Duchess Decadence (19 page)

“You’re certain?” he asked, fingers slyly slipping between her legs.

“Perhaps you’re the one exhausted.” She set her cheek on her folded arm.

“Fading but not
soundly
defeated.”

“The general orders you on.”

His hands traced her sides, with an artist’s ease and exploration. His thumbs made rough yet soothing circles on the small of her back. Before long she was fully open and willing, but when she would have turned, he pressed down her shoulders and moved to lift her hips.

“Bring your knees to your stomach.” Hot breath against her ass.

She drew her knees in, deliciously exposed. He slid between her legs, and his hair teased her stomach. He showed her what it was to be licked, and ticked, and tongue-plundered, tasted like she were rich cream.

Good heaven, nothing was like this—she rocked against his lips. She pressed her face into the cushions, which muffled her gasps and her moans. His mouth urged her toward release and she came with violent liberation, and her release left her limp, submissive, and undone, draped over the chaise’s arm.

He moved out from beneath. The front of his thighs whispered against the back of hers as his cock met her opening. She spread her knees as he slid inside and leaning over as he thrust, he cupped her swaying breasts.

She barely sucked in when he entered, yet when he simultaneously cupped her breasts and kissed the back of her neck, she mewed in satisfied surrender.

When they’d danced the Allemande less than a week prior, she had called out to his wild. There, in the pillowed comfort of the chaise, with her breasts caught tight in his hands and his groin grinding hard against her ass, his wild answered her call.

He came; she pushed back, savoring the near-painful stretch. His lips grazed the back of her neck.

Had she thought herself debauched before? Now, she was completely corrupted. Taken. Pillaged. Shattered. And gasping for her breath.

He remained for an intimate moment, as he dropped soft kisses along her spine. When he pulled out, she collapsed and rolled over, receiving him with arms held wide.

She was his, marked…plundered, just as he was hers. Hers. For better. For worse. A signed contract etched onto her skin and stamped with a primal seal.

So much for Eustace’s warning. Wynchester had shown faith in her at last.

…

“I can hardly move,” she said.

“Satiated!” His low laugh earned him a playful whack on his back. “I
knew
I could do it.”

“Just because you can reduce me to a whimpering fool, does not mean you’ll
always
get your way.”

“I understand.” He snuggled against her breast. “This changes nothing.”

“This changes,” she replied, “everything.”

Had it? He’d like to think so.

Equally strong strains of hope and fear braided rigging around his heart. He pulled back so he could see her face.
Pretty face
. Dark lashes, pale skin, lips red and swollen.

“I am,” he swallowed, “
happy
, Thea Marie.”

Her eyes started to fill. He wanted to reach out and wipe her tears, but, she unceremoniously clutched him against her chest. Her heart’s steady, though slightly speeding, thud was like a beacon.

“All will be well.” He made small, consoling circles on the small of her back. “I
swear
it.”

“I believe you,” she whispered.

Her confidence that this time he could protect her surged with the power of a charging steed. He flushed, gratified.

“Then let’s go home.”

“Home,” she repeated. “Yes, home.”

She released him and he rose, steady on solid feet. Not quite as steady on her own, he helped her rise. Her shoulders turned in as she surveyed the mess of their clothes. Was her sudden shyness exhausted pleasure or bewildered pride?

He found her shift and shook out the wrinkles. Gently, he dressed her, piece by piece. He’d never thought he’d envy Polly, but he did. Dressing Thea Marie was a pleasure almost as interesting as feeding her cheese.

He fumbled with her laces at first, but once he followed the lines they made sense. For the final touch, he wrapped her fichu around her shoulders and he pulled her, fully clothed, against his naked body. His duchess, one he’d dressed, fed and fuc—
no
. If he couldn’t say love, he shouldn’t say fucked. Ah, but what a fuck it had been.
Swithin
, he’d have to be careful. He’d soon be thinking in language no better than a recently docked sailor.

He kissed her lips with tenderness, a faded echo of their former passion.

His sense of perfection was complete. He loved her. And, as sworn, he would make things well. Someday soon, his dammed tongue would untie and he could finally express his affection.

“Will you close the windows while I dress?” he asked.

She nodded and then turned away. She pulled open the inner shutters and closed and locked each window, making a circle around the room. She paused at the final back window, looking into the woods beyond. He secured the last button on his falls, strode to frame her from behind and lean her back against his chest.

A movement through the trees caught his eye. Fox? Dog?

“Someone was there,” he said.

“Are you certain?” She closed the window.

