The Accidental Duchess (15 page)

She parted her lips to his kiss so he could explore the warm velvet of her mouth. She trembled within his embrace again and again, and finally attempted a tentative embrace of her own. The careful pressure of her palms on his shoulders charmed him.

He looked down at her dark eyes and thick lashes and pale oval face. She was lovely. He wondered why he had not noticed years ago. Her abstract expression the last few years might have discouraged it. Tonight, no one could call her impassive. Lights danced in her eyes. She looked alert and curious and brave. She might be gambling, she appeared so alive.

He smiled to himself as he lost himself in kissing the warmth of her neck. Little sharp intakes of breath sounded in his ear, their pitch saying which kiss moved her more. When the melody quickened and her embrace tightened to a grasp, he lowered the sheet to expose her breasts.

“Put your hands behind your head, Lydia.”

Eyes dazed with passion, she frowned in confusion, then released him and bent her arms so her hands lay beneath her head. The pose raised her round breasts. He touched one, then the other, and the tips hardened at once into dark, luring tips. He grazed each again and she gasped and arched her back. Each time she arched, again and again, her body begging. Finally her cries did too.

She closed her eyes as if to contain it and find control. He teased, circling with his palm until a moan sighed out of her. He pressed his hip and leg against hers to feel the way her body flexed to the pleasure and need.

“Do you want me to stop, Lydia?”

She shook her head.

“Do you want more?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Wild now, close to abandon, she nodded.

He lowered his head to use his tongue.

 • • • 

S
he could barely breathe from the power of the sensations. More, he asked. There could be more?

She watched his head lower and felt the softness of his hair on her chest. His kiss on her breast gave a hint of what more meant. His tongue flicked and she almost died. He used his tongue and mouth on one breast and his wicked hand on the other, and she thought she would become unhinged.

Surely if she could hold him, she would not feel so helpless to the way pleasure overwhelmed her. Offering herself this way, taking the pleasure he gave without stop, only made her want more again, and more, and yet more. Only within the more and the want a force built. A desperation pressed at the pleasure and threatened to explode out of it. Her body moved and rocked in response to it. Down between her legs she felt wetness and a throbbing that only ached for more too.

Caresses now, wonderful strokes down her body. She moved into them with sinuous, languid stretches.

He rose up on one arm, bracing himself beside her. She opened her eyes and almost shut them again. Hair mussed, jaw firm, eyes ablaze, his severity held a terrible sensual quality. An alluring one that made her want to look and look. So compelling and handsome that just the sight of him had her throbbing more and wanting more.

He stripped the sheet off her so she lay naked, her hands still at her head and her breasts still rising high. He watched his caress claim all of her, hips and legs and thighs and stomach. Then his hand slid between her legs and he touched all that was left.

She did not believe it possible to be shocked by a sensation still. She did not know that the more meant different pleasures, not only more of the same. This touch proved almost painfully direct to the center of all the others.

He did not hurt her but she still wanted to cry. He touched places of unbearable sensitivity and made the desperation build and build. Over and over he did it while he kissed her lips and body, until she wanted to scream from the need he caused.

He moved over her and eased her legs farther apart. She knew what he was going to do now but she could not think about anything except relief. With the first pressure as he began to enter her, she knew that this was the more all the rest had led her to.

He was slow and careful, but it hurt enough that she bit her lower lip to avoid crying. Then it hurt less, as if her body gave up a rebellion. She moved her hands then, so she could hold on to him should the rest hurt too.

Soreness echoed when he moved in her, but she felt no real pain. Or perhaps her astonishment left no room for such ordinary sensations. His size and strength eclipsed her and dominated her. He braced his weight on his forearms, but she still cowered beneath him, indisputably small and frail in comparison.

The intimacy of the act seemed stark and overwhelming to the point she could only accept it, dazed by the shock of being claimed and possessed in such a physical, even primitive manner. For all his care, his need would not be denied and when it found release, its power shocked her anew.

So did a singular insight that entered her mind when their gazes met near the end. She had seen the carnal side in him all along, she realized, only had not understood or given it a name. Like a fearsome spell, it shadowed his pride and lit his gaze and affected all that she knew of him. It made her uncomfortable with him, because in his presence she tasted that desperation waiting for her, and the abandon calling her name.

She wondered if she would ever look at him again without being stirred in wicked ways.

 • • • 

O
ther than her lashes fluttering against her pale skin, she had not moved a hair since he moved off her. Her legs still spread wide beneath the sheet that now covered her. As she had predicted, it had not ended well.

