Debt of Honor (17 page)

Chapter Twenty

Could she make the most of her situation? Would she
dare
to make the most of it? For the first time in over a month Letitia felt a budding hope.

She sat in front of her mirror, long after Josepha left for the night, and brushed her hair again, though it didn’t need it. Percy liked her short curls. The recollection of his first reaction to her haircut never failed to bring a smile to her lips. Tonight, it gave her additional courage. She could think of nothing else but what Josepha had said in the orangery.

Percy in love with her. Was it possible? Was it?

It was impossible to forget the feeling of floating on the clouds when he had taken her into his arms. Nothing had ever been more beautiful than his touch, his kiss today.

She wanted more, much more.

And the decision was hers.

Letitia swallowed hard. The cool breeze of a late July night coming through the open window soothed after the heat of the day. She shivered, but not from cold.

The muted sound of an opening door jolted her heartbeat into a sharp staccato. Percy must have finished his letters at last. She heard the murmur of the conversation with his valet through the door dividing their bedchambers. After a few minutes, his other door clicked once more and silence filled her room. Pergot must have been dismissed for the night.

Letitia closed her eyes, got up from the stool and turned around. She stood by her dressing table, her fists clenching and unclenching while she counted to ten. If she could not see the candlelight under his door, she would go to bed. If she could, she would go to him.

She opened her eyes at last.

A dim line of light underscored the dividing door’s bottom edge.

Letitia took a deep breath. Her bare feet carefully measured the distance as she strode to that line of brightness, knocked and, without waiting for an invitation, opened the door.

Percy was on the far side of the room and evidently on his way to bed. He stopped removing his robe, clearly surprised by her sudden appearance. Neither of them spoke. He obviously waited for her to say something. But for once, Letitia was lost for words.

He wore nothing under the robe, she realized. The sight of his naked torso not only rendered her speechless, it nearly took her breath away. Her artist’s eye confirmed what the woman inside knew already. He was beautifully built.

Her face felt suddenly hot. She tried not to ogle his muscled chest and shoulders, meeting instead his gaze. His hair, almost the same length as hers, framed his face in curls. She longed to touch them again.

Percy pulled the robe back on and just stood in the same spot, evidently expecting an explanation.

“Lettie?”

Lettie.
He said it in the same seductive, husky tone that had bewitched her so much at Wycombe Oaks, making it sound like an endearment.

She finally regained the ability to speak.

“Do you remember what you said to me this afternoon?” She searched his face to the accompaniment of her erratic heartbeat.

Percy watched her without moving or saying anything. Did she anger him with her intrusion?

“Every word of it.” His voice was soft, but his gaze intensified with the familiar smolder.

Letitia straightened her back.

“I came to release you from the promise you made me, Sir Percival Hanbury.”

Heat rose in her cheeks with each word. Luckily, with only one candle still burning, Percy probably did not notice the telltale color. His gaze burrowed into hers from across the large bed standing between them.

Then he reached out and threw back the bedcovers.

“Come here.”

The invitation made her lightheaded, but Letitia moved to the edge of the bed. She stopped there, unsure what he expected next.

Percy patted the mattress.

Pulling up her nightgown enough to be able to climb the tall bed, she lay down and stiffly stretched on the cool sheets.

Percy returned to the unhurried removal of his robe.

She swallowed hard. Evidently, he did not believe in using nightshirts. From her perspective, this was nothing to regret. Instead, she feasted on the breathtaking display of male musculature, from the top down. The recollection of having been cradled against all that hardness melted her insides. A sudden sting of apprehension halted her unabashed perusal. Unnecessarily, it seemed.

Percy didn’t show any distress at her undisguised ogling, as she bravely continued her exploration downward. She had never seen a naked man—that is, if one discounted all the works of art she had studied quite diligently, but for a very different purpose. The sight of him shot a flame of desire through her and caused another sudden spasm inside, followed by an eruption of something like lava. By now her heart pounded so loudly she had no doubt Percy could hear it.

