Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack (30 page)

She opened his banyan, and his male member stood up, begging for attention. How odd it looked. She reached for it—and paused.

“Will it hurt if I touch it?” Jack’s poor thing was terribly swollen.

“No.”

He sounded as if he was in pain already. Well, she would be gentle. She touched it with just a fingertip. It bobbed. She glanced up at Jack.

He smiled, though his expression looked tight. “Go on.” He cleared his throat. “It’s all right if you want to wrap your . . . hand . . . around it.”

She did. It was both hard and soft at the same time. She ran her hand up and down its length, stroked the odd little sacks at its base, glided the tip of one finger over its head.

It jumped. She laughed and, on some odd whim, leaned forward to kiss it.

Jack’s hips bucked up, and he made a very odd sound. “Are. You. Finished?” He bit off each word.

“You said I wouldn’t hurt you. You should have told me I was—”

“You weren’t hurting me; you were
torturing
me. Another time I would welcome it, but not tonight. Tonight my control is hanging by a thread. I don’t want to be done before I’ve begun.”

Now the annoying man was speaking in riddles. “I have no idea what you are getting at.”

“Just trust me on this. Now will you kindly remove your nightgown? I believe it’s my turn.” He sat up and pulled off his banyan, tossing it on the floor.

“Maybe I’m not finished with my turn.” But maybe she was. She bit her lip as she looked at his splendid chest and back.

“Please, Frances? I really do beg you.”

He looked rather desperate. And she felt rather hot, but she hesitated. She wasn’t at all as impressive naked as he was. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am very, very sure. I’ve never been so sure of a thing in my life. May I help you?”

Her body seemed to think that was a good idea. Her breasts . . . and other places . . . throbbed encouragement. “Very well, I—oh!”

Jack didn’t wait for her to say more. He pulled her skirt out from under her knees and then slowly slid his hands up her body, taking the nightgown along. Up her thighs, over her hips, along her waist to her breasts, leaving a trail of heat and need behind. Any hesitation or embarrassment she had, burned away.

Desperate didn’t begin to describe what she felt.

He dropped her nightgown, and his hands—and lips—returned to her small, unremarkable breasts, which suddenly felt oddly large and swollen. Her nipples tightened to aching points. She lay back against the pillows, arching a little to encourage his further explorations. She needed him to touch—

He must have read her mind. His thumb flicked over a nipple. Her hips twisted on the bed as sensation shot straight to another tight point she hadn’t known existed until this very minute.

“You’re so beautiful, Frances.”

Her mind was too fogged with desire to debate the point. She even
felt
beautiful.

And then his lips latched on to her breast and sucked, and she couldn’t think of anything at all.

His hand moved down her body, his lips following. Each touch, each kiss, brought her closer to . . . something.

Whispers of worry, but the needs of her body shouted them down. Her body and her heart. She loved Jack. She might not know how to love, she might not love as well as other women, but she loved him as best she could. She
wanted
to give herself to him. He would hold her safe. He would stay with her—by her side and in her heart. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

But even if he didn’t, if the future brought something else, she was choosing him—and this—now.

He’d reached the aching point between her legs. She closed her eyes—the sight of his head between her thighs was too embarrassing—but that only served to narrow her focus to the sensation of his warm breath against her and then—

She gasped, and her hips jerked. Jack’s tongue had touched . . . was touching . . . oh! With each teasing flick, he was drawing her closer to wherever it was he was taking her. Closer and closer until she could no longer stand it—

And suddenly she was there. Wave after wave of pleasure rushed from that tiny point to her womb and her breasts and her heart.

And then Jack’s body was over hers. She felt him pushing slowly into her, opening, stretching . . .

She caught her breath as something deep inside her gave way with a burning pain, and then he was there, filling her completely.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m wonderful.”

And he was in her control. His face was tight with a need she recognized all too well. She was giving him love, the love he’d given her. This was a gift of bodies, but also of hearts and minds.

She ran her hands from his narrow waist to his broad shoulders and back to his buttocks pressed against her.

“I love you, Jack.”

He looked into her eyes, his passion receding for a moment, so she knew he was speaking to
her
, not some convenient female. “And I love you, Frances.” He kissed her. “Soon to be wife and perhaps mother.”

His hips moved. In and out, in and out, and then in one last time, deep, as deep as he could go, all the way to her heart. He stilled; he made a small noise—a gasp or a moan, she couldn’t tell; and then she felt the warmth of his seed pulse into her, perhaps beginning a child, a child who would be loved and cherished and cared for and never, never abandoned.

