Chapter Eight
On the Eighth Day of Christmas
My True Love Gave to Me
Splendid Drops of Hope
The rage Alexander felt didn’t dissipate until he stood in his daughter’s room, looking down on her innocent face.
His ward.
Georgiana was so much more than that. She was his heart. It was unfair that society dictated that he couldn’t proclaim to the world that she was his own.
In her small bed, tucked under her embroidered counterpane, she lay on her back, dark curls spilling about her face over the snowy pillow. In her arms was the doll he’d given her. Her soft, pink mouth was open slightly as she dreamed the dreams of innocent sleep.
He often wondered if she recalled her beautiful mother at all. A French actress, her mother had been sparkling, talented, and capable of skewering the most intelligent of men with her razor-sharp wit. She was the height of the demimondaine, and he’d wanted to make her his wife.
The men of his line didn’t mince with status or breeding. They married whom they wanted. His grandfather had married a courtesan. His great, great grandfather one of the actresses of Charles II’s court.
And he’d planned to act accordingly.
It wasn’t exactly love that he’d felt for Georgiana’s mother, but it had been more than he had felt for any other woman in his life, and she’d certainly filled him with laughter. And when she’d announced her pregnancy, that had settled it.
He was going to marry her, but a wasting sickness had called her away. She’d held on just long enough to give birth. To this day, he couldn’t quite escape a certain self-loathing for not dragging in a priest and wedding her on her deathbed.
But he hadn’t.
It was his greatest regret.
Quietly, he knelt down and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s cheek, grateful that he’d been gifted such a treasure.
But tonight had been the first indication that Georgiana’s life wouldn’t be an easy one. There would always be Rothbys. The very memory of it stoked the rage back up inside him. He’d wanted to kill the lordling. Rothby was just the first and at least he’d had the courage to voice his opinions aloud, not whisper them behind Alexander’s back.
Soon, there would be others whispering about Georgiana and her crippled leg, an effect from her mother’s illness during pregnancy. Alexander stroked Georgiana’s soft little arm and whispered. “I love you, sweetling.”
A noise at the door caught his attention, and he twisted, spotting the hint of red silk in the doorway. “Come in, Adriana.”
Adriana edged out from the doorway, her hands tucked behind her. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
God, she was beautiful. In her borrowed gown, he couldn’t decide what world she belonged to. Blond curls adorned with holly caressed her face. Perhaps she’d stepped out of a dream, the very image of Christmas.
She certainly bore none of the traits of a mousy governess at this moment. He raised his hand toward her, beckoning her closer. “There is nothing to forgive. If anything, I am the one who must beg forgiveness.”
She frowned. “Your Grace?”
“Alexander,” he corrected. “I put you in an untenable position, thinking only of my own comfort.”
A blush stole over her cheeks, giving her an unshakable air of vulnerability. She’d certainly not worn it as she stood up to Rothby.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” she said. “No one has ever spoken for me like that.”
“Then everyone you’ve ever known has been unworthy of you.”
She crossed over to him but didn’t take his hand. The folds of her skirt teased his knee as she stared down at his daughter. “It breaks my heart to think she will know unkindness. Words are oft far more brutal than blows.”
“And you know this by experience?”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but rather bent and tucked one of Georgiana’s curls behind a perfect shell-pink ear. “I have experienced both.”
“Adriana—”
“It’s not important.”
He slid a hand up to her waist, turning her slightly toward him. “It is. It’s very important.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because when I hear of what has been done to you, I feel as though my heart has been cut to ribbons.”
“Alexander, you don’t even know if I tell the truth.”
He arched a brow. “Do you?”
Her lips twitched. “Well, yes.”
“Do you know how I know you do not lie when you say such things about yourself?”
She shook her head, a sudden look of doubt softening her features.
“Because of your novels.”
“My novels,” she echoed.
He slowly stood. “There is such honesty in them, and they bare such a life of suffering.”
“I never meant to paint myself the victim.”
“You don’t, for in it you have a strain of humor that laces itself through the entirety of your works. But, my darling, you cannot escape the brutality of your childhood nor the effects it clearly had upon you.”
Tears, checked but there, shone in her eyes. “Then I dare not give you your present, for I am risking a great deal to reveal so much to you.”
He hesitated. “My present?”
“Of course, Alexander. It is Christmas, is it not?”
He stood, suddenly wanting her to himself. “Then you must give it to me, but not here.”
She glanced down to Georgina. “But—”
“No, Adriana, if you are sharing more of your secrets, I wish to have you utterly alone.”
“What if you dislike what I share?”
He grinned. “Then I shall cast you out into the snow.”
She struck his arm lightly then raised the hand she’d kept tucked behind her skirts, revealing sheaves of parchment covered in her delicate writing.
The ream of paper called to him, the words upon the pages as sacred as any magic because she had written them. Words were her altar, and she was sharing her most sacred beliefs with him.
From her, there was no higher honor. “This gift means more to me than any other I have ever received.”
She bit her lower lip as pleasure illuminated her features. “You’ve yet to read it.”
