At the Duke’s Pleasure (27 page)

“G-Go on,” she whispered, only then realizing how much he was holding back, how much he must want her. “I love you, Edward. It will be fine.”

Heaving out a breath, he rolled onto his back.

She lay there, half stunned, half devastated by his abandonment.

Was it over? When he’d barely even claimed her?

But then he reached for her wrist, tugging her to him. “Come here. Let’s try a different approach.”

Different?

She had no idea what he meant, but she would do whatever he wished.

“Straddle me,” he told her.

“What?”

“Climb on top and take me inside you. I’m hoping it will be easier. Here, let me show you what I mean.”

Lifting her, he settled her over him, her breasts bouncing as he angled her so that the tip of his shaft was pressing against the entrance to her slick folds. Holding her hips, he lowered her just far enough to claim that first inch he’d taken before.

“Your turn now,” he said, his voice gruff with strain and suppressed desire. “Take as much of me as you can bear, as slowly as you need.”

“Edward,” she gasped. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can.” One of his hands went to her breasts again, playing over her with purpose, pausing to give one nipple a light pinch that made her groan. His other hand went between her thighs and began to stroke her in a way that roused her hunger.

Aching with want, she rose up then forced herself down on him, biting her lip again against the discomfort as she impaled herself upon his length.

Up, then down she went, bouncing and stopping in ways that left her a bit crazed. Yet she was beginning to take him in, each try gaining him a little more access. Bracing her palms on his chest, she rose up, then down, but it wasn’t enough. Her gaze met his in frustration, her skin glistening with perspiration from her efforts.

“Once more,” he rasped.

When she rose up this time, his hands settled on her hips. She came down, and without her realizing his intention, he thrust upward, using his strength to lodge her fully onto him.

A sharp pain slashed through her and she cried out. But he was in, his shaft buried deep. For a long moment they rested, silent and unmoving.

Then, with his hands still on her hips, he began to move, thrusting slowly into her.

To her surprise, the discomfort began to recede, her body growing needy as he built her desire again. Reaching up, he cupped the back of her head and brought her down for a fervid kiss, their tongues tangling in a wet, wild slide that made her feel as wanton as she’d earlier feared she might become.

Tossing all restraint aside, she met each of his strokes with ones of her own, shimmying her hips to take as much of him as she could manage. Air grew thin in her lungs, her muscles quivering beneath the unfamiliar movements.

In a quick flip, she found herself beneath him, Edward keeping them together as he rolled her onto her back. Reaching down, he coaxed her legs high around his waist in a move that sent him even deeper. She gasped and shivered, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to hold on as he began thrusting harder and faster inside her. He kissed her again, crushing her mouth to his as though he couldn’t get enough.

And perhaps he couldn’t.

Her own thoughts were hazy, her blood racing at a fevered pitch until she wondered if she might melt right then and there. But the need was too great, hunger clutching her in a fierce grip that drove her on. Dark madness hovered on the edges of her consciousness, a yawning desire that demanded to be satisfied and assuaged.

Suddenly she was flying again, senses scattering in a whirlwind of rapture and completion. Bliss poured through her, spreading like sweet, hot honey into her muscles and deep into her bones. She clung, feeling lax and lazy and divine.

Edward claimed his own satisfaction within moments, quaking inside her arms as he called out his pleasure.

Together they collapsed, recovering their breaths and their senses in a heated tangle of limbs. Rolling over again so she lay on top of him, he cradled her close.

She floated, drowsy and replete. “Well goodness,” she said. “That was…that was wonderful.”

Edward smiled. “It most certainly was.”

C
laire came gradually awake the next morning, memories of the night past sweeping over her like a dream. She reached for Edward, but found nothing except an expanse of cool, empty sheet where he ought to have been.

Her eyes snapped open and for the briefest moment, she wondered if she had imagined it all. Then she caught sight of a pair of polished brown leather Hessians—Edward’s Hessians—and knew that every second of it had been real.

Her gaze flashed up and met his where he sat fully dressed in one of the room’s cane-backed chairs. He was watching her, a warm but curiously enigmatic expression on his face.

“Good morning,” he said, low and smooth.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

Somehow she kept from blushing as another round of memories returned, including one that had taken place not long past dawn. She’d awakened in a welter of feverish need to find him kissing and caressing her, one of his hands stroking between her thighs. Trembling on the edge, neither of them needed to speak as he’d slid into her from behind, taking her in a sweet, slow rhythm that had proven her complete undoing.

She was still rather undone now at finding herself so closely observed. How long had he been sitting there, watching her sleep?

When had he gotten out of the bed and dressed?

And how could she not have noticed?

A tiny frown puckered her forehead as she stared again at the clothes he was wearing. Rather than last night’s formal black cutaway coat, knee breeches and snowy white linen, he had on a dark blue jacket, tan waistcoat, and fawn trousers.

Before she could ask where he’d come by a fresh change of clothing, he stood and walked to her. Leaning over, he placed his hands on either side of her head and gave her a long, warm, intimate kiss that made her wish he would crawl back into bed with her.

