Her feet raced to keep up with him. His longer strides ate up the floor. He thrust her ahead of him into his room and slammed the door behind them.
Propriety didn’t even signify in this moment as he towered before her, larger than he had ever appeared.
For a moment, her mind reeled with the knowledge that she knew him. In the carnal sense. She had taken this man into her body and felt him unleash himself inside her. They had been as close as two people could physically be. Heat clawed her face and he must have interpreted some of her inner thoughts for his eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to her mouth in that way that reminded her of the moments before he kissed her.
He took a step and she retreated back another. She could not permit him to touch her again until she told him everything. Until everything was out in the open between them. Then, after she stood before him with no lies hovering, if he still wanted to touch her, he could. He could have all of her—heart, soul, and body. If.
“As I was saying, I haven’t been honest with you.”
“I know.” His deep brogue rolled over her.
“You know?” She blinked.
“Aye. From the start I’ve known you don’t truly love Autenberry. I’ve always known that, lass.”
She nodded, wishing that were the all of it. “Yes, you thought that—”
“No. I’ve known. Because I know you, Poppy.”
He closed the space separating them, which brought her hand flush with the hard wall of his chest. “Very well, that is true,” she admitted. “But there is more.”
He stared at her, waiting as though he finally understood she had to say it all—everything. Deep breath. No matter the cost to her, he deserved to know. “I was never engaged to the duke. Was never even his mistress as you suspected. I was nothing. I am nothing.” She flapped her arms helplessly at her sides. “No one to him. Just a girl who sold him flowers and harbored a schoolgirl crush for him.”
He was silent for a moment before asking, “And you just made up the whole betrothal?”
She grimaced. “Yes. I’m sorry. I never meant for it to go so far.” It wasn’t worth mentioning Lord Strickland’s involvement. She went along with everything—she was the one at the center of the deception.
He let out a breath and looked down before lifting his gaze back to hers. “So we have a problem, then.”
Her heart stalled. He couldn’t forgive her. He didn’t want her. “What’s that?” she asked, hardly breathing.
“You said people take risks for those they care about.” She nodded in response. “Meaning you care about me?” he pressed.
“I do,” she whispered. “Yes.”
“That’s not good enough for me, I’m sorry,” he replied, his expression hard and unyielding.
His words stung like a slap. Her throat clogged tight with emotion. “I understand.”
She couldn’t even think. She only knew that she felt like she was splintering apart. Her chest grew so tight it hurt to breathe. She turned to go, but was seized suddenly by his arms and forced around.
“It’s not good enough because I need more. I want everything from you, Poppy Fairchurch. Your whole heart.” His fingers flexed on her arms and she felt each one like a singeing brand. His moss green eyes scoured her face. “You lied about loving my brother, about being betrothed to him?” He shook his head side to side. “That’s the sweetest lie I ever heard.”
She choked back a sob. A happy sob.
He continued, “I want your love because God knows you have my heart. It’s yours. I love you. I love you more than I thought I could ever love a person.”
Her gaze flicked over his face, so harsh and unrelenting in the absolute intensity of his declaration. She smoothed a hand over his cheek.
She shook her head, her eyes blurring. “I love you, too. Almost from the start, although I didn’t realize what was happening.” The words burst from her in a choking torrent. “I loved the idea of the duke. He was a stranger that I built a romantic ideal around, but it wasn’t real. That was never more obvious to me than when the duke woke and proposed in truth—”
“Autenberry asked you to marry him?” He stared at her in something akin to awe.
She nodded. “Yes, in a strange turn of events. I think he thought it would make his family happy—”
“And thwart me.” He grunted, his eyes glinting with anger.
“Perhaps, yes. That, too,” she allowed, covering his hand with her own.
“And you didn’t want that? Your duke? The fantasy? Being a duchess?”
She shook her head. “The reality of you is better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.”
“You choose me,” he said, and his voice sounded faintly constricted. “Aside of my mother, you’re the first person who ever chose me.”
He was thinking of his father . . . of his rejection. She moistened her lips and swallowed. “I choose you. I’ll choose you every time, Struan. You came along and the reality of you is so much more . . . you made me feel so much more. You woke me up to how love can truly be. Things I never thought I could feel.” She lifted her shoulders, a sob catching in her voice. She motioned between them. “I didn’t know this existed.”
He swept her up in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground. “It exists, kitten. This is real. And it’s forever.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, hanging on, never wanting to let go. He kissed her then. A long, breathless kiss that tasted of forever.
And she knew it would be.
Epilogue
Four months later . . .