They lay together, his weight pressing her down into the mattress, her arms holding him close. The doubting voice in her head was completely silent, perhaps as stunned as she was by the intense intimacy of what had just happened.

Jack started to lift himself away; she clutched him tighter. “Don’t go.”

He chuckled. “I’m crushing you—and I’m not going far.”

His weight
did
make breathing a little difficult, but she felt chilled and bereft when he left her—until he settled next to her on the bed, gathered her close, and pulled the coverlet over them.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m wonderful,” she said again. It was true. She
was
wonderful.

He kissed her forehead. “Yes, you are.” He ran his hand up her naked back. “Go to sleep now.”

“You’ll stay here with me?”

He laughed again. “Yes, though I’m afraid I may shock the maid in the morning.” He cupped her breast. “I’ll try to leave before she comes in. I need to be up early anyway—I want to see about getting a special license.”

“Oh.” Frances found she didn’t care about the servants’ opinions. “There’s no need to rush for the license, is there?” She trusted Jack would marry her.

He kissed her. “Yes, there is. My parents are very understanding, but they’ll expect a prompt wedding if I’m sleeping in your bed, which I fully intend to keep doing.”

And she wanted him to keep doing so, but—

“Oh, dear heavens, do you think they know you’re in here with me?” His parents would be scandalized!

“I wouldn’t be surprised—Mama seems to know everything that happens even before it does. And if she doesn’t know now, she will by noon tomorrow. I learned as a child that there’s no hiding things from her.”

“Ohh.” She buried her face in his chest. “They will throw me out of the house—and with good reason.”

“Nonsense. Mama and Father will be delighted. Mama will be happy that her last son is safely wed, and Father will be happy Mama need no longer subject him to the annual Valentine house party, whose main purpose was to find brides for Ned and me.” He rested his hand on her stomach. “And they will both be thrilled that they may have another grandchild to spoil.”

She put her hand over his. “Do you think we made a baby?” The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

“Perhaps.” His smile turned seductive. “I plan to keep trying—which is why I need that marriage license. Now go to sleep.”

“All right.” She smiled and closed her eyes. “You are very wise.”

“Of course I am.”

 

 

Someone was moving around in her room. Venus reached over to poke Drew, but his place in the bed was empty. That’s right. He was going for an early-morning ride. So who was here?

She cracked one eye open. It
was
Drew; he hadn’t left yet. Or was he back? She sniffed. No horse smell—he hadn’t yet left. But he had a very odd expression.

As if he had a secret.

She popped up, and then pulled the covers up over her. It was chilly. The maid hadn’t yet been in to make up the fires.

“You’re awake,” Drew said.

Brilliant deduction—but she swallowed the words. She knew better than to start with sarcasm when she wanted something from her dear duke. And she was only tetchy because he wasn’t in bed with her. She knew he enjoyed his early rides—he hated Town enough as it was, but if he got no exercise, he was unbearable—but she preferred early-morning rides of the bedroom sort.

“Yes,” she said. “You look as if you have something to tell me.”

He also looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to scowl or grin.

He decided to grin.

“I ran into Jack in the corridor.”

“Oh?” Why was that newsworthy?

“He wasn’t coming out of his own room.”

“Oh!”
Damn the cold. She leapt up to kneel on the bed and grab Drew’s lapels. “Whose room was he coming out of?”

“Not Ned’s.”

She was going to strangle him; she contented herself with just gripping his coat tighter. There could be only one possibility. “Did he spend the night with Miss Hadley?”

“It would appear so.”

“Ah.” She forced down her excitement; she must not jump to the obvious conclusion. “He likely was concerned for her well-being. She had a very upsetting experience yesterday.”

“Indeed she did. I suspect he comforted her most thoroughly. So thoroughly, in fact, that he advised me he’d be making arrangements for a special license today.”

Venus so forgot herself as to squeal.

Drew looked slightly pained. “I hope that is a sound of joy, my dear duchess.”

“Of course it is.” She sat back down on the bed. There were so many things to do. “I know I didn’t select Frances for Jack, but that makes no difference. They clearly have strong feelings for each other. Lady Rothmarsh will be so pleased. And Jack will be married!” She started to climb out of bed. “I must get dressed and go welcome the dear girl into the family.”

Drew caught her arm. “I suspect that would not be a good idea, Venus.”

She frowned at him. “Why not? We don’t want Frances to think we aren’t delighted she is marrying Jack.”

“Yes, but I think we can convey that sentiment later. Miss Hadley might be a little, er, distressed to have her future in-laws burst into her room because they know exactly what she’d been doing with their son the night before.”

