Page 21 of Scandal With A Viscount

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” His voice was quiet now, the anger draining out of it. Not accusing her, but giving way to the hurt underneath. “Surely you know that with all that has come to pass between us, I would have handled him. I would have made sure he didn’t get to you or Miss Barrow.”

“I froze when I saw him.” Her voice broke. “I haven’t been in his presence since . . . since that night. And when he walked into this house, I panicked and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t lie. He is no one to me. But I could never say that about you.”

He looked at her, and he knew she was telling him the truth. She might have misrepresented the matter, but he’d known her for years. Georgie Whitmore wasn’t a liar.

“I should have told you the whole story,” she said, clasping her arms around herself. “And you shouldn’t have run.”

“I know.” But at the time, it seemed like the only sane thing to do. “Part of me thought if I left you behind, then I wouldn’t have to suffer from you leaving me. That I wouldn’t have to prove my father right and play the part of the fool my mother had played him for.”

She crossed the room. He didn't move—couldn't move—and then her hands were on his face, cold and trembling, and she was looking at him with eyes that were red and fierce.

“You are not your father,” she said. “And I am not your mother. I came after you, knowing what you must have believed. I'm standing here in a soaking wet dress in the middle of a storm because I got on a horse and chased you, Louis. I don’t want to run away from you.”

“I love you, Georgie.” The words came out rough and unsteady. “Heaven help me, and I don’t expect you to feel the same. I know it wasn’t what we agreed to, but it doesn’t change that I love you.”

She watched him for a moment. Tears welled in her eyes. His heart raced as he tried to read her expression.

“I love you, too.”

He reached out and jerked her against him, crashing his lips down on hers. It wasn't a kiss like they'd shared before. It was desperate, all-consuming, and tasted of rain and salt. His hands came up to frame her face and he kissed her with everything he had.

Then he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, before he pressed his forehead against hers. “You're freezing. We need to get you warm.”

“I’m certain you are more than capable of rectifying the matter.” Her voice was rough and her hands were already pulling at his wet coat, shoving it off his shoulders. He helped her—peeling off the soaked fabric, tossing it over the chair by the hearth. She reached for his waistcoat and he caught her hands.

“Georgie. I didn’t mean . . . we don't have to—”

“I want to. I need you.” She held his gaze. “You. I need you, Louis.”

He let go of her hands. She undid his waistcoat and then his shirt, her cold fingers working the buttons. He helped her with her dress—the wet fabric resisting, clinging to her skin—and they stripped each other with haste. Fumbling with buttons. Struggling with sodden linen. Her chemise stuck to her body, and he peeled it away. She gasped when the cold air hit her bare skin.

He pulled her to the narrow bed and wrapped the blanket around them both, drawing her against his chest. Her skin was cold everywhere it pressed against his, and he held her close, running his hands up and down her back. The fire caught in the hearth and the room began to warm. She pressed her face into his neck, and her breath came hot against his throat.

“Don’t ever run away from me again,” she said against his skin.

“I'm here.” His hand slid into her wet hair. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She lifted her head and kissed him. Slow this time. Her mouth moved against his with a patience that undid him. His hands traced the curve of her waist, her hip, the dip at the small of her back, and she pressed closer until there was no space left between their bodies.

Her hand trailed down his chest, his stomach, and wrapped around his cock. He was hard—had been since she'd walked through the door—and her touch drew a groan from him. She stroked him with a gentleness that drove him mad, her thumb circling the head, her eyes on his face.

He caught her wrist. Not to stop her. To slow everything down.

“You are going to do me in, sweetheart.”

She released him and brought her hand to his face. Her thumb traced his lower lip, and he pressed a kiss against it.

He rolled her onto her back and settled over her. The firelight caught the lines of her body—her breasts, the flat of her stomach, the spread of her thighs as she opened for him. He'd seen her naked before. He'd touched every part of her. But this was different, because she was going to be his forever. He hadn’t exactly asked her yet, but he would. And she would be his. If Dunblane thought to put his hands on what was his again, the man would find himself with only stumps where they used to be.

He kissed her collarbone. The hollow of her throat. The space between her breasts. She arched into him. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and the sound she made was quiet and open. He could feel her heart hammering against his mouth.

He took his time with her breasts, his tongue circling one nipple while his thumb traced the other. Her back lifted off the mattress, and her hands tightened in his hair as she whispered his name. The sound of it made him want to give her everything he had.

His hand slid between her thighs. She was wet and warm. When his fingers found her clit, she gasped and her hips rocked against his hand. He stroked her in slow circles, watching her face, adjusting his attention between touches that made her breath catch and ones that made her eyes flutter shut.

He slid two fingers inside her and she moaned. Her hand came down to grip his wrist—not to guide him, just to hold on. Her body clenched around his fingers, and her breathing went ragged. He could feel her getting close.

“I want you,” she breathed. “I need you inside me. Make me yours, Louis.”