Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (24 page)

Then, blessedly, her hand returned to the juncture of his thighs and the fastenings of his breeches, where she made fast business of the laces. He closed his eyes, feeling the invasion of cool air on his heated member. With bold precision, her fingertip traced his bare length before she gently eased him free and gripped him at the base.

Damn. Yes. He rose onto his elbows.
“Sophia.”

“Are all men as large as you?” she whispered, staring at the rigid monument in her hand.

“Of course not,” he grunted, watching her.

“I was always too shy to look before,” she said. She looked like a beautiful mermaid with her tail tucked round her, as she hovered over him, her breasts half-exposed. “I don’t know why, because you’re beautiful, like a watermelon ice from Gunter’s, but hot. I think I’d like to taste him.”

He exhaled raggedly, like a man in the throes of death.

Indeed, he could die now. He had just experienced the single-most sensual moment of his life. He would never forget those words for as long as he lived.

He watched, unable to breathe, as with a tilt of her head, she pushed the dark cascade of her hair back over her shoulders and slowly bent over him. “May I…taste him?”

Every ounce of his willpower collapsed.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he rasped.

Her small tongue darted out to lick his swollen head and the pearl of liquid that glistened there. His hands seized in the coverlet, grabbing fistfuls. Any timidity on her part quickly fell away, and she licked and tasted him more thoroughly.

He hissed a curse.

“I take it that if you’re cursing that means you like what I’m doing?” she queried from behind the curtain of her silken hair, which had again fallen to pool against his abdomen.

“Yes.”

Her hair rippled as she lowered her head farther. Warm, wet heat enveloped his crown. Every muscle in his body clenched and flared alive. His control, which he’d kept so tightly coiled, shattered, and with a groan, his head fell backward—but only for the briefest moment because, bloody hell, he had to watch. With each slow bob of her head, a new wave of pleasure crashed over him. Involuntarily, his hips bucked, but her jaw widened, and she accepted more of his length, the flat of her tongue sliding against his shaft.

She pulled up, lips glistening with moisture, her eyes glazed and bright.

“I don’t want to waste the tiniest bit.” She pushed his shoulders, easing him back on the pillow.

“How did you know to do that?” he asked hoarsely.

“I found those books in your library—”

“The books.”

“So many interesting illustrations.” With his help, she eased his breeches lower. “Like this one—”

He didn’t even get them or his boots off before she straddled him. “Yes.”

He’d been reduced to one-word syllables, like a Neanderthal.

“Show me how.” Candlelight from the bedside lamp gleamed off her thighs and her face.

He shoved her gown up, bunching the flannel over her waist. The dark shadow of her mons hovered above his arousal. Sophia. His wife. His every fantasy come to life.

“Take me inside you,” he commanded in a guttural tone.

“Yes.” She gripped him again, directing him until his cock probed her warmth. The sight of their bodies joined proved too much. Impatiently, he thrust up, evoking a ragged cry from her lips and his own. His wife was as tight as a virgin. She adjusted her position and grasped his shoulders, gasping as her body stretched to accept him, inch by blessed inch, while he met her from beneath. When at last she’d taken all of him, he fisted his hand in her gown and dragged the flannel from her shoulders, baring her shoulders, breasts, and torso to his hungry gaze.

She bent low, pressing her mouth to his and staving her hands, fingers outstretched, across the plane of his chest. Through pink and swollen lips, she whispered, “This isn’t about obligation. Certainly now you must know that.”

He wanted to believe her. But did he dare? In this moment with their bodies so intimately joined, he knew only one certainty—that they would give each other pleasure.

His heart beating wildly, he kissed her back. Yet she pushed away, rocking back on her hips until her face tilted toward the canopy. The motion impaled her more deeply on his shaft.

“Sophia.” He seized her breasts in his hands, dragging his thumbs across her nipples.

“Claxton, yes.” Her inner muscles clenched him tightly.

She covered his hands with hers and with a flex of her thighs lifted herself up a few inches to sink down on him again. Gripping her hips, he encouraged her to ride him and they found a rhythm that pleased them both—one that started slow and sweet, but that soon had the bed creaking and swaying with the intensity of their efforts.