“Oh. Yes, I see your point. That might be a trifle awkward.”

“A little more than a trifle.” Drew smiled and slid his hand slowly up her arm. “And I have another reason you should delay your visit to Miss Hadley.”

“And what is that?” Drew’s fingers were now toying with the neck of her nightgown. It was most distracting.

“I missed my exercise this morning by coming back to give you this news,” he said.

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, but—”

He interrupted. “So I think you should help me rectify that problem.”

Now his hand was skimming her side, his fingers so very close to her breast. She wet her lips. “Ah. Perhaps you can still get a ride in.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping.”

The Duchess of Love and her duke did not arise until noon.

If you enjoyed SURPRISING LORD JACK,
don’t miss the first book in Sally MacKenzie’s delightful
“Duchess of Love” series:
BEDDING LORD NED.

 

Read on for a special excerpt . . .
Available as a Kensington eBook
and mass-market paperback,
on sale now!

Miss Eleanor Bowman stood in the Duchess of Love’s pink guest bedroom and stared at the scrap of red silk spilling out of her valise, her heart stuttering in horror. That wasn’t—

Her brows snapped down. Of course it wasn’t. She was letting her imagination run away with her. The red fabric was merely her Norwich shawl. She distinctly remembered packing it, as she did every year. It was far too fine to wear to darn socks or mind her sisters’ children, but it was just the thing for the duchess’s annual Valentine party. It was her one nod to fashion, the small bit of elegance she still allowed herself.

She snatched the red silk up again, shook it out—and dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake.

Damn it, it
wasn’t
her shawl. It was those cursed red drawers.

She closed her eyes as the familiar wave of self-loathing crashed over her. She’d made these and a matching red dress to wear to Lord Edward’s betrothal ball five years ago, desperately hoping Ned would see her—really see her—and realize it was she he wanted to marry, not her best friend, Cicely Headley. But Mama had seen her first, when she’d come downstairs to get into the carriage, and had sent her straight back to her room.

She glared down at the red cloth. Thank God Mama had stopped her. If she’d gone to the ball in that dreadful dress, everyone would know she wasn’t any better than a Jezebel.

It was no surprise Ned had chosen Cicely. She’d been everything Ellie wasn’t: small, blond, blue-eyed—beautiful—with a gentle disposition. And then when Cicely and the baby had died in childbirth . . .

Ellie squeezed her eyes shut again, the mingle-mangle of shame and yearning twisting her gut. She’d mourned with everyone else—sincerely mourned—but she’d also hoped that Ned would turn to her and their friendship would grow into something more.

It hadn’t.

She snapped her eyes open. Poor Cicely had died four years ago; if Ned were ever going to propose he would have done so by now. She’d faced that fact squarely when she’d turned twenty-six last month. It was time to move on. She wanted babies, and dreams of Ned wouldn’t give her those.

She picked up the drawers. She’d dispose of this ridiculous reminder of—

“Ah, here you are, Ellie.”

“Ack!” She jumped and spun around. Ned’s mother, the Duchess of Love—or, more properly, the Duchess of Greycliffe—stood in the doorway, looking at her with warm brown eyes so like Ned’s.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry.” Her Grace’s smile collapsed into a frown. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ellie took a deep breath and hoped the duchess couldn’t see her heart banging around in her chest. “You didn’t s-startle me.” If she looked calm, she’d be calm. She’d been practicing that trick ever since her red silk disgrace.

And what was there to be anxious about after all? The duchess’s house parties were always pleasant.

Ha! They were torture.

“I was going to look for you later.” Ellie tried to smile.

“Then I’ve saved you the trouble.” The duchess had an impish gleam in her eye. “I thought we might have a comfortable coze before everyone else arrives.”

Ellie’s stomach clenched, and all her carefully cultivated calm evaporated. There was no such thing as a “comfortable coze” with the Duchess of Love. “That would be, ah”—deep breath—“lovely.”

“Splendid! Come have a seat and I’ll ring for tea.” Her Grace grasped the tasseled bellpull and paused, her gaze dropping to Ellie’s hands. “But what have you there?”

“W-what?” Ellie glanced down. Oh, blast. “Nothing.” She dropped the embarrassing silk undergarment on the night table; it promptly slithered to the floor. Good, it would be less noticeable there. “I was unpacking when you came in.”

The duchess frowned again. “Should I come back later then?”

