Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 19

  He had a duty. Even if he’d fallen in love with the woman he was duty-bound to distrust. Even if he was still trapped in the emerald depths of said woman’s eyes. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  Guilt sliced through him with the precision of a bayonet. “You needn’t feel beholden. I’m not the Galahad you think me.”

  It was as much of a warning as he could issue to her without giving himself away and putting his mission and the League at risk. The reminder of what he was expected to do—lure in her bastard of a father, pretend as though he’d married Daisy for her fortune, bring him close enough to hurt her once more—made a swift stab of nausea ride through his gut. The mutton was delicious, and it was his favorite dish, but he couldn’t stomach another bite of food.

  “You’re a good man, Sebastian,” Daisy said, her cheekbones flushing a charming pink beneath his scrutiny. “It’s futile to try to convince me otherwise.”

  “A good man wouldn’t have ruined you in the moonlight without a care for your reputation.”

  Bitterness unfurled. How could she be so innocent and good, so blind in her trust of him, she who had been only mistreated and used for her entire life? He had kissed her, ripped her bodice, in the gardens of a ball where they could have been seen by anyone. He had shamed her, used her, all in the name of duty, and without a care. From the beginning, he had deceived her. Knowing that she was suspected of treason, he had still lusted after her, had taken her bloody maidenhead while he was meant to annul their marriage. And he had done all this as he knew there remained a chance she could be cast into prison.

  He hated himself. Hated lying to her. Even now, he couldn’t tell her what he so desperately longed to tell her. He had sworn an oath to the League before he’d ever sworn an oath to her. But now the two were hopelessly at war with each other.

  Daisy held up her hands, palms facing the ceiling, a teasing smile flirting with the lips he longed to claim. “Ruined and yet here I sit, perfectly well. Your conscience may feel otherwise, but believe me when I say that my ruination was my saving grace. I don’t regret that night, Sebastian. I wanted it, and not just because I wanted to be free of Lord Breckly, but because I wanted you.”

  Her words sank straight through him, leaving a path of fire in their wake. By God, he wished he were free. For the first time in his life, he was no longer content to be a part of the League. For the first fucking time, he wanted to be… Sebastian. Simply himself. With no secrets, no lies, no danger, no worry, no allegiance to anyone other than the woman facing him across the expanse of snowy linens and gleaming cutlery and delicious-smelling mutton.

  And that was when he recognized it in full, this restless feeling sliding around within him, this sense of incompletion and confusion. The life he led—secrecy, collusion, danger—had ceased to fulfill him long ago. He wanted something more, something real.

  He wasn’t going to bring Vanreid into his home or within striking distance of Daisy. Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day. On this—the safety of his wife—he wouldn’t hesitate to defy Carlisle. He wouldn’t risk her. She was too precious to him.

  And when this mission was over, he was going to retire from the League. If Daisy forgave him after he told her as much of the truth as he was able, they would go to Thornsby Hall and raise half a dozen children.

  Children with Daisy.

  Something warm settled in his gut. The thought of planting his seed in her, watching her grow with his babe, took his breath and made his cock even harder than it already was by being seated across from her, in her charmed presence.

  “Sebastian?” her voice was hesitant, questioning. “Won’t you say something? I fear I’ve shocked you with my confession.”

  He shot from his chair so quickly that it thudded backward, tipped on its side on the carpet behind him. He didn’t give a damn. “You could never shock me, buttercup,” he assured her as he stalked around the table.

  Being in the same space as her without having her in his arms was suddenly insupportable. He had to have her. Right. Bloody. Now. Everything else could be dealt with another day—the League, her father, his mission, the lies between them. But here, in this moment, he was going to give her the only honesty he could. It wasn’t what she deserved, but it was all he had.

  Her eyes went wide as he hauled her from her chair before making a thorough swipe of the table behind her with his arm. China, silver, and the fourth course all went crashing to the center of the table. He didn’t give a damn if every last monogrammed plate was smashed to bits. Didn’t care if the mutton went to waste. His hands went to her waist, spanning it easily.

