The Rogue’s Prize (42 page)

comforting in the darkness, easing the

chaotic beating of her heart.

“I don’t want to be dreaming,” she

whispered. “I want you to be real.”

“I assure you I’m real, my gel,” he

said.

He was close enough now that his

warm breath sent thrilling quivers down

her spine. Within moments he was

stretched out beside her, removing her

shift. His hand roamed over her body

awakening the part of her only Thomas

had been able to reach.

“Why do you taunt me? I’m so very

sorry — ”

His fingertip stopped her from

voicing her concerns. “Don’t speak of it.

It is done and I am here. You are in my

blood,” he insisted huskily. “I should

never have left you.”

She sighed, rolling her head back,

allowing him access to her neck. “Now I

know this is a dream.”

“I assure you I am here — with you

— in this bed. Quite a fine bed it is, too

— with you in it.” His lips brushed her

forehead, his hands smoothed hair away

from her face. Tingling sensations

awakened her nerve endings and

everywhere his hands crept across her

body. She arched toward him, writhing

closer, wrapping her leg around his

waist, aching for him to make her his, to

erase the worry that someone might

come between them and ruin their union

before it had even started.

Was it wrong to think this way?

Was she beyond wanton?

His fingers curled in her hair as he

kissed her mouth. His lips were clean

shaven, smooth, persistent. She opened

her mouth, welcoming his tongue, the

dueling clash that fired her insides into

molten lava. Her heart beat a wild

staccato pulse as he suckled first one

breast, then another, bathing her in

kisses.

She wanted him, ached for the

security being his wife would provide.

He was as solid as he was real and she

raked her nails across his back to mark

him as her own. What a treacherous

woman she’d become. How vile and

low she was, to desire his complete

manhood.

“I prayed you would come,” she

whispered. “You don’t know how much

I have prayed for it.”

“Perhaps not,” he said, kissing her

lips. “But you could spend a lifetime

showing me.”

Oh God, she could not stop wanting

him if she tried. Her desire threatened to

swallow her whole and she was at a

loss as to understand why. Because of it,

a burst of decency flooded over her.

What she was doing went against

everything she believed in. She hated

lies as much as she hated being lied to.

Though she desperately needed to make

sure Percy accepted her child, she could

not dupe this wonderful man who’d

given her more than she’d ever dared to

hope for.

“Stop,” she said, wrenching her

lips free from his. “There are so many

things you do not know, so many things I

must tell you.”

He laughed, burrowing his head

into her neck like a rooting child. “I

know all I need to know.”

“Stop,” she pleaded. “You must

listen. We cannot do this. I must tell you

— ”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m not who you think I am,” she

said.

She focused upon his face in the

darkness but his body communicated

what he did not say. He pressed his

arousal against her, teasing her, moving

slowly, heightening her desire for him.

“You’re my wife,” he whispered.

“That’s enough.”

“Yes. Yes, but … ” she could not

think of the words to finish her sentence.

He’d entered her, slipping inside her

with silky smooth grace. Fire engulfed

her, and with each thrust, he stirred her

to move with him, for him.

“I must tell you … ” She moaned

again as he rocked slow, ratcheting up

her need, forcing her to relinquish her

body, her will, her spirit, giving

everything to Percy, her heart, her soul.

Nothing existed but his touch, his voice,

the musculature of his body molding,

grinding, satisfying. She explored his

toned flesh with eager hands and

moaned, again aching more than ever for

the ecstasy he brought her. Together,

they were bound by primal elements,

man, woman. With each stroke and

rhythmic

drive

of

Percy’s

hips,

Constance shot to the stars, higher than

she’d ever dreamed possible.

Yes, she thought. This
was
a dream.

It had to be. Only a duke was not

normally part of her dreams, but a rogue

who’d taken her heart and soul by night.

• • •

her sleep. Morning light flickered

through the drawn curtains, forcing

Constance to open her eyes, however

much it pained her. A movement caught

her attention. Seeing she’d finally

awakened, Mrs. Mortimer stood over

her, arms crossed, brows arching

quizzically.

“You’re a lazy one this fine

morning. I thought I’d never get you up in

time to breakfast with your husband.”

Constance bolted upward. “My

husband?”

“Lord Stanton, of course. I mean,

His Grace.”

“His Grace?”

Morty covered her mouth. “Oh,

dear! You don’t remember, do you?”

Eyes blurry, her head beginning to

throb as she remembered vaguely the

dream that wasn’t a dream and the

reasons Percy would have risen to his

current status. Constance’s attention

riveted to Mrs. Mortimer. “Percy’s

father
is
dead.” It was a statement, not a

question.

Fluffing up the pillows behind her,

Morty answered. “’Tis a sad state of

affairs, Constance. Jeffers informed me

about His Grace’s passing. He also told

me the duke returned during the night and

wishes for you to join him posthaste.”

