Chapter 14 #2
With his help, she guided him to her entrance.
Need arced through her. Following her instinct, she lowered herself on him.
He caught her hips in a firm hold, showing her how to move, to take him all the way inside.
And then he was stretching her, filling her, and the sensation was so exquisite that she could scarcely keep from losing all control.
“Ride me, my love,” he murmured, before drawing her other nipple into his mouth.
She did so, tentatively at first, learning as she undulated her hips and moved atop him, pleasuring them both.
It was so much. She was going to burst. But she still sought more.
Her hips moved faster, taking him deeper, harder.
The wet sounds of their flesh meeting filled the room, along with their ragged breaths.
She rocked over him, determined to bring them both to completion.
Her own release slammed into her suddenly.
She clamped down on him as wave after wave rushed over her.
King held her waist, his hips swiveling beneath hers as he thrust into her again and again.
He took turns sucking and licking her nipples until his head fell back against the pillow, and there was nothing but air on her wet skin and his cock driving deep.
He stiffened then, releasing the hot flood of his seed within her, groaning as he came.
Verity collapsed atop him, their bodies still deliciously joined, pulse pounding between her legs.
King stroked her hair with slow, deliberate affection, his chest rising and falling from the exertion.
Unless it was Verity’s fanciful imagination, her heart began to beat steadily in time with his.
“I love you, Verity,” he rasped into the darkness. “More than I ever thought possible.”
For a moment, she could not breathe. Something stirred deep within her that felt entirely new. Sentiment was difficult for him, and she understood why, especially now that she knew more about his past. That just made the words so much more special.
“I love you too, darling,” she told him. “And I grow to love you more each day.”
“I hope you always feel that way.”
A hint of heaviness had returned to his voice, and she didn’t like it.
“What do you mean? Of course I shall always feel that way.”
He didn’t respond, just drew her lips to his for another kiss instead, and Verity kissed her husband back with all the love burning so brightly in her heart.
King entered a private room at the Black Souls Club and discovered he was the last member of the Wicked Dukes Society to arrive, when all talking ceased and five pairs of eyes swung to him.
He had the distinct impression he had been the topic of conversation prior to his appearance at the meeting that had been called by the Duke of Brandon, ostensibly to plan what would be done with future house parties.
Fair enough. He was late, having been distracted by his beautiful wife prior to his intended departure. But it wasn’t as if he could announce to the assembled dukes that he had been shagging his wife against a row of his father’s most prized books.
He staged an exaggerated bow instead. “Forgive me my tardiness, gentlemen.”
“You have committed a great many sins requiring forgiveness,” Riverdale grumbled at once. “Being late is the least of them.”
King straightened and met Verity’s brother’s gaze, unflinching. “Do you mean to suggest that marrying your sister is a sin, Riverdale?”
“Not the act, perhaps, but the manner in which it was carried out,” Riverdale snapped.
The five other original Society members, Brandon, Riverdale, Whitby, Richford, and Camden, were all seated around a polished mahogany table.
Indecent lithographs dotted the walls, as was customary at the Black Souls Club, and a bottle of port was already open.
At least the last available chair was on the opposite side of the table from Riverdale.
“The manner,” he repeated in a silken tone, sauntering toward the empty chair. “You object to nuptials being held in a church, perhaps?”
“That is not what I am referring to, and you know it,” Riverdale snapped.
It wasn’t nice of him to nettle his brother-in-law. Verity would frown at him over it if she were here. But then, his angel saw the best in everyone and wanted nothing more than for her brother and husband to cry pax.
King seated himself, stretching his long legs beneath the table and crossing them at the ankle. “What are you referring to then, Riverdale? I’m afraid I’ve never liked riddles.”
“She is an amnesiac,” Riverdale spat, thumping his fist on the table. “You somehow cozened her into believing she is in love with you.”
“I can assure you no cozening has ever been required for the fairer sex to fall in love with me,” he returned, careful to keep his voice calm.
“Riverdale,” Brandon inserted. “You promised to be civil.”
Riverdale continued to glare at King. “I am being civil.”
“Well, I haven’t come here to listen to the two of you bicker like children,” Richford drawled, sounding bored.
“You are likely on his side, having seduced Whitby’s sister yourself,” Riverdale pointed out uncharitably.
