Page 95 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
“Was going to,” he admitted cheerfully. “Had poetry ready. Byron, perhaps. Or that fellow with the daffodils…”
“Wordsworth.”
“That’s the one. Except...” He squinted, searching for a comparison. “Except you’re better than daffodils. You’re like… like…” He frowned, swaying. “Like the finest brandy.”
“I am like brandy?”
“The best brandy,” he said, leaning closer, “the kind kept locked away, too precious for common use.” He tried to draw himself up and nearly toppled. “You’re absolutely foxed,” she murmured.
“I am absolutely in love with you.” His voice lost every trace of jesting. It was rough now, low and dark, like velvet dragged over stone. “Completely, utterly, desperately in love with you.” He reached for her, and though his movements were a little unsteady, his grip was sure; his hands slid around her waist, tugging her down beside him until she felt the warmth of his thigh pressed to hers through the layers of her gown. His scent—brandy, horse, and James—enfolded her until she could hardly breathe.
“I know,” she whispered, though her heart twisted and fluttered at the look in his eyes.
“Do you?” His grey gaze was fixed on her as if she were the only living thing in the world. “Do you truly? Because you must. At the ball, when that viper threatened you...Catherine, I wanted to destroy her. Not merely ruin her name at cards, but ruin her utterly for daring to touch you with her malice.”
“That is rather extreme,” she murmured, but the shiver that passed through her belied the evenness of her tone.
“That,” he said simply, “is love. The real kind. The kind that drives a man out of his senses.” His unsteady fingers slid down, enclosing hers, then traced up her arms in a slow, possessive stroke. “I have been drunk on you since that night at the inn.Nothing helps. Not distance, not propriety, not even actual brandy. You’re in my blood, Catherine. You’ve become my every waking thought.”
“James...”
“Marry me.”
She laughed softly, but there was a tremor in it. “We are to be married in three days.”
He leaned in until his forehead rested against hers, his breath warm, his smile that of a man both foolish and certain. “Too long,” he whispered. “Far too long.”
His thumb stroked her jaw as he murmured, “No, marry me now. Tonight. Let’s run to Scotland—Gretna Green. I’ll marry you before dawn.”
“We have two hundred guests coming to our wedding,” she said faintly, her pulse hammering where his thumb lingered.
“Don’t care.”
“Your mother would murder us both.”
“Don’t care.”
“James...”
“I almost lost you tonight.” His voice was hoarse, his hands sliding up to cradle her face. “If that girl had been cleverer, if she had real proof, if society had believed her...”
“But they didn’t,” she whispered.
“But they could have.” His touch gentled, though his eyes burned. “I can’t lose you, Catherine. I can’t go back to existing without you.”
“You won’t have to.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Even though I’m drunk and ridiculous and about to have a spectacular headache tomorrow?”
“Especially then.”
His mouth captured hers in a kiss that was brandy-sweet and desperate, almost rough in its hunger. Catherine melted into it, the taste and feel of him overwhelming. His hands slid down to the small of her back, pressing her closer until she could feel the tremor in his body, the restrained urgency in his touch. For a heartbeat she forgot the garden, the windows, the whole of London.
“Come with me,” he murmured against her lips.
