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She could not contain her groan of frustration. “Neither of you get a say in the decision.”
“We have a deal, Sera,” Haven said. “And that deal does not include sallying off to London with some American.”
“I’ll sally wherever and with whomever I like,” she retorted, suddenly incredibly irritated by everything. “You don’t own me.”
“But he does,” Caleb said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Haven was set back on his heels as well. “I beg your pardon?”
Caleb’s gaze found hers, and she hated the meaning in it. “He does own you, Duchess. You’re his wife. He owns you, and all of your belongings. He owns your very future.”
The message was clear. To keep the Sparrow safe and hers, she had to stay here. She had to secure her divorce to secure her future.
She scowled at her friend. “You’re a damn traitor.”
“We do what we have to. Don’t worry, Duke. She’s not going back to London.” Sera swallowed back her urge to do additional damage to Caleb’s face, and he added, “And I’ll be spending some more time here, it seems. We shall all become fast friends, I’m sure.”
What nonsense. They had a plan, she and Caleb. He was not staying here. She opened her mouth to tell him as much, but Haven interjected, looking as though he might do Caleb severe harm. “I assure you we will be no such thing. And you are not welcome here.”
She’d been certain Caleb wasn’t setting foot at Highley again, until that moment. And then it became a point of pride. Just as everything between she and Malcolm always had been. “He stays if I wish it.”
“You’ve wished quite enough, Seraphina. I’m not of a mind to continue to coddle you like a child. There’s no room for him.”
“Like a child?” To whom, precisely, did he think he was speaking?
“Oh, now you’ve done it, Duke,” said Caleb.
Sera turned on him and raised a finger. “You tread upon very thin ice, Calhoun.” Caleb spread his hands wide and she returned her attention to Malcolm. “There are a dozen rooms for him.”
“They are under construction,” he said.
She smirked. “Then he may share my room.”
Sera might have considered the twitch in Haven’s jaw signaling his fury a proper win in their battle, but she could not celebrate it, because it was punctuated by a collective gasp from the hallway beyond. When she turned to the sound, it was to discover a collection of wide eyes watching from several feet away.
“Well, this is already the best country house party I’ve ever attended,” Sesily said, large slab of beef in hand. After handing the meat to Caleb with a whispered “For your eye,” she turned to the rest of the women. “Don’t you agree?”
“I most certainly do not,” said Mrs. Mayhew. It was always Mrs. Mayhew, it seemed. “This is utterly improper.”
“Oh, please,” Sera said, exasperated by the misplaced pompousness. “Then you may go, Mrs. Mayhew. But you won’t, will you? Because you want a dukedom as much as any other mother in London. And this is the closest you’ll get to one.”
Mrs. Mayhew shut her mouth.
“Now. As I remain mistress of Highley until one of your daughters assumes the position, I must insist you find your chambers and settle in. I very much look forward to seeing you for luncheon. Seline, dear?”
Her sister immediately leapt into action.
As the assembly filed further into the manor house, Sera turned and stared down her husband. “He stays.”
“He is not welcome.”
“He is standing right here,” Caleb said.
“Now do you prefer ‘the American’?” Sesily asked.
Caleb grinned. “You know, I might. I’m happy to stay, Duchess. But who is going to deal with your man? Not that I couldn’t,” he rushed to add. “I’m in fine fettle.”
Haven was not paying attention to anyone but Sera, though. He approached, coming close enough to unsettle her.
But she did not feel unsettled. She felt something else, entirely.
Her heart thrummed and she met his gaze with pride before answering her friend. “I am going to deal with him.”
Haven watched her for a long moment, making her feel as though she were the only person on earth. Finally, he spoke. “It’s going to cost you dearly.”
“Of course it will,” she said. “That is the game we play.”
She surprised him, but he recovered almost immediately. He did not look away when he spoke to Caleb and Sesily. “Leave us.”
The words sent a panic through Sera.
