, long and lush before tucking her into the crook of his arm and whispering into her hair, “I want you mine. I want you forever. And, dammit, I have you. I’ve had you all along. I should never have hesitated. I should have given you everything. The title, the marriage, all of it. I wanted to. I want to, still. I want to go back and begin again.”

She’d never imagined she could love and hate something as much as she loved and hated those words. At once, she wanted everything he offered, without hesitation. She wanted the promise of something new and fresh and untarnished by the past. And still, she could not trust it. Nothing beautiful had ever stayed such for her.

There was no beginning anew. They could not erase the past, and they could not change the future. They could not have the promise that had teased them. But she could close the door on it. And give them both a chance at something new.

She could have the Sparrow, and the freedom that came with it. And he could have a family—one that loved him as much as he deserved. Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she had no choice but to tuck her face into his chest and hide from him.

As ever, she hid from him.

Because he had always been able to see her.

He sighed, long in the fast-dimming light of the room, and it occurred to Sera that they had skipped dinner. That the mothers and daughters who had been a part of his elaborate ruse would once again be slighted.

She pressed her ear to his chest, listening as his breathing calmed. Evened. Until he slept.

And still, she lay there, rocked by her love for him. By the way it claimed her, just as it had years earlier. By the memory of what had happened then. By fear of what might happen if she allowed herself to love him.

By the temptation of it.

It was only then that she replied to him, whispering to his warm, welcome skin, to his arm, wrapped tightly about her, even in slumber. To this bed that should have been theirs in this house that should have been their home with a family that would never be. “Don’t love me, Mal. There is no future for us.”

The keen understanding of that truth had driven her across an ocean, and to the floor of Parliament. She had lost everything she had ever loved before—her child, her family, her life. Him.

First, by chasing him, and then by running from him. And perhaps there was cowardice in her waiting until he slept to voice the truth. No perhaps. There was cowardice. Angry and unbearable. But who was she if not the sum total of her flaws?

At least if she ran, they both had a chance at being free.

Chapter 23

Déjà vu? Duchess Disappears (Part Deux)

Mal woke to a sharp rap on the door of his bedchamber.

He sat up, unsettled by the darkness—unaware of the time or the date or of anything but the deep, drugging sleep that had consumed him. It had been ages since he’d slept so soundly. Three

years. Longer.

He might never have slept so well, as he had never slept with her.

He reached instinctively for Sera, displeased to discover that he was alone once more in his bed, the sheets cool to the touch.

With a little growl, he looked to the windows, the heavy darkness beyond indicating that he’d been asleep for several hours. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed, wanting to rise for one reason only—to seek her out and drag her back to bed. To make love to her again, and return to sleep with her in his arms until sunup. Sunup a week from now, if he could manage it.

The knocking came again, quick and urgent.

Shrugging into a dressing gown, Mal headed for the door. He’d locked it when they’d entered, unwilling to risk being interrupted, and Sera had likely escaped through the adjoining door to their rooms. He was halfway across the room when the sound began anew.

“Yes. All right!” It came on a near bellow, one he attempted to contain, knowing that his irritation with waking alone and out of time was not the fault of whoever stood on the other side of the door.

And they clearly had urgent business, dammit.

He tore the door open, “What is it?” dying in his throat as he took in the somewhat strange reality in the hallway beyond. The three remaining candidates for his unavailable hand in marriage were fanned out in the dimly lit hallway, each looking more mortified than the next to be there. Not so, their respective mothers, who seemed committed to whatever plan was afoot, which apparently involved Lord Brunswick, two of Lady Bumble’s dogs and—somehow—Sesily’s cat.

As a partially dressed Mal came into view, the assembly offered myriad response: two mothers immediately moving to shield their daughters’ gazes from Mal’s state of undress; daughters in question doing their best to at once feign innocence and get a good look; and the final girl—Lady Felicity Faircloth, of course—watching with unabashed amusement, despite her mother’s clear, “Good heavens, Felicity, look away!”

Felicity did not look away, and Mal noticed she was holding the cat, who blinked at him and offered a low yowl.