“No, of course not.” There was no point in putting this interview off. The sooner she knew the woman’s plans, the sooner she could plan evasive—

She clenched her teeth. No, not this year.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.” Ellie moved away from the incriminating red fabric.

“Excellent.” Her Grace tugged on the bellpull and sat in the pink upholstered chair, her back to the puddle of silk. “I told Mrs. Dalton to have Cook send up some of her special macaroons. It will be a while until dinner, and we need to keep up our strength, don’t we?”

“I’m afraid I’m not hungry.” Ellie would almost rather dance on the castle’s parapets naked—or wearing only those damn red drawers—than put anything in her mouth at the moment. She perched on a chair across from Ned’s mother.

“Oh.” The duchess’s face fell.

“But, please, don’t let me keep you from having something.” It was a wonder the woman stayed so slim; she had a prodigious sweet tooth.

Her Grace smiled hopefully. “Perhaps you’ll feel hungrier when you see Cook’s macaroons.”

“Perhaps.” And perhaps pigs would fly. Ellie cleared her throat. “You had something of a particular nature you wished to discuss, Your Grace?”

“Yes.”

Damn.

No,
good
. Very good. Excellent.

The
ton
hadn’t christened Ned’s mother the Duchess of Love for nothing; she’d been matchmaking for as long as Ellie could remember, usually with great success. Ellie was one of her few failures, but this year would be different. This year Ellie was determined to cooperate.

“I was chatting with your mama the other day,” the duchess was saying, her eyes rather too direct. “She’s quite concerned about your future, you know.”

Ellie shifted on her chair. Of course she knew—Mama never missed an opportunity to remind her that her future looked very bleak indeed. She’d been going on and on about it while Ellie packed, telling her how, if she allowed herself to dwindle into an old maid, she’d be forced to rely on the charity of her younger sisters, forever shuttled between their homes, always an aunt, never a mother.

Perhaps that’s why she’d brought those damn drawers instead of her shawl; she’d been so distracted, she could probably have packed the chamber pot and not noticed. “I believe Mama likes to worry.”

The duchess laughed. “Well, that’s what mothers do—worry—as I’m sure you’ll learn yourself someday.”

“Ah.” Ellie swallowed.

Her Grace leaned forward to touch her knee. “You do want to be a mother, don’t you?”

Ellie swallowed again. “Y-yes.” She wanted children so badly she was giving up her dream of Ned—her ridiculous, pointless, foolish dream. “Of course. Eventually.”

The duchess gave her a pointed look. “My dear, you are twenty-six years old. Eventually is now.”

Ellie pressed her lips together. Very true. Hadn’t she just reached the same conclusion?

“And to be a mother, you must first be a wife.” Her Grace sat back. “To be a wife, you need to attach some gentleman’s—some
eligible
gentleman’s—regard. I believe you spent a little too much time with Ash last year. That will never do.”

“I like Ash.” The Marquis of Ashton, the duchess’s oldest son, was intelligent and witty . . . and safe.

“Of course you like Ash, dear, but I must tell you more than one person remarked to me how often you were in his company.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Only that you appeared to be ignoring all the other gentlemen.”

She’d been trying so hard to ignore Ned—to hide how much she longed for him—that she hadn’t noticed the other gentlemen. “Certainly you aren’t insinuating . . . no one thought . . .” She shook her head. “Ash is married.”

The duchess sighed. “Yes, he is, at least according to church and state.”

“And according to his heart.” Ellie met the duchess’s gaze directly. “You mustn’t think he encouraged any kind of impropriety. He still loves Jess; I’m sure they’ll reconcile.”

The duchess grunted. “I hope I live to see it. But in any event, I don’t believe anyone truly thought there was something of a romantic nature between you—”

“I should hope not!”

“However people are so small-minded, you know, and they love to gossip, especially about Ash’s awkward situation.”

“I know.” Ellie hated how the marriageable girls and their mamas clearly hoped Jess would magically vanish and thus cease to be an impediment to Ash’s remarriage. Some had actually said they doubted Jess existed. “It makes me so angry.”

Her Grace waved Ellie’s anger away. “Yes, well, Ash can take care of himself. What really matters is the fact you
were
ignoring the other gentlemen, Ellie. It quite discourages the poor dears.”

Ellie snorted.

Her Grace gave her a speaking look. “I assure you most men . . . well, I wouldn’t call them timid, precisely, but they hate to be rejected. If you wish a gentleman to court you, you must give him some encouragement—a smile, a look, something to let him know you would welcome his attentions. You cannot be forever scowling and dodging.”

“I don’t scowl or dodge.”

