The Accidental Duchess (27 page)

He touched her first, in the long, knowing strokes that drove her mad. Control began crumbling. She looked behind just as he lowered his body. She closed her eyes. With the first glide of his tongue, she gave up and abandoned herself to the extreme sensation.

She cried when the pleasure became torturous. She begged. The first tremors of release shook around the edges of her essence. She waited for the violent completion they heralded.

He stopped then, refusing her that finish. She looked back again. He knelt high behind her. His gaze locked on hers while he slowly filled her. He withdrew and entered again. She felt him as she never had before. Her interrupted release left her deeply sensitive, and the most profound pleasure centered around his deliberate thrusts.

The glorious madness engulfed her, bringing its freedom. She moved her hips, trying to take more, seeking the release that teased with its first shudders. He held her hips firmly so she could only know what he allowed her. Harder he thrust, again and again, while she hung helplessly submissive from the bed, until she shattered inside an unearthly burst of ecstasy.

 • • • 

H
e did not have to bring Lydia to the meeting with Trilby. He did anyway. She had a right to be there.

They rode in their state coach with two liveried footmen in attendance. At his instruction, Lydia had dressed in a carriage ensemble trimmed in fur. It was important for Trilby to understand the power that stood against him.

“There he is,” Lydia said, looking out the window. They were deep into Hyde Park, far from the areas frequently used in the morning. A few riders dotted the fields back here, but Trilby and his sister stood alone.

The coach stopped. A footman helped Lydia alight. Penthurst joined her and together they walked the thirty yards to Trilby. The footman carried a valise. He set it down when they stopped, and returned to the coach.

Mr. Trilby appeared ashen and cowed. Patricia Trilby did not. She had admitted much in that conversation in Hampshire, as she tried to cast it all as her brother’s doing. If necessary, it would all be repeated to a magistrate. A witness had heard everything, but Penthurst doubted he would need Kendale to back him up. Being a duke had its privileges, one being that magistrates were inclined to believe whatever you said.

“Is that the manuscript?” Penthurst gestured to a wrapped package under Trilby’s arm.

Trilby nodded, and offered it up. His sister thrust her arm in the way. “Is that the money?” She gestured to the valise.

“It is.”

She strode over, grabbed the handles and dragged it back to her brother. Bending low, she opened the valise and pawed through the banknotes.

Penthurst relieved Trilby of the package. “I trust every single page is here. If I find more missing than were given to my wife or me, I will not be pleased.”

“They are all there,” Trilby said. “You will find nothing untoward. I checked myself before we came, just to make sure.” He glanced askance at his sister, indicating who might have thought to take one or two sheets for the future.

“How did you know about it?” Lydia asked. “What made you look for it?”

“Lakewood expressed concerns that you were writing down a record of his time with you. He said you called it a novel, but it sounded like a journal. He worried there was something incriminating there.”

“You mean besides his dishonorable behavior toward me.”

Trilby flushed. “I had been introduced to your aunt. My sister—that is,
we
decided to try to get it if we could, just to be safe.”

“It took long enough,” Patricia Trilby said, rolling her eyes. “There were too many boring calls before the opportunity arrived. Imagine our surprise to find that the person incriminated was not Lakewood or my brother, but you.” She toed at the valise. “A happy discovery, as it turns out.”

“Mr. Trilby, do you understand the particulars?” Penthurst asked, to end the way the woman goaded Lydia. “You are both to leave the country. Go to America, or Brazil. Go wherever you like. If you do not, or if you return, either of you, a damp cell in Newgate Prison waits for you.”

Trilby nodded. His sister only smiled, brazenly. Her gaze shifted to Lydia and raked her from head to toe. Lydia stared her down.

“Whose idea was it?” Lydia said. “The ships. Who decided to take that dishonorable step?”

Patricia Trilby’s eyes narrowed over that irritating smile.