Poppy brushed her hair in long strokes, pausing in front of her dresser mirror as the bedchamber door opened. Smiling, she watched as Struan entered their chamber and approached. She parted her lips to greet him, but her words twisted in a yelp as he bent down and scooped her up from the dresser bench and tossed her onto the bed like she weighed nothing at all.
He followed, dropping down beside her and tugging her closer with an arm around her waist.
“Struan!” She laughed, her hands splaying against his chest. “I’m trying to get ready. The guests will be here soon.”
He groaned. “Do we have to go downstairs?”
“You were the one who wanted to have this little soiree,” she reminded pertly, rolling onto her side to face him.
They’d been in London for several weeks now after taking some time for themselves and spending a fortnight in Scotland. Bryony had spent that time with the dowager and her family, reveling in her new family and not missing Poppy in the least.
Now her sister was settling in quite happily into her new home with Struan and Poppy—even if that meant enduring a governess and tutors. It was more than Poppy had ever dreamed for her sister. Her gaze roamed over her husband’s face, reveling in every line and hollow, in the well-sculpted mouth she knew so well. This was more than any dream she ever had for herself.
“Do you blame me for wanting to show off my beautiful wife?” Their noses practically touched as they reclined side to side on the bed. They were so close they shared each other’s very air.
“And that’s the only reason?” she asked. “I thought this was to satisfy the dowager?”
“Well, she was rather angry that we did not invite her to the wedding,” he mused.
“No doubt. We didn’t invite anyone.” The dowager duchess had been most displeased that they had eloped. She insisted they do something to commemorate their nuptials, so Struan had arrived at this solution. “I don’t think we’ll ever hear the end of it. Even after this party.”
She smiled at the thought of their wedding day. They’d married privately in a small village in Scotland. Just the two of them, the minister and his family as witnesses. In all her imaginings of a grand church wedding, nothing could have been sweeter or more intimate or more perfect than the two of them staring into each other’s eyes, uttering their vows and knowing that the other one meant every word with every fiber of their being. She savored the memor
y even now, and she knew that she would savor the memory in years to come, alongside all the memories they would have of their lives together. Their story was just beginning.
“Do you think your brother will be here?” she mused.
His brow furrowed and she reached her fingers up to smooth away the tension lines. “There’s been no word from him.”
“Where can he be?” She shook her head. “The dowager is beside herself. He didn’t even leave a note. Just left without a—”
“He’s a grown man, Poppy. He can look after himself. He nearly died. That can change a person and alter their perspective. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
She nodded, and shoved away the troubling thoughts. Struan was right, of course. Autenberry was probably having the time of his life somewhere on the continent sipping champagne with a bevy of beautiful women. She liked to think that at any rate. Any alternative to that scenario left her apprehensive.
Struan leaned in and pressed a slow, savoring kiss to her mouth.
“Our guests . . .” she murmured, not very insistently.
“Can wait,” he finished for her.
“Very well,” she agreed, sinking into his kiss. “We can be quick.”
Struan’s mouth roamed, nibbling down her throat. “Quick?” Her fingertips walked up his chest to rest against the warm skin of his throat. “What I have in mind is going to take some time. An hour . . .”
“An hour?” she squeaked as he pulled open her dressing robe. Chill air skated over her, making her shiver. He ducked his head, his bigger body shielding her and suddenly her shivers had nothing to do with the cold. His warm mouth closed over her breast, and she arched with a moan.
“Or two,” he came up to say, his green eyes darkening.
“Two?” she breathed, her heart palpitating the way it did whenever he looked at her like that. She doubted that would ever change. Even when she was gray-haired and doddering, one look from him would serve to do that to her.
He nodded once. “At least.”
She burrowed her fingers through his dark gold hair, tugging him closer to her again. “At least,” she agreed, no longer caring that they would be late to their own party. “We have time.”
All the time in the world.
About the Author
SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas hill country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s the New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author of more than twenty novels. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (lattes preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with anything that has a happily ever after. You can visit her online at www.sophiejordan.net.
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By Sophie Jordan
The Devil’s Rock Series
Hell Breaks Loose
All Chained Up
Historical Romances
While the Duke Was Sleeping
All the Ways to Ruin a Rogue
A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin
How to Lose a Bride in One Night
Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Wicked in Your Arms
Wicked Nights With a Lover
In Scandal They Wed
Sins of a Wicked Duke
Surrender to Me
One Night With You
Too Wicked to Tame
Once Upon a Wedding Night
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
while the duke was sleeping. Copyright © 2016 by Sharie Kohler. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Epub Edition NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062222558
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062222541
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Sophie Jordan, While the Duke Was Sleeping
(Series: The Rogue Files # 1)
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