She raised her arms to pull him closer, but he eased away. “I’ll send the maid in to help you bathe and dress. Breakfast will be waiting for us in the parlor whenever you’re ready.”

A sigh of unconcealed disappointment puffed from her lips.

He gave a soft chuckle, his expression rueful. “Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to join you again. I could spend the whole day in that bed and only let you up for necessities. But I suspect you’re rather sore and could use a measure of time to yourself.”

She shifted against the sheets, chagrined to realize he was right. She was sore, and not only between her thighs, but in other spots as well. Last night, she’d used muscles she’d never used in her life and they were all letting her know it.

Smiling, he bent low for another kiss, then stepped back and left the room.

She heard the door shut and his footsteps recede. The moment they did, she wanted to call him back, realizing that she didn’t have anything suitable to wear. She’d traveled here in her yellow silk ball gown last night, and although it would certainly keep her adequately covered, the dress was completely inappropriate for daytime wear. She cringed to imagine the looks her garment would elicit. Then again, considering the fact that she’d spent the night in this room with Edward, she supposed her mode of dress was the least of her indiscretions.

But she needn’t have worried, she quickly discovered.

The maid arrived on a knock, a kind country girl with a cheerful smile and a chattering tongue. After waiting for Claire’s permission to enter, the girl breezed in with one of Claire’s own day dresses pressed and ready in her hand.

Claire soon learned that Edward had been busy while she’d slumbered the morning away. Having awakened early, he’d sent word to Clybourne House, ordering a change of clothing for them both. A small valise had also been sent that contained a wealth of toiletries—toothbrush and tooth powder, her comb and hairbrush, soap, lotion, pins and more.

Relaxing in a warm hip bath, she let the water’s soothing heat relieve most of her soreness. The fine-milled soap smelled lightly of roses, washing away evidence of the night past, including the smear of virgin’s blood dried on the inside of her thighs. She’d found more on the sheets when she’d climbed from the bed, and was glad the maid had enough discretion not to make some remark on the subject in spite of her open manner.

After drying off with a plush linen towel that had also been sent from home, she allowed the maid to help her into the day dress of dotted violet muslin and to style her bobbed hair.

Emerging from the bedchamber nearly an hour later, she made her way down the hall to the parlor.

Edward gazed out the upstairs parlor window, observing the action going on in the inn yard with desultory interest. His mind was on more important matters, his thoughts full of Claire and the night they’d just spent in each other’s arms.

Taking Claire to bed before their nuptials hadn’t been traditional, but then matters between the two of them seldom seemed to be. And yet, in the most basic of ways, last night had been their wedding night. Perhaps they hadn’t exchanged vows, but she was his wife now all the same. At this point, the ceremony was merely a formality—one he didn’t plan to put off any longer.

He knew she assumed they would be returning to London today. Instead, he planned to take her to a small estate of his in Oxfordshire. He was acquainted with the parish priest there—he’d given the man the living, after all—and knew the clergyman would be only too happy to conduct a quiet ceremony to join him and Claire.

Not sure when or where she might agree to wed him, Edward had taken the precaution of obtaining a special license a few weeks ago. This morning, he’d sent word to Hughes to have the document delivered to him here at the inn. He’d also made arrangements to have the Oxfordshire house opened and all preparations made for his and Claire’s arrival. For despite her declaration last night, he worried that she might still change her mind.

Once back in London with months of wedding details ahead, Claire might turn doubtful again. He could even imagine her calling off the ceremony at the last minute. Well, he wasn’t going to give her the chance. Instead, he planned to race her to the altar as fast as they could proceed.

He wanted her bound to him in every possible way. He’d taken her body last night. Now he planned to have her vow, even if it meant a hasty wedding without a single family member from either side in attendance.

Moreover, after spending the night in her bed, he had no intention of being denied it, or her, ever again. He wasn’t about to return to Clybourne House and be forced to skulk around in secret, indulging in clandestine midnight rendezvous until the wedding. Now that he’d claimed her, he was going to keep on claiming her, since he wanted her too much to stay away.

She was his, and would be his, tonight and every night from this day forward.

His body hardened at the thought, aching to return to her now, to lift her wet and naked out of her bath, and take her until they both collapsed shuddering from the pleasure. But physically, she needed time, since she’d been a virgin. And he needed to get a wedding ring on her finger, and make her his bride.

My Clybourne Bride.

A surge of deep satisfaction went through him at the idea. Fighting his hunger for her, he drew a bracing inhalation, then made another idle survey of the inn yard in an effort to distract himself. As he did, he noticed something out of place.

Or rather someone.

What the devil is she doing here?

The woman hadn’t been readily noticeable at first, seated as she was in a closed, unmarked carriage. But as she leaned forward, Philipa Stockton’s cunningly beautiful features came into view, framed inside the square coach window.

Was she meeting a lover?

It was the most likely answer. Yet in spite of Islington having brought Claire here for that same purpose, this country inn seemed an unlikely place for an assignation. Particularly for a woman like Lady Stockton, who valued comfort above all else.

