The Third Duke's the Charm (3 page)

Silently he walked up behind where she stood visibly tense by the window, resisting the urge to touch her, drawn by the remoteness of her profile as she looked outside. He murmured, “Vivian.”

She swung around, her smile at once ironic. “Why is it, Lord Stockton, by the mere way you say a woman’s name she feels special? As if you care for her. That must be an art a man has to perfect carefully and with much practice.”

“Or,” he said with a detached smile, “he simply wishes to speak to her face-to-face and she has her back turned to him.”

“I suppose that is logical. You are quite good at being logical, my lord.

He refused to be baited. “Contrary to common belief, my interests are actually quite varied. And I admit an attractive female is always a pleasant distraction.”

“You find me attractive?” One very delectable brow went upward in open question.

A question he answered honestly.

“Oh, yes.”

She blushed again. It was more vivid than the first time and he found it unexpectedly enchanting, though he’d always diligently avoided virgins. His usual bed partners had forgotten how to blush at least a decade ago.

Despite her pink cheeks her gaze was very direct, holding his, her shapely chin lifting a notch. “Charles claims that you developed a new type of apple tree. By some method in which you carefully attached part of one branch by splicing it onto another so it grew together. Is it true? I’ve heard of it, but never seen it done.”

A small laugh escaped at the unexpected change in subject. Apparently if he were a talented botanist he might hold her attention. “I should have known that if I were to inspire any kind of admiration, it would not be for my smile or charming ways, but for my skill as a farmer. Yes, it’s true. A technique one of the gardeners showed me as a youth. He bred new roses by grafting a branch of one color onto another bush. Later I experimented a bit myself and then wondered what would happen if the same technique was used on fruit trees.”

“And it worked?”

“I can modestly say it did, but can we please get back to the original subject of our conversation?”

Apparently marriage was much less fascinating than botanical pursuits, for the animation faded from her features. Her lashes lowered a fraction. “I do not see how my father will allow me to do anything other than agree, my lord, so if you are sincere in the offer, my answer is yes.”

That was not exactly the enthusiastic reply he envisioned, but it was a small victory. Ironic as it was, for all the women he knew coveted his fortune, or were dazzled by his looks—neither of which really said anything about him as a man—he had to want the single female of his acquaintance who cared nothing about either one.

He could seduce her . . . the idea held a measure of appeal on quite a few different levels. But for now, he simply bowed formally and said, “Very well. It is settled then. We are betrothed.”

Chapter Three

The knock on the door almost made her jump out of her skin, but Louisa somehow managed to stay in the small chair by the dressing table instead of falling in a graceless sprawl on the floor.

A miracle if there ever was one, though she doubted when her father preached about divine intervention he was referring to this sort of situation.

She’d eloped. Left. Run off. Allowed the Duke of Sanford’s infamous youngest son to persuade her into the single most reckless behavior—the only
reckless act she could really remember—of her life, and she didn’t know precisely how to feel about her actions. Regretful? No, because she was wildly, passionately in love and she would never regret marrying Charles, but she was also mindful there would be repercussions.

There was no question her father was going to be furious. Then there was the part where she’d actually stolen another woman’s fiancé. Not to mention that the Caverleigh family was prestigious and wealthy, definitely of a different social level, and might not accept her. For that matter,
her
family was not going to welcome her new husband either. Though the duke was the benefactor for the village and surrounding countryside, her father did not think highly of the morality of the aristocracy in general. Certainly Charles had well earned his wicked reputation. He’d admitted that much to her in a frank way that had won her heart. It went without saying her stern father disapproved of the duke’s youngest son.

Yet here she was, in a small country inn somewhere across the border in Scotland, a married woman, and apparently, as a second rap came, this one more insistent, her husband was at the door.

If she’d come this far, surely it was only logical to let him in.

Only she was starting to wonder if logic had anything at all to do with love.

However, she did know she couldn’t leave Charles standing in the hall all night. At the least he might catch his death, for this far north hardly had the most hospitable of climates. It had started to drizzle at about York and not stopped since. Even now rain tapped gently at the window set deep in the stone walls of the quaint, low-ceilinged room. Her new husband had been thoughtful enough to go down to the public room and allow her privacy as she readied for bed, but naturally he wasn’t going to stay down there all night.

They only had one room, and there was only one bed.

Though she’d never thought of herself as a coward, it took some courage to rise and walk across to unlatch and open the door.

He was tall enough that he had to duck to come through the low doorway, and sure enough an eddy of chilly air followed him in. The room itself was warm, the fire cheerful in the grate, yet Louisa felt a shiver that was undoubtedly more nervous tension than cold. After all, she was wrapped tightly in her dressing gown, the sash knotted firmly at her waist, a fact Charles noticed immediately, a hint of laughter showing in the twitch of his well-shaped mouth. Earlier he’d removed his cravat, the informal look of his open shirt emphasizing his infectious smile.