If Percy heard her heartbeat, he gave no indication of it. His side of the bed sank under his weight. He stretched next to her, supporting himself on one forearm.

“Lettie,” he murmured, watching her intently, “do you really want to be my wife?”

The waft of his shaving soap, the clean scent of his skin and the heat his body exuded so close to hers pulled her with a force she could not, and did not want to, battle. She touched his face.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I do.”

Percy smiled and brushed her cheek with gentle knuckles.

She inhaled sharply in surprise that such a small gesture could make her shiver with wanting more.

“Absolutely sure?” he asked.

The intimate warmth of his voice kindled more desire. Her whole body yearned for his touch, pulsated with the need of it.

“I shan’t change my mind,” she whispered hoarsely. “I want to be your real wife. If you want me…”

Percy touched her face again. His heated gaze never left her features while his hand slid down and undid the first few tiny ribbons of her nightgown.

“I want you,” he murmured and reached under the fabric to slowly circle her breast with curious fingers.

An ache spiked through her and settled in the nipple he brushed casually while his hand cupped her breast. Letitia arched into his touch.

With the hint of a smile, Percy slowly pulled apart the nightgown and lowered his head. Her lips parted in anticipation of a kiss, but his head dipped lower, and his mouth began a gentle exploration of her skin—first her throat, then the collarbone and her chest—until she felt it closing on her nipple.

She gasped and arched into him even more, her hands on his head as he moved to the other side. He teased the second nipple with his tongue, his mouth sweetly warm and soft on her skin. Dizzy with all the sensations building inside her, she threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed it, succumbing to his touch and the warmth and scent of his skin.

And then the recollection of what she had been told made her stop and turn rigid with apprehension. Hopefully, it was not too late.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, turning her head away, awash with sudden shame. She
was
a wanton woman, just as Lady Alicia Bidwell had accused her of being. “I am very sorry. I shall never do that again.”

Percy’s warm breath stopped fanning her skin. The sudden chill made the abrupt ending of his caress all the more alarming. Without thinking, Letitia squirmed upward, but Percy’s entire attention now focused on her face.

“You want me to stop, then?” he asked, the huskiness gone.

“No, no,” she protested hastily. “I do not want
you
to stop. But I shan’t behave as improperly as I just did. I promise. I…just wasn’t thinking about minding my manners.”

His face was only a few inches above hers. She could raise her head and kiss him. In the dim light of a single candle, his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks, making his expression even more inscrutable.

“Minding your manners and behaving improperly?” he repeated after her with a note of incredulity. “Lettie, what are you talking about?”

She swallowed hard.

“A lady is not supposed to behave so brazenly when her husband…you know.” She felt awkward explaining this to him. “Surely, you know,” she added. After all, he had been married before.

Percy raised himself fully on his forearm, still watching her with undisguised surprise.

“No,” he said, “I have no idea what you think I should know. Tell me.”

She felt very exposed with her nightgown wide open, his thumb idly caressing the side of her breast. But this absentminded motion provided some much-needed encouragement. She did not want him to stop. And he would if she did not behave like a lady.

“A lady,” Letitia whispered, closing her eyes, “is expected to allow her husband the necessary contact, but she should not interfere with what he does. She must think of it only as her duty and nothing else. Otherwise she is nothing more than a wanton. If her husband wants a wanton woman, he can take a mistress. Most men take mistresses.”

Percy’s fingers left her breast, and Letitia’s heart sank into the mattress. He was going to tell her to go back to her room and never open that door again.

But a second later, she felt his knuckles slowly brush her cheek.

“My sweet little wife,” he murmured. “Who told you this nonsense?”

The closeness of his voice and the warmth of his breath fanning the side of her face meant he was not moving away. She did not dare open her eyes.

“Lady Alicia Bidwell,” she mumbled. “My chaperone.”

His hand stilled on her cheek.

“That woman,” he growled. “A fine chaperone, indeed, seeing how she joined the Rochford weasel in besmirching your good name.”

Letitia swallowed the lump blocking her throat.

