The Duke Who Knew Too Much (34 page)

She loved him for it. Loved how he treated her, the effort he was making with her family and his own, how determined he was to give her the wedding of any woman’s dreams.

I love him so much
, she thought wistfully.

She was tempted to tell him so—but she had decided to wait until their wedding night, to seal that special moment with a declaration of her feelings. She didn’t know how he would respond; he’d been honest about his views on love, after all. Yet in her heart she believed that he cared for her, and she felt confident that one day soon he would return her words.

Taking a breath, she said, “Then let’s get wed.”

“Pardon?”

“Let’s elope,” she said simply. “Gretna Green is on the way to your estate, isn’t it? We could have our honeymoon at Strathmore.”

Desire flared silver in his eyes, yet he shook his head—as if to himself as much as to her. “You deserve a grand wedding, and you’ll have it.”

“I deserve
you
,” she said, kissing his jaw, “and I don’t want to wait.”

“Your family—”

“They’ll be happy that I’m happy. We can invite them to visit us at Strathmore, can’t we?”

“Our home is theirs. But sweeting …”

He trailed off when she linked her arms around his neck. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered against his ear, “Please? I don’t want to waste another moment. I need to be yours, Alaric.”

She saw shadows flicker in his eyes, his shoulders stiffening as if he were fighting some inner battle. Surely propriety couldn’t mean that much to him?

Then his arms closed hard around her, crushing her to his chest.

“You are mine,” he said roughly. “Oh, Emma, you
are
.”

***

Around noon the next day, Marianne found her husband in his study working on a report. As he scribbled, he absently rubbed the back of his neck, a habit she found endearing even after all these years of marriage.

He rose immediately when he saw her, the smile in his eyes softening his somber mien. “You’re a welcome sight. Did you get enough rest, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” Going over, she straightened the lapels of his coat. “Last night’s party didn’t go that late.”

She was stalling … and cursed herself for her foolishness. She was known for her directness. Yet this was Ambrose, the man she loved, and she knew he wouldn’t take well to the news she had to deliver.

“I wasn’t referring to the party,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her cheek.

Her skin warmed at the memory of their private celebration
after
the party … but she could delay no longer. She decided to let the facts speak for themselves. Wordlessly, she handed him the letter she’d discovered moments earlier on Emma’s neatly made bed.

“What’s this?” Furrows deepened on Ambrose’s brow as he scanned the brief lines. “Bloody hell—they’ve
eloped
?"

“Emma must have slipped out before the servants awakened. I’d assumed that she stayed abed to rest after the party—I should have known better,” Marianne said wryly. “When I went to check on her just now, I found the note.”

“
We’ll be travelling by Mail Coach, which promises to get us to Gretna Green within three days
,” Ambrose read aloud. “
I hope you will forgive my impetuousness, but the truth is I could not wait. Please share in our happiness. Will you visit us soon at Strathmore Castle? I look forward to welcoming you all to my new home. Your loving sister, Emma.
”

He crumpled the letter. “Goddamnit, even if I leave immediately, they have a half-day’s lead. I won’t catch them in time.”

Marianne put a hand on his shoulder. “You mustn’t interfere, darling.”

“But eloping—it’s not proper!”

“Once Emma is a duchess, it won’t matter how the marriage took place. Trust me, anyone who dares to gossip about her will face the wrath of Strathaven. In case you haven’t noticed,” Marianne said with a touch of amusement, “he’s quite protective of her.”

“I’ve noticed.” Ambrose swiped a hand through his hair, said darkly, “I was beginning to get used to his grace, too—until this.”

“You can’t blame a man in love for being impetuous.”

“And you’re certain he loves her?”

Marianne touched her finger to the divot between her husband’s brows and said huskily, “Darling, he looks at her the way you look at me.”

Ambrose exhaled. “I hope you’re right.”

“I know I am.” She linked her arm with his. “Let’s go tell the rest of the family. I have a feeling they’ll be quite eager to visit Scotland.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

It was amazing how something as mundane as supper could be transformed into a thrilling activity when shared with one’s new husband.

