The Seduction of a Duke (34 page)

“No,” they both replied in unison.

The doctor chuckled. “Normally, I would counsel you both to continue in that vein, but under the circumstances the Duchess would fare better with an uninterrupted night’s sleep. She shouldn’t have any pressure placed on her chest.” He looked intently at William.

“For how long?” he asked. Fran thought she could deduce a bit of panic in his voice. She smiled lazily his way, pleased to see that the doctor’s pronouncement did not sit well. He apparently was as eager as she to advance their intimate relations. Refusing the examination was satisfying as well. He believed her. That knowledge warmed her more than the perfumed bathwater.

“I believe the Duchess’s circumstance should be much improved in three weeks’ time,” the doctor pronounced. “Father Time is the ultimate healer and we cannot hasten his pace.”

William’s earlier expression of relief had dissolved into something of a more stoic nature. He offered to escort the doctor out, then kissed her lightly on the forehead. Another surprising public display of affection, she thought, her eyelids feeling heavy. Before the fall, he seemed to avoid touching her at all costs, now he appeared hesitant to be separated from her at all. She liked that. She liked that very much. She yawned, ignoring the faint pull in her side.

The men left the room and she closed her eyes. It had been a long, tiring, wonderful day.

 

 

SHE AWOKE WITH A START. THE ROOM WAS BLACK. IF A moon hung in the sky, it must have been buried beneath clouds. Panic leapt to her throat. Someone was in the room. She could sense a presence. She sniffed at the air, then relaxed.

“William?”

There was no answer.

“William, I know you’re there.”

“How can you tell?”

Relief flooded through her, as she wasn’t completely convinced until she heard his voice. How did she know?

“There’s a scent.” Yes. Now that she said it, she recognized it was true. “Something mixed in beeswax, I can sense it when you’re near.” She had smelled it in his room when Nicholas showed her the way and, of course, on his skin when they shared a ride on Chiron. She had smelled it as well, she now realized, lingering in her room on those nights she had sensed a visitor. “You’ve come to see me several times this way.”

“You knew?”

He was closer now. Her body tingled in recognition. She longed to feel the press of him down her length. She heard a dull thud, then another.

“I felt your benevolence in my dreams,” she answered, thinking he should light a candle so she could see him, though there was something titillating about sharing a conversation in the dark.

“That was not benevolence, Franny.” She felt the mattress sag on the far side. “That was lust.”

He was next to her then, pulling her to curl along his length. He wore those silk trousers that she remembered from their wedding night, but his chest was bare for her touch.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Do your muscles still pain you?”

Her fingers drifted across the plane of his chest, a mischievous thought came to mind. “Have you come to dose me?”

“Oh, Franny.” He trapped her hand on his chest before it could drift down. “I’ve dreamed of having you like this, teaching you the pleasures that can be shared between a husband and wife.”

“Teach me,” she said. “I’ve always been a excellent student.”

“Not now. Not till you’ve recovered from that fall. We’ve years before us. We can wait for now.”

“We can kiss,” she said hopefully. “My chest won’t be hurt by a meeting of lips.” She drew her finger across the shape of his lips. He captured her finger between his teeth, then drew on it as she wished he would her breasts.

“That’s true,” he said. “But once started, I’m not sure I could stop with a kiss.” He kissed her forehead. “The doctor said that rest was the best medicine.”

Sharing a bed with William was the closest thing to heaven she’d ever experienced in her entire lonely life. Having another breathe beside her, being held in another’s arms—it was truly remarkable. She remembered once a long, long time ago, she had dreamed of a solitary life, a quiet life as the wife of a barrister left alone to tend her hives and do her translations. Now, she knew that would never suit. She wished to always be surrounded by another such as William and be welcomed in a family of brothers and sisters. She never would have discovered this wonder with Randolph.

“Randolph!” she exclaimed. “Did I sleep through dinner? What happened to Randolph?”

“Ssh . . . don’t fret,” he comforted. “Lady Mandrake kept Randolph occupied throughout dinner. He understood your need to rest. You’ll be able to talk to him tomorrow. Rest now, here in my arms.”

“After sleeping all evening, I’m not sure I can go back to sleep now,” she said. It did feel marvelous and sheltered in his arms. She had no desire to rise and do anything of a productive nature. Her body sizzled with a unique sort of longing and she wasn’t sure she could cause it to lull.

“Would you like me to tell you a story?” His words warmed her ear, turning her insides to warm honey. “I may have a new ending for that beast story you began before.” He kissed her neck, sending lovely shivers down her spine.

“Close your eyes,” he said. She obeyed, listening to the calming lilt of his low, mesmerizing voice. His voice was one of the first things she loved about him when they’d met in the dark on her Newport lawn. He was dressed as a frog, and she . . . she was wrapped in bed linens.

“Once upon a time,” he said, tucking her fully into the curve of his body. “A hideous beast longed for the love of a beautiful American princess . . .”

THE NEXT MORNING SHE WAS RAVENOUS AND alone. William had either returned to his room, or was involved with the workmen, or even out riding Chiron. It didn’t matter. She had fallen asleep in his arms, secure in the knowledge that he cared for her. If it hadn’t been for that doctor making those entirely unneeded recommendations, they might have done more than sleep. But William was right, they had time for that as they had a full future ahead of them.

Funny. She remembered how she wanted William at first for his seed. She wished to be pregnant to escape him. Now, she still longed for the same intimate union, but for different purposes. She wanted to be close to him in a way that no one else could share. She wanted to give him the kind of pleasure that earned Bridget fame in her journal and experience the pleasure William had promised last night. That set her core to tingling. If she were to become pregnant in the process, that would be wonderful. In the meantime, she’d have William.