“I am sorry,” she rushed on. “I suppose if my mother were alive, she would have talked to me about my wifely duties. But there was no other female to do that. My father dismissed my governess long ago, upon leaving for the West Indies. Lady Alicia was the last woman, besides Josepha, with whom I could speak before coming to Norfolk. Father wouldn’t let Lady Alicia out of the house until she elucidated my duties as a wife.”

Percy didn’t seem pleased with that explanation. His jaw was set. But his eyes never left hers, and the harshness that crept into them while she spoke was slowly replaced by gentleness.

“You don’t know what the act between a man and a woman entails?” he sounded incredulous. “You are an accomplished artist, as far as I’m able to judge. You must have learned something about human anatomy and physiology.”

“Oh yes, of course I have,” she assured him. “And I do. Know, I mean.”
Sort of.
This was not working as either Lady Alicia had told her it would or as she had secretly hoped it might. “I was referring to my behavior, not to the…other things.”

“Lady Alicia can go to the devil,” Percy retorted. “So, according to her, you are supposed to lie here like a mannequin from a tailor’s shop and let me… What did she call it?”

“Have the necessary contact,” Letitia supplied, remembering her chaperone’s knowing scowl of contempt.

Sir Francis Bidwell had been the third husband Lady Alicia buried, so she could hardly be accused of ignorance in those matters. And hadn’t her parents’ marriage been a perfect example of Lady Alicia’s words? Her father had never bothered to hide the existence of his mistresses from her mother.

Percy seemed to be of a different opinion from Lady Alicia.

“She might as well have said ‘abuse you’,” he sneered. “And if I’m guessing correctly, following her elucidating train of thought, once I ‘had the necessary contact’, I would be expected to leave you alone and enjoy my mistress?”

No, never.
She would hate that. A month ago, she would have been furious if that had been the case, because her pride would never stomach such an arrangement, no matter how much Lady Alicia and the
ton
might think otherwise. But now…her heart would burst to pieces if Percy were to enjoy himself with another woman. A woman who would not have to worry about the constraints Lady Alicia assured her were necessary in a gently bred lady.

“I suppose,” she sighed with resignation. “Is this not what usually happens?”

Percy sat up and took a deep breath.

“No, not in this marriage, Lettie. You know I don’t have a mistress. I also have no intention of taking one.
You
are the only woman I’ll ever bed.”

Her heart leapt with hope. She sat up too. “Will you be satisfied with me?”

He grinned. “I already was more satisfied than you can imagine”—his voice dropped back to that lower register that never failed to heat her insides to a molten mass—“before you started that nonsense about a wife’s manners. You are not an inanimate object placed here for my pleasure, Lettie. In fact, I would find no pleasure in that at all.”

They sat side by side, regarding each other with sudden awareness. He was waiting, she realized, for her reply.

“Then show me,” she said, turning to face him. When he turned to her, she leaned forward and kissed his lips lightly.

A chuckle rumbled in his throat. He pulled her up to kneel in front of him.

“First, take that off,” he said, and pulled her nightgown over her head before tossing it somewhere into the room. His head dipped, and his hot mouth closed around a painfully contracted nipple.

Letitia moaned and arched into his lips, lost like a moth attracted to a candle’s flame. A low growl of approval was Percy’s answer before his arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her even closer. The touch of his skin against hers made her dizzy. His mouth let go of the nipple that had become the epicenter of all sensations in her body and trailed upward, marking the path with open, moist kisses.

“Next, throw out the window whatever she told you,” he murmured and pulled her down to lie on the bed. “We will start again.”

And his mouth met hers at last. He invaded, explored, teased its sensitive roof with his tongue. And as before, she returned the ardor and responded with her own.

But Percy broke the kiss. He raised his head and looked down into her eyes, the fire burning in his setting her aflame as well. Gently, he touched her lips with the tips of his fingers, skimmed them along her jawline, her throat, down her chest. She arched into his hand, but he did not linger. After acknowledging her pointed nipple, his hand moved farther down, exploring her belly, so taut with all that churning anticipation inside.