Sitting at a cozy table by the fire, in a suite that the innkeeper had declared his “verra best,” Emma studied Alaric as he sipped his wine. He’d changed into a black brocade dressing robe, his throat bare, his midnight hair curling and damp from his bath. They’d both cleaned up after arriving at the inn an hour ago. A half hour before that, they’d pledged themselves to each other over an anvil in a ceremony as short as it had been sweet.

Now Emma was officially Mrs. Alaric James Alexander McLeod.

And also the new Duchess of Strathaven.

Picking her hand up from the table, her new husband rubbed his thumb over her plain gold wedding band, clearly pleased with the sign of his possession. As he wore a wider masculine version on his hand, a symbol of
her
claim, she had no complaints.

His eyes a beautiful smoky jade, he murmured, “Had enough to eat, pet?”

“I’m stuffed to the gills,” she said truthfully. The remnants of their feast—roasted venison and Scotch pie, potted haugh and assorted local cheeses, raspberries topped with whipped cream—still lay on the table before them. “The innkeep sent up enough to feed an army.”

“He wanted to make sure we keep our energies up.”

Alaric’s slow, wicked smile made Emma’s cheeks warm, her heartbeat quickening.

“I don’t expect stamina will be a problem,” she said.

During their speedy two and a half day journey to Gretna Green, they’d been alone together in the mail coach Alaric had procured exclusively for their use. The drivers and guards up top had made the situation less than private, however, and Alaric had insisted on being circumspect.

They had spent most of the time talking instead, sometimes about lighter topics such as their favorite foods—Scotch pie (his) and almond tart (hers)—and places they’d been and wanted to go. They’d also discussed weightier subjects. She’d talked about the poverty she’d known as a girl, the ever-present fear of an empty larder or rent past due. She’d shared her deepest joys, too: being part of a family that stuck together through thick and thin, that valued laughter and each other more than worldly things.

For his part, Alaric hadn’t disclosed his past as readily, yet he’d answered her questions, giving her sufficient detail to piece together a lonely childhood and an adolescence overshadowed by his illness. She’d already known that his mama died when he was young. From the little he said about his father and his guardian, she gathered that neither was a nurturing sort. When it came to his aunt, he spoke with distant appreciation for all she’d done for him.

He was more willing, however, to speak of the time after his guardian’s death. Upon receiving a small stipend from the Strathaven estate, he’d invested it, parlaying it into tuition and living expenses at Oxford. After his studies, he’d continued to accumulate wealth through his investments; he’d been on his way to building a financial empire when, one by one, the heirs to Strathaven passed away, leaving him to succeed as duke.

At eight-and-twenty, Alaric had inherited an expensive castle, ill-managed estates, and little income to maintain the properties. With his business acumen, he’d turned things around, invested in modernization. During his tenure, he’d refilled the Strathaven coffers and brought prosperity to his lands.

Emma hadn’t known this side of Alaric: the hard-working man beneath the jaded aristocrat. It made her admire him even more. The journey to Gretna Green had fostered further closeness, and Emma had no doubt that they belonged together. As a result, she was more than ready to explore and deepen their physical intimacy. To give herself to her husband, body and soul.

Alaric pushed his chair back, patted his thighs. “Come here, pet.”

With prickling excitement, she obeyed. She wore nothing beneath her pink flannel robe and thus could feel the taut sinew of his thighs, the ridge of his growing arousal. He kissed her softly, and she sighed, drinking in the taste of him sweetened with mulled wine. They sipped at each other, tongues lapping and twining, a kiss of tender lust.

He loosened the belt of her robe, parting the panels, and she blushed as he gazed upon her bared self with raw possession in his eyes.

“Look at you,” he said. “So beautiful and you’re all mine. You trust me, Emma?”

“I do.” A thrilling echo of the words she’d used to commit herself to him forevermore.

“Say you’ll let me do whatever I wish. Say you’re mine,” he commanded.

Her breath hitched as he cupped one breast, giving it a proprietary squeeze. She understood the importance of these words to him, a man who’d been betrayed by his first wife. Who’d been alone for so much of his life.

Was it any wonder that Alaric needed certainty—that he needed
her
?

“I’m yours,” Emma pledged. “To do with as you wish.”