  She ought to eat more, he thought absently as he lifted her up and deposited her on the table at her back. Her hands went to his shoulders, and she still hadn’t said a word, her shock rendering her speechless.

  When her derriere settled on the table linen and he caught her billowing skirts in his fists, she found her tongue at last. “Sebastian! What are you doing? We haven’t even finished dinner or had dessert. Cook has prepared cocoa biscuits and strawberries.”

  She was breathless, flushed, and she smelled better than anything ever had. He wanted to inhale her, trap her bergamot and vanilla and ambergris in his lungs so that whenever he wasn’t in her presence he could still breathe her.

  His gaze fell to her mouth. “You don’t like strawberries.”

  “You do.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “How did you know I don’t like strawberries?”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he rucked her skirts up to her waist, pooling their voluminous layers on the table. And that was when he made the most astonishing, delicious revelation. His duchess wasn’t wearing any drawers. Nothing but silk stockings and garters and well-curved legs.

  And the most tempting cunny he’d ever seen.

  She was his.

  “To hell with the cocoa biscuits and strawberries, love.” He sank to his knees in appreciation, his hands on her hips, gliding over warm silk until they reached warmer flesh. “All I want is you.”

  “Sebastian.” She sounded equal parts scandalized and breathless. “You mustn’t. We’re in the midst of dinner. The servants… ”

  Mine, he thought as he kissed the tempting skin above her garters. First her left leg, then the right. “No one will disturb us.” He had made it clear to his staff after their first dinner. There would be no discreet knock, no hesitant interruption.

  He had all the time in the world to savor her. And savor her he would. Sweet Christ, but her thighs were glorious. There was something delectably carnal about all that ivory: garters, silk, skin, and the way she attempted to press her legs together to preserve her modesty. Mine. There it was again, unbidden, the claim he staked upon her.

  He’d meant what he said to Griffin. He was firm in his decision. This woman, who was soft and kind and beautiful, who made him laugh as much as she made him lust, she belonged to him now, just as he belonged to her. There would be no annulment.

  “Sebastian.” Her hands flitted to his shoulders first, then to his hair. But instead of pushing him away, her fingers tunneled a path to his scalp. “This is wicked.”

  “Mmm.” He hummed his satisfaction as he kissed higher, caressing her thighs with slow, languorous strokes as he urged her to open to him. “I want to taste you, love.” Another kiss, then another, and she allowed him to nudge her legs apart.

  A noise emerged from her throat as well, half moan, half mewl, and he’d never heard a sweeter sound than Daisy losing the tight grip she attempted to keep on her control. Slowly, he spread her legs, inch by torturous inch. He kissed each inner thigh. Mine. Nipped her with his teeth, making her jerk as her fingers tensed in his hair. Mine. Licked the soft skin to soothe it. Mine. Higher he went, his mouth dragging over her, worshipping, loving.

  And then she was open to him completely, and he slid his hands to cup her bare bottom and drag her closer. He was like a man lost on a desert plain who had just stumbled across
a babbling stream, sinking to his knees to cup that life source and bring it into his body with a desperation borne of pure necessity. He ran his tongue over her seam, once, twice, again and again. Teasing. Tasting. She moved beneath him, moaning, twisting, her legs clamping down on his head.

  He removed a hand from her bottom to stroke her thigh, calming her, letting her adjust to the onslaught of sensation. Sweet. She was so bloody sweet. Musky and feminine and something else uniquely her. She filled his senses, surrounding him, until there was nothing else that existed. There was only Daisy on his tongue, Daisy’s breathy sounds of helpless desire, Daisy’s fingers in his hair, her thighs soft against him, the wet, delicious heat of her.

  Mine. He found the prize he sought, his tongue probing through her slick folds to discover her pearl. He flicked over that exquisite bundle of sensation, working it with his tongue. Mine. He blew a stream of hot air over her.

