Duchess Decadence (14 page)

Another night his lips would explore her flesh. Another night he’d prove a more restrained and leisurely guide. They were now well-past subtle…and not occupying the most advantageous of positions. He was unwilling to abandon the now-slick cleft that held him tight, though his only free hand prowled between her thighs.

But he was not in this alone, was he?

“Wet your finger,” he breathed out, heavy and low, “and then touch your nipple again.”

She complied. His cock released a second smattering of seed.

“Pinch it,” he said, grazing his teeth against her shoulder. “Pinch it until you moan.”

She pinched. A rising gasp, a longer
ahhh
. She rolled her nipple between her fingers and rocked her hips against his hand. A long, gritty cry followed a coiled-spring quake. He cupped her heat while sliding his length against her. Her body shook in waves, heightening his pleasure.

She murmured his name as he used her body, thrusting purposefully until, he, too, cried out completion, and spending wetness, sticky and warm, between his stomach and her spine.

As breath and thought returned, her scent mixed with the pungent smell of semen and musk. Perhaps the longer the abstinence, the greater the release. The urge to sleep pulled strong. He could die, in fact, and die happy. Already, however, his body cooled, hastened by night air working in tandem with a sheen of sweat.

His sweat or hers?

He rolled onto his back and draped his arm over his forehead. He did not know, nor did he care. She stirred by his side.

“Be still,” he said. “I will find a—”

Her rumpled shift wafted down over his face. He pulled it down past his chin.

“Won’t you need this?” he asked.

Her words were muffled by her pillow, but he made out
have others
.

Hmm?
Decadent, indeed. As if shifts of fine cotton grew on trees. Only—cotton
did
grow on trees, did it not? Or bushes.
No matter
. The
fine
part had been his point. All-at-once the sheer absurdity of his thoughts became apparent. He’d just used his wife’s
ass
to masturbate. The audacity of such a thing left him stunned.

Yet not
quite
ashamed.

He sighed. Careful to be gentle, he wiped her clean. As he started on his member, his appreciation for
fine cotton
underwent transformation.
To hell with rags
. He twirled her shift and dropped it in a neatly-coiled pile onto the floor.

His limbs were satisfaction-drunk and his wits draped with a heady something far more soothing than drink. His duchess remained on her side, eyes shut, cheeks red, and knees pulled up as if to protect her breasts. He shook out the sheet and bedcovering from their tangled pile at mattress-end. Gently—and reluctantly—he covered her.

“Thea, darling,”—he’d
never
used the word darling in his life, nor had he ever called her Thea without the Marie—“you would be warmer next to me.”

She was, to be precise, already
next
to him. But, though “darling” had slipped passed his lips, the phrase “fancy a cuddle” would
not
. A man had to retain
some
standard. He peered over her shoulder. She’d paid him no heed, in any case.

“If you were asleep,” he accused, “your eyes would not be so tightly shut.”

One eye opened. “Go away.”

“Very well.”

He moved as if he intended to depart and
oomphed
as she latched onto his back.
Not leaving, then
. Her forearms made a startling contrast against his darker skin and smattering of dark hair. Her lips moved against his shoulder.

“I misspoke.”

“May I…” He cleared his throat. “May I lie down?”

He felt her nod and then was free. He eased back against the pillows and she came into view. She remained in the center of the bed, her legs curled beneath her, chin low, and lashes on the same angle. One arm was turned out and stiff at her side, holding her balanced. Her skin was marble-pale and her thick braid snaked over her shoulder and down between her perfect breasts.

With wonder, he realized he’d never seen her naked. How could he have thought he was preserving some ideal of modesty by coming to her in the dark? Youth
was
surely wasted on the young while stupidity liberally lathered.

Perceived ancestral sin had haunted his decisions and he’d been certain—so certain—all excess would lead to folly. Both reasons still rang true, but how could strengthening their bond be folly? And surely—wise or unwise, proper or no—they had strengthened their bond tonight.

She raised her eyes to his. The vulnerable beauty of her gaze left webs in his lungs.

He suspected his current role was to comfort—but how to do so when equally discomfited proved a challenge. Reassurance, on the other hand, he could deliver.

“You are decidedly fetching without clothes…” He extended his fingers and they barely grazed her knee. “…and well-suited to candlelight and shadow.”

The look in her eyes turned lulling, an erotic sight he’d not soon forget. Whatever she sought in his face, she found. Braver now, her shoulders eased. She visually caressed him from face to cock. Had he not been fully spent, her look would have had her on her back.

“Drink your fill, and then,” at his hip he gave the mattress a lazy double-smack, “
come here.”