“No.” Perhaps he’d seen a reflection. He wrapped his neck cloth round his collar.

“Good.” She laughed. “I cannot bear the thought of witnesses.”

He grinned while buttoning his waistcoat. “Do you think the servants ignorant of what we’ve been up to all afternoon?”

She lifted her chin. “Nuncheon.”

“
Right
.” He pulled on each sleeve. She stepped forward and adjusted his collar. “Like as not,” he said, “servants and tenants alike are in happy anticipation of an heir.”

Though the room was not cold, she stepped back and rubbed her shoulders.

“You
would
be happy if you were expecting.”

She sighed. “Another question spoken as a statement?”

“I will try and mend the habit.”

She lifted her brows. “I am not certain you could.”

“Do not worry.” He straightened the chaise. “You no longer need to be concerned about Eustace’s insinuations.”

“I never was.” She tidied the pillows.

“Well,” he said. “I’m to have an affidavit from the doctor.”

She turned back with a frown. “Pardon?”

“An affidavit, saying you were not with child when he examined you after the accident.”

“I see.” She looked away. “How…enterprising.”

Why did she look as if she’d been slapped? “Darling,” He took hold of her shoulders, “you know I believe you were chaste.”

She looked up. “Do I?”

“Of course you do.” Feminine dribble. Could he have made his devotion plainer than he had this afternoon? She was exhausted, like as not. That was the trouble’s source.

“Of course I do,” she echoed, tucking her hair up under her hat.

She collected the plates and cups in the basket and picked it up. She gazed up at him in clouded silence and then nodded as if to a question he had not asked.

“I
would
welcome such news, no matter.”

He touched her cheek. “As would I.”

She smiled, though not as warmly.

“Well now,” he checked her hair, “you look tolerably innocent.”

“And you, quite odd without wig or long hair.”

He tucked his strands behind his ear. “Do you like it?”

A flicker of humor returned. “Tolerable, I suppose.”

“Devilish convenient,” he sighed, “but my valet is counting down the days until it grows back.”

Her gaze was admonishing. “You know you are very fine—with and without hair powder.”

“Did you just issue a question as a statement?”

“I would never be so certain of your thoughts.”

“
Right
,” he said again. He stepped outside, reached into the basket and used what remained of the melted ice to wipe his face and neck. Then, with his damp hands, he smoothed back his hair.

“Much better,” she said.

“Her Grace approves!” He held out his arm. “I am honored.”

She blinked as she joined him outside the folly, her eyes adjusting to the afternoon light. They headed back to the manor, she with an expression he’d call neutral, and he with a confident set of his jaw.

Chapter Thirteen

As they entered the manor, Mrs. Wheaton informed Wynchester
both
the Doctors Smith awaited him in the library. Wynchester directed Wheaton to say he’d be but a moment, and escorted Thea to her door. He gave his exhausted wife a brief cheek-kiss, chucked her beneath her chin, and sent her to her chamber to rest.

After the awkwardly silent quarter-hour home, he was almost relieved to have a reprieve. He rang for his valet, who made clucking sounds of disapproval while righting Wynchester’s appearance, and arranging a wig.

As his valet poked and prodded and fluffed and sprayed, he pondered Thea Marie’s change of mood. She had not approved of the affidavit, though certainly, once she reflected, she would see he had done what he thought would be best for their child. Wouldn’t she? His motive
could
seem suspect, he supposed. What trusting man required a doctor’s written word? He
did
trust her. She had been, if anything, honest. Now, he would have to trust her to understand…eventually.

Father and son rose as he entered the library. The elder doctor removed his glasses and he bowed. Following formal greetings, they settled into chairs.

“You’ve brought the affidavit?” He asked the younger.

“Just as you asked.” He exchanged a look with his father. “It states I am reasonably certain the duchess was not with child, though such things are not always certain.”

Wynchester leveled his gaze. “
Reasonably
will do.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” the young doctor cleared his throat, “but should I be called to testify—”

“Called to testify?” Wynchester lifted his brows and the doctor fell silent.

“With due respect, Your Grace,” the older Dr. Smith interjected, “One reads how suits of Criminal Conversation have become almost common.”

“
Common
,” his alternate use of the word was plain, “is exactly the word to describe those who would subject themselves to such trials.”

Both father and son settled back in their seats.

Wynchester sighed. “I merely seek to inure Her Grace against slander.” He held the elder’s gaze squarely. “I have
no
cause to question her good name.”

“Quite so,” the man said. “I am much relieved.” The elder doctor moved to the edge of his seat. “Your Grace, my son tells me you wish to discuss your brother’s illness, and I am happy to do so, however a greater problem has arisen.”