With a mental shrug, he was about to dismiss her and turn away when a dark-haired man strode across the yard at a clipped pace. Edward grew still, recognizing him as Rene Dumont, suspected French spy.

Although Dumont had come over as a young man in the wave of émigrés after the Revolution, he’d never been trusted as completely loyal to his new country. Publicly, he detested republicanism and vocally denounced the revolutionaries, who had killed his parents and stripped him of his holdings and heritage. And yet for the past few months, he’d been suspected of having developed rather pragmatic motivations and a willingness to court favor with Napoleon and the Empire.

From the information Edward had learned at the War Office, it was believed that Dumont was actively working for the French. Apparently, in exchange for his cooperation, he was to receive his family’s chateau and a portion of their pre-Revolutionary lands at the end of the war—a war Napoleon would need to win in order for the arrangement to go through.

The War Office was willing to let Dumont continue his activities, since they had no actual proof that he’d betrayed his adopted nation. Yet what was Dumont doing here today? And was he meeting anyone besides Philipa Stockton?

Edward twisted his signet ring around on his finger and watched with interest as the Frenchman walked quickly to her carriage and climbed inside.

Philipa Stockton and Dumont?

Somehow Edward couldn’t see them as lovers, since Philipa generally invited much wealthier gentlemen to her bed. Then again, she’d been Jack’s mistress, and Lord knew Jack hadn’t been swimming in cash at the time of their affair. So maybe there was a real attraction between Philipa and Dumont.

But why here? Why away from the city when no one of import would care if they were seen together?

Could the reason be that Dumont was using Philipa Stockton for information? Or blackmailing her over some sexual peccadillo of hers in order to gain access or information? Perhaps there was even more to Dumont that they’d suspected.

Edward mulled over the possibilities, his eyebrows inching up when he saw Dumont exit Philipa’s coach after no more than five minutes inside.

Perhaps they ought to keep an eye out for Philipa Stockton as well? If she was being manipulated, maybe they could turn that to their advantage?

Lady Stockton’s coach was pulling away from the inn when Edward heard the click of the door behind him.

Turning, he found Claire standing on the threshold, thoughts of Dumont and Philipa Stockton flying straight out of his head. Smiling, he walked forward. “You look lovely,” he said, reaching to take her hand. “Are you hungry?”

Her pure blue gaze met his. “Famished actually.”

“Good. Come sit and I’ll ring for our meal. I had them keep everything in the kitchen, so it wouldn’t go cold.”

After assisting her into a seat at the table, he went to pull the bell. On his return, he paused beside her. “I find I’m rather hungry too. For you.” Leaning down, he took her lips with a long, leisurely thoroughness that made her sigh in clear happiness. Before he had a chance to deepen their embrace, however, a knock sounded at the door.

In resignation, he straightened and called for the servants to enter.

“Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?” Claire asked Edward nearly two hours later from her seat next to him in the ducal barouche.

The luxurious vehicle in which they were traveling had been driven up that morning from Clybourne House. She’d been pleased to find the comfortable conveyance waiting for them in the inn yard, content to let Edward’s coachman drive them home.

Now she was wondering if they were lost, the fields that ranged beyond the window taking on a consistently wilder appearance with each mile that passed.

“Maybe we’ve taken a wrong turn. This doesn’t look like the road to London,” she observed, eyeing a stone mile marker with a 53 on it that was half hidden in the weeds.

Lounging in the opposite corner, Edward sent her a reassuring smile. “That’s because it’s not.”

Her eyes widened. “But what do you mean? Aren’t we going back to Grosvenor Square?”

He shook his head. “Not at present. We’re on our way to my estate in Oxfordshire.”

“We are? But why? And when exactly were you going to tell me we’re not going back to Town?”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Oh, did you now? Me and everyone else, then.” She paused as a sudden thought occurred. “But Edward, we have to go back. What will they all think if we suddenly disappear together? There’ll be such talk!”

Reaching over, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “And what do you care about talk, my dear Claire? Last night you were prepared to face complete social ruin. I hardly think a trip into the country with your fiancée will do you greater harm.”

“Yes, but that was for another reason entirely—”

“And so it was.” Sliding his arm around her waist and legs, he lifted her so she sat on his lap. “A reason that no longer exists.”

“Edward—”

“Tell me again.” His hair brushed her cheek as he bent to feather his lips over her neck, then up to catch her earlobe between his teeth for a tiny nip.

She shivered and closed her eyes. “Tell you what?”

“That you love me.” He closed his palm over her breast and caressed her with gentle yet devastating strokes. “At least that’s what you said last night. Did you not mean it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then say it.” His mouth pressed against hers in soft, gliding touches. “Tell me you love me.”

She hesitated, reluctant to repeat the words that would give him a last irrevocable measure of control over her. But he had it already, didn’t he? Her secrets had all been laid bare. “Yes, Edward. I love you.”

He smiled, his mouth crushing hers with an ardor that sent her heart beating as fast and light as hummingbird wings.

“Good,” he said, when he let her come up for air. “Then you won’t mind marrying me today.”

She wiggled slightly against him. “Today? But that’s impossible.”

“Not with the special license I have in my pocket, it isn’t.”