“A request?” she asked.

“A command.” He smiled crookedly. “I require my duchess’s warmth.”

Her return smile drifted across her lips. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She brought sheet and bedcovering with her, her skin sliding like palm-heated oil over his as she found a comfortable place at his side. He groaned in sleepy felicity at the pressure of her breasts against his chest.
Right there. Good
. He draped a heavy arm over her shoulder. There were things to think. There were probably things to say. But, not now.

“Sleep, Duchess.” He closed his eyes.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she repeated.

Ah
. If only she were always so agreeable. Then again, if bed sport was what it took to render her compliant, complaining was nonsense. He rubbed his cheek against her hair and exhaled through the pleasure of his last, waking thought.

…

Sleep delivered Wynchester over to deep, even breaths. Thea rode each wave to the sound of his steady heartbeat.

As a man, his body was an excellent specimen—
decidedly fetching
without clothes. And, she needn’t have worried he did not know how to bring a woman pleasure. He had talents he’d never shared. Why had he kept such passion hidden?

She frowned.

Emma had once told her once that a young duke was a parcel much in demand, married or not. At the time, she’d been girded by her carefully enameled world. She’d not wanted to think of Wyn. To wonder. She’d swatted away Emma’s warning as if it had been but a buzzing fly. Now Emma’s words came back to menace. A young attractive duke, she supposed, could have his pick of any wanton.

Well, she’d wanted him to have rakish talents, hadn’t she?

There should be prohibitions against getting what one wanted.
All
Wyn’s kisses should be for her. If given the chance, she would do those kisses right. She would gather them up like rose petals and make them flutter all over her body.

Gently, carefully she placed a hand over his heart. He was hot as a blacksmith’s workshop.
Pish
—he required her warmth. Ah, but if he only would insist on such a requirement. Every. Single. Night.

She sighed, suspecting her very proper governess—who’d been chosen by Wynchester’s mother per the betrothal agreements—would believe Wynchester had somehow defiled her this night. But if she’d been defiled, she’d been deliciously defiled. And as far as she was concerned, he could rub his hot member against any part of her he wished, so long as he answered her
please
.

Curling closer, she smiled against his skin.

Something about that smile—its width, its depth, and its ease—caused the last of her carefully applied enamel to cleave. Cracks slithered down her body, allowing her inner light to glow.

Wyn was exquisite. Hers to have and to hold. To protect and to honor.

A distant bell rang deep within, as if calling to a wanderer off course, but Wyn stirred before the message took hold. He grunted and he grasped her hand. His eyes remained closed as he rolled onto his side, keeping her arm pressed to his chest, forcing her to embrace him from behind.

“I said sleep,” he murmured.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She fit her knees to his and rested her head on the pillow, breathing in his scent. Then, she did as she was told.

Chapter Nine

Early morning light roused Wynchester from the deepest sleep he’d had in, well, he could not answer. It had been a good sleep, anyway. Gradually, he became aware of unfamiliar surroundings—papered pink-and-gold walls, a dark wood bed with floral carvings, and the scents of talc and rose and woman.

His
woman.

She slept facing him, one arm curled up under her chin. She was lovely in slumber. Serene and innocent…Although he could scarcely describe her as innocent after what they’d done last night.

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his arm and admiring her slightly parted lips—the same lips that had cried
Wyn
in the heat of passion. Soon, she’d open those eyes and their ethereal blue depth would snag and reel him in, just as they always had.

Always before, he’d stubbornly resisted the pull, flailing and sputtering with the same excuses: sentiment would be his undoing, she was far too caustic to be cherished, and she was far too prone to excess to be trusted.

He couldn’t speak to the dangers of sentiment—not any longer. After riding into a riot, attempting to carry her off, and rutting against her body like a randy school boy, there was no question that horse had left the stall.

As for caustic…she
was
caustic at times, and—he thought of his own biting set-downs—so was he. She was also prone to excess, in sentiment, in gambling, in risk and now, he knew, in passion. Last night he’d decided he was man enough to meet insatiable, but could he satisfy her in every way?

The thought had once kept him rigid with fear. Now, he’d like to try.

He had known her from childhood, but he was no longer certain he knew her as well as he should. Why the excess? Why the sharp wit? Why the penchant to run when she clearly had the strength to stay and fight?

Who was she, this duchess of his?

And, for that matter, who was he?

He had never fit anywhere, except within his study, devising political tactics, analyzing and addressing the needs of his various properties. Impossible to believe he could come together in a perfect fit with the beautiful creature that was his duchess.