Taking a woman was easy. Knowing what to say afterward, if anything, had always been the sticking point for men. As if they guessed, many women, the real sophisticated women of the world, had a patter of conversation to ease the awkwardness. Tonight he knew it was incumbent on him to speak instead.

“I am sorry if I hurt you, Lydia. I never will again.”

She drew up her legs and turned on her side, facing him. “I was not too hurt. A pulled tooth is probably worse after all.”

He kissed her forehead. At least she did not flinch. “That is heartening to hear. I would not like it known that sharing a bed with me is more hellish than that.”

Her eyes opened. Soulful now. No longer dazed with pleasure or alight with excitement, but instead revealing serious thinking and perhaps some sadness.

“I am accommodating it all. I feel a little odd. Different.”

“I will leave you, so you have your privacy, if you like.”

She did not respond for a long count. Then she nodded.

He dressed enough to be decent, and returned to his own chamber. He sat in a chair by the window and did his own accommodating. He did not feel odd, but different to be sure. Married, for one thing.

In the heat of passion women could be somewhat interchangeable. Tonight he had never forgotten he was with Lydia. His wife. For the first time he had bedded a woman as the law and society intended.

It changed things. The same act. The same pleasures. Yet, different.

Not different the way Lydia meant, however. This was all she knew. Her reference to different had been about herself and her life, he guessed. He had taken her innocence, and that marked a critical turn in a person’s life, man or woman.

He wondered what she was thinking in that bed soiled by their joining. Did she castigate herself for allowing herself to enjoy what she could? Did she resent that he had used his skill to all but force pleasure on her? Did she weep as the reality of this marriage could not be ignored any longer?

Perhaps all of those things. Mostly, however, he suspected she accommodated that she had given him something only given once in a woman’s life. Her innocence was gone forever, and he had not been a man she had chosen to receive it.

L
ydia truly felt more a woman of the world as they journeyed back to London. Not only because she officially now was the first part of that appellation, a woman. Rather her wedding night had explained so many things previously ill understood.

For one thing, she now comprehended some jokes whose humor had previously eluded her.

Then, the way her brother and Emma looked at each other suddenly made sense. She realized that memories of their own pleasures passed in those gazes. She hoped she did not blush or giggle when next they shared those long looks in her presence.

And Cassandra! She had never really understood the spell Cassandra cast on men. Yes, she was beautiful in a distinctive way, and her manner managed to both flatter and challenge. Now, however, she realized her appeal. Much like Penthurst, something about her spoke of carnal things, and intimated the pleasure to be had. It was a little shocking to even consider, but she suspected men became aroused by Cassandra merely upon seeing her.

Finally, her wedding night had taught her the last lesson she ever expected to learn, which was that nature had given each woman the means to feel extraordinary for a short while. That was how pleasure affected one. She had always assumed that if a woman was in love, the physical union might be very special. How alarming to learn that could happen even if you found yourself with a man you not only did not love, but never could.

Or at least it seemed it could be amazing. Since Penthurst did not visit her chamber again during their journey, possibly that only happened the first time and later it became most ordinary indeed.

She almost hoped so. After he left her bed on their wedding night, her confused heart had known its fair share of guilt. The long hours in the carriage gave her too much time to dwell on that, until a sadness lay at the bottom of her heart.

She had no intention of spending her life pining over a dead man, but it had still been disloyal to abandon herself to the duke as if she had forgotten what he had taken from her. She should have done her duty and nothing more. Surely she could have resisted the pleasure of that seduction if she had kept her wits about her.

Unfortunately, the duke’s constant proximity over the long miles left her doubting she could have. He had only to look her way, or touch her for the most practical reasons, to start the inconvenient stirring again.

Upon their arrival in Berkeley Square, they found a little crowd outside her home. Three men loitered near the steps and all snapped alert when the coach rolled to a stop. One peeled away immediately and ran across the park toward Ambury’s house. Another, whom she knew, bolted into the house. A third began walking away.

“Mr. Riley,” Penthurst called to him.

The young man turned and came to the carriage window. “Your Grace?”

“What are you doing here?”

“The lady told me to wait here and come at once if I saw you, sir.”

“I trust you were allowed to sleep at night.”

“Charles took my place at night, Your Grace.”

Penthurst opened the coach door, kicked down the steps, and alighted. “Do your duty, then. However, tell my aunt we may be a while in coming to Grosvenor Square. That will give her time to prepare the household to meet their new mistress.”

Mr. Riley stared into the carriage at the only possible person who might be that mistress. Bowing three times, he turned on his heel and walked away quickly.

