Chapter 17 #2
His thumb stroked her jaw as he murmured, “No, marry me now. Tonight. Let’s run to Scotland—Gretna Green. I’ll marry you before dawn.”
“We have two hundred guests coming to our wedding,” she said faintly, her pulse hammering where his thumb lingered.
“Don’t care.”
“Your mother would murder us both.”
“Don’t care.”
“James...”
“I almost lost you tonight.” His voice was hoarse, his hands sliding up to cradle her face. “If that girl had been cleverer, if she had real proof, if society had believed her...”
“But they didn’t,” she whispered.
“But they could have.” His touch gentled, though his eyes burned. “I can’t lose you, Catherine. I can’t go back to existing without you.”
“You won’t have to.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Even though I’m drunk and ridiculous and about to have a spectacular headache tomorrow?”
“Especially then.”
His mouth captured hers in a kiss that was brandy-sweet and desperate, almost rough in its hunger.
Catherine melted into it, the taste and feel of him overwhelming.
His hands slid down to the small of her back, pressing her closer until she could feel the tremor in his body, the restrained urgency in his touch.
For a heartbeat she forgot the garden, the windows, the whole of London.
“Come with me,” he murmured against her lips.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re drunk, we’re not married yet, and I will not have our second time be when you’re too intoxicated to remember it properly.”
His grin broke through the intensity, boyish and wicked. “Second time,” he repeated softly, as though savouring the word. “We had multiple first times that night. A spectacular first time. A life-changing first time.”
“James!”
“What? It’s true. That night was the best night of my life—until our wedding night, which will be even better because I won’t have to leave you in the morning.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m yours,” he said simply, his fingers still at her waist, his breath warm against her temple. “And in three days you’ll be mine properly, and Heaven help anyone who tries to keep me from you.”
“Catherine,” he murmured, the word low and rough, more plea than name. “Let me touch you.”
Her breath caught. The garden felt suspended; every leaf, every sound holding its breath with her. “James, we cannot...”
“We can,” he said softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “We can do anything you wish. Only say no, and I’ll stop.”
He was drunk, yes, but there was clarity in his eyes; a dark, deliberate control that made her tremble. He was not the careless rake the ton whispered of tonight. He was every inch the man who commanded rooms, armies, her very pulse.
“Let me please you,” he said, the words almost reverent. “You’ve haunted me for months. Every night, I’ve imagined you like this...your lips, your breath, your little sounds when I touch you…”
She shivered, unable to look at him. “James…”
“I need to taste your pleasure on my skin,” he continued, his voice a slow burn. “Not to take, only to give. To remind you who you belong to, who will cherish you properly.”
Her resolve wavered, breath unsteady. The scent of jasmine wrapped around them, mingling with the faint spice of brandy and the clean, masculine warmth of him.
“You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered.
“I shouldn’t want you as I do,” he answered, his mouth near her ear now, his breath hot against her neck. “But I do. I always will. Let me show you.”
Her body betrayed her before her lips could. She leaned into him, her hand rising, hesitant, trembling, to his chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath her palm, wild and certain.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, voice deep and rough.
She couldn’t. The word refused to come.
Instead, she met his gaze, steady, defiant, pleading, and whispered, “James…”
It was all the permission he needed.
He drove her back at a dark corner and pushed her against a wall, the shock of his mouth at her throat still tingling when suddenly he sank to his knees. A duke...kneeling before her. The sight alone made her pulse run wild.
With a low growl of intent, he gathered her skirts, layer after layer swept up in his impatient hands until the muslin bunched at her waist. Cool air licked at her thighs, but it was nothing compared to the searing heat of him, his breath, his lips, his tongue.
He claimed her with shameless devotion, each stroke sending her body taut against the wall.
Her fingers clutched at the carved paneling behind her, nails scraping for purchase as her knees weakened. “You mustn’t...” she gasped, though her protest was nothing more than a thread of sound.
“Oh, I must,” he answered against her, voice roughened by need. “You have no idea how long I’ve hungered for this.”
Her back hit the wall with a muted thud, and for a moment she could scarcely breathe. A duke — her duke — on his knees before her. The sight alone made her dizzy with disbelief, as though she had stepped into some dream spun of daring and scandal.
“Stay with me,” he murmured, voice thick and low, his hands bunching her skirts higher. “I need this. I need you.”