Algernon Trilby flustered. “That is hard to say. He came by one day and mentioned how from a certain point one could see it all. The notion to see what such would bring just came out of that.” He flushed. “It seemed a very minor sort of surveillance, and barely disloyal. Anyone who walked up Portsdown Hill could see the same thing, after all. The size of a fleet can never be a total secret.”

“Do you have any other questions, Lydia?” Penthurst asked quietly. An interrogation had not been part of the plan for this meeting, but he suspected she had a lot more she would like to know.

She hesitated, then shook her head.

“Then we are done here,” he said. “Take your sister and be gone within a week, Trilby. Do not let her convince you it is not necessary. For once in this sorry business, do not allow her to lead you by the nose.”

He took Lydia’s arm and they turned back to the carriage.

“She led them both by the nose,” Lydia said. “She was the reason Trilby was so inconstant in our negotiations, and kept changing his demands and getting bolder by the week. What a horrid woman. You should have had them thrown in prison. I am sorry my involvement, unaware though I may have been, forced you to be so generous to them.”

“I am not sorry. It gave me an excuse to be generous to someone else too, Lydia. A man who, for all his weakness of character, was once your friend. And mine.”

L
ydia could not sleep. After tossing under the bed-clothes for two hours, she threw them aside. Pulling on her undressing gown, she padded to the door to Penthurst’s dressing room. Opening it, she saw a faint light coming from the bedchamber.

Trusting he would not mind, she walked on bare feet and peered in. He had prepared for bed too, but sat in an upholstered chair reading a document. Caesar and Cleo slept at his feet.

She went in and sat on the side of the bed. He set the documents down.

“Can’t you sleep, Lydia?”

She shook her head.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little. The queen does not frighten me so much as all the others. I expect any mistake I make to be spread far and wide by noon the next day.”

She would go to St. James Court tomorrow and be received as Penthurst’s duchess. Rosalyn had proven useful, after all. She had seen this often enough in her years, and knew the protocol to the last detail. It had probably been wise of Penthurst to require her aid be requested. And, Lydia had to admit, the time they had spent on planning had made Rosalyn easier to bear in other ways too. She did not irritate as much as she used to.

“Cassandra and Emma will be there. Not all the ladies will be looking to catch you up. Think of it as a day like any other. Whatever happens does not really signify.”

That was easy for him to say.

She gestured to the papers. “What are you reading?”

“A manuscript written by a friend. It is not published yet.”

“Is it any good?”

“It is extraordinary. Why don’t you lie down and I will read you some of it. Perhaps it will help you sleep.”

She stretched out on the bed. She heard papers shuffling.

“Here is a remarkable passage.
I knew I should not permit Mr. Beaumont’s kiss, but love permitted no denial. I closed my eyes as his lips sought mine. The strict lessons of my governess—
”

“Stop!” She turned on her side and stretched, trying to grab the pages out of his hand. “I thought you burned that two weeks ago.”

“I said I
would
burn it. And I will. The dangerous parts have been ashes since the day I got this. I thought I would see what a fifteen-thousand-pound story was like before I consigned the rest to the flames.”

She closed her eyes, mortified. “Have you read all of it?”

“Oh, yes. Let me see, where was I— Ah, here.
The strict lessons of my governess faded from my thoughts as the excitement of that kiss stirred my womanhood. I neglected to end the kiss as quickly as I had intended. That must have encouraged Mr. Beaumont in ways I had not intended, because he embraced me and lifted me into a kiss that could never be thought one of mere friendship. ‘My dear Christina. I will die from my love for you. How cruel that we cannot marry and know the sweetness of Venus’s gifts. Allow me to at least caress your perfect breasts so I once know their sweet softness before I perish.’ I did not demur, for the intimacy seemed necessary to my own contentment, and a very small one compared with what we could never share. His hand trembled as it closed on one of my snowy hills and—
”

She groaned. “Please stop. Really.”

“It gets better. There is another love scene that is quite naughty, although the author’s ignorance becomes apparent toward the end.”

She already knew how much better it got. She definitely knew how ignorant the author had been. “Are you enjoying this?”

