The Duke Redemption Page 15

That would have to wait for later. For now, she would have the pleasure of pleasuring him.

  “Wrap your fingers around my cock,” he said.

  Shivering with excitement, she followed his command. His member was so big that her fingers didn’t fully circle the veiny girth. She moved her fist experimentally, surprised to discover how the soft skin moved over the turgid core, and he hissed out a breath.

  “Christ, your touch is heaven. But you can frig me harder—like this.”

  Her nipples pulsed at the naughty new word. He folded his hand over hers, teaching her a pumping motion, the grip tighter than what she would have dared to try. The flush on his high cheekbones conveyed that he was enjoying her touch, her frigging. He must have judged her competent for his hand left hers, going to stroke her hair from her cheek. More moisture leaked from the tip of his cock, making her grasp slippery, and he grunted, seeming to like that even more.

  “Use your other hand on my stones,” he instructed. “Rub them…ah, like that. Just like that, sweet lass.”

  Her breath puffed from her lips as she fondled his heavy sac whilst frigging him with her other hand. It excited her to obey her lover’s intimate instructions and witness her effect on him. Cords stood out on his neck, his shoulders and biceps bunching. She pumped him harder, squeezing his balls, and he let out a pleasured growl. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to still the throbbing in her pussy.

  “I’m going to shoot my seed into your pretty hands,” he rasped. “Feel me, angel…”

  His shaft turned harder than steel, and he groaned, shoving himself roughly into her clasp. He exploded, shooting pulse after hot pulse into her hands. She panted as his abundant essence dripped between her fingers, splattering on her nightgown.

  With a swiftness that made her gasp, he hauled her off the mattress, planting her back against the wall by her bed. He was naked, his muscular thigh insinuated between her legs. He pressed in, applying friction where she craved it: exquisite, breath-stealing friction that she could feel through her nightgown and the discreet padding she wore.

  “Ride me,” he ordered.

  Her cheeks flamed. “But I can’t. You know…it’s that time…”

  “It doesn’t matter what time it is.” His hot eyes seared through her inhibitions. “We decide what’s right for us. Now kiss me.”

  With a shameless moan, she did. His kiss fanned the fire inside her and soon she was rubbing herself wantonly against him, riding his leg toward her own finish line. She cried out, her hands clutching his bulging biceps as ecstasy crashed over her.

  Floating and boneless, she slumped against the wall, would have fallen if he hadn’t held her.

  He nuzzled her ear. “I like waking up with you, sweetheart.”

  “I like waking up with you, too,” she whispered.

  17

  “Let me do the talking,” Bea said.

  Wick handed her down from the carriage in front of the parish church. “As you wish.”

  She squinted at him through her dark veil, which she’d worn for the trip into the village. His expression was as suspiciously bland as his reply had been.

  “You’re just going to agree to let me take charge?” she asked.

  “I’m learning how to negotiate with you, angel. When I let you take the initiative, the results are outstanding. Take this morning, for instance.”

  The lazy smolder in his eyes caused an answering flare in her belly. She glanced around, worried that someone might have overheard. Luckily, the only one within earshot was her chaperone, who she’d brought along for appearance’s sake. Curled up in a corner of the carriage, Tottie couldn’t be seen through the open door, her light snores the only reminder of her presence.

  “You oughtn’t speak of such things in public,” Bea whispered.

  “No one knows what we’re talking about. Unless your whispering is making them suspicious.”

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “Let’s stick to the plan at hand. We’ll question Reverend Wright about his whereabouts the night of the fire. I’ll show him the pocket watch, see if there’s any reaction. ‘H. C.’ doesn’t match his initials, although his given name is Henry. Maybe he has another name that begins with C.”

  “Where you lead, I will follow,” Wick said gallantly.

  She placed her gloved hand on his offered arm. They entered the front gate, heading toward the stone church with mullioned windows and a square tower at the far end. She pinned up her veil before passing through the arched entrance into the nave, which was small and plain, with white walls and rows of dark pews.