Richford’s jaw went hard. “I will thank you not to speak of my wife in such terms, Riverdale. You go too far.”
But Riverdale wasn’t finished.
He raised a brow. “The truth is suddenly too far?”
King suppressed a wince on Richford’s behalf, for their friend had been involved with Whitby’s innocent sister, Lady Rhiannon, when the latter had stolen into their last house party in disguise.
Richford had fallen in love with her, but he’d been too stubborn to realize it until he’d nearly lost her, the idiot.
Fortunately, King had been there to offer him counsel and pull him out of the drunken stupor into which he had fallen, supposing Lady Rhiannon was forever lost to him.
“Your quarrel is with King, not with me,” Richford said, sounding cross.
“Yes, if anyone ought to have a quarrel with Richford, it is I,” Whitby added. “Fortunately, we handled our difference of opinion like gentlemen.”
“If that is what you call planting me a facer until my wife thrashed you with a fire poker,” Richford said, grinning.
“Her Grace thrashed Whit with a fire poker?” King broke in. “I’m all ears.”
“She has a surprisingly strong arm,” Whitby admitted ruefully. “Perhaps coming to blows wasn’t the most reasonable course of action. I applaud my sister for keeping me from beating Richford to a bloody pulp.”
“I wasn’t defending myself, and you know it,” Richford countered, sounding miffed by Whitby’s description. “I agreed that I deserved a trouncing for my lack of discretion.”
“Lack of discretion,” Riverdale repeated grimly. “That is what you call it?”
“Good God, Riverdale,” Camden interjected. “We all know how much you love your sister, but must you carry on? We are not here so that you can flay poor King and Richford alive with your tongue.”
“Kingham deserves to be flayed. And worse.”
King held his friend’s glare, saying nothing, because Riverdale wasn’t incorrect.
He wouldn’t defend himself entirely. He knew that marrying Verity and going along with her false memories had been wrong.
But he had been too selfish to care. Now, he was desperately in love with her, and he was still too selfish to risk losing her, even if he cared.
The guilt was eating at him more steadily by the day. The deeper in love he fell with Verity, the more certain he was that he needed to tell her the truth. If he waited too long, and if she remembered on her own, the chances of her forgiving him were dangerously slim.
“Stubble it, Riverdale,” Brandon said in a pleasant tone of voice that bore no sting. “I hereby call this meeting of the Wicked Dukes Society founders in order. We have a pressing problem on our hands, one which must be addressed.”
“We do indeed,” Riverdale said.
King raised a brow in challenge. Perhaps if they were to come to blows, it would be a good thing. Riverdale was clearly holding on to a great deal of anger. Meanwhile, King was drowning in remorse over keeping the truth from Verity.
“The members have already begun submitting their funds for the next house party,” Brandon continued, ignoring Riverdale’s grumble. “However, as all six of us are now happily wedded husbands, none of us wishes to incur the wrath of our beloved wives by hosting at Wingfield Hall.”
Riverdale muttered something under his breath that King was sure was an insult directed at him. Likely, it was for the best he hadn’t been able to discern the words.
“Surely one of us could host,” Camden suggested.
Brandon turned to him. “You, perhaps?”
“Christ no,” Camden denied. “Rosamund would have my hide.”
“I don’t think Miranda would be in favor of my hosting either,” Whitby said.
“Sybil will castrate me,” Riverdale offered.
“Rhiannon would likely turn the fire poker on me,” Richford added with an amused grin.
“What about you, King?” Camden asked.
There had been a time in his life when he couldn’t have fathomed not wanting to host their raucous house parties or partaking in the debauchery himself. No longer.
King shook his head. “I am a rake reformed, I fear.”
Riverdale made a low sound of disbelief, and King chose to ignore him.
“You, reformed?” Richford whistled through his teeth. “I never thought to see the day the man who invented a chair specifically for bedding two women at once would be reformed.”
Curse Richford for bringing up the damned chair. He hadn’t made use of that storied piece of furniture in years. No doubt it was in some corner of Wingfield Hall, collecting dust. But still, Riverdale’s jaw hardened, livid fire burning in his eyes.
“I might say the same for you,” King pointed out with remarkable composure.