Wynchester leaned back and crossed his legs. “Problem, you say?”

A troubled expression rested in the old man’s wrinkles. “I am acting magistrate in the village…” He hesitated.

“You may speak plain,” Wynchester encouraged.

“Your father,” he continued, “had my deepest respect.”

Even after he brought home his madam?
Wynchester hid the thought behind a neutral expression
.

“The duke,” the doctor continued, “weighed the good of his country in every decision he made.”

“I am heartened to hear you think so.” Wynchester kept his voice bland.

“A doctor and a magistrate must keep careful watch, especially when the source of an affliction is uncertain.” The doctor patted two piles of bound papers at his side. “Careful records, steady hand. This I learned from your father.”

Listening to the elder Dr. Smith, one could almost imagine his father hadn’t been a man ruled by his cock. Although—Wynchester inwardly winced—who was he to criticize?

“Perhaps,” Wynchester said, “you had better explain.”

“Earlier this summer,” the younger doctor started, “a young woman, wishing to be rid of a bastard babe, drank a potion consisting mainly of juniper. She very nearly died. Judging from her manner and knowledge, the girl could not have concocted the thing on her own.”

“Since then,” the older doctor spoke, “We have both been suspicious. In ways we should have been suspicious before.”

“Have you,” Wynchester asked, “discovered the poison’s source?”

The doctors exchanged a significant look.

The younger doctor explained. “Following a second event this week, we’ve come to suspect the Widow Norton.”

A creeping sense of dismay spidered up Wynchester’s spine. “Why?”

“The widow’s maid came to us with her papers.”

“Stolen from the widow’s home?”

“Stolen,” the older doctor said, “with good cause.”

The younger doctor cleared his throat. “My father is trying to say, we’d be obliged if you would read the contents and tell us how to proceed.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the doctor sat back. “I wish to have your council. The contents concern you…and your brother.”

“And Her Grace,” the younger doctor continued.

A distant ring sounded in Wynchester’s ears—the buzzing of a swarm of angry wasps. “Her Grace?”

“The loss of her babe, at least.” The older doctor picked up the packages and held them out. “Read the letters, Your Grace. And you will understand. You may be assured of our utmost discretion.”

Wynchester took the wrapped package from the doctor’s hands. A furious burning inside of his mind. He suspected—he would not yet give voice to his suspicions.

“Your son,” he said to the older doctor, “tells me Eustace was ill.”

The elder doctor pursed his lips. “Not of the body.”

“Why were you summoned to Wynterhill?”

“Sedation.” He cleared his throat. “There were problems. Dead animals. Frightened children.”

Wynchester templed his fingers against his mouth.

“Just as your father used to do,” the elder doctor said.

“Get out,” Wynchester said.

The elder Dr. Smith paled; the younger helped him to his feet.

“Read,” the younger doctor said, his eyes full of challenge. “Read and you will understand the service we have done.”

They hurried from the room and Wynchester suppressed the urge to call them back. He’d been boorish and uncivil, yes. But he knew. He knew what he would find when he read those papers. Instead of calling them back, he rang for Wheaton, who would no doubt meet the doctors in the hall and escort them to their carriage.

He placed the piles on the desk and spread out the papers. Records. Letters. Tickets for purchases. Translations. Hundreds of them all—spanning years. Some written in seeming gibberish, with translation filed behind.

His gaze ran across the table, picking out the coded ones with ease.

Not because he read quickly, but because he recognized the hand.

Piece by piece, the picture came together. Eustace had conspired to commit treason, and he’d done so using Wynchester’s name. Almost worse, however, when he had gone to India, he’d left the widow with instructions to do whatever she must to prevent the survival of an heir.

…

The afternoon had exhausted Thea body and mind. An
affidavit
. Wynchester had procured an
affidavit
. Anyone who learned that such a thing existed would be sure Wynchester believed her an adulteress…an adulteress who’d poison the Wynchester line with a bastard duke. The thought played over and over until her mind became so wretchedly weary, she drifted into a fitful slumber.

She awoke with a panicked start—to a gloomy, empty room.

She brushed her hand over her mouth and sat up in the bed. Madness, to let her mind run over the thought again and again. Wynchester had made her his, not just in a carnal sense. His mask had slipped; he’d shown her the imperfect man. The wicked man. The teasing man. The man she had always longed to know.

