Chapter 20
Time moved interminably before Singleton entered the dining room and announced, “I will take His Grace to the nursery now. Please remain and enjoy the port, sir.”
Singleton seemed determined that Eamon drain the entire bottle, having returned to top off his glass more than once already. Eamon could drink heartily if he chose, but he wanted his head clear tonight.
“Thank you,” Eamon said, rising. He bowed to Leo. “Good night, my liege.”
“Good night, my knight.” Leo grinned at his play on words then seized Singleton’s hand to be led out.
Eamon resumed his seat and finished the glass he’d begun to soothe Singleton’s worries. He lingered, giving Leo time to reach the nursery and Caro to say good night to him as she’d promised.
She might tarry a while, telling Leo stories or singing to him, or whatever she did when she put him to bed. Eamon poured another half glass of port but pushed it away after a few sips. The fortified wine was good but strong.
Eamon waited another agonizing three quarters of an hour, checking his watch every few minutes, before he decided to risk leaving the dining room.
The house was very quiet, and Singleton was nowhere in sight.
Fifth floor chamber, in the rear of the house.
What was there? Caro? A painting she wanted him to value? A strong bloke ready to beat some respect into him?
Eamon made his way to the staircase and paused to listen. When he heard no noise coming from either above or below, he ascended to the fifth floor.
It was even darker here, and no one was about. Eamon ventured to the end of the hall, where a closed door awaited him.
Caro definitely knew how to entice him. There was no way Eamon would leave this house before he satisfied his curiosity as to what was behind this door. He tapped on it.
He thought he heard the word Enter, but it was so faint he wasn’t certain. Eamon drew a fortifying breath, turned the handle, and pushed open the door.
Caro had lit plenty of candles inside. Singleton had snuffed more and more of them every time he’d come to Leo and Eamon in the dining room and taken them away, and Eamon now wondered if he’d carried them up here for Caro.
The room was a small bedchamber. A bed hung with warm-looking curtains reposed on the far wall, with a padded bench at the foot of it.
Comfortable chairs had been drawn near a compact bookcase, and an armoire stood on another wall.
Every fabric, from bed hangings to chair and bench upholstery, held sprays of flowers, as did the carpet, which was soft if worn.
It was a very feminine room, one that was never meant to admit a man. The Duke of Aylesmore had never slept here, Eamon wagered. This was Caro’s private retreat.
She stood in the middle of it, her lacy cap gone, her fichu loosened. She studied him with her brown-green eyes that held clarity and determination.
Eamon closed the door, his heart hammering.
Caro said nothing, did nothing. She remained in the center of the carpet, watching him. Her chest rose with a quick intake of breath, but otherwise, she remained motionless.
Eamon moved to her. “Duchess?” he asked softly when he reached her. “What—?”
Caro silenced him with cool fingers on his lips. Before Eamon could decide what to do, she laced her arms around his neck and covered his mouth with a long kiss.
Caro knew she had to be mad. She hadn’t disclosed to her friends the extent of her plans—her wild decision to slip Eamon the note had come from a place inside her she hadn’t realized still existed.
The daring miss she’d been had disappeared long ago, buried under caring for an ill husband and a spirited little boy.
This afternoon, the boldness Caro had lost rose again, making her write the note and, even more brazenly, slide it to Eamon under Singleton’s and her mother-in-law’s noses.
Eamon wouldn’t come, Caro had told herself. He’d be dismayed by her presumption or laugh at her.
When he opened the door and walked inside, she froze, unable to move or speak. He’d closed the door and come to her, and she could do nothing else but kiss him.
After Eamon’s initial start, he gently pulled her closer and returned the kiss with increasing fever.
Caro curled her hands on his back, the play of hard muscles enticing under her fingers. Eamon deepened the kiss, as though he liked her touching him.
His hands threaded her hair, pulling it loose until it fell about her shoulders. Eamon broke the kiss to bury his face in a fistful of it.
Unlike their tryst in Portman Square, Caro didn’t dread someone coming in to discover them.
The dowager had fallen asleep in her large bedchamber downstairs, and Leo, despite his excitement at Eamon’s visit, had quickly dropped off in his nursery.
Singleton would never dream of disturbing Caro in the night short of the direst of emergencies.
They were gloriously alone, no ballroom of disparaging guests to face at the end of whatever happened here.
Eamon unwound the fichu Caro had already loosened, letting it fall in a waft of pale fabric. He tilted her head back and pressed warm kisses along her throat before moving to her breasts as they rose above her décolletage.
His scalding breath brushed her skin, and Caro began to shake.
