A Duchess to Remember (28 page)

The hitch in his breathing told her she gave him pleasure with this tentative exploration. When she brushed a questing fingertip over his nipple, the large rod of flesh between Rand’s legs twitched.

“Oh!” She snatched her hand away.

He laughed silently, caught her hand and replaced it.

Having investigated the flat, brownish discs on his chest, her hand skimmed his flat stomach. Rand gave a soft moan; his hand encircled her wrist, gently drew it down.

“Touch me, Cecily. Please.” There was a strained longing in his voice. He’d never needed anything from her before, she realized. She wanted to give him everything she had, everything she was. Her cheeks flamed; her heart thudded with apprehension, but she couldn’t deny him. Didn’t want to.

Lightly, she feathered her fingertips over his penis, making him gasp.

She nearly exclaimed in wonder at the strangeness of it. The skin there was so soft, so magically soft, a contrast to the hard length of muscle beneath. She stroked, as much for her own pleasure as to elicit another strangled moan of pleasure from Rand.

The head of his penis was all interesting ridges and contours, smooth and a little moist. She followed the length of him down to the softness of testicles nestled beneath. Fascinating and strange, this male apparatus. Curiously thrilling to hear his gasp, feel his body tense as she took those sacs lightly in her hand.

She watched Rand’s face as she explored him. He’d closed his eyes and wore an expression that spoke of pleasure mixed with an agony of restraint. On occasion, his teeth gritted, as if in effort.

The short, spiky black lashes that fanned beneath Rand’s eyelids made him seem curiously vulnerable. Her heart, hitherto such a well-regulated organ, turned over in her chest, filled with love.

She bent to kiss him and whisper, “Take me, Rand. Love me now. Please.”

His eyes opened and locked on hers. Without breaking that compelling gaze, he rolled his hips so that he braced himself on his elbows on top of her, his legs between hers, his member, thoroughly known to her now, nudging insistently against her tender folds of flesh.

The depth of emotion in his gaze as he pushed a short way into her reassured her more than all of his patient preparation of her body.

She blinked at how hard and large he felt, pressing, pushing, attempting to slide into her and, “Oh, God!” He stretched her almost unbearably, until the burn of it turned to sharp pain.

He was trembling, panting, his face a hard mask of concentration. She grasped his upper arms and felt the tension in them. This was hard for him in some way, too.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, to reassure herself as much as him.

“I want so much to make it better than all right,” he gritted out, kissing her temple, then her lips, flexing his hips in another thrust. “But I very much fear … this time…”

He took command of her mouth and all of those swoony, melting feelings returned in full force. She relaxed into the kiss, into him, felt his member thrust even deeper than before.

The pain wouldn’t last beyond tonight. She knew that, so she tried to ignore the sting as he stroked inside her, abrading the spot where her flesh had torn. She loved the sense of closeness, in spite of the discomfort. It was the most extraordinary feeling, a deeper connection than the merely physical. She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his back.

He moved faster, deeper, until echoes of sensation played glissandos up her spine. She moved with him, against him, trying to get the rhythm of it, unsure of what, exactly, she ought to do, but eager to participate.

He muttered something that sounded like an apology, threw his head back and shuddered in her arms.

Afterwards, they lay in the waning sunshine together, naked, slicked with sweat. Cecily stared up at the canopy above her and smiled at nothing in particular.

“It will be better next time,” he said, on a note of reassurance.

She laughed at that, though she knew what he meant. “How could it be better?”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. Those golden eyes of his narrowed with amusement. “I shall take great delight in showing you. Tomorrow, when you are rested,” he murmured.

He drew her into the protective circle of his arm and they both drifted to sleep.

*   *   *

Rand woke in the middle of the night with the miracle of Cecily beside him and an aching hardness in his loins. He wanted her again.

No, that would be barbarous. He would simply look at her and marvel that she was his at last.

Having her in his bed, finally possessing her, loving her, was unlike any feeling he’d ever known. He’d pursued her with such single-minded determination that he’d given little thought to more mundane considerations.