He laughed. “Very much. My very favorite part is this description of Beaumont. Did you realize it changes? He starts out with light brown hair but it gets darker. He also grows taller.” He cleared his throat. “
Mr. Beaumont was a handsome, overly proud man who looked down on the world. Although his character affected his view, partly it had to do with his significant height. He stood a good head taller than most of his comrades. I found his stature disconcerting. It was a nuisance to be tipping my head back all the time, only to find his dark eyes with their winged eyebrows viewing me with undisguised disapproval
.”

She frowned. She sat up. “I did not write that. You are making it up.”

“It is in your hand, I swear. Here.” He handed her the page.

She peered at the page. It was hers. When had she written this? It did not sound like Lakewood at all. It described—

“Why didn’t you tell me that you dreamt of having my hand close on one of your snowy hills, Lydia? I would have been happy to oblige.”

She threw a pillow at him. “You are to
burn it immediately
.”

“Most of it, I promise. You have to let me preserve the description of Christina’s brother, however. And that of his friend, the scowling, angry army officer. Since you sharpened your knives to a fine edge before carving up some of the bulwarks of society, it would be a shame to lose those paragraphs.” He let the pages fall to the floor and joined her on the bed. “Some of it is not nearly as bad as you claimed. The love story is very compelling. If you ever write another one, you might stick with that and leave out all those lists, perhaps.”

“I am being presented as your duchess tomorrow and you are suggesting I might write another naughty novel. I am sure the queen would be amused if I did that.”

He lay beside her and took her in his arms. “Do not worry overmuch what the queen finds amusing. Stop worrying about tomorrow’s ceremony. I will think none the less of you if it is not perfect. Even if you trip and fall on your face, I will not love you less.”

“Do not even joke about my falling. I will never sleep if I start imagining that—” The words died as she realized what he had said. She turned within his embrace so her face almost touched his. “Do you really love me? Has it come to that?”

“It appears I do, Lydia. Unexpectedly, but happily, I find you have stolen my heart. Do women of the world allow their husbands to love them or is that too ordinary?”

“Being loved by you could never be ordinary. Loving you in turn is not either. It is the most exciting thing I have known.”

He kissed her softly, then rose on his arm and looked down at her.

“Did you know how I felt?” she asked. “Did you guess?”

“Not at all. I did not expect a declaration from you in return. I spoke of it because I wanted you to know. After how this marriage happened, I thought you should.”

“I suppose that is what you meant by the unexpected part. Or were you referring to how you repudiated me when you were fifteen?”

He covered his eyes with his hand and groaned. “Who told you? Rosalyn? I will put her away in a tower house and remove the ladder.”

“She is innocent, although her first scold made much more sense after I heard.” She gave his side a little poke. “You must have thought fate had ensnared you when you said those vows in Scotland.”

“That never entered my mind,” he said, gallantly.

“If I had been you, I would have been stunned by the irony.”

“It did occur to me that ducal decrees were not worth a lot.” He laid his hand on her face, and became serious. “I did not feel ensnared in that Scottish church. The marriage seemed more inevitable to me than ironic. Last week in Hampshire I realized I had been waiting for you to grow up, and that I loved the woman you had become.”

She filled with emotion too precious to bear. She stretched up to kiss him. She let her lips linger on his, so she could make an eternal memory of the first kiss they shared after baring their hearts.

“You should probably sleep, so you are ready for tomorrow,” he murmured.

“Not yet. I want you to fill me. I want to feel you inside my body and my heart and know all the excitement of being in love with my husband.”

He did as she asked, until they were joined so totally that she felt him in her soul. He moved, then closed his eyes and moved again. “It is perfect, Lydia.”

It was perfect. She bent her legs to take him in deeper. She opened her heart, and allowed her love to be free and reckless.