Alexander strode to the door, ready to have her alone with the story she had created for him. “Then let us remedy that.”
…
Waiting was something she’d become quite adept at over the years. She’d waited for her parents to stumble home, for her mother’s friend to finally proclaim the day she had to pay for her own keep, and then for the day that the duke might discover the truth about her past.
Now, she sat waiting for him to finish the story she’d composed for him and him alone. And this? This was more agonizing than any other time she could recall. She sat before his fire, a glass of mulled wine in her hand, drinking in its warmth, trying not to count the moments that slipped past only interspersed by the crackling of the fire and the sound of papers shuffling.
She snuck a glance at his mammoth bed, decked in sapphire velvet and pristine, snowy linen.
He meant her to be in that bed. And so did she.
On that bed, he would strip her clothes from her body and take what she so wished to give. He slept in that bed, and for a brief moment, she was suddenly jealous of the linen that enfolded him, wishing she could so thoroughly embrace him.
Shocked at her own thoughts, she closed her eyes but couldn’t erase the thought of him, sprawled luxuriously, urging her to join him.
She glanced to the ice-feathered window, desperate not to be so entirely lost to him. Snow fell softly outside, wrapping the world in a mantle of innocence, purity, and unblemished white.
If only her life could be like that snow. New. Untouched. A fresh slate on which to create a new life. For so many years, she’d been alone. Had felt alone. Until this evening with a few words, the duke had made her feel more at home and more cared for than she had in her entire life.
In front of all his guests, he’d come to her rescue. Not just supporting his daughter but herself. She could think of no other man who would have done such a thing. Now, her heart was dangerously outside her chest.
In his hands.
She was a fool, yet she couldn’t stop her foolishness. Where had all her plans gone? To tease him? To force him to seduce her? His seduction had been far more powerful than any game of gifts and double entendre.
No, his seduction had been of her very soul.
He hadn’t lied in the corridor. Whatever was passing between them now was dangerous, for nothing could ever come of it but pain. The knowledge should have had her up and packing. Anything to protect herself from the tragedy of tasting love then having it ripped from her.
She stayed.
She stayed because she couldn’t bear to leave.
“I’ve finished,” he said.
She continued to stare at the window, even as her breath hitched. Had she gone too far? Would her gift prove her undoing?
The sound of his chair scraping the floor as he pushed it back broke the silence. Even as his boot steps neared, she kept her gaze locked upon the window and the night outside. As long as she didn’t look at him, she could preserve the accord between them.
“Look at me, Adriana.” That fierce voice rumbled through his room, dancing upon her skin.
Though it took all her strength, she tore her gaze away from the snow and lifted it to his molten depths. “I…” But her voice died in her throat, transfixed by his exquisite face.
Emotions brimmed beneath his surface. Somehow, he seemed larger, claiming all the space of the room, his gaze darker, more alive than it ever had been before, and his lips, often so firm, were sensual, parted.
And his eyes? They were full of wonder.
“This is about me?” he asked.
She couldn’t speak, completely caught unguarded by the fullness of his emotion. So she nodded.
“And Georgiana?”
She somehow managed to nod again.
“And you?”
At that, she couldn’t look upon him any more. It was too painful. Too risky.
Suddenly, he was on his knees before her, his broad hands covering hers. “My darling, how long have you felt thus?”
Her brow furrowed, and she blinked. Felt what? She savored the feel of his slightly rough hands entirely encompassing hers. “I don’t understand.”
A soft, low, whiskey laugh rolled from him. “You don’t even know?”
She looked at him, confusion struggling to make sense of his words. “Know what?”
“Oh, Adriana.” Ever so carefully, he stood, then slipped his arms around her.
She gasped as he swept her up against his chest and carried her to the bed.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“I’m making you mine.”
Mine.
The word trembled through her. It felt so right. So perfect. And if she lied hard enough to herself, she could even believe it was true.
“I’m going to make love to you now,” he said as he stretched her out onto the bed. “And you will never know another man but me.”
She wanted to cry out that he couldn’t possibly mean such a thing. But this was her one Christmas. Her perfect Christmas and she was going to seize it with all she had.
“First, I want you naked. Gloriously naked.”
Her fingers grasped the counterpane, every bit of her suddenly painfully, shockingly alive at his words.
Then, he flipped her onto her front in one fast move.
Her breath whooshed out of her as she bounced lightly and her skirts tangled about her legs.
Quickly, easily, he unlaced her bodice then peeled it open to reveal her chemise and corset. He yanked the gown out from under her and let it slide to the floor.
Her breath came in stuttering gasps, harsh to her own ears, as he then worked at the tapes of her skirts. In a few tugs, he had them off her, the silken petticoats sliding down her legs.
She heard them join the bodice and the cool air of his room, barely kissed by the fire, stole over her bared thighs. Only her stockings and chemise and corset remained.
And the corset and stockings he had off in a trice.
Still facedown, she shivered.
She’d never been so nearly naked before a man. The one time had been brief. Over quickly. And the greatest mistake of her life. But she wouldn’t think about that now. She’d only think about this man. This night. The scent of juniper and snow and burning wood tantalizing her senses.