“He wishes to see me?” she

exclaimed, laughing at the absurdity.

He’d done more than see her. He’d spent

the entire night exploring her body in this

very bed.

“You are the parrot today, my dear.

I would think a smile might suggest in

some small way you’re excited to see

the man you married. After all, he’s

going to be the father of your children,”

she emphasized with a smile tugging the

corner of her lips.

“Children?” Lord, she was going to

be sick. Her morning sickness had

subsided somewhat, but guilt, or was it

exhaustion, seemed to bring everything

up. She went to the sideboard and

splashed cold water over her face.

Toweling off, she gazed into the mirror,

noting the rings framing her eyes. She

frowned, disgusted with her image. She

wanted to look as beautiful as possible

for her husband today. Perhaps then,

when she told him about the baby, he

would find a way to forgive her.

“You look a fright, Constance.

Didn’t you get any sleep?”

She prayed Mrs. Mortimer could

not read her thoughts but that was always

a vain hope. “Why do you ask?”

Morty

laid

her

hands

upon

Constance’s shoulders and Constance

turned to face her dearest friend. “The

truth is under your eyes, my pet.”

If she only knew the truth. “I must

admit, I did not sleep much at all.”

“At least we agree on something

this morning,” she noted.

Would it hurt to tell Morty the

truth? She would be overjoyed to know

that their futures were secure.

“Well,” she clucked, “let’s put a

cool compress over your eyes.” Morty

guided her toward the bed. “Lie back

and lay still. I’ll see you to rights soon

enough. You’ll want to impress your

husband, not depress him after all he’s

been through.” She chortled and hummed

as she moved about the room.

No. It was better not to burden

Morty with the truth. Percy had suffered

enough. The death of his father, and his

new duties as the Duke of Blendingham,

were burdensome in and of themselves.

Not to mention strapping to himself a

wife on the cusp of scandal.

Constance placed a trembling hand

over her heart. Once she had led an

irreproachable life. No more. In just a

few

weeks,

she’d

become

unrecognizable.

Mrs. Mortimer sat down beside her

and placed a cool compress over her

eyes. “Darling, what has happened?”

Constance stared into the woman’s

middle-aged eyes, noting a mixture of

genuine love, admiration, and curiosity

reflected there. “How many years have

we known each other, Morty?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “I’d

rather not count,” she said. “But every

one of them have been the best years of

my life.”

“I think of our first meeting often.

You were wearing a gray gown, which

completely hardened your eyes and

soured your skin.” She couldn’t help but

giggle.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “The styles I

was forced to wear as a widow.” With a

wink, she added, “They were not

fashionable or flattering, to say the

least.”

Constance

giggled.

“But

they

enabled me to see you for who you

were,” she said.

“A bothersome nosey body?” she

asked, slinging her own words back at

her.

“No.” She sighed. “Never that.”

Silence drifted between them. Mrs.

Mortimer had never really spoken of her

husband openly, unless it was to discuss

the merits of marriage. She’d never had

any children of her own, which had

made her a perfect candidate to raise her

after her own mother’s death. But she

had dealt her a firm hand, sparing the

rod, lavishing her with love and

reassurance when her father had

recoiled from life. Throughout every

nuance of her life, Morty had been by

her side. She was her trusted confidant.

She’d been there to calm her when

nightmares had awakened her during the

night. The woman had been a godsend

and she’d been humbled beyond measure

when she’d agreed to accompany her to

Spain.

Constance hesitated to speak into

the great pause that seized the space

between them. “The day I met you was a

momentous day, Morty. You taught me

that no matter what fate places in your

path, life goes on. While you mourned

your husband, you found the courage to

live. You helped me accept the pain of

my mother’s death and my father’s

estrangement. You passed onto me a

strength that will guide me as I mother

my own children.”

Mrs. Mortimer stroked her hair, her

eyes brimming with tears. “You were as

skittish as a mouse, all ears, unkempt

hair, quick to take flight at the slightest

provocation. I thought I’d never make a

lady out of you.” She laughed. “Of

course, I never expected to be with you

this long, either. Now look at the two of

us. You’re married and expecting your

first child.” She sniffled. “I couldn’t be

prouder than if I was your real mother.”

“You are my mother,” she admitted.

“I would not be who I am today without

you.”

A tear slipped down Morty’s cheek

and her lip quivered slightly. She rose

from the bed in an attempt to regain

control of her composure.

“It’s been ages since you’ve been

this insufferable, Constance. What are

you trying to do? Distract me?” Was she

that transparent?

Constance sat up and rose from the

bed, suddenly bearing the weight of

every woman ever born. She placed her

fingertip on the clothing Morty selected

and worried her lower lip, before

disappearing behind a screen to change.

She had made a horrible mess of

her life, deserting her father and running

away to Spain only to be captured by

cutthroats. Falling in love with her

captor and then marrying a wealthy