As the power built and they melted together, she whispered declarations of love into his ear, so he would know how he astonished her, and how his love made her life extraordinary.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne

by Madeline Hunter

Available from Jove Books

MAY 1798

T
he final sale at Fairbourne’s auction house proved to be a sad affair, and not only because the proprietor had recently fallen to his death while strolling along a cliff walk in Kent. It was also, from the viewpoint of collectors, comprised of very minor works, and hardly worthy of the reputation for selectivity that Maurice Fairbourne had built for his establishment.

Society came anyway, some of them out of sympathy and respect, some to distract themselves from the relentless worry about the expected French invasion for which the whole country had braced. A few flew in like crows, attracted to the carcass of what had once been a great business, hoping to peck a few morsels from the body now that Maurice did not stand guard.

The latter could be seen peering very closely at the paintings and prints, looking for the gem that had escaped the less experienced eyes of the staff. A bargain could be had if a work of art were incorrectly described to the seller’s detriment. The victory would be all the more sweet because such oversights normally went the other way, with amazing consistency.

Darius Alfreton, Earl of Southwaite, peered closely too. Although a collector, he was not hoping to steal a Caravaggio that had been incorrectly called a Honthorst in the catalogue. Rather, he examined the art and the descriptions to see just how badly Fairbourne’s reputation might be compromised by the staff’s ineptitude.

He scanned the crowd that had gathered too, and watched the rostrum being prepared. A small raised platform holding a tall, narrow podium, it always reminded Darius of a preacher’s pulpit. Auction houses like Fairbourne’s often held a preview night to lure the bidders with a grand party, then conducted the actual sale a day or so later. The staff of Fairbourne’s had decided to do it all at once today, and soon the auctioneer would take his place on the rostrum to call the auction of each lot, and literally knock down his hammer when the bidding stopped.

Considering the paltry offerings, and the cost of a grand preview, Darius concluded that it had been wise to skip the party. Less explicable had been the staff’s failure to tell him of their plans. He learned about this auction only through the announcement in the newspapers.

The hub of the crowd was not near the paintings hung one above another on the high, gray walls. The bodies shifted and the true center of their attention became visible. Miss Emma Fairbourne, Maurice’s daughter, stood near the left wall, greeting the patrons and accepting their condolences.

The black of her garments contrasted starkly with her very fair skin, and a black, simple hat sat cockily on her brown hair. Her most notable feature, blue eyes that could gaze with disconcerting directness, focused on each visitor so completely that one would think no other patron stood nearby.

“A bit odd that she is here,” Yates Elliston, Viscount Ambury, said. He stood at Darius’s side, impatient with the time they were spending here. They were both dressed for riding and were supposed to be on their way to the coast.

“She is the only Fairbourne left,” Darius said. “She probably hopes to reassure the patrons with her presence. No one will be fooled, however. The size and quality of this auction is symbolic of what happens when the eyes and personality that define such an establishment are lost.”

“You have met her, I expect, since you knew her father well. Not much of a future waiting for her, is there? She looks to be in her middle twenties already. Marriage is not likely to happen now if it didn’t happen when her father lived and this business flourished.”

“Yes, I have met her.” The first time had been about a year ago. Odd that he had known Maurice Fairbourne for years, and in all that time he had never been introduced to the daughter. Maurice’s son, Robert, might join them in their conversations, but never Robert’s sister.

He and Emma Fairbourne had not spoken again since that introduction, until very recently. His memory of her had been of an ordinary-looking woman, a bit timid and retiring, a small shadow within the broad illumination cast by her expansive, flamboyant father.

“Then again . . .” Ambury gazed in Miss Fairbourne’s direction with lowered eyelids. “Not a great beauty, but there is something about her . . . Hard to say what it is . . .”

Yes, there was something about her. Darius was impressed that Ambury had spotted it so quickly. But then, Ambury had a special sympathy with women, while Darius mostly found them necessary and often pleasurable, but ultimately bewildering.

“I recognize her,” Ambury said while he turned to look at a landscape hanging above their heads on the wall. “I have seen her about town, in the company of Barrowmore’s sister, Lady Cassandra. Perhaps Miss Fairbourne is unmarried because she prefers independence, like her friend.”