Or perhaps it was a thrill.
“Uhh.” Sesily did not seem to know what to do.
“Duchess?” Nor did Caleb.
Sera was not backing down. Without looking at them, she spoke. “Sesily, please see Caleb to a room in the family quarters.”
“No,” Haven negotiated, strong and firm, all ducal power. “Fourth floor. West wing. On the end.”
As far from her chambers as possible. She smirked. “I am able to both climb stairs and traverse corridors, husband.”
He ignored the words, instead repeating himself. “Leave us.” Sesily and Caleb looked to her, and Haven’s irritation came on a growl. “Call off your dogs, wife.”
She nodded, and they followed the direction, Sesily closing the door behind them with a quiet snick. Sera inhaled deeply, willing herself calm enough—strong enough—for whatever was to come. “And now we are alone. Be careful, husband, or you shall set tongues to wagging. The mother of your future wife won’t care for the appearance that we remain . . . sympathetic.”
“I don’t care what they think.”
For a moment, she believed him. But she knew better. It was a pretty lie, but a lie just the same. She faced it with all the strength she could muster. “Nonsense. You’ve always cared what the world thinks.”
He lifted a hand then, and her breath caught in her chest at the anticipation of his touch. And then he was touching her, his warm fingers finding purchase on her cheek, as though they belonged there.
She exhaled at the heat of him. The strength.
He exhaled, as well. Long and wonderfully ragged, as though he were as ravaged by feeling as she was.
As though he were ravaged worse.
She closed her eyes, resisting the urge to lean into the warm cradle of his palm. Please, she begged silently, to whomever might be listening. Please, let him be ravaged worse.
Because even now, years later, after the irreparable events in their past, she could not help but be drawn to him, this man whom she had once loved so thoroughly.
“I did care,” he said, and his voice was ragged, like wheels on gravel. “I once cared too much what they thought. And now, I seem to care too little. I seem to care only what you think.”
She couldn’t resist looking at him and, as ever, she was instantly in his thrall. She shook her head, barely. Enough for him to see. “Mal,” she whispered.
“What is it, Angel?” His whisper tempted her like nothing she’d ever experienced as he leaned closer. “I shall give you anything you ask. I have never been able to refuse you.”
It wasn’t true. There had been a time when she’d begged him to forgive her. When she’d ached for him to believe her. And he had refused.
But she was no longer that girl, and he was not that boy. And now, he promised not to refuse her, and she found she could not refuse him, either. It was her turn to lift her hand. Her turn to set palm to cheek. Her turn to ravage.
And she did, feeling more powerful than ever when he exhaled, loving the edge of breath that whipped over lips like memory. As though she’d burned him. And she might have. They’d always been oil and flame. Why not let it happen? Just once? Just for a moment? Just to see if the combustion remained.
She leaned up to him. Or he leaned down. It did not matter.
He was whispering at her lips, and she did not know if he spoke to her or to a higher power. “Forgive me,” he said. Whom was he asking?
For what?
She found she did not care.
The kiss unlocked her, breaking her open, letting light and air into the dark, dank places in her. It thieved the protection she had built over months and years, casting it out and leaving her with nothing to keep him away.
And still, she did not care.
Just as long as he did not stop. She was not ready for him to stop. It had been years since he’d touched her, and longer still since he’d touched her like this—with desire and passion and a commitment to nothing but pleasure.
She sighed into the kiss, and he, too, was unlocked, moving, his strong, warm hand sliding back, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her closer as he pressed his mouth to hers, somehow turning the clock back to another time, when all that was between them was this—nothing.
He tasted the same, like some mysterious, tempting spice, and she could not stop herself from wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing closer. Licking across his lips, bold and desperate to relive him. He growled at the sensation, the sound low and wicked, and then his arms were around her waist and he was lifting her, turning her, pressing her up against the closed door—thank God it was closed—and she was his.