For that man’s sake she set aside thoughts of the affidavit and settled into an overstuffed chair with one of her favorite novels. By the time the moon had crept high in the sky, she was breathless with the heroine’s heartache—and had forgotten her own. So engrossed, Wynchester opened the connecting door, and she did not notice him until he stood at her feet.

She looked up

“Come to my chamber,” he said.

“A request?” She arched a brow. “Or an order?”

Weariness darkened his features. “
Please
.”

“I will come,” she held her ground, “when I finish—”

“Thea!”

No Marie.
She set aside her book. “What is it?”

He did not answer, but strode back to the door and held it open.

Internal warning rang inside her ears. “I do not wish to do as you ask,” she said, sounding peevish even to her own ears. What she wished to do was run.

“Why not?” he asked.

I don’t want to
. Her childish urge to stamp her foot brought color to her cheeks. She did not know what had happened, and she damn well did not
want
to know what happened. She made the fatal mistake of raising her gaze to his pained expression. Her heart overruled the warning bells.

She stood slowly. “I have never been inside the duke’s chamber.”

“I know,” he answered. “That is why you must come.”

She frowned. “I do not understand.”

“I—” he paused abruptly, his eyes oddly red. “
I
would honor such a simple request. I would do—I would have done—
anything
you asked.”

Would have
? Past tense? Girding her courage, she stepped past him into the room.

Dark wood panels lined unadorned walls. Voluminous bedcovering and bed curtains, both in the same dark blue hue, gave the monstrous bed a midnight feel. In the far corner, a suit of armor—Sixteenth century, perhaps—stood sentinel. Probably worn by an ancestor duke. Blood had once stained that sword, and the visible nicks had likely been caused by—she shivered—bone.

He pointed to the bed. “Sit there,” he said, “In the middle.”

“Wynchester! This is hardly the time—”

“I am not about to ravish you,” he said coarsely. “Just…just
please
,” his voice cracked, “get onto my bed.”

He’d gone mad. No question.
Bedlam
mad. She climbed onto the bed. He stared at her for an interminable moment. Blotchy red spots covered his neck.

“Wyn,” she said softly, “you are frightening me.”

“Would you stay?” he asked in a whisper. “If I were reduced to nothing…if I lost,” again a crack, “Wynterhill?”

“You could never—”

“
Would
you stay,” he spoke over her words, “if the Worthington name were disgraced?”

True fear entered her heart—as she watched what had hours ago been green marsh transforming back to ice and crag and rock.

“The Worthington name is my name,” she answered, just as quietly. “
Our
name.”

His expression did not soften.

“I
love
you,” she added, feeling the impossibility all-at-once.

Love, this afternoon, had been an all-powerful, conquering centurion. In this large, dark room, alone at the center of a lonely bed, love seemed little more than the shell of armor standing uselessly in the corner.

“The question is rhetorical, anyway. I will not ask you to stay.” His gaze shuttered. “Even if I would, you’ve run before…when I’ve most needed you.”

Oh
, but that was not fair. One did not run from a remote landmass of ice. One drifted in the cold and the dark until swallowed by frigid waves.

“That was
deliberately
cruel.”

“Cruel.” He choked on his breath. “Yes.”

Helpless, she repeated, “I
love
you.”

He walked backwards until he hit the wall.

Come back. Come back. Come back
. “What has happened, Wyn?”

He slid down to his haunches and caught his head within his hands. “The worst.” His shoulders shook—laughter without mirth. “I would have put it together long ago, if it weren’t for my dammed pride.”

“Whatever it is,” she prayed she spoke true, “we will find a way through, together.”

“A way through, she says.” He shook his head. “Treason has no recompense.”

“Treason?”

He remained silent.

“Does this have something to do with Eustace?”

More silence. The bed squeaked as she moved toward the edge.

“Stay,” he pointed without looking, “on my bed.”

“You aren’t making sense,” she said. “Why am I on the bed?”

He looked up. His gaze was beyond anger and loss. His gaze was complete defeat.

“I needed to see you there.” His eyes glistened. “Just once, I needed to see my wife on my bed. Is that too dammed much to ask?”

“What madness has overcome you?” Her voice wobbled. “I will always be wherever you are.”

…

All he had wanted was to see Thea Marie in his bed—
just once
—and he could not even do
that
properly. She was a blur of oak, blue linens, and woman.

He was devastated, and they would soon be ruined and his duchess was calm as “if you please.”
Calm
. Thea Marie. The woman who spattered ink in a missive of hatred, ruled an underworld with an icy glare, and had once asked him to find her bit and her bridle because he
clearly
thought her a horse not a wife.