  “Oh,” she said, and then, “oh, Sebastian.”

  Very gently, he bit, catching her between his upper lip and his teeth before raking over her pearl again and again. He sucked her, looking up to find her watching him, her expression slack and unguarded, her lush mouth partially open, her chest heaving with each labored breath.

  Their gazes clashed and he allowed her to slide from his lips with a lusty pop. “Spend for me, Daisy. I want to make you come with nothing but my tongue.”

  This was all he could offer her until he was free of the League: his body and her pleasure. He could make her fly, could give her release, and he wanted that for her now more than anything. She deserved so much more, so much better. She deserved his honesty and his love, and he would give her both as soon as he was able.

  For the moment, he could only run his tongue over her slit again—once, twice, five times, more—before sinking it inside her as deep as he could. Pointing his tongue, he thrust it inside her again and again. His hand traveled up her thigh to the skin revealed beneath her corset, directly above her womb. Here, she would carry their babes. He flattened his hand over her. Mine. And her hand came to rest upon his, their fingers tangling.

  “Please,” she said.

  Her plea spurred him on. Back to her pearl he went, licking, sucking, nipping, learning what she liked best. The particularly sensitive spot below that sweet bud and slightly to the right made her buck and go wild. He closed his mouth over her, raking her with his teeth until finally, she exploded. He watched her as she came, her back arched, head thrown back in ecstasy to reveal the graceful column of her throat, her breasts straining against her bodice.

  “Sebastian,” she cried. “I love you.”

  The rush of her release was liquid and instant, and he lost his ability to form coherent thought.

  Mine. Bloody, fucking hell. Mine.

  Had she said that? Those three words? He didn’t dare to hope, to believe. Just when he was convinced he’d been mistaken, he heard her low moan, and it was undeniable. I love you, I love you, I love you.

  Ah, Christ. This woman would be his undoing. He tore his mouth from her at last, hauling her into his arms for a tight embrace. If he’d been able to pull her inside himself, he would have, so fierce and unexpected was his reaction to her words and his need of her.

  “Thank you, my love,” he said into her ear. “Now let’s get the hell upstairs so we can finish what we’ve started.”

  She kissed his jaw, her arms tightening around him. “Yes,” was all she said.

  He withdrew and helped her restore her dress into a semblance of order. Wordlessly, he took her hand and led her to her chamber. Once there, he made love to her twice, once with frantic abandon and once with slow, tender passion. With his body, he told her the words he wasn’t yet free to say. Words he wouldn’t say until this godforsaken mission was over and he could be truthful with her. Words she deserved to hear after he was freed of the shackles of his oath, and his only duty was instead to her.

  When at last he lay in the darkness with her curled against him, both of their bodies spent, Daisy’s even breathing indicating she was asleep, he kissed her bare shoulder.

  “I love you, too,” he whispered into the night.

  he next morning, Sebastian broke his fast in his customary fashion: close to dawn, alone, and with The Times ironed and laid out beside his plate. He forked up a bite of oeuf cocottes and chewed thoughtfully as his mind drifted from parliamentary matters and news of the world abroad.

  To hell with everything ordinary. Today was no ordinary goddamn day. Today, everything had changed. The sun rising to break London’s bleak fog had seemed unnaturally bright. His coffee tasted better than it ever had. His chest felt lighter, and he couldn’t bloody well stop grinning like a fool.

  Daisy loved him. And he loved her.

  Yes, Christ help him, as sudden and strange and ill-advised as it seemed, he had found the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his days loving. His relationship with Daisy was cordial and easy. She possessed intelligence and determination and wit, all enhanced by a lively sense of humor. When he was irritable, she made him laugh. When he was arrogant, she subtly reminded him. When he reached out his hand, she took it.

  She’d been tardy for dinner every bloody night, and he hadn’t even minded, although he was certain she kept him waiting by design. When she arrived, a teasing smile on her lips, resplendent in her evening finery, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms, carry her back up the staircase, and make love to her all night long.