Ought he to allocate a bedchamber to her? He supposed he must. Yet, he wanted her to sleep every night in his bed. As a husband, he had the right to command it. And yet, knowing Cecily, nothing would be as simple as that.

Something else that was not at all simple: How the hell was he going to tell her what he ought to have told her from the start?

Well, if not from the beginning, at least before she’d agreed to marry him.

But there’d been no time for second thoughts or hesitation once she’d accepted him. The thought of Jonathon hadn’t crossed his mind, not once, since he’d received that ridiculous letter from Norland. Even if it had, he was not good enough at self-deception to believe it would have made a difference. He couldn’t risk telling her the truth in case he lost her, yet again.

He watched her there, with a delicate hand pressed to the pillow supporting her cheek, dark lashes fanning against her creamy skin, those delicious red lips parted slightly, the glossy, dusky curls tumbling all over. He wanted to give her the moon and the stars, everything she wanted, more than she’d ever dreamed.

And he decided then and there that he would not tell her about Jonathon. Not until he could give Cecily her brother back, too.

Chapter Twenty

It was some days before Cecily turned her mind to the world beyond Ashburn House’s front door.

Her betrothal to Norland and subsequent marriage to Ashburn had created an awful lot of speculative whispers among the ton. Not that a Westruther cared for that, of course. And no one would dare do more than whisper. Ashburn would not take kindly to slurs cast on his duchess and everyone knew he was not a man to cross.

So Cecily did what any Westruther would do when faced with public curiosity and censure. She threw a party.

A ball, to be exact. The most anticipated ball in the history of balls.

“I have set it about that I’ve invited Norland and his new bride,” said Cecily gaily as she dragged Rand around the florist’s. “They will all come to see the sparks fly. Won’t they be disappointed when we turn out to be completely amicable and ridiculously in love with our chosen spouses?”

Rand raised an eyebrow.
“Ridiculously?”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his aristocratic nose. “Utterly, madly, reprehensibly,
irrevocably
in love.”

“Exactly how much is this costing me?” said Rand, sounding supremely indifferent.

“I shall provide you with a faithful account,” Cecily promised.

He waved a hand. “No, please don’t. I don’t think my heart can stand the shock.”

The ball was a huge crush, which meant it was an enormous success. Cecily had never managed to get to Cambridge, but she was gratified to hear her meddling had done the trick: Tibby made no demur on the grounds of loyalty when Norland claimed her hand.

“You ought to have warned me off him ages ago,” said Cecily now. “If I’d had the least idea, my dearest Tibby, I would never have held buckle and thong to our engagement. I deserve to be horsewhipped for such insensitivity.”

“How can you say so, dearest Cecily?” said Tibby, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a pristine handkerchief. “Indeed, my only consolation is that you have found happiness, too.”

She looked over at Rand. “So handsome and distinguished!”

Yes, thought Cecily, no other man present could match her husband in looks and sheer force of character. He cast them all into the shade.

He certainly made his cousin Freddy look nervous and ill at ease, as if his cravat were too tight and his coat did not fit him properly across the shoulders.

“Tibby, will you excuse me? I need to rescue that poor boy.”

She arrived in time to hear Rand say, “Ah, Freddy! There you are. I knew you’d be among the first to wish me happy.”

The comment was scathingly ironic, given that Freddy might have harbored expectations of stepping into Rand’s shoes someday. Unreasonable though it might have been to suppose Rand would remain single, or if he did marry, his wife would not bear a son, it was still a possibility that a young man might hope for in his more selfish and optimistic moments.

Clearly, Rand had not yet forgiven Freddy for the incident in the library on the night of the masquerade. Cecily had tried to explain that to Rand but she sensed his hostility ran deeper than the events of that night might warrant. She could not count herself successful in mending that bridge, but she had not given up trying.

Cecily smiled warmly at her husband’s cousin. “Delightful to see you again, Freddy. I trust you are dancing this evening? I see that Miss Trescott has just arrived. Perhaps you would care to ask her to dance?”

