Page 32 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“What do I do now? As you correctly observed last year, I am a virgin,” she said breathlessly.

“But by no means stuffy,” he murmured. “Rock against me. Back and forth. All that is between us is bits of cloth. I can feel you. This activity is stimulation to produce arousal.”

“I’m aroused now,” she moaned.

“As am I.”

Althea started to move, tentatively at first, then faster, causing his head to spin. Damon thrust upward to meet her frenzied motions. God, he was so hard.

“Come for me. Let yourself go. Embrace the feeling overcoming you,” Damon demanded. “You are wet for me. I feel it. Just soaking wet.”

“Oh, yes,” she moaned. Althea held nothing back as her face radiated sheer bliss as her peak built.

“It is like when you touch yourself. And you have done so, I know it. Many times. You have touched yourself thinking of me.”

“Yes,” Althea moaned again, only louder. No doubt Dawson, his carriage driver, could hear her, but Damon hardly cared.

Damon growled low in his throat. “And I have done the same, thinking of you while I pull on my cock and—”

Her climax hit hard, and with a ragged cry, her arms encircled his neck as if to hold on for dear life. He understood her intense response because mere seconds later, he followed, and they shuddered breathlessly while embracing each other.

“Oh, dear God.” Althea moved to scramble off him, but Damon was not having it. He wrapped his arms around her and held on as if she were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

“Hold me,” he whispered raggedly. “Just a moment longer, I beg you.” Never had he begged anyone for anything ever before. So much for keeping his vulnerabilities to himself.

Althea stayed in his embrace, smoothed a lock of hair from his temple, then tenderly kissed his forehead. After several moments, she pulled away, shaking out her skirt. “That was—quite incredible,” she sighed. “But it left you in a bit of a mess.”

“I’ll keep my coat buttoned, which I often have to do when in your presence.”

She chuckled while taking the seat opposite. Then Althea opened the curtains. “We must be nearby, for the skyline of the East End is far in the distance.”

Damon took the opportunity of Althea gazing out the window to tidy himself. What an intense climax, just from rubbing against each other. What would actual sex bring? He may not survive it. But he wanted nothing more than to be joined with her in any and all positions. To explore them all, to show Althea how one could have sex. Or make love, not that he had ever referred to it as such. But with Althea? Yes, it could very well be that.

The carriage turned onto a narrow path completely encased by immense trees. The branches scraped against the sides of the conveyance, the leaves slapping against the windows. Finally, they came into an open area. A two-story wooden structure stood in the clearing. A fair size; although Damon was no expert, he could see that the construction was somewhat shoddy. As he assisted Althea from a carriage, a woman bustled toward them.

“Is it the duke at last? I’ve written so many letters.” She pointed to the crest on the carriage door. “Where is Chellenham?”

Damon turned to face her. The woman in her late forties was modestly dressed in a wool skirt and a frayed blouse, both covered with a well-worn, crisp white apron.

“I am the Duke of Chellenham as of a few days ago.”

The woman deflated. “Oh, no. What will become of us?”

Althea stepped forward. “This is Damon Cranston, the new duke. He only learned about this place at the reading of the will when he was shown a statement of property holdings. I am Althea Galway of The Galway Investigative Agency, and we are here to inspect and make inquiries regarding Chellenhome. And you are?”

“Mrs. Reba Seddon, manager of this home. You had best come in.”

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Damon could smell mold and stale air.

Mrs. Seddon must have noticed him wrinkling his nose, for she said, “Many of the windows do not open, so when the weather is nice, we keep the doors ajar to allow fresh air to enter.” She pointed to the walls that were in desperate need of painting. At least they seemed reasonably clean. “As you can observe, Your Grace, we require repairs and standard upkeep. I have written your father numerous letters over the past several months to no avail. Come here into the sitting room.” It was a rather cramped area, but they sat on the sofa on the far wall while Mrs. Seddon sat opposite on a rickety wooden chair.

“How long has this place been in existence, and what is this place, specifically? Please be as forthcoming as possible,” Althea instructed.

Mrs. Seddon exhaled. “This is a charity home for foundlings, and as far as I’m aware, it has existed since ‘63.”

His father would have been 22 years old. That horrible feeling that had been plaguing him amplified further. Damon sat back, content for Althea to take the initial lead in the questioning.

“I’ve been here close to nine years,” Mrs. Seddon continued. “It was a thriving enterprise up until a few years ago. The money dried up, and we were not receiving as many children as in the past. We charge a fee for fostering and adoptions, you see. Some well-heeled patrons made donations, but they dried up as well.”