As though years had never passed, and they were here, in love, once more.
Dear God, how she’d loved this. She’d believed she’d been broken all those years ago, ruined by pain and loss. And perhaps she had been. But she was no longer. Somehow, in his arms she found it all again.
Except it was not a surprise. She’d always found herself with him.
She tore her mouth from his, reaching for air, and he pulled back to watch her for a long moment, his gaze raking over her face, taking her in. “My God,” he whispered. “You’re more beautiful now than you’ve ever been.” And then he was tilting her chin up to expose her neck and setting his lips to her flesh, before she could blush or turn away.
She gasped at the sensation, so delicious and familiar, and was rewarded with another deep, animal growl, as though he were unable to keep his desire at bay. Her fingers threaded into his hair, pressing into the curls at the nape of his neck, stroking in slow, encouraging circles—just as he liked. Another growl.
Lord, how she loved those growls.
And then his hands were at her bodice, pulling at the buttons of her pelisse, spreading it wide and finding the scalloped edge of the gown, lower than it might have been, and altogether too tight as she fought for breath. At her ear, he said wicked, wonderful things. The kinds of things she would not let herself remember in dark, lonely nights.
“I remember how pleasure finds you, Angel . . .” Long, deft fingers found their way into her bodice, sliding like a delicious promise. “I remember how you reach for it.” He stopped just beyond one straining nipple—making her want to scream. “I remember how you hem and haw, doing everything you can to avoid telling me what you want.”
The words shot through her, reminding her of the woman she had been even as he took the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit gently, threatening to destroy her with pleasure.
He was right. She had been nervous around him, afraid to tell him too much for fear of being wanton. Of losing him.
But she had lost him. And he already thought her a wanton.
He’d already made her one.
So when she pulled back to meet his eyes, wild beneath lids heavy with the desire she knew coursed through him, she did not blush. And she did not hesitate. She tugged on the little bow that kept her gown tight to her skin, loosening the fabric just enough. And then she pressed her hand to his where it remained still and full of promise, and moved him. Pressed him to her. Urged him to take what she wanted to give.
Another growl, sending unimaginable pleasure straight to her core.
“Sera,” he said, disbelief and desire at war in the word.
She brushed her lips over his cheek as he lifted one breast, testing its weight. “I remember how pleasure finds you, Duke,” she repeated his words. “I remember how you reach for it. Shall I tell you what I want this time?”
He cursed, low and wicked, and she took that as a yes.
“I want your touch.” He gave it to her, a long slow slide of his thumb. “I want your kiss.”
He did not hesitate, leaning down and taking the tip of one breast into his mouth. Working it with lips and tongue until she thought she might perish from the pleasure of it. Sucking until she was gasping and writhing against him, one leg wrapped around him as he pressed her into the door.
When his hand came to her ankle and he slid to his knees, she knew she should stop him, but it had been so long—so long since she’d been touched. So long since he’d touched her. And then her skirts were raised and her leg was over his shoulder, and her fingers were in his hair and his mouth was on her with glorious certainty.
She cried out at the touch, at the force and pleasure of it, at its promise, not just in the moment, but for all the moments that were to come. Her cry was punctuated by his groan there, against the soft, wet center of her, where she was so tender, so ready, so desperate. His tongue—how many times had she lay in the dark and thought of his tongue?—stroked, sure and firm over her, finding all the places that had ached for him, and her fingers tightened in his hair. “Malcolm,” she whispered. “Dear God. Yes. There.”
“I know, Angel,” he said against her. And he did. He’d always known.
In this, nothing was changed. He was back, this man whom she’d loved so thoroughly, this man who had always made her pleasure the most important piece of their lovemaking. Even at the last.
He pulled back at that, as though he heard the thought, turning his gaze to her, his beautiful eyes finding her, capturing her as one finger slid deep into her, finding her wet and willing. They both groaned at the sensation, and when Malcolm began to move, to wring pleasure from her most secret places, she was unable to keep her eyes open.
