Page 75 of From Duke Till Dawn
The need to give her evenmoreburned hotly in his chest. He had a small box which he kept in a drawer of his desk, and in that box he kept small treasures that had no value to anyone but him. A rock from a pond near his country estate. A chapbook given to him by his favorite tutor. The paper that had enclosed a cake he’d eaten as a student in Windsor one bright Sunday afternoon.
He wanted to give her all of those small tokens, all the things that carried the weight of his heart.
Instead, he stayed where he sprawled in bed, affixing invisible shackles to his wrists and ankles so that he didn’t hurry off to make a fool of himself.It was only sex, he reminded himself. Yet it felt like so much more than that, with Cassandra gently breathing as she slept beside him, her hands curled in front of her face as if to shield herself from a blow.
His chest contracted. She’d known such hardship, and to persevere as she had was nothing short of miraculous. The qualities he’d admired so much in Mrs. Blair had been in Cassandra Blake all along. Courage, intelligence, determination—they were all within her. She had played the part of the wronged widow, but her true self had been there the whole time.
Cassandra’s survival had come at a heavy price. She had been, and was, a criminal. He could never allow himself to forget that or gloss over that fact in his haste to exonerate her from wrongdoing.
But her past or who she had become didn’t make a damn difference to his heart. With her clever thief fingers, she’d picked the lock that kept him safe and protected, and stolen away with his soul. It belonged to her now, to keep or to sell as she pleased.
How could he have shielded himself from this fate? The answer was that he couldn’t have. The moment he saw her in Cheltenham and again at the gaming hell in London, his lot had been set. They belonged to each other now.
Pain clawed at him to think of their parting, essential and unavoidable as it was. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—last. No matter what happened with Martin Hughes, there would come a time when he and Cassandra must journey down their separate paths, likely never to see each other again.
Need for her was a tidal wave, flooding him. He’d let himself drown. Because soon, too soon, she would go. He surrendered now to the deluge.
Rolling over onto his side, he gathered up Cassandra’s drowsy form, feeling the silken drape of her limbs over his, the warmth of her breath against his chest. His body stirred to life. By the time her eyes slowly opened, he was already half-hard.
She smiled languidly at him, and he pressed a kiss to her curved mouth. Her wakefulness grew in increments as she responded, her fingers curling against his pectorals, and she opened both her lips and her legs to him in invitation. He hardened fully in an instant and slid into her.
In moments, they were panting and straining against each other, lost in the union of two bodies searching for release. They came within seconds of one another, collapsing together in a tangle of slick limbs.
Lying on his back, he pulled her close, soaking in the sensations of her hand moving lazily back and forth across his torso, her head resting on his chest.
What would he give to always wake like this? His dukedom? His name? Nothing seemed to have any weight. He’d lose it all and never feel the absence. She would bring him desire and affection and intimacy and a hundred other things that his title and estates never could.
Dreams, all of it. These moments were transitory. He couldn’t have the fantasy, so he had to contend with reality. She would go one day. He’d no choice—only acceptance.
He asked, “Hungry?”
“I could eat the cushions off a mail coach,” she said.
“Anything you want, you can have it. Pheasant pie. Roast trout. Toast and sausage.”
“I’m quite sated with your sausage.” She gave his thigh a squeeze. “A fine banger.”
“Aye, missus, there’s more where that came from,” he said, mimicking an East End accent.
She grimaced. “Terrible effort. Promise me you’ll only talk in your toff voice.”
“You speak in both,” he noted. “Surely I can, too.”
“You were born and bred to the high life,” she said, tracing a circle over his heart. “It’s who you are. Be glad you’ve got a place in the world.”
The gulf stretched between them, wider and deeper than any oceanic trench. Seeking to shorten that distance, he said, “Tell me what you want for breakfast. Or supper. Whatever time of day it is.”
She seemed to understand his need to avoid the topic of their social divide. “Anything from your excellent kitchen will suit me perfectly.”
Though he didn’t want to leave the bed, he managed to drag himself from her embrace in order to rise and put on a robe. He tugged on the bellpull, and when a servant appeared at the door, he ordered as lavish a repast as could be brought to his rooms. After the servant left, Alex turned back to the bed and saw with a measure of disappointment that Cassandra had risen. To his pleasure, however, she wore only one of his shirts as she sat at his vanity table and brushed the tangles out of her hair.
“This style ought to be the height of next Season’s fashion,” he proclaimed, leaning against the door and folding his arms over his chest. He leered appreciatively at the lines of her legs, sleek and long. The hem of his shirt grazed just above her knees, revealing glimpses of silken thighs as she spun around on her seat to gaze at him.
“Mantua makers might go on strike,” she said, running the brush through her long, golden hair.
He had the absurd idea to pluck some of those strands from the bristles of his brush and sew them into a little pouch he could carry in his breast pocket. To keep for later, when she had gone.
“And no work would ever be accomplished,” he added. “Bricklayers would just watch women pass in the street, and clerks would neglect their ledgers to ogle ladies.”