  She saw Frank Varnum, the curate, arranging something on the altar.

  Mr. Varnum had been assigned to the church a few months before Reverend Wright. With sandy brown hair and spectacles, the curate was in his twenties and had a slightly bumbling but kind manner. In the times they’d met, before Bea had stopped attending the reverend’s services, Mr. Varnum had always been nice to her. And to her tenants as well, who spoke well of him.

  He didn’t seem to register their presence as they approached the chancel.

  Bea made a clearing sound in her throat. “Good morning, Mr. Varnum…”

  Despite her effort not to startle him, the curate spun around, knocking a candelabrum off the altar and sending candles rolling in all directions.

  “Oh, pardon! It’s you, Miss Brown.” He flushed to the roots of his sandy hair. “Please excuse me for a moment…”

  He scrambled to get the candles that had disappeared beneath a table. Seeing his panic, Bea was about to help him but Wick said, “Allow me” and went to collect the other dispersed sticks. He returned, handing them over to the grateful young man.

  Bea made the introductions.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Murray.” Mr. Varnum bent at the waist before turning his bespectacled gaze to Bea. “I was sorry to hear about the fire, Miss Brown. And thankful that the heavenly Father watched over you and your tenants, ensuring no one was harmed.”

  “Thank you. I was wondering if Mr. Murray and I might speak to the reverend?”

  “Oh, do you have an appointment?” The curate blinked owlishly. “I’m in charge of Reverend Wright’s scheduling, and I’m ever so sorry if I forgot…”

  “We don’t have an appointment, Mr. Varnum.” Bea gave the flustered fellow a reassuring smile. “Would the reverend be available to see us?”

  “Unfortunately, he’s left for London. His mama has not been in the best of health, and she’s apparently taken a turn.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Bea murmured.

  Inwardly, she was disappointed that the outing had been for naught. She looked at Wick and noticed the direction of his gaze. He was looking beyond Mr. Varnum, to an open door off the chancel which led to the vestry. She recalled that Reverend Wright used it as his office, a memory corroborated by the desk and bookshelves visible through the doorway.

  The idea took hold of her. If they searched the reverend’s personal domain, would they find any clues? Wick lifted his chin slightly, as if to indicate that he’d had similar thoughts.

  “It’s a pity to miss the reverend,” he said in a genial manner, “but I was wondering if I might have a tour, Mr. Varnum? I confess I have a great interest in churches.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Mr. Varnum beamed. “Shall we start in the church yard?”

  “Please excuse me, sirs, I’m afraid I’ve developed a bit of a megrim,” Bea said. “I shall have a rest with my chaperone in the carriage. Please do go on without me.”

  Wick led the way through the nave toward the exit, keeping the curate occupied with questions. Bea dawdled behind. Once the men left the building, she quickly turned around and returned to the vestry. She gave a furtive scan of the environs before ducking inside the reverend’s office.

  She started her search at the sturdy oak desk. A copy of the Bible, a leather-bound appointment book, and a tray of writing utensils lay on its tidy surface. She opened the appointment book, her pulse ac
celerating at the owner’s name inscribed on the very first page:

  The Reverend Mr. Henry Cartwell Wright.

  Henry Cartwell—H. C.

  Could the pocket watch belong to Wright?

  She continued leafing through the pages. The multiple appointments with Squire Crombie caught her eye. Were the two discussing village business, as Crombie had claimed? Or was the reason for their meetings more infamous?

  The second thing she noticed confirmed what the curate had said about Wright’s visits to London. In the past few months, it appeared that Wright had taken three trips to the city, all lasting a week or more.

  Knowing that Wick could not keep the curate occupied indefinitely, she took her search to the cupboards that lined one wall. Opening and closing the doors, she found ceremonial equipment, folded robes, and…her heart shot into her throat.

  On a shelf sat three cans marked “Linseed Oil.”

