The Duke's Accidental Wife (Dukes of War Book 7) (20 page)

“Yes,” she decided firmly. He was right. “That’s all it was. She’s trying to be practical.”

Which proved that Aunt Havens’ mind
was
still sound. Only a sane person planned for contingencies and concerned herself with mundane practical matters. There was nothing at all for Kate to get in such a tizzy over. She nestled closer into Ravenwood’s arms.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he told her softly.

Her? She lifted her head in surprise. “In what way?”

“You don’t hesitate to open your heart.” He cupped her cheek, his eyes dark. “For some people, that is the most frightening risk of all.”

She scoffed at the absurd notion. “I’m not brave. I’m a coward. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m terrified of being alone.”

His eyes met hers in silence.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

“I won’t.” His mouth covered hers.

He pulled her close. His kisses weren’t tentative. They were demanding, urgent. In his arms, she wasn’t just safe. She was
alive
. Every fiber of her being was attuned to the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his muscles, the eagerness coursing through her veins. Everything she needed.

She met each kiss with passion. Her body still remembered the delicious, foreign sensation of his strong fingers against her bare skin and she longed for him to do it again. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed herself against him.

He was strength and power. Gentle and resilient. He was so much bigger, so solid and commanding, that she couldn’t help but give herself to him completely.

When his hand cupped her breast, she arched into his touch. She craved this, craved him. His fingers found her straining nipple. Tugged. Teased. A sharp longing began between her legs, building with every pinch of his fingers, every lick of his tongue against hers.

Her head fell back. With him, she felt more than mere comfort. She felt desired. Every kiss told her how badly he wanted her. She was important. She was his.

He yanked up the hem of her nightrail. She parted her legs. She
was
his. Her body throbbed with anticipation.

She wanted him to take his time. She wanted him to hurry. She wanted—

He lowered his mouth to her breast just as he dipped a finger into the slick heat between her legs.

She gasped at the unexpected pleasure of the twin sensations. Her muscles tightened as she arched into him. Her mind could no longer process anything except the sensual pressure building inside her. She gripped his shoulders as if to let go would mean falling into an abyss and he was the only one who could save her.

Perhaps he
was
the only one who could save her. She had never felt so valuable, so treasured as she did with him.

A moan escaped her lips as his thumb rubbed against a sensitive spot at the apex between her legs. Her body thrummed with coiled desire. She didn’t want his wicked fingers anymore. She wanted
him
. Her husband.

The French letters
.

Frustration ripped through her as she realized it was long past the moment to start soaking protective sheaths in water. He was here now. Her body was
ready
now.

This was the moment to show him how deeply she longed to connect with him and how much he meant to her. He had accepted her. All of her. He had not only given her a home, but made her feel it. Home was more than a house. It was his arms, his garden, their bed.

Their future.

She had decided weeks ago that there was no possible way she could ever let Ravenwood go. The bigger question was ensuring he had no reason to let
her
go.

He desired her. That much was clear. They were good together, even out of the bedroom. He’d proven that in his garden, time and again. He wanted her.

He also wanted a family.

The idea of losing a child still terrified her. It likely always would. But she no longer equated the thought with loneliness and regret.

She had Ravenwood now. As long as they were together, she would never be lonely. Her biggest regret would be walking away. Not having his child. Not building a family.

This was the first time he had come to her bedchamber since their failed wedding night. She was bared to him. Open to his touch. To pleasure.

If she stopped him again, how long would it be until he came back? Did she even wish to stop him? She moaned. Her body certainly didn’t. Her hips rose to meet him with every thrust of his finger.

She shoved both hands to his waist, yanking up his shirt, tugging at the fall of his breeches. She wanted all of him, right now. She wanted to give him all of herself.

He flung his shirt over his head and unbuttoned his fall.

She reached for him.

If a child came from this union, it would not be a nightmare, but a miracle. A gift. A baby would be part of themselves. Someone they both would love. Someone utterly worth the risk.

A shiver danced over her skin as the hard length of his member nudged against her aching core. She belonged here. She belonged with him.

He belonged inside her.

She gasped and tightened her grip on his hair as he eased between her legs. He was too big, too hard, but as soon as his finger returned to her sensitive nub, everything fell away.

All she could feel was pleasure.

She wrapped her legs about his hips. Pressure built as their bodies merged together. Every surge, every thrust, not only brought her closer to him but also made her feel part of something bigger. With him, she was more than merely Kate.

She was complete.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ravenwood awoke with his forearm muscles tingling. He’d fallen asleep with his arms about his wife, and they’d slept the night wrapped in each other’s embrace.

He slid out of bed as carefully as he could without waking her and set about collecting his discarded clothing.

While it was unusual, perhaps, for a duke to spend the entirety of the night in his duchess’s bedchamber, he did not believe the practice to indicate a lack of propriety on the part of the husband—and he didn’t care a flying fig if it did.

As far as he was concerned, sharing a bed with his wife was about to become his favorite custom.