Her heart clattered in her chest, erratic and wild. This is madness. Someone might hear. Someone might see. Yet when the cool air touched her bared skin, her protests dissolved into nothing. The first hot press of his mouth undid her completely.
Her gasp broke free before she could swallow it down.
Heat shot through her like lightning, her knees buckling so violently she clutched at the paneling behind her again.
She wanted to push him away, to save them both from ruin and yet, every fiber of her body begged her to hold still, to let him go on.
“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered, her head falling back. “James… you mustn’t.”
He looked up, his mouth still wet from her, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her whole body quake.
“I must. Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of this?
” His grip at her hips tightened, dragging her closer, forcing her to feel every bold stroke of his tongue. “No more denial. Not tonight.”
The sensations came in waves, each one more devastating than the last. She bit her lip, trying to smother the cries rising in her throat.
This is wrong. This is dangerous. This is.
.. Her thoughts shattered as he changed his pace, teasing and relentless all at once.
Her legs trembled, her breath hitched, and the only thing anchoring her was the strength of his hands pinning her to the wall.
Her mind flickered with panic; what if someone entered, what if someone saw, but even that fear twisted into something hotter. The scandal of it, the impossibility of it, only drove her higher, every nerve alight with forbidden pleasure.
“Look at me,” he demanded, pausing just long enough to lift his gaze to hers. His mouth hovered close, his breath hot against her trembling skin. “I want to see you come undone. For me.”
Her eyes fluttered open, glazed and desperate. The raw hunger in his expression, the sheer possession etched into every line of his face, stole what little restraint she had left. She felt herself unraveling, a helpless sob torn from her lips as the tension broke.
“James...!” She clung to him, to the wall, to anything that might hold her together as her body yielded, shuddering violently under the onslaught of sensation.
He didn’t let go. He pressed harder, refusing to release her until she sagged against the paneling, boneless and breathless, utterly undone.
When at last he rose, his chest heaved with exertion, his hair disheveled, his mouth slick with proof of her surrender. He caged her against the wall with his arms, his forehead pressing to hers.
“You are mine,” he whispered fiercely, his voice unsteady, as though the force of his own desire nearly broke him. “No matter what the world says, no matter what scandal follows… you are mine.”
Her only answer was the sobbing breath she dragged into her lungs, her hands trembling as they clutched at his coat. For the first time, she understood what it meant to be both destroyed and remade in the same breath.
He buried his face against her trembling form, his voice fierce and low. “Never doubt, not for a moment, that you are mine.”
"Yes," she agreed. "You are. Now let Peters take you home."
Indeed, the long-suffering valet was waiting by the garden gate with a carriage, looking resigned but clearly unaware of what had transpired.
"Your Grace," Peters said patiently, when James moved towards him. "Perhaps we should return home?"
"Peters! Excellent timing."
"Indeed, Your Grace. The carriage?"
James allowed himself to be led away, but not before turning back to Catherine one more time.
Catherine watched the carriage disappear, shaking her head, legs still trembling.
Back in her room, she found a letter that must have been delivered while she was in the garden.
My darling Catherine,
By the time you read this, I'll probably be drunk, trying not to think about how much I'd rather be with you. My friends mean well, but they don't understand that celebrating my last night of "freedom" is absurd when I've been happily captive to you for months.
Tonight was too close. When Miss Worthing threatened you, when I thought we might be exposed, all I could think was that I didn't care. Let them know. Let everyone know that you're mine and I'm yours and have been since that night at the inn.
But you would have cared. Your reputation would have suffered. So I lied. I'll lie a thousand times more if it protects you. I'll swear the sky is green and water runs uphill if it keeps you safe.
Two more days, my love. Two more days of pretense, of careful distance, of proper behavior. And then, finally, I can love you the way I've been desperate to since that morning I had to leave you.
Dream of me tonight. Dream of our wedding, our wedding night, our life together. Dream of forever.
All my love, James
P.S. - If you hear someone throwing pebbles at your window later, it's probably me. Apparently brandy makes me sentimental. And possibly criminal, since I'm considering breaking into your room. Peters has promised to stop me. We'll see who wins.
Catherine laughed, pressing the letter to her heart. He had indeed shown up, drunk and devoted and completely hers.
Two more days.