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A few days after returning to Kent, Georgiana had traveled to town. Simon had taken Nicolas with him to Lincolnshire for a couple weeks, and her son had been more than happy to go, thrilled with his break from the schoolroom. She uncurled from the sofa and lowered The Castle of Wolfenbach, a wonderful gothic book she had been reading.
A letter had been delivered a few minutes past, and she had been reluctant to open it, sensing it was from Rhys. The last time she had seen him was a week ago, and every day she thought of him and their time at the beach. She was not at all comfortable with how he dominated her thoughts. He was stealing her common sense. Determined to ignore the letter, she once again picked up her novel.
After staring at the same page for several minutes, with a sigh of defeat, she closed the leather-bound volume. Georgiana leaned forward and plucked the letter from the walnut table and tore it open.
My carriage will arrive for you by seven. Be in disguise. R
She was at a loss at the pure pleasure blasting through her heart. She would not attend, of course. The very idea was outrageous. It wasn’t even an invitation, but an order. Who was he to order her? Why was she so effortlessly intrigued by the man? And what did he mean by being in disguise? It was a terrible idea for her to find Rhys and his unorthodox command in the guise of an invitation to be so alluring, but she found herself throwing the note into the fireplace and rushing up the stairs to prepare.
Almost two hours later, the carriage he had sent for her pulled up outside of a large brick building. Georgiana inhaled to steady her nerves and peered through the carriage curtains. Rhys was leaning against the side of the building, a few paces from the main entrance. Though he managed to keep himself cloaked in shadows, she knew it was he. His intense regard settled on the carriage.
Drunken laughter tugged her gaze away to another carriage just arriving. A few men spilled forth and tumbled into the club after showing something to the man who stood at the entrance. Rhys pushed away from the wall and prowled over to the carriage. Taking a deep breath, she waited for him. The door opened, and his large frame blotted the meager light from the gas lamp in the corner.
“You came,” he said, his voice rich with approval.
He held out his hand, and she slipped hers into his. He all but lifted her from the carriage. She braced her hands against his chest for balance as he settled her on the ground. Rhys’s eyes blazed with fierce satisfaction and something far more disturbing that she was unable to name.
Without taking his gaze from her, he spoke. “Go.”
“Yes, sir,” the coachman said, and the equipage rumbled into motion.
“Where are we?”
She had recognized when the coach had rumbled past Brooks into an area she was unfamiliar with.
“A gaming hell.”
Shock stabbed through her. Georgiana had known the man was scandalous, but he still managed to surprise her. “And you thought to bring me here?”
“I thought you would relish being improper.”
“To a place of sin where gentlemen make pacts with the devil and lose their souls…and fortunes?” Blast her irrepressible heart, she was intrigued. Never in her wildest imagination had she envisioned herself in a place such as this.
He chuckled, the sound rich and so very appealing.
“I’m a bit nervous,” she admitted with a laugh that trembled.
“There are no rules in this part of the world, and your disguise is impenetrable.” Rhys’s gray eyes appeared dark and stormy when he met her regard. “This is a piece of my world. This club belongs to my closest friend, Riordan O’Malley. You are safe here.”
“Does he—?”
“I’ve told no one about you.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
The dratted man was just staring at her. “You look lovely, Georgiana.”
She warmed at the gruff compliment. “Thank you.”
“Why did you come? I never really thought you would accept.”
“Why did you invite me?” she countered, unable to speak of the loneliness that chilled her soul and fled when she was with him.
Rhys lowered his head so his lips brushed against her ear. “I missed you. The memory of your laughter, your taste, your passion haunted me beyond reason for the past several days. My dreams are plagued with memories of our night together. I’ve concluded, duchess, you have been indelibly seared into my thoughts.”
Oh. She tried and failed to suppress the burst of pleasure that flowered inside her. “I…I missed you, too, quite dreadfully if we are being honest.”
She felt his smile.
“When we go inside, I have a private room on the upper floor. The first thing I want to do is to take you there and fuck you. I need you too much to be gentle.”
She jerked at his arousing statement. Good heavens. An unsteady sigh escaped her. No one had ever spoken to her in such a frank manner, and she suddenly wanted to burst forth with all the things she had wondered about but had been told were too shocking for ladies to know. “Tell me…what is fucking?” The words felt so odd spilling from her lips, but from the lascivious gleam in his eyes, he appreciated the repeated vulgarity.
