Page 126 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
His eyes full of memories, Drago nodded. “He was one of us. That was something we never questioned.” He paused to open the door of the ducal suite, then followed her inside and shut the door on the world. “Our failure, if one can call it that, lay in not seeing, not understanding, and indeed, remaining blissfully oblivious to the chip on his shoulder and the resentment he bore”—Drago tipped his head—“not just toward us personally but against all those of our class who come by our wealth through being born to it.”
He halted in the middle of their bedroom, and Meg went into his arms.
She raised her hands, framed his face, and held it so she could meet his gaze. “The failure wasn’t yours. It wasn’t George’s or Harry’s, either. Not one of you are naive or foolish or prone to befriending those of poor character.” She held his gaze and fiercely stated, “Deliberately, with full knowledge of his purpose, Thomas preyed on you from an early age. From when you were just emerging from childhood.” She shook her head. “You didn’t have the necessary awareness to counter such an attack. Nor should you have had. People learn to distrust others as they grow older. Distrusting your peers from childhood isn’t a recipe for a happy life.”
With his hands about her waist, the supple warmth of her body a tactile reassurance he’d been craving all day, Drago looked into her eyes and let her words slide like balm through him. After a moment, with a wry lift of his lips, he admitted, “One of the true weaknesses of being born to power is that a part of that mantle makes one feel that one should be able to—and indeed, should—put anything and everything right.”
She tipped her head, her expression faintly rueful. “I suppose I can see that. That having the power—as you say, being born to it—anyone with a conscience would feel compelled to use it to right wrongs.”
He arched his brows as insight hit him. “Like you and your cousins and connections with your work at the Foundling House. And like me and my peers in engaging with the issues before Parliament.”
She nodded. “Thomas chose his own road, one that would have benefited only him at the expense of others. He reaped the rewards of that choice, and while it might take time, you, George, and Harry have to accept that the Thomas you thought you knew was a fabrication and the real Thomas was a villain who is now gone from this world.”
He drew her closer until her body rested against his and bent his head to touch his forehead to hers. “I’m hoping you’ll help me absorb those facts.”
Her response was instantaneous. “I will.”
“I can’t tell you—can’t find the words to explain—what it was I felt when George and Harry told me that the villain was Thomas and that he’d succeeded in getting his hands on you.” His lips twisted wryly. “I’d ridden back from Melwin Place already anxious over you, and to hear he’d seized you…”
The memory of the moment lived vividly in his mind. He drew in a long, still-tortured breath. “For one interminable instant, I feared I had finally run out of luck and lost you.”
He raised his head and met her gaze. “I’ve come to see you—crossing paths with you and being able to marry you—as the greatest stroke of luck I’m ever likely to have. To lose you when we’d found our way into a marriage that’s well-nigh perfect… Luckily for my sanity, in virtually the same breath, George and Harry blurted out that you weren’t hurt and were being rescued by Maurice and Tisdale.”
She nodded with ready comprehension. “When I realized the villain was Thomas and that he’d lured me into that cellar, I should have been afraid. Indeed, I would have been terrified except that, when he spoke of how he’d exploited your trust, he reminded me that I could trust you. That with complete assurance, I could place my trust in you and in all our helpers. And in my heart, I knew I could—I didn’t doubt it. That made waiting for rescue—which in reality, came only a few minutes after Thomas left—much easier.” She smiled. “They didn’t leave me in the cellar alone long enough for me to start doubting and grow frantic. But then we had to rush back to the house. I feared what Thomas would do once he realized that I was free and you and all the others knew the villain was him. Maurice and Tisdale assured me you would handle it, and their confidence was so absolute, it rubbed off on me.”
He smiled. “They’ll be getting a bonus, both of them.”
“Good.” Her eyes on his, Meg tipped her head. “So, finally, here we are.”
“Indeed.” He searched her eyes, his features softening. “Able, at last, to get on with our lives—with being the Duke and Duchess of Wylde—without either of us fearing we’ll lose the other.”
She nodded. “To freely go forward, crafting our lives into the best future we can.”
“With no more unexpected interruptions.” He bent his head, and his lips covered hers.
She parted her lips and welcomed him in, then kissed him back with spiraling ardor.
She’d expected that they would take things slowly, that they would savor each moment, knowing now that they had forever. Instead, beneath all their talk, beneath their logical reasoning, had lurked a need neither had fully appreciated. A desperate yearning for confirmation at the most elemental, fundamental level that they still had each other, that their love still lived, whole and potent and so very powerful.
Through the eruption of mutual hunger and passion, throughout the torrid engagement that followed, love—simple, powerful, and undeniable—ruled.
Between them, there was no gainsaying that, no closing their eyes and pretending that most compelling of emotions didn’t govern, command, and direct them. Didn’t invest and drive each touch, each caress, each grasping clutching, each greedy kiss.
Love—their love—infused the heated moments with a bright, brilliant truth that seared them to their souls.
In the moment that they joined and through their racing, scorching ride to the peak, they acknowledged that truth, over and over, both holding to it with renewed commitment and deepening joy.
Inevitably, the peak reared before them, and culmination seized them, shattered them, and re-formed them.
Pleasure rose up and broke over them, washing in a giddying tide through them and on, leaving them wrung out and gloriously sated, wrapped in each other’s arms.
After long moments of lying on his back and struggling to regain his breath, Drago lifted Meg from where she lay slumped over him and settled them both in the depths of the ducal bed.
Their bed. Now and forever.
As his mind realigned, Drago realized he’d never felt so alive, so content, so perfectly aligned with his world. So perfectly poised, with all the right supports, to make his mark upon it.
Ducking his head, he pressed a kiss to Meg’s curls. “Having finally fully realized what fate I escaped in marrying you, I freely admit that I am and always will remain immensely grateful to whatever gods, whatever Fate, arranged for you to stumble across me in my inebriated state that morning.”