The familiar, exhilarating freedom soared within her, and she saw his nostrils flare, his pupils darkening with excitement. When it came to lovemaking, she needed to let go as much as he needed to be in control. They were a perfect match.

Reaching to the table, he dipped his finger into his wine goblet. Her breath grew choppy as he painted the cool liquid over her nipple, circling the areola, teasing it to a hard peak. Her neck arched as he bent his head and tongued the pouting bud. The sensation shot straight to her center, and her pussy dampened in a warm rush.

“You like that,” he murmured after lavishing the same attention on her other breast.

“Yes,” she sighed.

“Did it make you wet?”

Blushing, she nodded.

“Show me.”

She blinked.

“Touch yourself, darling,” he said huskily.

He took her hand and placed it between her thighs. Her pulse raced as their joined fingers combed through the plump folds, which were very slick indeed. He guided her touch upward, to her hidden knot, circling and stroking until a moan broke from her lips. Her embarrassment faded to the hot sensuality of their combined touch.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he crooned. “Frig yourself for me. Make yourself come while I suckle your pretty tits.”

Supported by his arm, her spine bowed as his tongue swirled her nipple, erotically mimicking what her fingers were doing down below. It was outrageous, depraved ... deliciously so. Her touch grew faster, the pressure inside her building as he went back and forth between her breasts, sucking and lapping. When his teeth grazed a sensitive peak, pleasure exploded, and she cried out his name.

He swept her up in his arms, his kiss soothing and sweet while her lungs pulled for air. He sat her down on the edge of the bed and removed her robe and his own. Despite the aftermath humming in her veins, her belly grew molten as he stood before her, his body revealed to her in its magnificent entirety for the first time.

He might have been carved from marble, so perfectly rendered was his form. The firelight licked over his muscular shoulders and hard-paved chest, the rippling ridges of his belly. His hips were taut and hollowed, girdled by a prominent vee of muscle. Everything about him—from the dusting of dark hair over sleek sinew to his enormous erection—radiated flagrant virility.

“You put a statue to shame,” she said in wonder. “You’re so beautiful, Alaric.”

His lopsided grin was surprisingly boyish. “You shouldn’t flatter me so. Such encouragement might go to my head.”

“I think,” she said, aiming her gaze at the swollen tip of his cock, “it already
has
.”

“What a naughty minx I married,” he said with a husky laugh.

“May I touch you?”

“Aye, lass. Put your hands on your husband.”

Since he was standing and she perched on the mattress, all she had to do was reach out. Wrapping both hands around his thick stalk, she pumped reverently, reveling in having all that masculine power contained within her palms.

“The way you touch me—it’s so bluidy good.” Arousal stained his cheekbones, deepened his lilt. The dew that leaked from his cockhead was further evidence that he was speaking the truth.

“I love touching you,” she confessed.

“Ach, I can’t take much more of this.” He groaned, his hands sliding into her hair, guiding her head toward his turgid shaft. “Make it wet, darling. So it will fit more easily into your tight little cunny.”

She eagerly did as he instructed. Tonguing his cock, she lubricated its steely length. When she arrived at the bulging crown, she parted her lips, taking him deep, and his breath hissed through his teeth.

His hands tightened in her hair, stilling her. “That’s enough. Lie back now and spread those pretty legs for me.”

His lordly command sent flames of desire licking over her skin. She obeyed, placing her head against the pillows. He knelt between her thighs, and her bosom surged with anticipation—and just the tiniest smidgen of anxiety—as the broad head of his cock lodged against her vulnerable flesh.

***

Alaric looked upon his Emma and knew how Ares must have felt when gazing upon Aphrodite. Desire. Covetousness. Fierce possessiveness tempered by an equally fierce dose of tenderness. Yet Ares, that wretched Olympian, could only claim Aphrodite as his lover for she’d been wed to another god. Emma, on the other hand, was all Alaric’s, and he would never, ever let her go.

He told himself that he’d done the right thing in eloping with her. In giving in to her sweet request. Why delay the inevitable? Now she belonged to him, and the torment of waiting was over. His cock strained to make the ultimate claim, yet first he had to be sure his duchess was ready to take him.