“I see you’re awake. How are you feeling this morning?” Mary brought a breakfast tray laden with meats, fruits, and chocolate, as well as the bottle of laudanum.

“Much better,” Fran said, piling the pillows up behind her. “Much rested.”

Mary looked pointedly at the indentation on the other side of the mattress.

“Yes. The Duke spent the night here,” she replied to Mary’s raised brow. “We could only sleep, due to my chest, but I know that will change.”

“Thank the Lord, the man finally gained some sense. These English chaps sure do take their time about getting to the basics.” Mary settled the tray over Fran’s lap.

“Why, Mary, is there some English chap that is taking his time around your basics?” Fran teased.

“Never you mind my basics,” Mary said with a wide smile. “Finish your breakfast and we’ll see if you need any of that medicine in order to get dressed.”

 

 

SHE REFUSED TO TAKE ANY MORE LAUDANUM, AS THERE was simply too much to do to lose daylight to sleep. Mary loosened the lacing on her corset and fitted her into a comfortable day dress. Fran first went off in search of William. She spotted him in the courtyard discussing the renovation work with the lead builder. She paused to admire his broad back covered by a linen shirt, the strong arms with sleeves rolled up, and his authoritative stance. She idly opened her fan to start a current. To think she’d spent the night wrapped in those very competent arms.

“Are you admiring the renovation work, or the renovator himself?” Nicholas asked from behind her.

“Oh!” Heat spread across her chest. “I was hoping to find you. Will we be sketching later today? I missed my lesson yesterday.”

“If you feel up to it.” Nicholas smiled, then glanced toward the courtyard. “Perhaps it’s time we moved on to the study of the human form. I could speak to William. There’s nothing like a live model to inspire the artist’s imagination.”

She ducked her head and picked up the tempo of her fan, then continued down the hall. She could hear Nicholas’s soft chuckle behind her.

She found Randolph in the library.

“Francesca, I had no idea that you were hurt yesterday,” he exclaimed, quickly abandoning the book he’d been perusing. “When I heard the doctor had come to see you, I was most concerned. I’m glad you’re well enough to be up and about.”

She smiled. He seemed so much younger than she remembered. His jaw looked somehow lacking, she could never imagine it nuzzling her forehead the way William did. His muttonchops, that ridiculous extremity of facial hair that was currently the rage in men’s fashion—old men’s fashion—failed to add maturity to his features.

“I was surprised to see the doctor myself,” she admitted. “William must have sent word without my knowledge. He’s very . . . competent,” she said, realizing how that word suited him in so many ways.

“Competent enough to marry a wealthy heiress,” Randolph replied. “Of course he sent for a doctor; he wouldn’t want anything to happen to his golden goose.”

“It’s not like that,” Fran protested. “He’s not like that.”

“No? Why else would he marry an American heiress sight unseen? Open your eyes, Francesca. You can hear him spending your money.” Randolph paused a moment, letting the noise of the renovations fill the void.

“I know that ours was an arranged marriage,” Fran said. “It’s true that he needed the money, but it’s not true that it is his only concern.”

“Has he said he loves you?” Randolph asked.

Fran couldn’t answer. While she felt that William cared for her, and might even eventually grow to love her, he had never actually said those words. She had given him the perfect opportunity in the woods yesterday, but he remained mute. Was it because he didn’t love her?

But the intimacies they had shared, the way she felt whenever he glanced at her with that raised brow and slight lift to his lips, or the way his voice reverberated all the way to her toes and back—didn’t those things signify love? And if they did, had she told him she loved him?

“It doesn’t matter if he told you he loved you or not. He’d be lying if he said those things.” Randolph paced back and forth, his fingers lightly tapping his lips.

“Lying?” she asked, perplexed.

“Of course. He would tell you what you wanted to hear, don’t you see? If he wants to keep your money, then he has an interest in lying. You can’t trust what he says.”

It struck her that this was very similar to the argument William had advanced regarding her supposed pregnancy. He couldn’t believe her if she said she wasn’t breeding because she had an interest in convincing him he was the father. Did all men think this way? Or was this thinking limited to stubborn, arrogant men who had to be right even when they were wrong?

“The thing is—the reason I came here to see you—is to tell you that I love you, Francesca.” He pulled a chair next to her, then sank his long frame on it, allowing his knee to barely touch hers. “If you had received my letters, you would have known that I loved you. Even when you didn’t write back, I knew you were waiting for me. I knew that you felt as I did. Then I received that letter advising me of your wedding.”

Her chest ached. Not from her sore muscles, but from the heartache she heard in his voice. She knew how he felt. Hadn’t she felt the same way when Mr. Whitby advised her of Randolph’s wedding?

“I’m so sorry, Randolph.” She placed her hand on his. “You know that I never received your letters. I wrote you every day, I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

“Forgotten about you? How could I ever forget someone who wrote me a letter like this?” He pulled her first letter from his pocket; she recognized Madame Aglionby’s stationery. The creases were worn to the point of separation. A faint wisp of a floral perfume lingered as he unfolded the paper. “You said you burn for me, that you longed for the taste of my kisses, that there could never be anyone else.”

She blushed. She could feel the embarrassment spread across her cheeks. “I was much younger then, Randolph. Maybe not in years, but in experience. When I wrote that, I didn’t know what love was.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “I believe I do.”

“But you’re not sure. I can hear it in your voice.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, flustered. “I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”