Charles was devastatingly handsome, tall and lean, always with a teasing glint in his eyes and in general an easygoing disposition. Louisa loved that though he had the ability to be serious, that was not usually his personality, and she had been raised in a somewhat somber household. He loved life, and as a result, he enjoyed it. That facet of his personality had drawn her from their first chance meeting one day in the village, when he, the son of an exalted duke, dismounted from his sleek, glossy hunter and immediately joined a game a group of children were playing in the street, theatrically losing to their gleeful joy. Louisa had stood there, mesmerized, watching the tall, dark-haired young man who cared not at all if he got a bit of a smudge on his tailored breeches or a hint of dust on his polished boots.

And he’d caught her staring at him, and stared back with those vivid blue eyes she found entirely too expressive. That had been the beginning of it, and now here they were, on their wedding night, alone and in a room far away from the world she knew, about to embark on their life as husband and wife.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked casually, setting down the bottle he’d brought with him. “I don’t suppose it is surprising that they don’t have a fine vintage of champagne on hand, but this is French and palatable.”

She hesitated, for she hadn’t eaten much at dinner, and truly, she didn’t often indulge in spirits of any kind, but when Charles poured her a glass without waiting for her reply, she accepted it.

“Just one,” he said, gazing down at her, “maybe to relax you a little, but I wish for you to remember every detail of our first night together.”

Just the brush of his fingers made her skin take on a small flush. With a nod she took an obedient sip, finding it smooth and rich, the ruby beverage catching the firelight as she lowered the glass.

“There’s no need to be nervous.”

“That’s easy for you to say, my lord.”

He quirked a brow. “Come now, Lou. It’s just me, Charles. I’m not a lord to you. I’m your husband now. Shall we discuss this?”

No one else ever called her Lou; her family was not that lighthearted and the informal nickname belonged to him alone. It warmed her, and truly, she did trust him or she would not be there, looking up at him and seeing nothing but amused sympathy in his expression. She went back to the chair by the dressing table and turned it around to sink onto it before she nodded. “That might help.”

He chose one of the chairs by the fire, extending his long legs and crossing them negligently at the ankle. “I am not the trembling virgin, so you are going to have to outline for me your specific fears.”

The wine did warm her a bit and she took another sip. “I’m hardly trembling.” Well, perhaps trembling a little, but he didn’t have to know that.

That irreverent swift grin she found so captivating touched his mouth. “My apologies for the exaggeration but I did have a moment there at the door when I wondered if I might be sleeping in the stable this eve.”

That was close enough to the truth that she decided to just eschew embarrassment. “I know nothing.”

His eyes were such a clear crystalline blue. They crinkled slightly at the corners. “I didn’t really expect you would. Besides, making love is rather like most of life’s more moving experiences. Who can adequately describe a glorious sunset over a calm sea, or the scent of an exotic flower? The best we can do is compare them to something else, and what happens between a man and a woman is unique. There is nothing like it. It must be experienced.”

Perhaps it was the wine or his easy manner, but Louisa did find her trepidations lessening, replaced by a sense of tentative curiosity. He was rich, titled, privileged . . . it was natural that he’d sampled what the world had to offer someone like him. He’d admitted as much.

“Were you not nervous then, your first time?”

It was amusing to see Charles choke a bit on his mouthful of wine. “You can’t expect me to recount my past.”

“No,” she said in agreement, “and that wasn’t what I asked either. I just want to know if you were nervous.”

“Men don’t look at losing their virginity in the same way, my love. Women guard their chastity and men can’t wait to be rid of it. However, I will admit the entire process didn’t take very long.” His grin was charmingly rueful. “I vow to acquit myself better for you this eve.”

She had no idea what that meant exactly, but the way he was gazing at her, with a slightly predatory air, made her stomach do a strange flutter.

He went on softly, “Tonight is about you and me, not whatever came before. I don’t even remember any woman before I met you.”

In answer, she gave him a skeptical look. “Not even the very lovely Miss Lacrosse?”

“Viv is a friend,” he said after a moment, an uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice. “She wanted me to follow my heart, and I did so. If she hadn’t seen more clearly what I wanted than I did myself, you and I wouldn’t be here. Underneath the bluestocking botanist lies a very romantic soul she hides from the world.” His smile was devastatingly tender. “Now then, why don’t you finish your wine and let me enlighten you as to why I can’t describe what is about to happen between us.”

***

Charles found his bride’s shyness provocative and the unadorned robe she wore—no doubt selected by her straitlaced mother—somehow arousing. It draped her from her throat to the tops of her dainty feet, the plain material serviceable but hardly a silken negligee.