  “…the roof of the nave was reconstructed in the early eighteenth century,” Mr. Varnum’s distant voice drifted into the office.

  Closing the cupboard, she flattened herself against the wall next to the open door, a position that put her out of view of anyone walking by. Her heart skipped as the footsteps got closer, Mr. Varnum droning on about the architecture of the chancel. Her mind raced through possible excuses—she’d been looking for the necessary and got lost?—when Wick’s deep voice cut in.

  “I say, could we have a closer look at the stone tracery in the transept?”

  The footsteps receded. Peering out the doorway, seeing that the coast was clear, Bea exited the vestry and the chancel as stealthily as she could. She spotted Wick and Mr. Varnum at the far end of the transept. The curate had his back to her and was pointing out some detail in the window, but Wick caught her glance, and she gave him an excited nod.

  She couldn’t wait to tell him what she’d discovered.

  18

  Two days later, Wick exited the inn at Stoke-Upon-Trent where he’d stayed the night and instructed his driver to take him to Thomas McGillivray’s office. Through the carriage window, he had a view of the town, with its pleasant square lined by shops and dining establishments. In the backdrop were rolling rural hills and sprawling earthenware factories which had sprouted up here and in the nearby towns. Despite the clear summer day, the sky was dark from the coal smoke billowing from the large bottle kilns.

  As Wick mulled upon the best strategy to take with McGillivray and the other factory owners, he found his mind wandering to Beatrice. Leaving her yesterday hadn’t been easy. The discoveries she’d made in Wright’s office had been concerning but insufficient to prove the reverend’s guilt. Linseed oil was, after all, a common substance. It was used for everyday projects such as varnishing wood, of which there was plenty in the church. And the fact that Wright had the initials “H. C.” in his name was suggestive but hardly proof positive that he was the owner of the pocket watch.

  Thus, both Squire Crombie and Wright remained on the list of suspects. Leaving Bea alone with those two nearby had tightened the knot in Wick’s gut, even though he knew that his trip to Stoke was necessary to protect her. His concern had prompted him to have a private word with Knighton after supper last night. He and the other might be rivals, but they were also men from the same world. If Beatrice’s life was threatened, he knew Knighton would have the wherewithal to protect her.

  He hadn’t told Knighton all the details, just that Beatrice had dangerous enemies. Knighton had understood and given Wick his word to keep an eye on her. Of course, the bastard probably intended to put more than just an eye on her, and Wick was fully prepared to have to kill Knighton upon his return. In the interim, however, Bea’s safety was paramount.

  Moreover, he trusted his lass. She was not a woman to play games, and she’d told him that she had no interest in Knighton. To strengthen his claim, Wick had visited her chamber the night before he left. She’d still had her flux, but he’d coaxed her out of her nightgown, petting and kissing her lovely breasts, rubbing at the seam of her drawers until she’d sweetly cried out her release.

  He would have been content to leave things at that. Beatrice being Beatrice, however, had insisted on returning the favor. Kneeling between his legs on the mattress, she’d frigged him, her soft yet firm pumping bringing him close to the brink. Then she’d shyly asked if she could kiss him there the way he’d kissed her pussy. Wick knew for certain then that he was the luckiest bastard alive.

  The image of her rosy lips stretched around his prick, the smoky desire in her eyes as he’d instructed her in the art of fellatio was enough to make his balls swell and heart pound with the possessiveness to which he’d become accustomed. He no longer questioned whether marrying Beatrice was what he wanted; he knew it was. Not just because she happened to have a natural talent for oral pleasures (thank you, God) but because she was right for him in every conceivable way.

  He admired her spirit and tenacity. He enjoyed working with her, playing with her, just being with her. With her, he felt able to let down his guard for she neither judged nor coddled. Instead, she listened, asked questions, and gave her honest opinion. She tamed his restlessness and made him want to be a man who was deserving of her.

  He looked down at the signet ring gleaming on his right hand, the symbol of his past mistakes, and realized that Beatrice was different from any other woman he’d known.