He felt himself smiling as he bathed, dressed, and prepared for the day. He felt like his entire body was smiling, inside and out.

Katherine had that sort of effect on him.

His step lighter than it had been in years, he made his way to his office. His thoughts, however, were still with Katherine.

He’d meant what he had said about her being brave. She opened her heart and loved completely and unconditionally, without reservation. Unlike him, she didn’t hold back when she feared the possibility of getting hurt.

He shouldn’t either. Not with her. Not when they were so close to having the sort of marriage, the sort of connection he’d always dreamed of having.

If he wanted that kind of life, then he had to risk opening his heart to get it.

Oh, who was he fooling? She’d been in his heart for some time. He sat down at his desk and unlocked the drawer that contained his poetry.

Slowly, he paged through the words he’d written since Katherine had turned his world upside down.

It hadn’t happened overnight, but the truth was as apparent to him on the page as it was in his heart. He’d fallen in love. Wholly, hopelessly, irrevocably. Every word on every page declared the truth.

He wondered what she might say if she knew he’d written such wistful, lovesick verses about her.

The memory of her dismissal of people like him as fools pretending to be Lord Byron made his ears burn with shame. He knew what she’d say. He slammed the book closed and locked it back in its drawer.

Perhaps someday he might risk showing her one of his poems. Years from now. When he was certain she loved him unconditionally.

He forced himself to turn to his ledgers. There was no House of Lords meeting tonight, but the Coinage Committee was scheduled to present their final recommendations tomorrow. He would ring for a breakfast tray and spend the entire day finalizing his portion of the report in order to keep his mind free from parliamentary duties.

Tonight was about Katherine.

He was so proud of her. Not just for daring to dream, but daring to accomplish her dreams. It wasn’t that she believed failure wasn’t an option. All that mattered to her was that she tried. And because of her optimism and perseverance, every time she tried—she succeeded.

The House of Lords could use a few more like her.

Ugh. Ravenwood rubbed his face. The blasted Coinage Committee.

Over the course of the next several hours, he worked without cease. He penned the final flourishes on the report he’d spent the past month on just as the light in his windows began to fade dramatically.

Dark clouds rolled over the fading sunset. If the black horizon was any indication, it was going to rain all night long. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Seven o’clock.

It was time to get ready for tonight’s performance.

He pushed to his feet just as his butler entered the room bearing a sealed missive on a silver platter.

“Pardon the interruption, your grace. An urgent message has arrived. A footman is waiting below to run your response back to his master.”

Ravenwood’s stomach sank as he recognized Lord Montague’s seal. The marquess was the only other member of the Coinage Committee with any brains. An importunate message at this time at night could not presage anything good.

He lifted the folded parchment from the silver tray and sliced open the wax. With trepidation, he began to read.

No
.

His eyes fluttered closed and he curled his fingers into fists. The other half-dozen imbeciles comprising the Coinage Committee had decided to eschew Ravenwood’s clearheaded logic, and were instead at White’s gentleman’s club on St. James Street, attempting to sway the vote before it even happened.

They wanted to ignore the dismal slope of the post-war economy and cast all coinage in gold, and in larger sizes. They thought a nation rich enough to do so would raise England’s prestige in the eyes of all competing nations. They even considered pennies with the faces of their peers.

Montague and Ravenwood recognized such twaddle for the poppycock it was. What England needed was to stabilize its currency, not to unbalance it further.

They should be reintroducing silver, not hemorrhaging gold. They needed to define a predictable value for the pound sterling. Anything they could to curb its disquieting devaluation.

The
ton
, however, liked sparkle more than they liked logic. Who wouldn’t wish to see his profile silhouetted in gold?

Idiots, all of them. If such a foolish idea gained wings, the House would pass the motion with a near unanimous vote.

Ravenwood could not let that happen.

By himself, Lord Montague would not be able to stem the tide. The gold fanatics would poison the ears of anyone within reach and tomorrow they would disregard all of his month-long research as being capricious and irrelevant. All anyone would care about was the chance to see their face reflected back at them.

However, if Ravenwood could make an appearance at White’s
right now
, evidence in hand, he and Montague might be able to sway opinion for a few of the brightest minds and still manage to salvage a responsible fiscal program for the Crown to carry out over the following year.

Ravenwood threw the wadded up missive into the fireplace. “Summon my coach, Simmons.”

The butler hesitated. “My apologies, your grace. I had told them you wouldn’t need it for an hour. I’ll hurry and—”

“Leave that coach for my wife as scheduled,” Ravenwood interrupted with a sigh. “Send up the landau. I have an errand.”

Simmons’ eyes widened. “Shall I tell her grace you’ll meet her at the gala?”

Ravenwood set his icy ducal mask back in place to hide his regret. “I will not be attending the gala. I will be at White’s handling a parliamentary issue. One’s first duty must always be to one’s country.”

Simmons was far too well bred to so much as frown at the discovery his master would not be attending the duchess’s grand event, but the flicker of censure in his eyes matched the hollowness in Ravenwood’s stomach.