James took the lead down the stairs to the small shabbily furnished drawing room with Ryleigh right behind. He went straight to the brandy and poured them each a glass. He handed one off to the duke. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That Bentick followed us?”
“Yes.”
“Easy enough for the man to single out your carriage, it’s pretty distinctive. All he need do was to wait inside another rig to follow.” James sipped at his brandy. “Yet, he was quite inebriated. I can’t get away from Liverpool’s interest in this matter just as Gabriella said.”
The door crashed back.
Gabriella stood in the arch, her face stark white, tears shimmering like wet gems.
James rushed to her side, set his glass to her lips. “Drink,” he said.
The tears slipped down her cheeks, but she did as he insisted. He cupped her head in his hands and pressed her face to his shoulder.
The duchess stood behind her, her face just as pale. “Florence Groves is dead.”
Thirty-Nine
The next morning, James woke in the unfamiliar bed, his body curled around his wife’s, and stared up at a frescoed ceiling that needed substantial work. He wound a thick strand of Gabriella’s hair around his finger and brought it to his nose, breathing in the soft floral scent. It went far in calming the chaotic unorganized direction his thoughts had taken.
Florence Groves, dead.
A sudden violent shudder racked his body, thinking how close Gabriella had come to Bentick’s madness. The man must have learned she was the one who had blackmailed him. The silver lining of this dark cloud was that he had something to take to Liverpool.
He tugged her deeper within his body and pressed his lips to the softness of her neck, his morning erection growing stiffer. He rocked gently against her bared buttocks.
“James?” Her voice was full of sleep. And, unnaturally, small, filling him with a fierce need to shelter her from the pain and horror of the day before.
He stilled, awed with… with overpowering emotion. “I believe that is the first time you’ve used my given name.”
“Is it?” Brilliant rays of sun sounded in her question, a smile.
He palmed her breast, kneading the soft flesh, pinching her nipples, tasting her skin.
She moaned, sending his blood in a simmer.
“I can’t wait,” he growled. He rolled them together, setting her on her knees, pushing them apart.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
He moved his palm over the flatness of her abdomen to the apex of her parted legs, sliding his fingers through her damp folds and pressing them against her clitoris.
Her breath hitched, drove him mad with lust.
“Is this normal?” she squeaked out in a breathless rush. She no longer sounded sleepy, or worried, or fearful.
A sharp, harsh laugh erupted from him. “Oh, no. Definitely not.” He thrust his hips and pulled back and thrust again, his muscles, a suppressed mass, ready to explode.
She let out another low moan.
“That’s it, darling. Come for me.” He moved faster, harder, sweat poured from his forehead, dripped on the silky skin of her lower back. “Yes.”
“James!”
“Again. Say my name.” He was begging and proud to do so.
“James.” She met his thrusts, pressing against him—saying his name with each pass. “James. James. James.”