With Lady Cassandra? How interesting. Darius considered that there might be much more to Emma Fairbourne than he had assumed.

He did not miss how she now managed to avoid having that penetrating gaze of hers connect with his. Unless he greeted her directly, she would pretend he was not here. She surely would not acknowledge that he had as much interest in the results of this auction as she did.

Ambury perused the sheets of the sale catalogue that he had obtained from the exhibition hall manager. “I do not claim to know about art the way that you do, Southwaite, but there is a lot of ‘school of’ and ‘studio of’ among these paintings. It reminds me of the art offered by those picture sellers in Italy during my grand tour.”

“The staff does not have Maurice’s expertise, and to their credit have been conservative in their attributions when the provenance that documents the history of ownership and supports the authenticity is not clean.” Darius pointed to the landscape above Ambury’s head. “If he were still alive, that might have been sold as van Ruisdael, not as follower of van Ruisdael, and the world would have accepted his judgment. Penthurst was examining it most closely a while ago, and will possibly bid high in the hopes the ambiguity goes in van Ruisdael’s favor.”

“If it was Penthurst, I hope it was daubed by a forger a fortnight ago and he wastes a bundle.” Ambury returned his attention to Miss Fairbourne. “Not a bad memorial service, if you think about it. There are society luminaries here who probably did not attend the funeral.”

Darius
had
attended the funeral held a month ago. He had been the only peer there, despite Maurice Fairbourne’s role as advisor to many of them on their collections. Society did not attend the funeral of a tradesman, least of all at the start of the Season, so Ambury was correct. For the patrons of Fairbourne’s, this would serve as the memorial service, such as it was.

“I assume everyone will bid high,” Ambury said. Both his tone and small smile reflected his amiable manner, one that sometimes got him into trouble. “To help her out now that she is alone in the world.”

“Sympathy will play its role in encouraging high bids, but the real reason is standing next to the rostrum right now.”

“You mean that small white-haired fellow? He hardly looks to be the type to get me so excited I’d bid fifty when I had planned to pay twenty-five.”

“He is astoundingly unimpressive, isn’t he? Also unassuming, mild-mannered, and unfailingly polite,” Darius said. “Unaccountably it all works to his advantage. Once Maurice Fairboune realized what he had in that little man, he never called an auction in this house again, but left it to Obediah Riggles.”

“And here I thought that fellow over there was the auctioneer. The one who gave me this paper listing the things for sale.”

Ambury referred to the young, handsome man now easing the guests toward the chairs.

“That is Mr. Nightingale. He manages the exhibition hall here. He greets visitors, seats them, ensures they are comfortable, and answers questions regarding the lots. You will see him stand near each work as it is auctioned as well, like a human signpost.”

Dark, tall, and exceedingly meticulous in his elegant dress, Mr. Nightingale slithered more than walked as he moved around the chamber, ushering and encouraging, charming and flirting. All the while he filled the chairs and ensured the women had broad fans with which to signal a bid.

“He seems to do whatever he does quite well,” Ambury observed.

“Yes.”

“The ladies appear to like him. I expect a bit of flattery goes far in helping the bids flow.”

“I expect so.”

Ambury watched Nightingale for a minute longer. “Some gentlemen seem to favor him too.”

“You
would
mention that.”

Ambury laughed. “I expect it causes some awkwardness for him. He is supposed to keep them coming back, isn’t he? How does one both encourage and discourage at the same time?”

Darius could not swear that the exhibition manager did discourage. Nightingale was nothing if not ambitious. “I will leave it to you to employ your renowned powers of observation and let me know how he manages it. It will give you something to do, and perhaps you will stop complaining that I dragged you here today.”

“It was not the where of it, but the how. You deceived me. When you said an auction, I just assumed it was a horse auction, and you knew I would. It is more fun to watch you spend a small fortune on a stallion than on a painting.”