Penthurst offered his hand to her. “Shall we go in?”

“I am thinking I would rather not.”

“Courage, Lydia. Besides, you are mine now. Even if your brother wanted to punish you for your careless behavior—and he never did before, so why would he start now?—he no longer has the authority. Only I do.”

That might be true, but it was not punishment that she dreaded with Southwaite. Rather his disapproval and disappointment could feel worse than ten lashes with a cane.

Up the steps they trod. Into the house. It felt very quiet inside. The butler greeted them as if she did not live here. Which, she realized with a startle, she no longer did.

“Ask the earl if he will see me,” Penthurst said.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Do you think to meet him alone?” she asked.

“I do. He should have the freedom to say what he wants. He will not if you are there.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You have chambers here, don’t you? You might go to them and pack some clothes to bring with you.”

Of course. She also had to pack Sarah. She wandered to the stairs, to get on with it.

She opened the door to the apartment she had used since she was a child. A pang of nostalgia throbbed in her chest. Then she saw Sarah standing at the doorway to the dressing room. Sarah’s eyebrows rose high above wide eyes.

“Oh, milady, I’ve been bursting with pride since the countess told me. A duke, Deea! A duke!”

 • • • 

T
he butler threw open the library door and ushered Penthurst in. He announced him like this were a state visit.

Southwaite sat at one of the tables, pen in hand. He looked up then returned to his task. “Penthurst! Welcome back. Sit. I will be finished with this in a minute. It is the announcement.”

“You were able to put it off.”

“Yes. Barely. I had to threaten one of my aunts with never allowing her to borrow our carriages again. Even so she told your aunt, so it did spread a bit.” He jotted away, then set down the pen. “How does this sound? The Earl of Southwaite is relieved to announce, finally, that his sister, Lady Lydia Alfreton, has married, and to none other than the Duke of Penthurst, thus giving proof that fortune’s wheel turns at a whim.”

“I am glad our marriage is cause for jokes. I feared you would be angry.”

“Angry?
Angry?
It is all I can do to stop myself from falling to my knees and hugging your legs in gratitude.”

“Far be it from me to imply that your joy in our nuptials is unseemly, but— Don’t you want to know what happened? Do you not care that she was compromised?”

Southwaite waved the notion away much as he might swat at an insect. “She has been doing things that could get her compromised for years. Ask her about last summer and the galley. That episode almost turned me gray, let me tell you. Anyway, it was just a matter of time before it happened. What luck that when she was finally caught in one of her schemes, it was you who was involved and not some highwayman or thief or such.”

“What luck indeed.”

Southwaite rose and poured some brandy. He came over and held out one of the glasses. “A toast is in order.” He raised his glass. “To your happiness.”

They both downed the brandy. Southwaite set down his glass and sat in an armchair. “I am very serious. I am glad it is you. I had always hoped, but after that public disavowal of the match—”

“She was a child at the time. I disavowed the arrangement, not her.”

Southwaite shrugged. “Your recent presence in her life made me wonder if perhaps—but each time a different, better explanation presented itself. Your letter from Buxton thus surprised me, but it in no way angered me.”

“I am glad to hear it. Just so you know, we wed in Scotland. And you should probably be told that she was not happy to find herself with no choice except me or ruin.”

That took some of the glee out of Southwaite’s expression. “Here I was building a grand, secret romance in my imagination. Perhaps you do need to tell me what happened.”

“The only story we will give out is that we eloped. Even to you. As for the rest, as her husband she is now my responsibility. Your duty is well done.”

“Done, but not well, from the sounds of it,” Southwaite muttered thoughtfully. “There have been some rumors out of Buxton. I paid them no mind, but—”

“Ignore them. Everyone else will soon. In a month she will have been received by the queen, the prince, and the prime minister.”

Southwaite smiled, but still appeared thoughtful. Even troubled. “Tell her I would like to see her now. To give my blessing on this marriage she has made.”

“I will go and see she comes down at once.”

 • • • 

L
ydia did not know what to expect when she entered the library to see her brother. She knew Penthurst had held with the plot he had concocted out of the public events in Buxton, however. Southwaite would probably accept that without too much thought.

Upon seeing him, she knew she was wrong about that. His expression could not be called indifferent, or even happy. Rather he looked at her much as he would when she had suffered some slight at a party or ball, with forced cheer and more concern than he knew he revealed.

He held out his hand. “Come and sit with me, Lydia. In the future we will see each other much less, and have little time alone together.”

