Page 12 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 12

T he ride through the hills had been punishing. Neither spoke of the betrayal. It sat between them, unspoken, a reminder that even amidst growing closeness, the world still hunted them. The landscape had offered no comfort—just endless wind, moor, and the threat of riders in the distance that may or may not have existed.

Frances’s legs ached. Her throat burned from the cold air. Her shoulder throbbed with every jolt of her horse’s gait. But she did not complain. She did not have to. Johnathan had kept glancing at her, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the horizon. She saw the tension in every line of his body.

They reached the first village shortly after sundown.

The inn was modest—two stories, one hearth, and a lopsided sign that creaked in the wind—but it had a roof and a warm fire, and for that, Frances could have wept.

“We have only the one room left,” the innkeeper said as she wiped flour from her hands.

Frances did not even blink. “We will take it.”

Johnathan paid and nodded curtly, then guided her up the narrow stairs without a word. She kept her eyes fixed forward, her heart thudding. They had shared proximity before—sleeping near one another, huddling for warmth—even a room. A bed.

The door creaked open to reveal a small chamber lit by a single candle and the dying glow of the hearth. A washbasin stood in the corner. The bed, wide and low, was covered in woolen blankets, the sheets freshly turned down.

Frances stepped inside.

Johnathan lingered at the threshold, silent.

She turned to him. “You can stop pretending this is the first scandal we have shared.”

He exhaled, closing the door behind him. “This one feels more permanent.”

She walked to the hearth and crouched to warm her hands.

“Will you share the bed with me?” she asked eventually, glancing over her shoulder.

“You are injured,” he said. “I will take the floor.”

She looked at him. “I am mostly recovered.”

He looked at the fire.

“I will take the floor.”

Frances stood slowly. “That is idiotic.”

“Frances—”

She took a steadying breath, feeling her pulse flutter like wings behind her ribs. “I wish to share.”

His gaze snapped to hers. And for a moment, all the tension between them gathered in the air, thick and electric.

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Lie beside me. Or do not. But stop trying to protect me from something I have already chosen.”

Johnathan hesitated for a beat. Then he moved to the basin, splashed cold water on his face, dried it with a cloth, and finally—finally—came to her side.

He sat. Slowly. Carefully.

The mattress shifted beneath their weight.

They lay down, side by side, backs turned, a solid ocean of blankets between them.

Frances stared at the wall.

The candle guttered low.

“Do you remember,” she said softly, “the summer we stayed at my aunt’s estate in Devon? You were sixteen. I was fourteen.”

He let out a quiet breath. “We were supposed to be watching the sheep.”

“You got stung by a bee.”

“And you hit it with your bonnet,” he said, a faint smile in his voice. “And then demanded I give you my cravat so you could bandage your own hand.”

“It was a noble sacrifice,” she said.

They both fell quiet.

The fire cracked softly behind them.

After a long while, he said, “I never thought we would be here.”

“Running from our families or in a bed together?”

“Both.” He rolled onto his back. “Well, perhaps not the bed.”

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the wooden rafters. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” he said. “I regret not doing it sooner.”

Frances closed her eyes.

She felt his presence beside her like heat. Like gravity. She did not need to look to know that he was lying awake just like she was, tense with restraint, his mind probably echoing the same silent what-ifs as hers.

She turned slowly, facing him in the dark.

His eyes were open.

She did not speak.

Did not dare move closer.

The moment pulsed between them—bare, unvarnished. There was no more pretending. No polite distance. No more running.

Only this.

And him.

And the unbearable tenderness of being seen.

She thought he would speak first.

He often did, with that sardonic edge to cover the emotion he could not yet name. But tonight, he was quiet. Still.

Frances watched his face in the dim firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar beneath his cheekbone, the small crease between his brows that deepened whenever he was thinking too hard or caring too much.

She wanted to reach out and smooth it with her fingers. But she did not.

“You are afraid,” she said softly.

Johnathan did not deny it.

“Of what?” she asked.

He swallowed. “Of you thinking I want something I do not deserve.”

Her heart twisted.

