11

The rain kept its rhythm and the fire burned low in the fireplace when Nick led Arabella to the bed, tucked her into the sheets, and doused the lamp.

There wasn't anything else to say. In the aftermath of telling his story, she had seen that stony calm descend over his features, seen the gaze go distant and internal.

He climbed in beside her in the dark, and bid her sweet dreams.

Arabella did not want to sleep. She did not want to lose the time. But then he pulled her into his chest, and stroked her hair. And it lulled her to sleep in moments.

Nick did not sleep.

A distant crack of thunder woke Arabella. She discovered herself warm in a soft bed, blankets and a strong arm over her. It was morning, though the room was dim, gray. The rain continued.

In a rush, the previous night came to her. And the knowledge that it was over.

Her eyes found a window. The rain was coming down at an angle. Eventually she'd have to go out into it, one way or another.

But not until it abated at least somewhat, surely.

It struck her as almost funny, how the duke had spoken of love. As if it were a dangerous storm a mile away, and the only thing for it was to never venture down that road and get caught.

Arabella had always imagined love as something that came upon one over time, gradually, like a lush plant growing from a tiny seed.

Lying here with his chest against her back, the even rise and fall of his breath in her hair, his legs tucked into the shape of hers, she realized it was already here. Like an ivy that had grown over her entire heart while she slept, enveloping it.

No, the opposite. Whatever had curtained her heart, protected it, had dissolved in the night, and now it was completely bare.

She could easily weep about it. She thought about waking him with that. He'd be soothing, hold her as long as she needed. Say things to make her laugh in spite of herself as she dressed and repacked her bag.

Or she could stay here. Absorb the feel of him beside her for a little longer.

Take a little more of him into her being, to carry with her into her next life.

She nestled into him, pressing closer.

His hand moved, coming up to stroke her hair. Perhaps he hadn't been asleep at all.

He moved her hair from her neck, and placed a kiss there. She reached back for him, to pull him closer.

His lips moved up her neck, to the soft place behind her ear. His breath was warm. She heard herself sigh.

His hand slid up her leg, up to her hip, gripped her there, firmer now.

She tipped her head back, and his mouth was on hers. Strange, how familiar the contour of it felt on hers now, as though they'd always been lovers.

He kissed her slowly. Like trying to coax her out of a secret room. Like time was infinite.

When her hips began to shift restlessly, he pulled her leg over his hip. And then, smooth, easy, right, he glided himself into her.

She felt some soreness, some ache, but the motion of his cock also stirred her, and the angle awoke sensations in places inside her that she'd never felt.

He moved languidly, a hand holding her thigh, the other cupping her throat. His breath hitched in her ear.

She pitched back against him to fit him more deeply into her. He stroked into her cunt in slow waves. Her body tightened, the pleasure spiraling.

With a hiss, he pulled out of her, but before she could protest, he was on his back, pulling her onto him, taking his length in his hand and pressing it home. He clutched her hips, moving her over him as he fucked up into her, quicker now, more intent.

And then he pulled her face down to his, her sleep-and-sex-tangled hair cascading around him, to kiss her hard. Encouraging her own roughness as their tongues slid and met and fought. She moved faster, wanting friction, wanting to take control of this, to take him . She pulled his hands from her hips and pushed them down on the bed. Laced her fingers through his and held him, firmly.

The sound that Nick made was wild, dark, pleased.

Arabella lifted her head, to look down at him. His hair, silver threads glinting in the black, an utter mess. Face in the dim light hot with need, with the effort of enduring how good this was, her body over his, riding him.

He met her gaze, raw.

He'd been right. It did feel like worship. Like he was offering up his body. He moved his hips to meet hers, and his cock inside her was worship too, winding the golden coil tighter, tighter, tight enough to snap.

Her release was sudden, whipping her back. He held her up at the waist, watching her with teeth gritted. And abruptly, came with her, his cock pulsing over and over inside her until they both collapsed, spent.

Once Arabella had caught her breath, she moved to roll off the duke. He clasped her tighter, then let her go.

She lay on her side, limbs loose, all her blood still alive with the energy of him, feeling his release leak, warm, out of her, onto her thighs.

He rolled to face her. He touched her cheek.

"Good morning, empress," he murmured.

His mouth quirked into a smile, but could not hold it.

Then he lifted his head, listening.

"The rain has stopped," he said.

The duke insisted on putting her in one of his carriages, though that required returning to his estate. He took her straight to the stable, dispatched his driver with instructions about where to stop for the night, and handed Arabella a letter to his solicitor in Paris, who would help her get settled.

As for the wedding. Arabella had a moment of panic, realizing they'd need to discuss what Nick would tell everyone. Starting with her father.

To her surprise, he seemed almost amused. Her father, he assured her, would not be a problem once he was informed that their business agreement would shift such that an additional fifteen percent of profits would roll into his pocket. With one addendum—that the man not seek to find his daughter, return her to England, or contact her in any way without her express invitation.

"What I'd like to do is beat him viciously with every book in my library," Nick had said, as if he were discussing breakfast. "But it is not, strictly speaking, my business to do so."

Arabella didn't care to see her father harmed. But she was grateful, for now, to have him out of her life.

The greatest issue, in her view, was the damage she'd done to the duke himself. She offered several possible explanations for her disappearance, each less plausible than the last. Trying to find any alternative to the truth that she'd run away and left him.

There was no doubt of his amusement on this point. "Do I strike you," he asked, "As a man concerned with keeping his reputation bright as new brass? You are alive, you're well, I let you go. I think I emerge from this more eligible than ever." He ticked a shoulder in utter non-concern. "I'm not even convinced actually killing you would harm my search for a duchess," he said dryly. "Not once they hear you were a tempestuous and wicked artist who wanted to leave me for a Frenchman."

He seemed more inclined to argue, however, when she abruptly realized, aloud, that there was no reason to change her name now. She wasn't hiding anymore. She was simply ... leaving.

"You might reserve that narrow road back." He offered gently. "If the world hears only that you vanished, you could one day return."

"I don't want a road back," she said. "My mother named me Arabella. I'd like to keep it."

They said little else, once the logistics had been hashed out. He put her in the carriage. If she didn't know him at all, she'd think his demeanor perfectly serene.

He leaned into the carriage. They did not touch. They did not speak.

And then he said goodbye and shut the door.