The Wicked Ways of a Duke(29)
This had to be a dream. He was a duke, so far above her that he might as well be the golden sun in the sky, so handsome it almost hurt her eyes to look at him. She was only a seamstress when all was said and done, a plump girl-bachelor of unremarkable looks and no consequence whatsoever, born of parents who hadn’t even had their marriage lines. He was everything she could ever want, but that he could want her seemed impossible. “You really want to marry me? Really?”
His smile vanished. His fingers slid into the hair at her temples and he tilted her head back. His thumbs brushed across her cheeks. “I can think of nothing that would bring me greater happiness.”
She gazed up at him, at his silvery-green eyes and beautiful, smiling mouth, and her heart ached in her breast with a happiness so strong, she could hardly breathe.
He bent his head, and when his lips touched her own, the pleasure was so acute, she made a wordless sob of pure joy against his mouth. The sweetness of it was like nothing she had ever experienced before.
Like a butterfly breaking free of its chrysalis, she felt as if she were suddenly coming to life, as if she had spent all the days before this one waiting to emerge, waiting for this feeling and this moment. Waiting for him.
With his warm mouth against her own and his fingertips caressing her face, she was lost. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her heart tumbled into his hands, and her fate became inexorably entwined with his. For the first time in her life, Prudence Bosworth fell in love.
Chapter 10
Abernathy Heiress Engaged! But Is It Love?
—The Social Gazette, 1894
She was his. Rhys could feel it in the parting of her lips, in the twining of her arms around his neck, in the soft yielding of her body against his. He savored the sweetness of victory along with the hot, hungry arousal coursing through his body, but even that potent combination wasn’t enough. He wanted more.
Though he knew a woman’s surrender when he felt it, he wanted her to give her consent to be his wife out loud. He broke the kiss and tilted his head, touching his lips to the side of her neck. “Was that a yes?” he asked, tasting her skin with his tongue.
In reply, she made a soft, moaning sound that was definitely affirmative, but he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to hear her say it.
He pressed kisses upward along her throat. “I didn’t quite understand that,” he murmured against her ear. He took her earlobe into his mouth and raked his teeth gently against her velvety soft skin, feeling her entire body shiver in response. “Could you say it again?”
“Mm,” she answered, arms tightening around his neck, her breath quickening. “Umm-hmm.”
That was still not enough for him. He had to have more. Suckling her earlobe, Rhys left off caressing her face and slid his hands down between them. When his palms embraced the fullness of her breasts, the pleasure was exquisite, but he didn’t linger there. Instead, he lowered his hands still farther, savoring the deep dip of her waist and the wider flare of her hips. Even through the layers of her clothing and the whalebone stiffness of her corset, he could discern the true shape of her, and it was a shape so perfect, he gave a low groan of pure masculine appreciation.
“You’re lovely,” he muttered, and immediately cursed himself for not coming up with something more original to say than that. But for the life of him, he was unable to make his mind fashion a more sophisticated compliment. He kissed her ear, her cheek, her hair. “Luscious.”
He cupped her buttocks in his hands, and the move shocked her, he could tell. Her hands slid down from his neck and her palms flattened against his chest. He was shocked as well, for he could hear his own breath harsh and quick against her ear as he shaped the contours of her lush and lovely bum, and realized with chagrin that his control was slipping.
He reminded himself that they were in the parlor of a respectable ladies’ lodging house and the respectable ladies would return at any moment. Yet even as he ordered himself to stop, he lifted her in his hands, and her arms tightened around his neck again as he brought her hips up hard against his. The pleasure was so great, it almost knocked him off his feet, but he reminded himself again that this wasn’t the time for amorous explorations. He had to let her go, but not before he had her pledge. “Say you’ll marry me, Prudence. Say it.”
“Yes.” The word was a gasp. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
With that promise, relief washed over him, mingling with unrequited lust. Rhys drew a long, deep breath and reluctantly eased her down onto her feet. Then, with one more kiss, he let her go, clasped his hands firmly behind him, and took a long—a very long—step back.