“Ah—” he groaned from deep in his throat. He wouldn’t last another—

“Now,” she cried.

Like the sudden strike of a flint against the frizzen, he exploded, his body reverberating with one earth-shattering report after another. She collapsed onto his chest, her hair strewn across his shoulder.

Afterward as they lay tangled in the sheets and each other’s limbs, he silently prayed she would be as open with her heart and mind in the bright light of morning as she had been with her body in the shadowed privacy of their bed.

Sophia awakened to near darkness and the pleasure of a strong male body twined around hers. Just when she’d finally grown accustomed to sleeping alone, her husband had returned to her bed. She liked the feel of him behind her in the dark. The steady rise and fall of his chest against her back. His muscled thigh aligned with hers. His arm banded tightly over her body, as if he’d never let her go. In this moment, everything felt perfect. She felt protected and cherished. As if their marriage was meant to be. Yet like a dirty secret, the list seemed to whisper at her from its hiding place. She ought to get up from the bed right now and burn the hateful thing…only she didn’t. The idea of leaving all this luxurious warmth made her snuggle closer to him, savoring Vane’s even warmer body…

Only to feel the sudden press of something long and thick against her bottom. And hot.

“You’re not asleep, are you?” she whispered.

“What gave me away?” He chuckled low in his throat. His chest vibrated against her back. He shifted, and with a hand to her hip, gently settled her flat on her back. His eyes, black in the night, peered down at her intently. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking…”

“About what?” she asked softly.

She hoped he wouldn’t press her about the future. Yes, things were changing between them, and so quickly. There were decisions to be made. Though she knew Vane wanted her and even cared for her, she realized he also sought to put his ducal house in order. Their lives as duke and duchess were very much scrutinized by all who surrounded them—peers, servants, and the public. There were details to discuss. Social appearances. Sleeping arrangements. But it would be unwise to make such decisions while lying naked in his arms. Though her body had been thoroughly seduced, her mind—and more important, her heart—still harbored reservations.

Why ruin the magic of their night with talk of reality, of tomorrow?

Yet she instantly forgot her concerns. Propped on one elbow, he slowly tugged the sheet downward, dragging the linen over her breasts, baring them to his gaze and the chill of the room. Her nipples stiffened into hard points. She shifted, deliciously tortured by being so exposed, and felt the blunt pressure of his sex against her hip. At the foot of the bed, the fire had burned low, and it now gave off only the glow from its embers.

“About those books from my library.” Slowly his f
inger
tips circled her breasts and teased her nipples. With a dip of his head, he suckled one, leaving it wet, glistening, and puckered. She squirmed, but he pinned her against the bed with his knee. “The naughty ones.”

She sighed, wanting more and knowing with a certainty she would have it.

“They were very naughty books, indeed,” she whispered.

His palm ventured downward over her stomach to slip beneath the sheet.

“Were you shocked by those books, Sophia?” Long, square-tipped fingers touched her, sliding between her legs to stroke and tease swollen flesh, already drenched with desire. Like a cat, she purred and stretched, parting her thighs just enough to grant them entrance—

She moaned the moment they entered her.

“Tell me.” He stroked more deeply, and she lifted her hips off the bed, matching his tempo. “Were you shocked by the pictures?”

She panted. “Not as…shocked…as I ought to have been.”

She’d never let go of herself like this, been so free in taking pleasure for herself. Nothing else mattered in this moment but these delicious sensations and the two of them. She moaned again, this time into his mouth when he dipped low to kiss her.

But he drew back. “When you looked at those pictures, did you think of me?”

Suddenly his fingers were gone, and in a blur of linen and darkness and ember glow, she found herself half turned on her side and propped against a pillow, with him behind her…stroking again, probing with his fingers and then, blessedly, with his cock. “Did you imagine me doing this to you?”

His hand caught her behind the knee. He lifted her there, spreading her, entering her fast and deep.

“Vane!” she cried, shattered by the pleasure of being so completely filled and stretched by him.

“Did you?” he murmured in that low, wicked voice that she loved. He pumped his hips, but slowly in smooth, controlled thrusts.

“Yes, always.” It was true. There had never been anyone but him, even in her most secret of fantasies.