Even when they were young, he’d seen the expectation in her eyes—large eyes that would read him in silence and then blossom with compassion or encouragement, depending on what she thought she had seen. She’d wanted his all—his secrets, his pain, his passion, his hope. So he’d stepped behind a stiff wall of formality.

What if he gave her all and she rejected him? She’d left him once, and he’d survived only because he had not let her all the way inside. What if he cracked open his heart, she peered within, and at the end of the summer she still went away?

Her eyes fluttered open and, after a moment of sleepy confusion, she blushed and smiled.

…And he knew it was far too late to be asking questions. His heart had already cracked. There was nothing left to do but face his fate.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she replied.

He ran his finger down her inner arm, following the path with his eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Tracing your vein.”

“Hint—it leads to my heart.”

Ignoring her jest, he looked up into her eyes. “After our first meeting, as my parents and I left Hartcombe, my mother said to my father ‘she has the bluest of blue blood.’”

“Blue,” Thea repeated, unimpressed. “Well, my family traced back to the Doomsday Book, and my fingertips were occasionally blue.”

There was something in her voice he had never heard. Something that made him want to gather her in his arms.

“What are you saying?”

“The manor was drafty because we could not replace broken glass.” Her voice begged for neither pity nor understanding. “There were nights we had nothing to fuel a fire.”

He frowned. “You were not poor.”

“We were indebted.” She wet her lips. “That is, before your father bought me.”

He recalled that first visit to Hartcombe, remembering nothing amiss. Although, now he considered,
something
had been odd.

“Your servants were thin.”

Thea groaned. “Yes. The few we retained. They were too old and feeble to seek other positions.”

He frowned. Hartcombe had been large. Far too large for the skeleton staff that had been there when he visited. “Your father said the rest of the staff was in London.”

She held his gaze with steady eyes. “The house in London had been let to deep-pocketed cousins.”

“Was it very bad at Hartcombe?”

She made a low sound in her throat. “One Sunday, my father, his mother, and I were returning from church and a bailiff dragged my father right out of our gig. This scar,” she pointed to a small scar beneath her elbow, “is the result of my attempt to intercede.”

“An outrage.”

“An outrage, yes, but true.” She sighed. “My father could not be taken to prison because of his station, but he owed everyone in the county. After the magistrate refused to take my father’s complaint against the Bailiff, my grandmother sold her last diamond necklace. When he made the arrangement with your father, his creditors were no longer observing rules.”

“My father,” he said, for the first time realizing the truth, “bought your father’s debts in exchange for your land.”

Thea nodded. “My grandfather—my mother’s father—was stricken as trustee of the property willed to me by my mother, and your father put in his place.”

He touched her scar. “You never told me things were difficult.”

“You never asked.”

He blinked. No, he had not. “When we visited that first time, how much did you know?”

“I knew it was my life or that of my father and my grandmother.”

“In other words,” he brushed aside her hair with gentle fingers, “you knew you had no choice.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged.

“Bought” was not so poor a description after all.

“Was there anything you liked about me?” he asked, immediately feeling a cad.

She gazed at him for a long moment and then mischievously smirked. “Yes.”

“What was that?”

“Your spaniel was fat.”

He lowered his lids to veil his gaze. “I see.” He deserved that, fishing for some unfathomable sign of affection.

“Wyn?”

He looked up.

“You were,” she swallowed, “you
are
…quite easy to admire.”

“Ah yes,” he said ruefully, “my attention to duty.”

“No, Wyn.” She reached out and smoothed his cheek. “…not that kind of admire.”

“Oh.” A warming sensation not at all unpleasant traveled up his spine.

“Was there anything about
me
you liked?” she asked shyly.

“I liked—I
continue
to like—your eyes.”

She smiled. “I like your hands.”

He lifted one up and examined it front and back. “I see nothing remarkable about them.”

She leaned forward and kissed his knuckles. “Perhaps not, but there’s unexpected talent in those fingers.”

He pressed his fingers against her lips and she caught the largest between her teeth in a light nip. His cock responded. How many nights had he wasted, when he could have had this sense of closeness? This easy conversation?

“I was not your first,” she said.

“No.” So much for easy conversation.

“Who was she, Wyn?”

He gave her a speaking look. “You ask too many questions.”

“And you,” she said softly, “not enough.”

He sighed. “My first was the widow of a tenant.”

“A widow!” She frowned. “Not Widow Norton.”

“No.” He scowled. “Do you think I’d dangle after Eustace’s nurse?”

“I should hope not,” Thea said with a giggle. “Who then?”