“I shall have to speak with your uncle,” he said, his voice a bit unsteady.
She nodded but didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her hand to touch her mouth with the tips of her fingers and stared at him with amazement.
Rhys appreciated the reason. “You’ve never been kissed before, have you?”
She lowered her hand. “Yes, I have,” she answered, to his surprise. “Once, in Sussex. John Chilton, the baker’s son. We were both fourteen. It—” She broke off, spread her palm across her rib cage and drew a deep breath. “It wasn’t at all the same.”
That made him laugh, and before he knew what he was doing, he broke his own resolution. Stepping forward, he cupped her cheek, tilted her head back and kissed her again, hard and quick. “Do you know where Mr. Feathergill is this afternoon?”
“He is a member at White’s. He might be there.”
Rhys nodded. “And I shall have to meet with the trustees of your estate—you have trustees, I assume?”
“Yes, Mr. Elliot Whitfield, and two other solicitors. They must approve the engagement.”
“I can’t see how they could do otherwise. I am a duke, after all. And, as baffling as it is, you want to marry me. If you’re willing to take me on, they can hardly object. Though they might question your sanity.” He slid his arms around her waist and kissed her nose. “Shall I dine with you tonight?”
“If you wish to.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s not likely to be a friendly meal. Uncle Stephen and Aunt Edith aren’t very fond of you.”
Rhys thought of her situation when they had met, of her down on her knees taking abuse from Alberta, working grueling hours as a seamstress and living in a lodging house, alone and on her own without even her own relations looking out for her, and he decided he wasn’t fond of them either.
“Then let’s talk of something more pleasant. Where shall I take you for our honeymoon, hmm? Would you like to see Italy? Paris?”
She shook her head. “I want to see your estates.”
“What?” Rhys was astonished. “Whatever for?”
She seemed more surprised by his question than he had been by hers. “I am to be your wife. Is it so surprising I should want to see your estates?”
“Of course not,” he said hastily, cursing himself for not having anticipated this. “Of course you want to see everything. It’s just that the houses aren’t—” He broke off, trying to think of a way to avoid it. “They aren’t furnished. There’s not much…that is…the roofs leak, and the drains are bad, and the gardens are shabby. The estates aren’t in any sort of shape for visitors.”
“But that’s exactly why I want to see them,” she explained. “I want to see what is needed. I want to meet the people, I want to show them we intend to be a responsible duke and duchess.”
He looked into her earnest face and realized with dismay that he’d overdone the heroic, ducal responsibility business.
“In fact,” she went on, “I don’t think we should wait. We should go at once.”
“You want to go before the wedding?”
“Yes. Things sound so dire, we have to go immediately and see what needs to be done. And if the drains are bad, there is always the risk of typhoid.”
“Prudence, it’s not possible. Except at Winter Park, we’d have to board at local inns in the villages.”
“I don’t mind. Besides, if we go now, all the work can be done while we’re on our honeymoon.”
She had every right to see the estates, she’d have to see them eventually, and arranging the repairs before they went on their honeymoon made perfect sense. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a single logical reason to refuse. He thought of his boyhood, of Winter Park, of all the things he’d buried two decades ago, and his dismay deepened into dread. “Prudence, you’re not serious?”
“If I’m to be your duchess, I should see what our homes need, don’t you think?”
He gave a violent start, fear shuddering deep within him like a slumbering giant about to wake up. “Some of those places will never be our homes,” he said through clenched teeth, thinking of Winter Park. “Never.”
A bewildered frown knit her brows at his vehemence, and he worked to recover his poise. She wanted to use her money to repair those places and turn them into homes, sweet, naive dumpling that she was. She didn’t know some things could never be repaired. He pulled her hard against him and buried his face in the lavender-scented sweetness of her hair.