“No, my love.” Eamon lifted his head, his blue eyes dark in the candlelight. He cupped her face, caressing her cheekbones as her hair slid over his fingers. “Never be afraid of me.”
“I am not. I am—” Caro broke off, unable to explain. So much excitement coursed through her, she might fall to pieces. The sensation was unfamiliar, raw.
Eamon silenced her with his mouth then pressed kisses along her throat once more. Unhurried fingers loosened the catches of her bodice and untied the chemise that was her only layer under that.
Caro’s body hummed as Eamon lowered the gold satin gown Louise had insisted on lending her. Her modiste had created this gown for the Season, but Louise had never worn it. Caro might as well, she’d said.
Caro realized that Louise might have chosen this dress because it was easy to take off. It fell to her waist in a crush of warm satin, baring her to Eamon’s gaze.
He observed her in admiration, his attention as palpable as his touch. Then he skimmed his fingers under her breasts to gently lift them.
Caro had never had a man’s hands there—well, anyone’s hands, except her own, and that only in the bath. She let out a breath, trying to relax, but her inner fires shot even higher at his touch.
“You are beautiful,” he said softly. “I’ve never seen such beauty.”
“You must have done,” was all Caro could think of to say.
Eamon’s smile flashed. “Not until this night.” He leaned closer. “Caro, my dearest angel, why did you bring me here?”
To touch you. To have you touch me.
Caro had no idea how to say such things out loud. She put her fingers to his lips. “We should not talk.”
Eamon’s smile beneath her fingertips turned sultry. “I agree.”
He gently moved her hand aside and kissed her mouth.
His previous kisses had been fervent, but this one contained an intensity he’d been holding back. He cupped her breasts, her nipples growing tight as they pressed his palms. The fire of that ignited Caro’s excitement to desperation.
Caro grappled with the buttons of his waistcoat, so many buttons. Why were women’s garments so thin and flimsy while men stuffed themselves into layer upon layer of clothing?
Eamon laughed softly as she struggled. He released her—though she had a moment of anguish when he ceased kissing her—and helped her unbutton and slide his coat and waistcoat from him. Both fell to the carpet, and his cravat soon followed.
Caro untied the tapes that held his shirt closed, letting out a sigh of satisfaction when his hard torso at last was bare for her.
Caro ran her hands over his chest, fascinated by the planes of it, the dark hair that curled over her fingers, the flat nipples waiting for her touch.
Eamon sucked in a breath as she squeezed one between her fingers.
It pearled, like her own, and she repeated the action, intrigued.
She’d had no idea men responded to such a thing.
Eamon let her play as he loosened the final hooks of her gown, sending it, chemise, and her one modest underskirt to the carpet with his clothes.
Now they were skin to skin, and any lingering coolness fled. Caro had been unclothed with a man before—she’d borne a child after all—but not like this. Not standing in the middle of her chamber, in the flickering candlelight, passion running through her like rivers of flame.
Eamon slid warm hands down her back and over her now-bare hips, drawing her closer into the next kiss. They swayed together, mouths seeking, no more words.
Eamon hooked his arm under her thigh, pulling her leg up to twine his. He still wore skin-tight pantaloons, fashionable for a gentleman’s evening suit, but the position opened Caro more than she’d thought possible, letting her feel every inch of the hard ridge behind cashmere.
Just when she thought incandescence would overtake her, Eamon untangled them and lifted her in his arms, carrying her to the bed. He deposited her on top of it, not bothering to draw back the covers.
Eamon gazed down at her, his hair a mess from her fingers. “I’d love to sketch you as you are now. I would treasure such a picture forever.”
Caro gulped back a laugh. “It would be extremely shocking.”
Eamon leaned over her, his fists coming to rest on either side of her, breath burning. “It would be for no one’s delectation but mine, believe me.”
Caro hooked a finger on his waistband, the daring in her rising once more. “Perhaps I’d like a sketch of you as well.”
Something raw flared in Eamon’s eyes. In several swift moves, he stripped her of slippers and stockings, then himself of the rest of his garments.
From the moment his arms had gone around her at the window the day he’d arrived, Caro had wanted this. She hadn’t realized it, then had denied it, but she’d wanted this beautiful man bared for her.
“Please,” she whispered, as he drew his strong hand down her body.
Eamon made a sound like a moan. He climbed quickly onto the bed and slid over her, supporting his weight on his arms.
“Caro, my angel.” His rumbling words coursed through her. “My duchess. My love.”
Caro had no words for him in return. She traced his cheek then slid her arms around him, coaxing him to her.
Eamon lowered himself, his blunt hardness landing with precision between her legs.
“Lord, forgive me,” he whispered, and then he filled her, his warm weight both comforting and completing her.