Her throat burned at his words. The last days had been so busy and active, so full of surprises, that she had not considered how her life would drastically change in day-to-day things. Understanding she would live in Penthurst’s house did not mean she had fully comprehended that she would no longer be a resident of this one. They would grow apart now, in all kinds of ways.

She went over and took his hand and let him guide her to a place next to him on a divan. He did not release her hand after they sat, but covered it with his other one.

“I am sorry we could not wait until we were back in town,” she said, worried that she had wounded him with her precipitous vows.

“It is not unusual for people to be impatient once they make up their minds.”

“Impatient . . . oh, yes.” She had to remember that a love affair was part of the plot. “The ceremony was very modest, but I found I did not mind.”

“I am glad you do not feel cheated of a big wedding. I would not like to think you did.” He patted her hand in a slow rhythm, as if he beat out his thoughts. “I also would not like to think you are unhappy about this marriage, Lydia. Penthurst wrote about a compromising situation. There are rumors enough for me to piece together what he meant. That Trilby fellow and all. Of course if you went to Buxton to elope with Penthurst, the compromise only precipitated the event by a few days.” Still that soft rhythmic pat. “You did go there for that purpose, didn’t you?”

She had never lied to her brother. Not outright, in response to a direct question. If she did not now, however, he would worry and probe and find all the holes in the plot.

She forced a smile, but her heart was breaking. She wished she could blurt out it all, and he could comfort her.
I had no thought of elopement when I departed for Buxton. Especially not with the duke. I can never be really happy with him, and never considered him in that way. I will not be miserable because I refuse to be, but when I ever dreamt of a man, it was not Penthurst.

“How can I not be happy? I am a duchess, dear brother. My husband is your good friend, and although my own judgment has been lacking on occasion, yours is unassailable.”

He looked reassured. “I will admit I always hoped for this match. I know you will be well cared for. I should probably warn you that he may not be as lax as I have been with you. He is more accustomed to obedience, I think.”

“Are you trying to replace the mother I do not have, Darius? Giving me advice on proper comportment and such?”

He laughed. “I would be a fool to try, wouldn’t I? When I think of the advice our mother may have given, I think it best to retreat from the subject entirely before it becomes hellishly awkward.” He flushed. She was sure she had never seen that before. “Of course, if there is something that you need to ask . . .”

“I expect Emma will answer any questions I have about married life.”

“Yes! That is a much better idea.” He stood and helped her to rise. “I should return you to your husband, Lydia. I am very happy for you, and very pleased.” He embraced her, and kissed her forehead. “I hope that you will visit often here and at Crownhill, without ceremony or invitation. My homes remain yours too, forever, and your presence will be missed.”

 • • • 

“T
hat portrait up there is the third duke. Early seventeenth century. It was said he was ninety-one when he died, but perhaps that is an exaggeration. The young woman’s portrait below his shows his daughter Katherine, who married the Earl of Hollowcroft. She was a favorite at court. Over here is his son, the fourth duke. No Penthurst has, or ever will, serve in an official government post since him. It is a family tradition. Do not confuse that with lack of influence. My nephew, like my brother did, knows everyone and is consulted about the gravest matters of state. The power of Penthurst is quiet, often invisible, but significant.”

Lydia shifted her eyes from picture to picture while Lady Rosalyn gave her a tour of the gallery. She wondered if she was expected to commit all these details to memory right now. She hoped not, because she barely listened.

Penthurst had left the house this evening, to go who knew where. Since he wore that frock coat with the discreet gold embroidery, she trusted he would be among equals. Or perhaps he had a mistress who needed to be appeased about this marriage. She really did not know, although it would explain why they had been back three days now, and he had not visited her bed.

“These miniatures show the cousins,” Rosalyn said, moving down to a glass case. Lydia groaned inwardly. The case held at least twenty tiny paintings. She braced herself for a half hour of biographies.

“You appear tired, Lydia. I hope I am not boring you.”

“Not at all. I find it all fascinating. Do go on.” And on. And on. No sooner had Penthurst left the house than Rosalyn had announced it was past time to give her a thorough tour of the house.

Very complete it had been, from attics to cellars. And so she had seen the luxurious bower Rosalyn had created for herself. Her apartment, on the other side of the house from the duke’s chambers, covered most of the house over there. Lovely damasks and patterns covered the furniture and paint the hue of seafoam brightened the walls. A dressing room of impressive proportions offered seating for private tête-à-têtes. It was the apartment of a woman accustomed to sparing no expense in maintaining herself in the latest style.