He stopped. “No.”
She opened her eyes. Fairly begged. “Mal.”
“I’ll give you everything you want, love. But you give me what I want.”
He moved again, and she lifted toward him. “Yes.”
“You keep your eyes open,” he said. “I want to watch. I want a new memory.”
He was close enough that she could feel his words on her, where she was open and aching. She wasn’t even certain that there was sound to match sensation, but she understood him nonetheless.
She’d give him anything he wanted as long as he didn’t stop.
And he didn’t. He blew a long stream of air where she wanted him most, teasing and tempting and making promises on which she knew he could deliver.
Deliciously.
He wanted to wreck her with temptation. To punish her with the pleasure of the wait.
But she’d waited long enough.
She slid her fingers into his hair again, letting them tighten against his scalp until he looked up at her again, met her gaze. The universe had given him such power over her beyond that room. Beyond that moment.
But in this, they were equal.
In this, she reveled in her power.
“I want, as well,” she said.
She took her pleasure.
He gave it, not hesitating, knowing just how to make her writhe and cry, slow, then fast, flexing fingers and tongue until she had lost her strength and he was holding her with strong hands and shoulders, wringing every inch of pleasure from her.
It was an age before she returned to the moment. It was an instant.
He sensed the moment, turning, pressing his lips to the soft inside of her thigh, lingering there until she pushed him away, removing her leg and lowering her skirts, smoothing them with careful precision as she willed her heart to stop beating.
Willed him to stand. She hated him there, on his knees, as though he gave penance.
As though he wanted her.
As though she was for having.
As though he was.
“Sera—”
&
nbsp; “No.” She cut him off. Unable to let him finish.
Afraid of what he might say.
“No,” she repeated. Louder. Clearer. “No, Duke. This changes nothing.”
Chapter 14
A Modern “Meet Duke!”
After making him desperate for her, his wife avoided him for a full week. Oh, she sat at breakfasts and luncheons and dinners, and she took her sherry and played croquet on the lawn. She did her requested duty with no sign of hesitation or distaste.
She even saw dossiers delivered to him with clockwork regularity—the ladies’ respective qualities and interests outlined with impressive thoroughness. Indeed, once she received her divorce, Sera could easily find work as a professional matchmaker.
Of course, she wasn’t receiving a divorce.
He’d never planned to give it to her, but now there was no way it was happening. Not when he’d touched her again. How often had he tried to remember that exact sound she made when she found her pleasure. The exact taste of her. The exact feel of her lips against his, of her fingers in his hair, of the weight of her in his arms.
It was all the same, and somehow, none of it was. She was entirely different.
This changes nothing, she’d said.
She was right. It changed nothing.
He still wanted her. He was still going to win her. The only difference was the urgency of his desire to do so. He’d been patient as Job, dammit. He’d given her a week to find him again. To seek him out. He’d sat at meals, the proper duke at his end of the immense dining table. He’d greeted the suitesses—they were going to have to find a better descriptor—pleasantly when he passed them in the hallway.
The times he had gone hunting for her, he’d been waylaid by a collection of cloying mamas, and once commandeered into going hunting for an easier prey with Lord Brunswick, a man who was decent with a shot, but altogether too gleeful at the prospect of shooting things.
For the last seven days, Haven had done his best to stumble upon his wife accidentally. Or, rather, to ensure that she stumbled upon him.
And she hadn’t.
It was as though she had eyes and ears throughout the house, and perhaps she did, considering her mad sisters seemed to be everywhere. The Marchioness of Eversley had taken up residence in his library, Landry’s wife couldn’t stop telling his stable master how to do his work, and that morning, when Mal had dressed, there had been an uncanny amount of white fur on his trousers from Sesily’s damn cat. Not to mention the ass Calhoun, marauding the grounds like a damn pirate, tipping his hat at anything in skirts.