“That is me taking you without any worry about your delicate, ladylike sensibilities. I won’t be gentle, but I promise you’ll enjoy every second of our coming together.”
The very idea of being intimate within that building in the manner he described was positively indecent and distressingly titillating. She lowered her voice to a whisper though they were alone. “You’ve gone mad.” And so had she, for she was not fleeing from this burgeoning wildness stirring inside.
I’m the Duchess of Hardcastle, she tried to remind herself, hoping to draw upon the austere lectures her husband had given on duty and propriety. She failed abysmally.
A challenge glowed in his eyes. “Is that a no…or a yes, duchess?”
Her mouth went dry, and she let out a long, uneven breath. She was a slave to the promise of the pleasure he would give her. “Yes.”
It was his turn to jerk. The dratted man had not anticipated her answer. But how could she say no? Her days and nights had been haunted by him, and regret had coated her tongue that she hadn’t made love with him in Hastings.
Without speaking, he gripped her gloved hand so that it rested atop his. They strolled toward the large door as if they were a lord and lady attending a fashionable ball. The door swung open without his knocking, and then Georgiana stepped into sin.
The outside of the gaming hell was quite unremarkable, but once inside, Georgiana could only stare. It was lavish, sinful, and a place she should be running from, not walking slowly into as if in a daze. The dim, firelit interior of the club made it difficult to try and ascertain anyone’s identity. Though she doubted anyone from her society was present, the revelry and raucousness were startling and astonishing. Georgiana wasn’t sure what she had expected when she’d acted on the reckless impulse to proceed into a notorious club with Rhys. Even though she was incognito in a dark-brown wig, artfully styled and affixed firmly atop her head, she felt a queer sense of vulnerability. She had never stepped so far from the comfort of polite society before. She gently fixed the half mask covering her eyes, nose, and upper cheeks.
She stifled her gasp as she recognized the prime minister, the foreign secretary, and the Earl of Mansfield. They all nodded and tipped their glasses to Rhys upon his entrance as if he were a lord and as if in this place they were equals. It was power paying tribute to power, and she began to feel a sense of how much influence he wielded.
Without speaking with anyone, he tugged her through the throng, toward a hallway. Tension and anticipated knotted in her stomach. They traversed the hallway, and then came upon a silent and dark staircase. They clambered upstairs until they reached the landing. His pace was unhurried, and she wanted to swat him, for she felt uncertain yet shockingly aroused.
He paused at the fourth door on the left, fished keys from his pocket, and op
ened the door. She was ushered inside, and she halted in the center of the room. She had assumed his room was a bedchamber, but this was an office of sorts, a large oak desk dominating the room, with a sofa flush along one wall, a large iron safe, and a fire burning low in the grate.
The door closed with a decisive snick, and she spun to face him. He cupped her cheeks between his large hands, bent his head, and crushed her mouth beneath his own. The subtle hint of brandy flavored her tongue, and she moaned in delight at his fierceness as he kissed with an eroticism that was spellbinding.
“Why is it,” he said against her mouth, “that I cannot seem to get enough of you?” He walked her backward until her back bumped gently into the wall.
Her fingers spread over the thick swell of his arousal, and he groaned. He gripped her gown and lifted it up her thighs. She wanted him to touch her, stroke her with those demanding hands. He nudged her legs wider, and she grabbed onto his shoulders. He stooped to his haunches, grabbed her buttocks in his strong arms, and pulled her lower body forward. Then he brought the burning heat of his mouth against her wet core. “Rhys!”
“You’re so damn sweet…I cannot get enough of you,” he murmured with a hot swipe of his tongue through her soaked slit. He didn’t lick or lightly flick his tongue but kissed her slowly intimately, drawing her nub between his teeth and lashing it with his tongue. His fiendishly clever tongue pleasured her until she was hoarse from crying his name. A storm gathered inside of her, so intense her thighs started to tremble, the shuddering working its way through her body. It didn’t take long for her to break apart with a muffled scream.
He stood and spun her around so she faced the wall. Her breath panted as she waited for his next touch. There were several rustles, then he was pressed against her back. He pushed her skirts higher up to her waist, baring her bottom to the air. He kissed the side of her neck, and she canted her head, granting him more access to the sensitive spot. She shivered when he sank his teeth gently into her skin. Rhys spread her legs wider, she felt him dip a little behind her, and then something hard was notched at her entrance.
He eased inside her gently despite his promise of roughness, and a soft cry escaped her because, despite her wetness, her muscles quivered to accept the thick length stretching her channel.