She shifted onto her elbow, propped beside him. “I know what you want. And I know what you are afraid to ask for.”

His eyes flicked to hers, shadowed and unreadable. “You do not owe me anything.”

“Then maybe I want to give it,” she said. “Not out of debt. Not because you rescued me. But because I want you to touch me like I am more than something to be protected. Like I am yours.”

Johnathan sat up, running a hand through his hair. The motion was rough, frustrated. He stared into the fire, jaw flexing.

“I do want you,” he said. “By God, I do. But not like this. Not while we are still running. Not when everything between us feels so raw I can hardly breathe.”

She sat up beside him, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders.

“What if this is all we ever have?” she asked. “What if we are caught tomorrow, or forced apart? What if this—this room, this night—is the only place I get to be yours?”

The words hit him like a blade.

He turned toward her, eyes full of something feral and tender all at once. “Then I will remember this night as the one I had to say no. Because if I let myself touch you now, Frances, I will never stop.”

Silence bloomed in the space between them.

She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers.

“I do not want you to stop. I close you.”

He bowed his head, his forehead brushing hers. His breath was shaky, controlled by sheer force of will.

“Frances, I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. But I also want you to know that you are not a secret. Not a mistake. Not a fever dream from which I will wake. You are everything. And if we cross that line tonight, I want to do it knowing we are building something that lasts beyond morning.”

She closed her eyes.

He was giving her the one thing no one else ever had.

The right to choose.

She leaned into him and pressed a kiss to his cheek—light and lingering, just beneath the hollow of his jaw.

“I understand.”

He exhaled. “You are going to undo me, Frances Rowley.”

She smiled. “You have already undone me.”

His mouth met hers, soft and tentative at first, then with growing hunger. Frances melted into the kiss, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. Johnathan’s arm encircled her waist, drawing her flush against him.

The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the hammering of her heart. Frances gasped as his lips trailed along her jaw, down the column of her throat. Her skin tingled everywhere he touched.

“Johnathan,” she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice.

He pulled back, eyes dark with desire. “We should sleep,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me to stop.”

Frances cupped his face in her hands. “I want you,” she whispered. “Do not stop.”

A low groan escaped him as he claimed her mouth once more. There was no hesitation now, no holding back. Frances surrendered herself to the rising tide of sensation, to the rightness of being in Johnathan’s arms.

As clothing fell away and skin met skin, Frances marveled at how natural it felt—as if their bodies had always known one another. His touch was reverent, his gaze full of wonder as he explored every inch of her.

His hand trailed up her thigh to rest at the apex of her legs. Frances gasped, arching into his touch. Johnathan’s eyes locked with hers, and she nodded, breath catching as he slowly slid a finger inside her.

“You are stunning,” he murmured, voice thick with awe.

She could only whimper in response as he stroked her, building a delicious tension low in her belly. Her hips rocked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he offered. When he added a second finger, she cried out softly.

Johnathan captured her lips in a deep kiss as he continued to stroke her sensitive flesh. “You like that, my love.”

The endearment sent a thrill through her. Frances clung to his shoulders as he continued his ministrations, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Just when she thought she could not take anymore, his thumb found the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of her sex and pressed down.

Frances shattered, her cry muffled against his skin, pleasure crashing over her like a wave too long held at bay. Johnathan held her through it, murmuring words of praise and adoration.

As she came down from her high, Frances became aware of his arousal pressing insistently against her. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his length. Johnathan hissed, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Frances,” he groaned. “Are you certain?”

In answer, she guided him to her entrance. “Yes,” she breathed, arching up to meet him. “I want you, Johnathan. All of you.”

With a low groan, he slowly pushed inside her. Frances gasped at the stretch and fullness, her fingers digging into his shoulders at the pinch of pain. Johnathan stilled.

“Are you alright?” he murmured, brushing a tender kiss to her temple.

She nodded, shifting her hips experimentally. The slight movement sent sparks of pleasure through her body. “Yes,” she whispered.

He pushed fully inside of her, then began to rock against her, setting a gentle rhythm. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. Their gasps and sighs mingled in the quiet room as they moved together, finding their way to a shared ecstasy.

