The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(34)

And she had.

“Well,” she said soft, serious. “I am here. Sans chaperone. As requested.”

He had no right to make such a request. She should never have agreed. But she wanted him just as he wanted her. He knew it every time he looked into her eyes, every time he caught her gaze across a ballroom, hundreds of people keeping them from each other.

He knew it now, when she reached for his face with her free hand, the kidskin there blocking her touch—making him wish she weren’t wearing the gloves. “I am yours,” she whispered. “Shepherd, duke, rat catcher . . .” She shook her head with a smile. “Whatever you wish.”

He lowered his forehead to hers.

“Yours to do with as you wish,” she whispered.

His breath came on a tide of pleasure.

She would say yes.

But if he made love to her, she would have to say yes.

And then his lips were on hers, and she was his. In his arms, his fingers working at the fastenings of her bodice, making room for their touch, reveling in the little sighs and gasps she offered—each another gift, just for him. Private.

Christ, he loved the privacy of this. The idea that no one knew that she was his. That no one imagined this moment. That even after today, when all the world knew that they would be matched, this afternoon was theirs alone. Shared with no one.

And then her bodice was open, and she was bared to him, and her fingers—those damn gloved fingers—were guiding him, and he was tasting her warm, smooth skin, his name on her lips like a prayer.

This was how it would be forever.

No titles. No demands. Nothing but them, together.

Happy. Wanted.

Loved.

He slid his hand down to the hem of her skirts, reaching and finding the impossibly smooth skin of her leg beneath. She wasn’t wearing stockings. She was magnificent. He ran his teeth over the skin of her breast, knowing, somehow, that the edge would set her aflame. Her gasp set him in motion, moving lower, even as her skirts slid up, her thighs opening without hesitation, as though she knew what he planned.

As though she wanted it even more than he wanted to give it to her.

And she did. He knew it—reveled in it as she arched up, offering herself to him, giving in to him. And he took it without hesitation. Without guilt or shame.

She was here, they were alone, and this was for them and no one else. Not her parents, who would no doubt crow their marriage to the world, nor the gossip rags that would immediately track their every move.

No one knew what she allowed him to taste that afternoon, in his private study, with none but the walls to witness.

No one knew what she allowed him to touch.

What she allowed him to take.

No one heard her little gasp of pain, the sighs of pleasure that came afterward, the way she fell apart a heartbeat before he followed her, splintering from the pleasure of their secret, perfect love.

Just as he did not hear the door to the study open.

Just as he did not hear the shocked murmurings from the women assembled beyond.

Just as he did not realize what had happened, until Seraphina went stiff beneath his touch, pushing him off her, scrambling backward, trying unsuccessfully to cover herself.

Until the Countess of Wight barked out a horrified “Seraphina!” followed by, “You brute! Remove your hands from her person immediately!”

He did. Instantly. Not yet knowing that it was the last time he’d ever touch her with complete trust. Not yet understanding the full scope of the situation. “My lady,” he said, immediately retrieving his coat to cover Seraphina—to protect her. Sera first. Always. “You misunderstand.”

“I understand you are a bounder, Haven. The worst kind of cad.”

“Not the worst kind,” he said. “I intend to marry your daughter.”

Even with the disastrous events of the afternoon, the words lightened him. The brash countess would surely settle once she heard that. It wasn’t the most ideal of circumstances, and he and Sera would likely not be able to see each other in private until their wedding day, but they’d laugh about this in years to come, late at night, a passel of children abed in the chambers upstairs. He looked to Sera. “We shall marry.”

There wasn’t happiness in her eyes, however.

There was something else. Something like . . .

Guilt.

Confusion flared, and cast a look about the room, surprised to find another woman there, in the doorway. Another set of eyes, these filled with regret, and ever-present disdain.

His mother. His mother, who should have been in London.

“What are you doing here?”

She did not answer, but Haven did not need to hear it. He knew. When he looked at the Countess of Wight, it was confirmed. There was no regret in the woman’s eyes. No guilt. No anger.

Only strength.

It took no time to piece it together—it was the oldest tale there was. The countess had collected his mother and followed her daughter here, to Highley. Not out of some impressive maternal instinct for danger, but because she’d known what was to come.

Because they’d conspired to trap him. “No.” He looked to Seraphina. To the woman he loved. Willed her to deny it. “No.”

He resisted the truth even as he knew it to be true.

And then she nodded, and it crashed around him.

He wasn’t the catcher. He was the rat.