Gently and without pulling out, he maneuvered her onto her hands and her knees. A glance over her shoulder revealed him reared back like a stallion, his torso tautly defined by shadow and muscle. But in the next moment, he came down, his body a cage around her, one arm coming up to band around her waist.

“From what I recall,” he rasped into her ear. “There were many different pictures. You…weren’t hoping to go back to sleep anytime soon, were you?”

T
he next morning brought no new snow and news from the village that the frost on the river had begun to disappear. Vane smiled like everyone else and pretended jubilance, but inside he cursed his miserable luck.

Selfishly, he had hoped for just a few more days. And nights if he had to be honest with himself. His luxurious house in London inspired the envy of many, but there were so many visitors and servants and expectations…while here at Camellia House, things were uncomplicated and warm and true. Only he couldn’t keep Sophia here forever. She had a family to return to, one with whom she desperately wanted to spend her Christmas.

But this chilly December morning, for the first time in Vane’s memory, Mrs. Kettle threw open the doors of the dining hall, a large and formal room never used by his mother. With just her and the two boys in residence, there had been no need.

However, Mrs. Kettle, declaring that all known babies had been birthed, had thrown herself into the task of feeding the Duke and Duchess of Claxton and their guests in residence with unparalleled enthusiasm. Together they enjoyed a full sideboard of selections as fine as any grand London residence would boast, or better, Vane had assured her.

The only absences were Haden, who remained at the inn in the village, for the obvious reason of wishing to avoid Lord and Lady Meltenbourne, and the Branigans, who breakfasted in their room, insisting they could not further impose upon the duke and duchess, who had already been more than kind, given the circumstances of their initial introduction. Sophia had insisted on taking two trays up.

Afterward, Sophia helped Mrs. Kettle tidy the kitchen and discuss preparations for the house to again be closed for the next several months, at least until summer. Vane donned his coat, gloves, and hat and joined Mr. Kettle and Mr. Branigan in the snow-covered courtyard at the back of the house for an inspection of the old stable master’s quarters. Despite the frost having subsided on the river, the air remained cold and the sky above them gray.

Inside the stable, they climbed a narrow column of stairs. Mr. Kettle unlocked a door, and together they entered the small apartment. Dust cloths covered a table and chairs, a bed, and numerous other pieces of furniture.

“Thank you, your Grace. I don’t know quite what to say,” Mr. Branigan said, an expression of hope returning a measure of youth to his features, some vestige of the boy Vane had once known. “Our lives had taken such a turn for the worse of late. That you’d offer something so generous to Mrs. Branigan and me, as a place to live, especially after we trespassed in your house and frightened you and her Grace—well, I’m overwhelmed.”

Vane couldn’t help but feel that the Branigans returning to Camellia House had been intended all along. Since his arrival on a cold, dark doorstep three nights ago, the old mansion had returned to life. He felt in some way that he had as well. “Your thanks is enough.”

Mr. Branigan held his cap in both calloused hands. “I couldn’t help but notice that there are repairs to be made in numerous locations about the house, starting with that settee leg that keeps falling out from under everyone. Like my father was, I’m very skilled with woodwork.”

Claxton listened quietly, giving the man his chance to speak.

“Please allow me to undertake any repairs, under the supervision of Mr. Kettle, of course, in exchange for our being allowed to stay.”

“That’s not necessary,” Vane assured him. “I’m pleased to have someone to live on the premises to keep out the vagrants and such.”

Mr. Branigan’s cheeks flushed; he was suddenly mortified. Vane grinned. Mr. Kettle clapped the young man on the back, and they all three shared a laugh.

“Thank you for your kind trust, but I must insist on providing something in exchange,” Mr. Branigan persisted. “Please, sir, for my own pride.”

At last, with an encouraging nod from Mr. Kettle, Vane agreed.

A flash of scarlet drew his eye to the house—and in that instant, everything inside him went warm with anticipation. Sophia waved, dressed for the out-of-doors, they having already agreed to this morning to complete the remaining quest. Mr. Branigan insisted on harnessing the horse to the sledge and, all in all, made fine and expedient work of the task.

Traveling over crusted snow, Vane and Sophia returned to the same thickly treed path in the forest that led to the huntsman’s cottage. Vane lifted a frozen tree limb to allow Sophia to proceed underneath. Waning winter light illuminated the slanted, one-room structure.