Freddy immediately hightailed it off to form part of the latest beauty’s court, leaving Cecily with Rand. “Shall we take a short turn on the terrace? I wish to speak with you.”

He bowed and offered her his arm and escorted her outside.

“It would not kill you to be kinder to the boy,” she murmured as they strolled beneath colored lanterns bobbing in the breeze.

He glanced down at her. “You are settling into your new role as wife rather well, aren’t you, my dear? But yes, I suppose you are right. If he were from another family, his follies wouldn’t bother me half as much. It is my prejudice that so often magnifies his faults.”

“Prejudice?” She considered that. “I know Freddy’s mama is … well, perhaps not the most congenial of ladies.…” She broke off, unwilling to be critical of Rand’s family.

He stopped at the balustrade and braced his hands upon it, looking out at the rolling vista that undulated down to the river.

“Why do you dislike your family so much?” she asked. “You always seem so alone.”

He sighed. “It is a long and tedious story, but I will try to give you the short version. When my parents died, I was a babe, as you know. So of course, my paternal relatives stepped in, in loco parentis.”

“I see,” said Cecily. “Did you go to live with them?”

“No, I was brought up all alone at Anglesby. Well, as alone as a child can be with an army of servants, and several nurses and nannies to see to his needs.”

“Poor little boy,” said Cecily softly.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Rand sardonically. “I daresay I must have been the luckiest infant alive. No expense was spared to entertain me.”

With a wry smile, he shrugged. “I had adults vying for my favor from far too young an age. What I needed was love, of course. I was so hungry for it that I imagined it into being where it never was. I suffered disappointment after disappointment. My relations treated me like a pawn to be played with, not a child who needed affection.”

He paused a moment. “If I seem isolated, it is because I never was able to trust anyone’s motives after that. I have Garvey and perhaps a handful of friends and a wide circle of acquaintances. But I have not trusted anyone with my heart again. Not until you.”

Cecily stared up at him. Now she knew where that pain and loneliness she’d sensed inside him came from. She stared into his eyes and willed him to understand. Her love would never be conditional on what he could do for her or his material possessions, his power and prestige.

But she did not need to tell him. He understood all that. And that was why he trusted her with his heart.

Their lovemaking that night seemed to have an added poignancy. After a long struggle, both of them had finally released their fears and doubts. Their connection went deeper, each caress touched their hearts, each sigh came from their souls. Rand did things to her that she would never have dreamed she’d allow, much less enjoy.

And with that newfound trust came confidence. Cecily turned wanton, reckless, powerful in her sensuality, a challenge and a spur to him in bed as she was in every other arena. They drove each other to new heights of passion, soaring above the world, until they found bliss together as one.

As dawn reached across the sky and the chill nipped at their toes, Rand barely retained the strength to pull the covers over them.

Cecily snuggled close, all soft, pleasured sighs and drowsy feminine warmth. She seemed disinclined to talk, and indeed, words would be inadequate to express the emotions they’d just shared. He was content to let that perfect communion of their bodies speak for them both.

As his eyelids grew heavy, Rand realized he could not remember ever feeling so sated and at peace before. Smiling to himself, he played with the unruly corkscrews of Cecily’s hair until her deep, steady breathing told him she had fallen asleep. Then he followed her into slumber.

Some hours later, Rand opened his eyes with a vague sense that something in the room’s atmosphere had shifted.

A movement from the corner of the bedchamber made him sit up abruptly. He glanced at Cecily to see if he’d woken her, but she slumbered on.

It took a while for his eyes to focus on the figure in the corner of the room. Sunlight streamed through the window behind him, making it harder to recognize detail.

“Jonathon?” Rand breathed. “Is that you?”

*   *   *

Though he knew the truth, had known it all along, Rand was as shocked to see his old colleague as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Jesus!”
He was in bed with the man’s sister! Did Jonathon know it was Cecily lying there beside him? There’d be hell to pay if she woke.