Richford’s reputation had been as sullied as King’s had once been. But then, they all had known their share of decadence and dissipation. Their aimless pursuit of pleasure had been what had caused them to create the Wicked Dukes Society.
“Look at us all,” Brandon intervened. “Wicked dukes no more.”
“Perhaps we should start a new club and call it Saintly Dukes Society,” Whitby joked. “We can invite some vicars and virginal spinsters to join our ranks.”
Camden chortled. “King could insult the cut of their cassocks and get the spinsters soused with one of his potions.”
“That could end with the spinsters seducing the vicars,” Richford pointed out.
“And hallucinating elephants,” Riverdale added before casting another accusatory glare in King’s direction. “You aren’t feeding your poison to my sister, are you, you scoundrel?”
“My potions are not poisonous as long as they are consumed in reasonable, measured doses,” he defended calmly.
“That’s not an answer, you treasonous swine,” Riverdale snarled.
King made a snorting pig sound in response.
It was childish of him, he knew, but the urge to goad Riverdale wouldn’t be denied.
He had been a good friend to Riverdale, helping him to see the wrong he had done his duchess, damn it.
Indeed, he’d been a good friend to them all in one way or another over the years.
He had even killed to save Camden and his duchess from Camden’s mad brother.
None of that, however, ameliorates the sin of keeping the truth from Verity, he thought.
Riverdale slammed both fists on the table. “I should beat you for that.”
“I invite you to try,” he said with a smug insouciance he didn’t feel. “I promise you that it shan’t end with you as the victor.”
“I have a suspicion it wouldn’t end with either of you as the victor,” Brandon intervened. “Your wives would not be impressed by such a foolish display.”
No, Verity would be horrified. And King owed her far better. He owed her everything, in fact.
He relented, addressing Riverdale. “You must know I would never do anything that would harm Verity.”
“How am I to know that?” his friend demanded.
“Because I love her, you dolt,” he bit out.
The room went silent and still. King imagined it was so quiet he could hear a dust mote fall. All eyes were upon him. And he knew the reason. He had just declared his feelings for Verity like a love-sick swain.
“You love her,” Riverdale repeated, some of the harshness leaching from his tone.
“Yes,” he hissed. “As I said. I love her. Which is also why I shan’t be hosting the next house party.”
It was also why he had to reveal everything to her. Sooner rather than later. The strain of keeping it from Verity weighed heavily upon King’s conscience.
“Well, then,” Brandon said awkwardly. “Can any of you think of an acquaintance or a member of the Wicked Dukes Society who would be capable of playing host?”
An idea suddenly formed in King’s mind.
“What about a hostess?” he asked.
“A hostess?” Riverdale’s eyes, pale and so much like Verity’s, narrowed. “My sister is not going to sully her good reputation by playing host to a bawdy house party.”
“I wasn’t thinking of my wife,” he snapped. “I do, however, have a friend who may be willing to carry on the house parties. I can inquire with her if you would like.”
Riverdale’s brows shot upward. “Her?”
“Would someone please tell him to stubble it before I throw him out a bloody window?” King grumbled.
“Stubble it, Riverdale,” Brandon, Camden, Whitby, and Richford said in unison.
King grinned, feeling victorious, at least for the moment.
“Who is this paragon you have in mind?” Brandon pressed.
“Ophelia, Lady Corbett,” he answered.
He and Ophelia had been friends for several years.
Their relationship was that of brother and sister.
They had simply never been attracted to one another, but she was clever and possessed an amusing wit, and they had been steady friends.
They held each other in mutual respect and regard, although they had never been lovers.
Her marriage had been a miserable one, but she was now a widow.
“Do you think she would be amenable to the task?” Brandon asked.
“There is only one way to find out.” He was going to have to seek out Ophelia and see whether playing hostess appealed to her. “I shall ask her.”
“I rather like the notion of a woman carrying on the Wicked Dukes Society for us,” Whitby said. “Shall we change the name to the Wicked Ladies Society, do you think?”
They all chuckled at that, and some of the tension seeped from the air. The port began to flow, and King drowned his conscience accordingly. He would tell Verity the truth.
All he needed was time to prepare himself and devise a means of ensuring that he wouldn’t lose her when he did.
If indeed that was even possible.