“Careful,” Vane said as they stood side by side on the threshold. “I’m not certain how reliable the roof or the floorboards are. At least there is very little area to search.”

Sophia stepped cautiously over creaking floorboards. “We’re looking for a pot, you say?”

“Cast iron, from what I recall, with a handle and a heavy lid.” Even stooped, his large frame filled the small room.

Sophia looked inside a ramshackle cabinet. “Like that one?” She pointed far in the back.

“Yes.” He crouched and hoisted the pot out. “Let’s go outside and have a look.”

An old stump served as a table. Vane tugged at the handle. “The lid is stuck.”

“No, sealed with wax, I believe.” She pointed out the darkened edge.

When their eyes met, she flushed, as she had done repeatedly that morning, no doubt because she revisited, as did he, the sensual pleasures they’d enjoyed the night before. In the shadowy privacy of their room, they’d lost all pretenses of propriety and inhibition and exhausted their mutual lust only sometime near dawn. While her insatiability had put to bed his concern that she did not feel desire for him, he suspected he had not yet won her love.

Vane ran the blade of his penknife around the circumference of the lid and pulled until the top popped off. Inside lay a small linen parcel bound tight with string. Vane cut it open.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A book of poems, it appears.”

He offered the small leather volume for Sophia to see. Something fell out, falling like a dark moth to the snow below. She bent to retrieve it.

“It is a rose.” Wide-eyed, she held the flower to the light. Pressed flat, mottled with age, and faded, its petals retained the barest vestiges of color. Yellow rimmed in pink.

“I’ve seen this rose, Claxton,” she whispered urgently. “Do you remember? Yesterday on your mother’s grave. I saw the same uncommon variety yesterday in the church.”

Bewildered, Claxton shrugged. “I’m not sure what it all means. A book of poems. A pressed rose. There is no message, no instruction. Perhaps the book is the prize? She usually included a little note of congratulation.”

“What was the name on that placard?” Sophia pressed the gloved knuckles of one hand to her forehead. “I’m certain the name I saw started with a G. Graham. Garnett. Garner.”

Claxton looked up from the book. Holding it open to the front inside cover, he displayed to her a name, scrawled in faded ink.
Robert Garswood.

“That’s it.”

“Again, what does it mean? Who is Robert Garswood?”

“There’s no question,” said Sophia. “You must go see him and find out.”

Confusion dampened Claxton’s response. The game of lookabout had taken a surprising turn, the most recent discovery not the sort of “clue” his mother would have left for Vane the boy. He had the strangest feeling she’d intended it for Claxton the man to find.

“Who is this man and what would he have to say to me, if anything at all? It’s been years since these clues were left behind. Robert Garswood may not even be alive.”

But Robert Garswood was, indeed, very much alive.

The rector, still aglow over the Duke of Claxton’s promised gift of a church bell, provided the necessary information. A member of the local gentry, Robert Garswood resided on a small estate not far from the village.

Already midday, the snow had begun to melt, making for slower travel in the sledge. But at last they came to a gentle valley and an expansive country house fashioned in the Jacobean style.

“This is all very unsettling.” Vane scowled.

“What’s unsettling is that we’ve remained in this very same spot staring down the hill for at least a quarter hour. It’s cold, Vane. Let us go to the front door and introduce ourselves.” His manner perplexed her. Why did he exhibit such reluctance? Clearly his mother had wanted him to meet and speak with Mr. Garswood.

“Perhaps we should just go,” he suggested darkly. “Perhaps I don’t want to know who Robert Garswood is or what he might have to say.”

“Why would you even suppose that? I don’t understand.”

And yet he provided no explanation.

At last, at her gentle urging, Claxton agreed. After only a short wait, a footman led them down a brief corridor past a cloisonné vase full of familiar yellow-and-pink roses. A tall, dark-haired man with silver dusting his temples stood near the fire, dressed in a blue greatcoat, buff breeches, and tall boots, waiting to receive them. Sophia estimated him to be somewhere around the age of sixty. A dashing athletic figure and the epitome of a country gentleman, Mr. Garswood leaned heavily on a cane and peered at them with unconcealed surprise and delight.