  She was like sunlight after a torrent of rain. Something about the woman was impossibly charming, and it wasn’t just her beauty. It was some indefinable quality he’d never known another female to possess. Or perhaps, it was her, Daisy who affected him so. She’d had him at war with himself, from the start, half of him wanting her desperately and the other half of him determined to keep her at arm’s length where she belonged.

  But as the days had progressed, the words “pawn” and “annulment” had found themselves unceremoniously thrust into the recesses of his mind. He’d watched her, of course, and had sifted through her personal effects, not without an organ-piercing stab of guilt each time. He’d located her journal and had painstakingly read every entry. All he’d managed to discover was that she was thrilled to begin reading the contents of her library and that her penmanship was surprisingly slanted and imperfect.

  He frowned at his newspaper, the words blurring before him. Aside from the deficiency of her handwriting, Daisy was exactly as he’d suspected: a kindhearted, vivacious young lady who’d been mistreated by her father and had been desperate to escape him and the decrepit lecher of a match he’d chosen for her.

  The most pressing task at hand for him was amassing evidence of her innocence to provide to Carlisle. The sooner he could remove Daisy as a suspect, the better. Troubling questions remained, of course. Her connection to the Irish shop girl and Padraig McGuire, chief among them. He recognized that his love for her did not exculpate her. Of course, the hardened spy within him even had to acknowledge that there was a chance she was guilty as sin after all, and he had allowed his feelings to cloud his judgment.

  Either way, there was only one conclusion to the situation in which he found himself. Daisy was either guilty or she was innocent, and Sebastian was either a fool or he wasn’t.

  To that end, he would continue to follow leads and build a case for Carlisle. He had every hope that they’d bring him to the inevitable conclusion that Daisy had no parts of her father’s plotting with the Fenians. That the woman he was so bloody drawn to—the woman he’d fallen hopelessly in love with against his every instinct and all his years of training combined—had no more to do with dynamite plots than the queen herself.

  “Pardon the interruption, Your Grace, but you’ve some correspondence this morning,” Giles interrupted, his tone faultlessly formal.

  He lowered the neglected paper and acknowledged his butler, accepting the correspondence as though it was likely as harmless as a letter from a maiden aunt. Sebastian wa
ited until Giles had discreetly resumed his place by the sideboard before tearing open the seal of the letter. His eyes scanned the familiar, brief scrawl, that old, worn knot resurging. His blood went cold.

  The message was coded, its contents seemingly innocuous enough.

  Would you care to meet for a morning ride? The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon.

  It was unsigned, but that hardly mattered. He knew the note’s author just as he knew he had a pair of hands and the sun glinted in the sky above him even though he couldn’t see it from where he sat.

  Carlisle wanted to meet at once.

  And nothing about a sudden summons from the Duke of Carlisle was ever a matter for rejoicing.

  Dread, heavy and hard and unpalatable as hell, twisted in his gut. This brief idyll with Daisy was bound to be disrupted. But damn it if he hadn’t enjoyed every moment of it while it had lasted.

  The devil, it seemed, would always collect his due. He may love Daisy so much that it made his chest physically ache, but he wasn’t free to pursue that love just yet. For now, he was bound by his honor, his word, his loyalty to the Crown, and his family legacy. He felt them all like steel manacles circling his wrists. Keeping him prisoner. From the moment he’d taken his vows, his life had ceased to be his own.

  Everything had changed, but just the same, nothing had.

  He folded the note in thirds, carefully keeping his expression bland for the sake of the footman and butler dancing attendance on him. He should have remained in Daisy’s chamber, her body sleek and soft and warm and naked in his arms. He could have woken her with his kiss and then slid his cock home inside her.

  Instead, he had risen early and dressed in customary fashion, requesting the papers and his breakfast. He had done all this because despite the fact that he would like nothing more than to pretend as if he was free to love Daisy the way he wished and the way she deserved, he was not. And lingering in her bed only prolonged his own torture and inner torment.