As the tension built once more, Frances felt herself climbing toward another peak. Johnathan’s movements grew more urgent, his breathing ragged against her neck.

“Frances,” he groaned. “Let go, darling. Come apart for me.”

The rhythm of his body inside hers, the press of his fingers between her legs, sent Frances over the edge once more. She clung to him as waves of pleasure washed over her. Johnathan thrust a few more times, then found his release, shuddering above her.

They lay tangled together in the aftermath, hearts racing and skin flushed. Johnathan pressed gentle kisses to her face, her neck, and in that sliver of quiet between desire and satisfaction, Frances felt something deeper take root. Something stronger than passion. More enduring than fear.

Love.

Morning came slowly.

Frances awoke to a pale shaft of sunlight sliding across the floorboards, the smell of ash and linen in the air. The fire had died to a low glow. The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of breathing beside her.

Johnathan lay still, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting lightly between them, fingers curled as if reaching for her in his sleep but never daring to touch.

Frances watched him.

He looked different in sleep. Not unguarded—Johnathan was never that—but softer. The lines of responsibility and shame had eased from his brow. In their place: stillness. A rare and beautiful thing.

She remembered every word from the night before.

“If I let myself touch you now, Frances, I will never stop.”

That confession had curled around her heart. She had never known such restraint could feel like intimacy. Never realized that desire held in check could be its own kind of reverence.

He had not turned away because he did not want her.

He had turned away because he did.

Deeply.

Utterly.

The weight of that trust was heavier than a kiss. And when he had given in. When he had claimed her. She had never felt so complete. So Cherished.

Frances sat up carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. The inn was quiet outside—no footsteps, no clattering pans, no shouted orders from the street. Just the low hum of village morning.

Her feet touched the cold floor, and she crossed to the window.

Outside, frost lingered on the grass. A cart rolled slowly down the lane. Life went on. Simple, unaffected. How strange that the world could remain unchanged when hers had shifted so profoundly.

She did not know what would happen next.

They had bought a single day of safety with their run through the hills. Perhaps two. But Cranford still hunted them. Her father would not stay silent forever. Society would not forget.

But now, she was not afraid of what came after.

Because in this room, with the man who she loved, she had remembered who she was.

Not just Lady Frances Rowley, daughter of an earl.

Not just the scandalous bride who had fled the altar.

But a woman who had chosen love over duty. Who had chosen herself.

Johnathan stirred.

She turned as he sat up, blinking into the morning light.

Their eyes met.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

He gave a slow, crooked smile. “Is it?”

“It is now.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, clearly feeling the same fatigue she wore like a second skin. “Did you sleep well?”

She nodded. “Better than I have in days.”

He reached for her. “You have something on your mind.”

“I am always thinking.”

“Tell me.”

She hesitated, then stepped closer.

“I have spent so much of my life trying to be what other people wanted,” she said. “But you… you see all of me. Even the parts I have tried to forget. And instead of turning away, you ask me to stay.”

“I do,” he said, simply. “In fact, I insist on it.”

“I want that,” she whispered. “To choose you. Not because we ran. Not because we must. But because we can.”

Johnathan rose slowly, walked to her, and took her hands in his.

“I want to marry you, Frances. Over an anvil. In truth. No disguise. No hesitation. I want the scandal. The fire. The fight. All of it. As long as it is with you.”

She smiled, tears catching at the edges of her lashes. “Then we shall.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We go back to Gretna Green,” she said. “Today. No more running. No more waiting. We write our names beside one another, and we let the world catch up if it dares.”

He pulled her into his arms.

And kissed her.

This time, there was no restraint. There was only the press of lips that promised a thousand mornings, the heat of hands that trembled not with hesitation but with awe. The taste of hope lingered between them—warm, steady, certain. It was not the urgency of fear, but the arrival of something sure, something earned. They had reached the place where desire and devotion met, where every breath between them felt like a vow unspoken, and the warmth of each touch carried the weight of all they had endured and all they dared to hope for.

This was not a kiss of apology or fear.

This was a beginning.