Chapter 19
The Duke of Rivers did something he’d never done before. He grabbed a decanter of brandy and drank straight from it. The liquid sloshed and hit his lips, burning over his tongue and down his throat.
He took another swig, slammed the decanter down, crossed to the mirror hanging on the sideboard that had been imported from France, gilded in scrolls of gold, and looked at himself, really looked at himself in the mirror.
And what he saw there filled him with chills of horror as the light faded into night, leaving the room a cold gray.
Who the bloody hell did he think he was? What arrogant fool was he? Worthy of some Shakespeare play, no doubt. Lear had nothing on him.
He thought himself God, a king, someone who could remake society. And what had happened? He had almost gotten his friend and a young woman killed. Oh, he hadn’t summoned the storm or put them on the boat. But none of this would be happening if it wasn’t for him and his determination.
He’d never be able to get that image out of his mind. The storm racing in over his estate, her friends panicked by the shore, their brightly colored gowns flicking in the wind like flags of old, warning of war.
But they had been panicked, of course, and for good reason.
He knew the story. Of course he did. He knew everything there was to know about Miss Ernestine Foxley. He knew how her parents had died.
But Seaborough did not.
So, when he had raced down the lawn, desperate to get to the lake to stop them, it had not been because he had been afraid of a storm. He had not even seen the storm coming.
No, it was because he knew that taking her out on the lake could be the worst thing in the entire world. And he was right. It had been. But through an act of God, surely. An act of God telling him to bloody well stop it.
He splayed his palms out onto the sideboard that was made of carved marble and tried not to hate himself.
All his life, he’d done his best. All his life, he’d tried to help people.
All he’d wanted was for people and himself to be happy and, yet, he always seemed to be failing at it, no matter how hard he’d tried.
He’d set out on this particular path with such care, such will, and such thoroughness, and yet, somehow, this had happened.
Control had slipped from his fingers.
Control?
He let out a dry barking laugh. And for a moment, he felt frightened of himself. How could he ever have thought he had control?
“Cease.”
He swung his gaze over his shoulder. He didn’t need to look. He knew who it was. Fennyman stood in the doorway. “Cease, Your Grace,” he said firmly in that voice that had the most elegant of accents and the most dangerous of edges.
“Why?” he demanded. “Don’t you think that my self-flagellation is worthwhile?”
“If you want to be flagellated, I’ll happily do it for you,” Fennyman said with an arch of his brow. “My fists will do, or I can take off my belt and beat you until you feel that your guilt has been mollified. But I don’t think that’s what you need.”
“Isn’t it?” he ground out, wishing physical pain could take away his shame. “Perhaps a bit of supplication will be just the right thing. I could get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness.”
“I could give you more suffering than you’ve ever known,” Fennyman said calmly. “You see, I am a close companion with suffering. So is Ernestine, but you and Seaborough are not so very much. He thinks he is and bless him. He has suffered more than many people in the ton, and he cares like you do.”
Fennyman remained still and somehow that made him more powerful, more captivating.
“But you’ve never broken, Your Grace. She has, and I knew that.
So if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine.
We are pushing her to the edge in the hopes that she will suddenly realize that she is worth more than all her memories and whatever happened to her all those years ago.
But I’ll tell you this. You cannot stop now.
You cannot let her wither into nothingness and disappear to a little villa in Italy where she will be miserable for the rest of her days, wondering what might have happened if she had just been brave enough. ”
The duke sucked in a breath. “So no matter what I do, I could fail,” he said.
Fennyman threw his head back and let out a booming laugh. “Welcome to life, Your Grace. Are you finally living it? Do you actually understand now the game that you play?”
The duke shuddered at the vast implications as all of it hit him. “I suppose I do. It’s not just romance and matching, is it?”
“No,” Fennyman agreed. “It’s life and death, misery and joy. And if you get it wrong, then the despair will be beyond words.”
“So I can’t get it wrong,” the duke said.
“No, you can’t,” Fennyman affirmed, inclining his dark head.
“And if you’re too afraid, then you need to stop now, and we should never do this again.
Because I cannot play this game with you unless I know that you are all in, and you are willing to do what it takes to win.
Because anything else is a failure, a failure to us and a failure to the people that we are trying to help. ”
The duke sucked in a breath and stood straight. “My God, man, you do know how to give a good speech.”
“Thank you.” Fennyman’s lips curved in a tight smile. “I’ve been in the company of many fine actors. And now the work really begins.”
“Do you have a plan?” the duke asked.
Fennyman arched a brow. “I always have a plan.”
“I thought you said plans are pointless.”
“That doesn’t mean that I don’t make them, Your Grace,” Fennyman sallied before he bowed with a flourish and headed out to the hall, his bootsteps fading.
Rivers knew that perhaps not all was lost. Perhaps the storm had not destroyed her, and perhaps that storm had not destroyed him. Perhaps the storm was actually the beginning.
Ernestine had not stop shivering.
Her friends had taken her from Victor. They’d swept her into the house and fed her hot chocolate and biscuits. They had put her by the fire.
Nancy, the maid, had poked it to roaring life, even though it was summer. Then Nancy had wrapped her in blankets, put a hot brick at her feet, and towel-dried Ernestine’s hair.
Next, the maid had tucked her into a fresh, warmed chemise and robe.
Her friends had fussed over her. Her aunt had tutted. Her cousin, Delia, had rushed into the room, fluttering about.
She was alive.
Victor had made sure she was alive. A part of her knew she would have fought with everything she had, no matter what.
It was one thing she had learned about herself in the storm.
She was a survivor. She always had been.
She likely always would be, but it was not a reassuring notion, because it didn’t make her feel brave.