The duchess’s brows rose. “No? What about Mr. Bridgeton last year? I was certain you two would be extremely compatible and made every effort to throw you together, but whenever I looked to see how things were progressing, you were chatting with Ash, and Mr. Bridgeton was crying on Miss Albert’s shoulder.”

Which one had been Mr. Bridgeton? The sandy-haired man with the receding chin or the tall, thin fellow with the enormous Adam’s apple? “There was no one crying on anyone’s shoulder.”

“Figuratively speaking, of course.” The duchess shrugged. “I confess Miss Albert was my other choice for him. I do usually have more than one match up my sleeve, you know, since I’ve found young people can be somewhat unpredictable.” She smiled rather blandly. “They married last summer, by the by, and are expecting an interesting event this spring.”

Ellie felt a momentary twinge of envy. Mr. Bridgeton—she was almost certain he was the sandy-haired one—had been pleasant. His only fault was he hadn’t been Ned.

Well, whomever she ultimately married wouldn’t be Ned, either. “Whom have you invited . . . I mean, have you invited any gentlemen that I might . . . er, men who might . . .” Oh, blast, her face felt as if it was as red as those damn silk drawers. “You know.”

Her Grace beamed at her. “Of course I’ve invited some gentlemen who might be suitable matches for you.”

Ellie willed herself to keep smiling. It would get easier with time . . . it had to. She cleared her throat. Her mouth was infernally dry. “Who?”

The duchess leaned forward. “First, there’s Mr. Humphrey. He’s a little younger than you and very, ah . . . earnest. He’s just inherited a small estate from his great aunt; rumor has it he wishes to start his nursery immediately.”

“Ah.” Mr. Humphrey sounded terribly dull . . . but dullness was fine. She wanted babies, not conversation. And he apparently wanted babies, too. Excellent.

“And then there’s Mr. Cox. He’s one of the Earl of Bollant’s brood, the fourth—or perhaps the fifth—son. He’s very popular with the ladies and a trifle wild, but he’s shown some signs of being ready to settle down. He’s to go into the church, so you could be very helpful to him, your papa being a vicar.”

“I see.” Taking charge of some silly sprig of the nobility was not especially appealing, but the man did have a number of brothers. With luck he would be equally skilled at procreating, though it would be nice to have a daughter or two as well.

The duchess was smiling at her, a rather expectant look on her face. Did she want her to pick one right now?

“I . . . er, they both sound very . . . pleasant, but . . .”
Remember, she wanted children
. “Well, I suppose I will have to meet them.”

“Yes, indeed.” The duchess glanced at the door. “Ah, here is Thomas with the tea tray.”

One of the footmen came in, a large ginger cat, tail high in the air, strolling along behind him.

“Reggie!” Ned’s mother bent to scratch her pet’s ears. “Did you come for a treat?”

Reggie meowed and butted his head against her hand.

“Cook sent up Sir Reginald’s dish, Your Grace,” Thomas said, putting down the tray.

“Excellent. Please give Cook my thanks.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” Thomas bowed and retreated while the duchess poured Reggie a generous saucer of cream and put the dish on the floor.

Ellie kept one eye on the cat, lapping delicately, as she prepared the tea. Reggie looked harmless, but he’d caused quite a commotion last year, stealing feathers and other items from the ladies—and at least one of the gentlemen—and hiding them under Ned’s bed. He’d even snatched the stuffed pheasant from Lady Perford’s favorite hat. Lady Perford had not been pleased.

“Has Reggie given up his thieving ways, Your Grace?”

“I don’t know, as he hasn’t had another opportunity to misbehave.” She snorted. “As you well know, Greycliffe hates having any of the
ton
underfoot and grumbles from the moment they arrive until the last one departs.”

It was true the duke rarely looked happy during the Valentine house parties. “How does His Grace bear your London balls?” Ellie asked, handing the duchess a cup of tea. She used to read the London gossip columns, but as she only ever saw Jack, the youngest of the Valentine brothers, mentioned, she no longer bothered.

“With as much patience as he can muster which is not very much, but since people expect dukes to be annoyingly haughty, it just adds to his consequence.” Her eyes twinkled as she sipped her tea. “And it makes people toady him all the more which infuriates him further. No, once a month for four months a Season is the very limit of what he can tolerate. And a ball is only one evening. This . . .” She shook her head and sighed. “But it is my birthday as well as the boys’, and he knows how important it is to me, so he grits his teeth and endures. You can imagine how much he’s hoping Ned will remarry and Jack will wed soon so I have no more need to have these gatherings.”