“Your Graces.” A warm smile spread across his face, and he bowed his head to each of them. Approaching, his gaze remained fixed on Vane. “Yes, the likeness is certainly there. Please, come inside.”

Framed in rich burgundy draperies, large windows afforded them a view of the valley below and a large greenhouse on the distant corner of the snow-covered lawn. Numerous books lay around the room and lined the bookshelves, most sharing the theme of English flora and botany.

“You knew my mother?” asked Claxton in a solemn tone, one that contained, Sophia believed, a bit of dread.

“I did. And your father as well.”

From the pocket of his greatcoat, Vane produced the book of poems. “She left this for me. Do you know what it means?”

“I do, indeed. When you were ten years old, my wife and I placed that book of poems in an old black pot, just as your dear mother instructed us to do.” Again he smiled. “But I must say I’m still very shocked to see you. After her death, when we received her letter, I’ll admit to being doubtful you would ever cross our threshold. But those quests and you completing them—once you were grown, mind you—seemed very important to her.”

Vane looked at Sophia. “After we discovered the first quest, my wife rather insisted we complete the rest. I wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Though his jaw remained tense and his shoulders, rigid, the look he directed to her conveyed gratitude.

“Then well done, your Grace,” Mr. Garswood said warmly, nodding to her. His eyes sparkled with good humor. “Elizabeth would be very happy to know you are both here. I think somehow, even now, she does know.”

“Why
are
we here?” Vane asked bluntly.

Mr. Garswood’s chin went down, toward his chest, and he stared for a long moment at the carpet before returning his gaze to Vane’s. He said in a voice softened by emotion, “Because your mother believed it important for you to know the truth. All of it. Once you were a man.”

The truth? A sudden, fierce protectiveness came over Sophia. What would this man tell Vane, and how would it affect him from this day forward? She didn’t want him to be hurt any more.

“The truth,” Vane repeated, closing his eyes. “Yes, whatever that means, I would like to hear it.”

“You may wish for your wife to leave the room. Some details may be difficult to hear.”

Again, Sophia tensed. Leave the room? Why? But of course, she ought to if Vane wanted her to—

“I want her to stay,” Vane answered with firm conviction, though Sophia believed his color had paled a shade or perhaps two.

The words pleased her, in that they offered proof that the time they’d spent together here in Lacenfleet, and the intimacies they’d shared, had brought them closer together. Vane did not reach for her. He did not so much as glance at her. Still, Sophia felt compelled to move closer to him. To stand beside him while he heard whatever this kind-eyed stranger had to reveal.

“Very well.” Mr. Garswood nodded in assent and circled round to walk the length of the windows. “Your mother grew up not far from here. Very close, in fact, on her uncle’s property, which bordered this one.”

“I did not know that,” Vane answered, leading Sophia to the window where they joined their host in looking out over the winter landscape. “There is not much I do know about my mother’s bloodline. She did not often talk of her girlhood.”

Vane couldn’t explain it. Despite a certain trepidation over hearing what Mr. Garswood would say, he felt welcome, even comfortable here, in this man’s home. It was as if they were two old friends, reuniting after many long years for a warm and heartfelt reunion.

Mr. Garswood rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “Let me tell you our story, then. I knew your father when we were young boys. Our fathers before us had been friends, and we were friends as well. True friends as only young boys can be. But then your father, Follet as he was called then, was sent away to apprentice in the navy at only eight years old, a traumatic thing, as he was immediately thrust into the midst of the conflict with France and Spain in the siege on Havana. His ship, the HMS
Stirling Castle
, was one of those heavily damaged by the artillery from the fortress Morro and subsequently scuttled.”

“That’s too young,” interjected Sophia, her expression showing the same concern she would feel toward any child in the same circumstance. “I know it was done more often then, but eight years old. What horrors he must have witnessed. There must have been times when he felt so afraid.”

“During those years he visited rarely, but when he did, he would always come round and we would have the most marvelous time,” Mr. Garswood continued. “Only after the death of his father and brothers, from the same dreadful influenza that claimed so many lives that year, did he return to stay and to assume the title you, your Grace, now bear. By then, I must impress upon you, he was notably different. A man, of course, but darker somehow.”