She bit down on her lower lip, unable to see him. Wondering what he was going to do next.
The lightest touch of his fingers trailed over the tops of her legs, slipping up, caressing the bare flesh of her inner thighs.
Her mouth opened and a soft moan of shock escaped her lips.
“Has anyone ever touched you like this?” There was a note of surprise in his voice.
Was it that obvious, that though she was experienced, she was utterly inexperienced in the ways of her own pleasure? She shook her head.
“Then I will be the first.” There was a feral sort of pride in his voice as he slid his hands up to her hips, caressing her, stroking her.
She couldn’t breathe. Nor could she think. The way his hands worked over her, awakening her body and setting it afire as hotly as the flames that burned across the room.
His mouth pressed down against her hip, then with his teeth, he pulled up her chemise, exposing her bottom to the air.
She tried to look back at him but as she did, his fingers slid between her thighs and stole into her folds. She shuddered at the sudden sensation. The same sensation he had dared to evoke just hours before.
Pure pleasure.
His fingers slid through her lightly, and he groaned. “You’re so wet.”
She knew from the drunken sound of his words that this was exactly what he had hoped for.
Oh so slowly, he found that soft nub between her thighs and circled his fingers over it.
She moaned into the blankets, and her hips rocked back of their own will. She’d barely realized she had even done it, giving him more access to her.
As he circled and stroked, he kissed her back, using his teeth to pull her chemise higher, exposing more skin. With his free hand, he stroked her sides, trailing his palms over her bottom, her thighs.
And then he was up over her. Cupping the side of her face, he tilted her head back so he could devour her mouth in an unyielding kiss.
Barely able to think, she arched against him, sucking his tongue deeper into her mouth. Wanting all of him. “Please,” she cried out.
His hand slowed its circling, and he teased her opening with his finger. “Please, what?”
“I want you.”
“Want me where?” he demanded.
The empty ache within her nearly drove her to distraction, and she could barely manage to reply, “Inside me.”
He grabbed her hips and turned her so she faced him. Leaning back, he ripped his linen shirt over his head.
The sight of his perfectly sculpted torso looming over her, taut and chiseled, drove her over the edge. All she could think of was him. “Now.”
Hunger tensed his features as he cupped her breast, bent, and suckled her nipple in his mouth. She drove her fingers into his silky hair as he teased and nipped and circled with his tongue, first one breast then the other.
“So beautiful,” he rasped against her flesh.
“Alexander,” she whimpered. How had she lost herself so utterly, so quickly?
“I have not tasted all of you.” And then he was kissing her stomach, moving down towards the juncture of her thighs.
When he traced his tongue over her folds, her hips jerked against him, and he wound his arms around her to keep her still. Lapping, tasting, swirling his tongue against her, she could barely draw breath.
Higher and higher he tossed her until she was certain she was about to crest but then he would move his mouth aside, kissing her thighs. “Now,” she groaned.
A low male laugh of pure satisfaction issued from him right before he undid the fastening of his breeches, shoving them down off his legs.
She parted her thighs, desperate for him.
But he didn’t thrust in immediately as she’d expected. Oh, no. He nudged the head of his cock against her wet folds, then slid it up and down over her passage, then back up to the tightening spot of her desire until at last she was clawing at his shoulders, certain she would beg him.
And just before she was convinced she could take no more, he thrust his cock against her opening.
She winced. Stunned. He was too large, and she was too tight. “Alexander?”
“Christ,” he gasped.
“I can’t…”
He hesitated, his cock barely inside her. “Do you wish me to stop?”
She paused then, looking up at him, at the tenderness mixed with passion on his face. Even now, he thought of her before his own need. “No. I want all of you.”
His chest expanded as he drew breath, and she reached back, gripped the tight muscles of his buttocks and urged him home.
The pain was short, intense, but then he was almost to the hilt. Her body struggled to make room for him, and she panted with the effort, knowing he would bring her to pleasure if she could just relax.
Even as she tried to accommodate him, she half feared she couldn’t, but then his fingers were between them again, his thumb masterfully stroking her. A ripple of pure pleasure promised itself in that touch and as she gave herself to it, he thrust in deep until nothing was between them.
Nothing could ever come between them again.
He rocked his hips gently, easing into her passage until she began to feel pleasure at his body deep inside her. She held onto him like a piece of wreckage in a storm. Lifting her legs, she locked her ankles around him as he stroked within and teased between her thighs with his touch.
With each sure stroke, he built her to a fevered pitch, and then he was angling her hips, his cock finding some place she’d never known existed and the world flew apart as she called out his name.
She drove her nails into his back as wave after wave pushed her higher, harder, threatening to tear her apart in ecstasy. He thrust one last time, shuddering above her, her name on his lips.
When he’d ceased, he rested on his forearms and stole her lips in a gentle yet possessive kiss. His lips demanding.
A marking.
They were the only words she could think of.
She held him to her, her fingers tracking the rock-hard edges of the muscles in his back. Whatever was she to do now?
No matter what happened, whether she stayed or eventually had to leave, she was his. And she would never be anyone else’s.