Perhaps it was a sign, he thought as he rose and gently took the wine glass from her hand, urging her to her feet, that a man wanted his mistress to dress like a courtesan, but his wife to represent something else altogether. Not virtue precisely—he was more worldly than that, but a singular innocence that would belong only to him.

Possession might be a rather barbaric notion, he realized wryly, yet it applied. He didn’t want to own Louisa, but he certainly wanted her all to himself.

He wanted to be her first—and only—lover.

So he had married her, and now he was going to bed her. Charles slowly brought one of her hands to his lips, murmuring against her fingers, “I love you and I want to make you mine.”

Not terribly original, but heartfelt. He couldn’t be glib at a moment like this.

Louisa was not at all his usual preference. She was more slender than the women he normally pursued, very fair with her almost silvery blond hair and porcelain skin, and large gray eyes. Maybe it was her petite beauty that had drawn his eye in the first place, or the unusual impact of her coloring and delicate features, but there was no doubt that moment he’d caught sight of the vicar’s daughter standing on the corner of the street by the modest bakery, her purchases clutched in her arms, he’d been smitten. That had led to infatuation. Then, finally, to love.

He’d never been in love before and it was more intoxicating than any beverage he’d ever consumed, and certainly clouded his judgment more. His father was going to want his head. So was the vicar, and no doubt so was Vivian’s father since he’d jilted his daughter, though he wouldn’t have done so if Vivian hadn’t encouraged him to take this course.

But at the moment he just wasn’t concerned over anything but that he was alone with Louisa finally, there was a comfortable bed waiting for them both, and she was his wife. His
wife
. Perfect.

“Sweeting,” he said, his hands going to the sash on her robe, currently tied so tightly he was surprised she could breathe, holding her gaze with passionate sincerity, “come lie with me. I promise you that I will honor the vows I took to cherish you in all ways.”

Her beautiful eyes shimmered suddenly as if tears threatened, but to his relief, she smiled. “If I did not think
that
, Charles Caverleigh, I would not be here.”

He kissed her then, certainly not their first, but this was different from their stolen moments before—when he’d persuaded her to meet him by the river, when he’d crept into the garden by the vicarage, when she had slipped out to join him when he was ostensibly out for a morning ride by the meadow . . .

This was different.

Her mouth was soft, warm, beguiling; and as he tasted and tantalized, his tongue sweeping in to touch hers, he deftly undid the sash of her robe and slipped his hands between the parted fabric to find her slim waist. Louisa came into his embrace with gratifying enthusiasm, her arms sliding up around his neck. He lifted her, they found the bed and tumbled onto it, his body following hers down, his mouth never leaving hers, his heart pounding as if, indeed, this was the very first time.

It was, actually. Not his first time, but
their
first time.

Taking in a breath, Charles found control, broke away and gave a slight laugh, and kissed her throat just above where a very neatly tied bow kept the bodice of her nightdress in place. “Did I mention that cherishing involves removing our clothing?”

His wife touched his hair, the look in her eyes something he’d remember the rest of his life. “No,” she said with a soft smile, “but I am not entirely naïve.”

“Then . . . may I?” His fingers found the ribbon at her neckline and tugged.

Whether or not she gave him permission became a moot point as his fingers found smooth, firm flesh, and his exhale became more of a groan. Charles explored her breasts, the texture of her skin indelibly etched in his psyche, the slight gasp as he thumbed her nipple a sound that would echo forever in his brain. Then he was easing back the cloth, seeing her for the first time, her body slender but so feminine it took his breath away.

As the fabric skimmed her hips when he lifted her, the words barely registered as she said, “Shouldn’t you undress also?”

Had his entire attention not been riveted on the small triangle of gold hair at the apex of her thighs, he might have made an articulate response. As it was, he agreed so wholeheartedly with her sentiment he reluctantly let her go, stood and ripped his shirt off over his head without bothering with the fastenings, then sat down to remove his boots.

And she laughed. It was one of the most arousing sounds he’d ever heard, innocent yet tantalizing, womanly in an instinctive way since he knew full well she’d never lain naked in bed awaiting her lover.

Through his teeth, he managed to utter, “Devil take it, my boots are particularly uncooperative this evening.”

“Or perhaps you are just in an inordinate hurry, my lord.”

He’d have to address that later when the tables hadn’t turned so he was no longer the experienced lover but the supplicant, and somehow she was the glorious seductress instead of the timid virgin. Finally he managed to successfully divest himself of both boots and stood, his fingers going to the fastenings on his breeches. He stopped, not sure if he should continue without somehow warning her about his aroused state, but then again, an urgent inner voice argued, an explanation might just alarm her.

Instead, he swiftly stripped off his final garment and moved to join her, ignoring the sudden widening of her eyes. “Louisa,” he said huskily, touching her cheek, urging her close though he didn’t move on top of her. Not yet. Not until he knew she was ready so that her body would be as receptive as possible. “I have waited for this moment.”