“I— Uh—” The words lodged in her throat. It was a scant hour ago that she’d seen him. Surely news couldn’t have made it to the Home Office and from there to Edward in such a short amount of time.
She looked up at Edward. His expression held nothing but compassion tinged with worry. He was here for her. He would do anything to protect her.
This would be the moment to tell him that she’d seen Tucker, to recount everything that had happened that afternoon, from the moment Chester had told her that an unknown man was trying to steal her work to the subsequent realization that it was her father, and that he was likely responsible for last week’s accident.
But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She was angry, so angry with Alastair. He’d managed to hurt her in a way she thought no one could again. But he was her da, and that same compulsion to find him after he’d abandoned her in Scotland drove her silence now.
Because if it was true, then he’d been responsible for jeopardizing the safety of Edward’s siblings, and she couldn’t see Edward, overprotective at the best of times, letting that pass without consequences. There was a good chance he’d find a way to pack Alastair off to Australia, and that—that didn’t bear thinking about.
So she lied.
“If lobbing a bloody vegetable in his direction is associating, then they’re not wrong. But otherwise, I have nae seen hide nor hair of him since last year.”
She collapsed onto the bed, face in her hands, unable to look at him. How had this all gone so wrong? He sat on the bed next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, and she sank into him, turning her face into his chest. The scent of him, that ink and leather, helped to slow her racing heart. His touch, the firm rub of his hand up and down her arm, kept her mind from spinning in all different directions. The feeling of his breath, hot in her hair, gave her own breath a regular rhythm to follow. His kiss, firm against her head, grounded her.
“It will all be fine,” he murmured, completely unaware of just how dire the situation was, and how terribly her father had betrayed her and how guilty she felt at keeping it from him. “It would be better if we could be honest with Patterson about who Finley really is. If you get caught out in this lie, they’ll not believe you when you tell them the truth about your relationship with Tucker.”
She shook her head. “No. I just need a few more days.” Once they’d told the Home Office, there was no guarantee that the truth wouldn’t escape and find its way to Lord Chester. If she could just nail down the patent and convince Chester to sign with her, then she could be honest with the Home Office and the magistrate. She would give them everything she knew about Tucker—as little as that may be—once she’d had a chance to warn her father.
Edward frowned, unhappy with her choice but accepting it with a nod. “Then we just have to be utterly unremarkable and give them nothing to see. How did the meeting with Chester go?”
“Well,” she lied, shocked at how easy it was. “I just need to resolve the patent issue and the contract is as good as done.”
His chest, the arm around her, all loosened somewhat. “Thank God something is going the way we intended. Is there anything I can do to help with the patent?”
Her first instinct was no. It was on the tip of her tongue without a second’s thought. But there was something he could do, as much as she hated it. “Yes. The patent office requires a man to write a letter confirming that the work I’ve done is my own. I could use your help with that.”
It was stupid. Utterly unreasonable. They didn’t require men to have another man sign off on ownership, but apparently a woman capable of achieving anything significant beggared belief. She could have asked Benedict for such a letter when it was first requested but from sheer stubbornness, she hadn’t. She’d been determined to do it on her own.
She could tell from Edward’s expression that he knew how much the request cost her. “Consider it done. Is there anything else?”
“Nae. There’s nothing else. Unless you’re sure ye dunnae want me to leave?” she asked, pulling away and searching his face for the truth. All she found was weariness.
He sighed, cupping her face with his hand and resting his forehead on hers. “No. I don’t want you to leave. I would keep you here forever.”
Forever.Her soul yearned for it. Her body wanted to cleave to his and never part. Her heart wanted to see him over breakfast every morning for the rest of their lives, and spend every night in bed together always.
He would kiss her good-bye and go spend his days running the country, while she’d work away in her laboratory on whatever project came next. They’d meet as a family before dinner for as long as William and Charlotte wanted to live with them, and their nights would be spent making love.
She tipped her head back until her lips were against his, soft and honorable. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying until she opened her mouth to his and tasted the salt of tears.
He pulled back, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs. His brow was furrowed in confusion but she didn’t want to talk about what was wrong—how the anticipation of their end was breaking her heart and she didn’t know how she’d survive it when it actually came to pass.
Because there was no other future. He couldn’t not be a duke and she couldn’t be a duchess. He opened his mouth to speak and so before he could, she wrapped a hand around the back of his head, her fingers sinking into his hair, and she pulled him to her, kissing him desperately, forcefully, furiously.
She teased at his lips until they opened, and she slid her tongue into his mouth. He groaned, one hand going around her waist, tearing at her shirt until it was free from her waistband. The other pulling out the pins of her wig, tossing them to the floor. The wig followed.
She stood, facing him, and hooked her hands around the hem of her shirt, lifting it over her head. There was no longer any sense of embarrassment at being naked before him—just a spine-tingling sense of anticipation. She could already feel the apex of her thighs heating.
Edward, still on the edge of the bed, curled an arm around her and yanked her forward until his lips were pressing against her lower rib cage and his hands were cupping her arse.
His breath against her skin was hot and moist and she braced herself on his shoulders to keep her knees from buckling, fingertips digging into muscle.
He raised one hand to the binding around her chest, tugging at the knot until it came free, pulling at the fabric until it was loose enough for her to shimmy out of it. He nipped at the waistband of her breeches with his teeth. The way they grazed at her skin ignited a spark of raw need. She kicked off her slippers as one by one he pulled at her buttons and one by one they came free until the fabric needed little more than a nudge for her breeches to fall in a heap around her ankles, leaving her there in just her knee stockings.
Edward fell to his knees on the floor, his hands grazing the length of her legs, as though she were a deity to worship. The great Duke of Wildeforde genuflecting before her. Goose bumps prickled across her skin. Every ounce of passion she had for him, he matched. In this, at least, they were a perfect pair.
He undid the bow of her garter and peeled her stocking down. As each new inch of her was exposed, he nibbled and licked at it. It was quickly, too quickly, that she was standing there naked before him, and he was standing there, far too dressed.