Slowly the crowd found seats and the sounds dimmed. Riggles stepped up on a stool so he showed tall behind the rostrum’s podium. Mr. Nightingale moved to where the first lot hung on the wall. His perfect features probably garnered more attention from some of the patrons than the obscure oil painting that he pointed to.

Emma Fairbourne remained discreetly away from the action but very visible to everyone.
Bid high and bid often,
her mere presence seemed to plead.
For his memory and my future, make it a better total than it has any right to be.

 • • • 

E
mma kept her gaze on Obediah, but she felt people looking at her. In particular she felt one person looking at her.

Southwaite was here. It had been too much to hope that he might be out of town. She had prayed for it, however. He went down to his property in Kent often, her friend Cassandra had reported. It would have been ideal had he done so this week.

He stood behind all the chairs, dressed for riding, as if he had been heading down to the country after all, but had seen the newspaper and diverted his path here. He towered back there and could not be missed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him watching her. His harshly handsome face held a vague scowl at the doings here. His companion appeared much more friendly, with remarkable blue eyes that held a light of merriment in contrast with the earl’s dark intensity.

He thought he should have been told, she guessed. He thought it was his business to know what Fairbourne’s was doing. He was going to want to become a nuisance, it appeared. Well, she would be damned before she allowed that.

Obediah began the sale of the first lot. The bidding was not enthusiastic, but that did not worry her. Auctions always opened slowly, and she had given considerable thought to which consignment should be sacrificed like this, to give the patrons time to settle in and warm up.

Obediah called the bids in his smooth, quiet fashion. He smiled kindly at the older women who raised their fans, and added a “Quite good, sir” when a young lord pushed the bid up two increments. The impression was that of a tasteful conversation, not a raucous competition.

There were no histrionics at Fairbourne’s auctions. No cajoling for more bids, and no sly implications of hidden values. Obediah was the least dramatic auctioneer in England, but the lots went for more than they should when he brought down his hammer. Bidders trusted him and forgot their natural caution. Emma’s father had once remarked that Obediah reminded men of their first valet, and women of their dear uncle Bertie.

She did not leave her spot near the wall, not even when Mr. Nightingale directed the crowd’s attention to the paintings and objets d’art near her. Some of the people in the room would remember that her father stood here during the sales. Right in this spot where she now was.

As the final lots approached, Mr. Nightingale retreated from his position to stand beside her. She thought that odd, but he had been most solicitous today in every way. One might think his own father had taken that fatal fall, from the way he accepted the condolences of the patrons during the preview, almost losing his composure several times.

As soon as the hammer came down on the last lot, Emma exhaled a sigh of relief. It had gone much better than she had dared hope. She had succeeded in buying some time.

Noise filled the high-ceilinged chamber as conversation broke out and chairs scraped the wooden floor. From his place beside her, Mr. Nightingale spoke farewells to the society matrons who favored him with flirtatious smiles and to a few gentlemen who condescended to show him familiarity.

“Miss Fairbourne,” he said while he bestowed his charming smile on the people passing by. “If the day has not tired you too much, I would like a few words with you in private after they have all gone.”

Her heart sank. He was going to leave his situation. Mr. Nightingale was an ambitious young man and he would see no future here now. He no doubt assumed they would just close the doors after today. Even if they did not, he would not want to remain at the auction house without the connections her father had provided him.

Her gaze shifted to the rostrum, where Obediah was stepping down. It would be a blow to lose Mr. Nightingale. If Obediah Riggles left, however, Fairbourne’s would definitely cease to exist.

“Of course, Mr. Nightingale. Why don’t we go to the storage now, if that will suffice.”

She walked in that direction with Mr. Nightingale beside her. She paused to praise Obediah, who blushed in his self-effacing way.

“Perhaps you will be good enough to meet me here tomorrow, Obediah? I would like your advice on some matters of great importance,” she added.

Obediah’s face fell. He assumed she wanted advice on how to close Fairbourne’s, she guessed. “Of course, Miss Fairbourne. Would eleven o’clock be a good time?”