He cleared his throat. “The woman re-married and left Wynterhill before you came.”

“Well, that much is a relief. You must have been much younger than she.”

“Fourteen, I think. Maybe fifteen. She had a penchant for, as she put it,
wee little masters
.”

Thea coughed. “That is terrible!”

“At the time, I did not think so.” He traced her lips with his thumb. “And—before you ask—there has been no one since we wed.”

Her blue eyes turned liquid and churning. “But you never…I mean…our couplings were…”

“Chaste?” he supplied. “Yes.” He snorted. “I apologize for that. I had been warned a wife could become insatiable if introduced to true passion. My widow seemed proof enough.”

For a moment she looked horrified, and then she broke into a grin. “Insatiable, you say?”

He closed one eye. “Has it happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said with mock seriousness. “I have a strange heat between my legs.”

He groaned low in his throat. “Any other symptoms?”

She moved her hand to her breasts. “Stiff nipples.”

He rolled until he had her pinned. “I bet you are wet and ready, too.”

“If I asked you to touch me and find out,” she said with husky speculation, “would you think me wanton?”

“Oh,” he kissed her sweet little mouth, “I’d think you very wanton, minx. And if I told you,” he kissed her again, “I wanted
you
to touch
me
, would you think me wanton?”

Her alabaster cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. “No.” Shy desire softened her eyes. “I’d think myself advantageously paired.”

His already-hard cock swelled—no prime male could have resisted such a look—but his heart swelled, too. The joint sensation of fullness was almost too painful to bear.

He wanted to take,
and
he wanted to keep and protect. He wanted to tell her that, from the moment he’d taken her little fingers into the large and awkward hands she professed to like, he’d loved her with a wild, untamable love. He wanted to tell her she’d never be cold or hungry or alone as long as he lived. But—as happened when his depth of sentiment out-sized his command of language—the words balled up in his throat and stuck.

So instead, he used those awkward fingers to make her cry his name, stroking her skin and capturing her sighs inside the hungriest of kisses.

…

By mid-day next, Thea and Wynchester, along with a select group of servants, were prepared to leave. From Polly, Thea learned Mr. Harrison, along with Sir Bronward and Lord Randolph, had arrived early that morning and persuaded Eustace to take up temporary residence with Mr. Harrison. Not that Thea had wasted much concern on her brother-in-law. Lavinia trusted Mr. Harrison, therefore she trusted Mr. Harrison. Besides, her thoughts were consumed by her husband and her heart, lighter than it had been in years.

In front of servants, Wynchester treated her with the same civility he always had, but his gaze had lost its icy distance and, on the occasions those onyx eyes met hers, they twinkled with warmth born of a shared secret.

Not that she expected two acts of passion to transform him into an expressive man, but
some
verbal sign of affection, especially once the cavernous, German-made landau had left the busy London streets, would have been welcome. She supposed the fact he rode inside the carriage at all could be construed as a sign of his regard, but if so, he’d left a poor clue. He sat opposite her and Polly, eyes closed and head resting against plush velvet. The only evidence he
could
be thinking of her was the merest hint of a satisfied smile.

Polly folded and refolded her hands in her lap, occasionally casting Wynchester a furtive glance. Not until they were alone in the retiring room of the first coaching inn did she take Thea into her confidence.

“Pardon my asking,” Polly said, “but is something wrong with the duke?”

Thea leaned toward a looking glass and inspected her appearance. “Why would you ask?”

Reflected in the glass, Polly wrinkled her nose. “His smile is unnatural.”

“Do you think so?” Thea tucked a wayward curl back into her coiffure. “I think it is very fine. Intriguing, even.”

Polly looked doubtful. “Intriguing he is, but not when he smiles like
that.
”

Thea smirked, delightfully entertained. “Why?”

Polly whispered, “It looks like he’s thinking sinning thoughts.”

“Polly,” Thea turned toward her maid with a
tsk
. “You know the good duke is all that is proper.”

“I do,” Polly responded sincerely.

“I wager,” she said, making a final adjustment to her long, leather gloves, “he would only misbehave if specifically requested.” And her heart fluttered in anticipation of a time when her proper duke would deign to misbehave again.

When they rejoined their party, Thea became acquainted with the reason behind Wyn’s secret smile—a fine looking curricle. While they were still in the city, he’d arranged its purchase from a fellow peer. Wynterhill was situated just beyond what a well-cared for team of horses could travel in a day, but the smartly appointed, two-wheeled carriage and a matched pair delivered to the coaching inn the day prior meant the two of them could reach the estate by nightfall.