  Especially Monique.

  Don’t leave me, Wickham. I swear I’ll die without you.

  His jaw tautened as he thought of Monique’s suffocating passion, the quicksand of their relationship. Since her death a decade ago, he’d been wary of emotional dealings with women. From then on, he’d made it crystal clear that all he had to offer was a good time between the bedsheets. If a woman showed signs of expecting or wanting more, he ended things.

  Yet with Beatrice, he was the one with expectations. He wanted a future with her and would do everything in his power to make her happy. At the same time, he knew her sense of self did not depend upon him; his failure would not destroy her. That knowledge came as a relief and freed him to examine the deeper yearnings he’d long ignored.

  After years of wondering if he would find that special connection—if, indeed, he had the capacity for it—he now had the answer. In the words of his brother Richard, he “just knew it.” He had found his lass, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He thought he had a fairly decent chance of convincing her to take a risk on him.

  But first he would have to protect her and prove himself worthy of being her mate.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of McGillivray’s red-brick office, and Wick wasn’t surprised to see the factory owner waiting at the entrance to greet him. Of medium height, McGillivray was a stocky, balding man whose bold brass buttons matched his forceful personality. He radiated impatience, from his tapping foot to his twitching moustache.

  Behind him stood five other factory owners, dark-suited replicas of him. They were like a pack of wolves led by their most aggressive member. As united as they appeared, one had the sense that they would turn on one another at the first show of weakness.

  Wick alighted, and McGillivray stepped forward, clearing his throat importantly.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Murray.” He extended his hand.

  Wick took it. The handshake was more akin to a bone-crunching contest than a greeting, but he gave as good as he got.

  “Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” he said.

  “On the contrary, the Coalition and I were honored to receive your missive.” McGillivray’s hard gaze glinted with ambition...enough to drive him to try to scare Bea off her land? “We hope you bring good news.”

  Determined to keep his lass safe, Wick said evenly, “We’ll discuss it inside.”

  19

  “It wasn’t necessary for you to be present, Your Grace,” Beatrice said. “Nothing is going to happen to me in my own home.”

  She and the Duke of Knigh
ton were standing in her drawing room, which had been recently vacated by her tenants. She’d called an informal gathering to address a number of concerns.

  First, she’d thanked the farmers for their bravery in fighting the barn fire. Rumors were swirling about arson, and she’d confirmed that the fire might have been caused intentionally, although the motive was unclear. She’d urged everyone to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters or activities on the estate and to report them to her immediately. Above all, they were to put their personal safety first.

  She’d also told her tenants that she would bear all the costs for the new barn as well as for the supply of hay she would purchase to see their livestock through the winter.

  Then, taking a breath, she’d informed them of Wick’s true identity.

  Pandemonium had broken loose.

  If it hadn’t been for the years of trust she’d cultivated with her farmers, Bea was certain the reaction would have been much worse. As it was, she’d had to confront Mr. Ellerby’s anger and his wife’s fear. Sweet Sarah Haller’s blue eyes had brimmed over, tears spilling down her porcelain cheeks. Bea had let everyone have their say, and when the room had quieted at last, she’d delivered words from her heart.

  Camden Manor has been a refuge not only for you but me. I value this estate and your good will more than you can know, she’d said with steadfast sincerity. You have my word that, as long as I draw breath, no railway will be built unless your homes and mine can be preserved.

  “You handled that situation with finesse, my lady,” Knighton said. “I don’t know many females who could have managed a mob so adroitly.”

  “They aren’t a mob. They’re my tenants and friends,” she replied.

  Yet she knew that her speech wouldn’t mollify them for long. She wished Wick could have been present: he had a way of smoothing things over and winning people to his cause. She knew he’d written his principle surveyor and engineer, Mr. Norton, and was awaiting the reply. For the sake of her people’s morale—not to mention her relationship with Wick—Bea prayed that Mr. Norton would be able to provide a solution.