It was a strange animal feeling, that need to survive. To do anything it took. Now she was sitting alone before the fire, having asked everyone to leave her, because the thoughts in her head had become too wild.
The sensations in her body were too intense. There was only one thing that she needed. Not her friends. Not her aunt. Not her cousin Delia. She needed Victor. She needed him, his strength, his body, his power.
And she needed one last thing from him with a desperation so entire she could not stop it.
So, unable to withstand it any longer, she slipped out into the dark hall in search of him.
Her feet pattered along the floor, the sound made quiet by the carpet. She knew which was his chamber. There were no secrets in this great house, and she carefully rapped her knuckles upon his door.
He did not answer at first, and she feared he was not in his chambers. Perhaps he was somewhere else in the great house, celebrating the fact that he had not died this day.
But then she heard his booted steps and the snick of the handle as he opened it.
He gazed down upon her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She lifted her chin. “You know why I’m here,” she returned.
His gaze flared hot with sudden desire. “I do not dare believe it.”
“Believe it,” she said as she raised her hands to his chest, placed her palms on his pectorals, and pushed him back into the room.
She kicked the door shut with her heel, stunned by her own audacity.
But something was driving her. Something powerful. Something that couldn’t be reasoned with.
She needed to feel completely alive with him, to make the thoughts in her head stop.
To have this moment with him. Yes, she needed this for when she was away from him, for when she had cut herself off entirely from everything she had always known.
Because that’s what she was going to have to do to make the thoughts in her head stop, to make the fear go back into the cage that she had kept it in for so long.
“Kiss me,” she demanded. “Kiss me now, and kiss me hard.”
He did not need further urging.
Victor kissed her just as she desired, wildly, passionately, with everything he had.
Their bodies tangled; their mouths danced. Their hands roved wildly over each other’s bodies. It didn’t matter that she didn’t truly know what she was doing. She let instinct take over. She simply knew that their bodies needed to become one, and to do that, surely they had to be close. Entwined.
As they kissed, and as they touched, they stumbled towards the fireplace. It was crackling because after the intense storm of the day, the air had turned damp and cold.
She savored the heat of the fire on her skin. She savored the heat of his body.
She was burning, but not with pain. She was burning with awakening. Her nipples grew hard. The place between her legs ached for him, only him. It was a wild feeling that only he could assuage.
“Take me,” she whispered.
He nodded against her. “I have wanted this since the moment I saw you.”
He worked at her robe, pulling it from her body, and then he took the ribbon of her chemise and tugged. It resisted and so he freed her from the garment, ripping the fabric in his desperation, which was exactly what she wanted.
She did not want his hesitancy or gentleness. She wanted raw passion. When one had nearly drowned, when one had faced such a storm, when one was all but coming apart with emotion, one needed this sort of intensity.
She wanted to be held hard and fast, and he gave her exactly what she desired.
Victor pulled her close to him.
“I want your clothes off,” she said and she began to work at his cravat. It took a few moments for her to understand how best to divest him of it, but she was able to undo the cravat pin and she unwound his cravat.
Within a few moments, working together, his waistcoat and his shirt were gone too. She gazed at his body, amazed.
He was perfect. Beautiful.
Nigh mesmerized, she leaned forward and kissed his bronze skin. She teased his nipples just as he had done to her, and then she let her fingertips trace ever so slightly over the rough ridges of the muscles of his abdomen.
He moaned with pleasure, dropping his head back.
She worked her fingers down to his breeches and undid the buttons there in but a few moments. Then, together, they made quick work of his breeches and boots.
He stood before her more magnificent than a god. His sex was hard and eager for her.
She stared at it. She wanted to touch it. Ernestine hesitated for a moment, but then he took her hand and gently guided it to his hard length.
She stroked the velvet skin, stunned by how soft it was over the hard shaft. Gently, she stroked the tip and then something compelled her.
She bent down and kissed the tip of it.
A feral growl poured from his mouth, and he seized her to him.
They dropped to the floor beside the fire. He kissed her body, every inch of it, tracing his fingers over her, determined to leave no bit of her unseen, unknown.
He paused for a moment, parting her legs. Victor gazed upon her sex as if it was the most tempting sweet, and he a starving man. He lowered his mouth to her. His kiss upon her slick folds was wild. The way his tongue slid over her sex, teasing her to life, teasing her to bliss, was almost too much.
And just when she thought she could not take it another moment longer, he took his sex and rocked it against her opening.
That was nearly her undoing, and she arched her hips towards him.
Victor thrust forward.
She let out a cry of shock as a moment of pain stung her.
Victor froze, his body rigid, his eyes wide. “I am sorry,” he managed through gritted teeth. “I did not mean to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she returned.
“It does,” he insisted. “This is your first time, and I have been a brute.”
She pulled at his shoulders. “I want you to be like this. I want you to be as if you cannot stop yourself. I want you to want me that much.”
“I do,” he rumbled, and then he kissed her.
He kissed her hard, his tongue sliding into her mouth.
She clung to him with the sort of need that could only come between two people who had shared an experience like they did today.
His hand went between them, and he found that spot which drove her mad with pleasure. Then, ever so slowly, he began to thrust, finding a rhythm and pattern which teased her and delighted her.
He took one of her thighs in his hand and guided her to wrap it over his hip. Then, impulsively, she wrapped both of her legs around his hard waist, and she moaned with pleasure.
Something took her over then. Something wild. Something deep within her soul. And then their bodies moved together, determined to find bliss. And when at last her body uncoiled, and she relaxed into sheer ecstasy, she cried out his name.
He threw his head back, closed his eyes, and her name mingled with his as he let out his own cry of passion.
They peaked together, spinning into a desire so intense that she knew she would never be the same. A union so intense she knew she could not keep it…lest it prove her utter undoing.