The Duke Who Knew Too Much (35 page)

Taking his rigid member in hand, he teased them both by running the burgeoned tip through her damp petals. He groaned at her lushness, her cream coating his head. Withdrawing, he found her opening with his fingers, eased his middle digit inside. Her little passage clenched him immediately.

“You’re delicate, pet.” He fingered her, drawing out her wetness, not wanting to hurt her. “It might sting a little at first.”

“I’m not afraid. I want you, Alaric,” she said steadily. “Come inside me.”

Unable to hold back any longer, he lowered himself onto her giving softness, notching his cock to her slit. He pushed slowly between her dewy lips. A strangled sound left him at the snug fit, the decadent squeeze of her virginal sheath around his invading cock. She stiffened beneath him, and it took all of his willpower to hold still, to not thrust all the way home as his every instinct clamored to do.

“Sweeting?” he said, looking into her eyes.

“It feels strange,” she said breathlessly. “Is the fit always this ... tight?”

Perspiration misted on his brow as he battled for control. “’Tis only because it’s your first time. You’ll get used to me.”

“Are you, um, all the way in yet?”

He looked down—a mistake. The sight of their joined bodies, of her pretty pussy stretched around the thick meat of his shaft nearly undid him.

“About halfway,” he managed. He was definitely overestimating, but he didn’t want to frighten her.

“Halfway?” she said with clear dismay. “You’re too big.”

At the mention of its size, his vain beast puffed up even further. “You’ll adjust to me in a moment,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Try to relax, pet.”

“Maybe if I move a little ...”

Before he could dissuade her, she tipped her hips up, the motion making him slide deeper into her heat. She gasped; he groaned at the torturous pleasure. His cock was halfway buried in the hottest, tightest quim he’d ever had—
and he couldn’t move
.

“It doesn’t sting as much now,” she said. “Can you try again—but go slowly?”

He wanted to sing Hallelujah with the angels.

“Aye, pet.” He rocked his hips. “Whatever you want ...”

He moved back and forth carefully. Seeing that she didn’t show any signs of pain, he went a little deeper the next pass and the next. He could feel her flowering around him. She let out a sigh, her lushness surrounding him, gripping him. Lungs burning, he finally sank himself to the hilt and held.

“How is that, darling?”

Her eyes were heavy-lidded. “Mmm, quite ... nice.”

“We’ll have to do better than nice,” he said huskily.

Leaning down, he suckled her nipple as he began moving again. When she moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, he knew her discomfort had passed. He quickened his thrusts, groaning as her hips began to accompany his movements, lifting naturally, perfectly, to take him even deeper. When her head began to toss restlessly on the pillow, he gripped her soft bottom and plunged, angling his prick to graze her pearl, grinding against the sensitive peak. Over and again, he did this, circling his hips, using the unyielding root of his cock to maximize her pleasure and ratcheting up his own in the process.

He was wild for her, a hair’s breadth from spending harder than he ever had in his life. She writhed against him, their bodies straining together, slick with sweat.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped.

“That’s it,” he rasped, increasing the ferocity of his thrusts. “Spend for me. I want to feel you come around my cock.”

“
Alaric
.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Christ, you’re milking me so hard I can’t—”

His climax roared over him. Waves of heat boiled up from his balls. He shuddered with ecstasy as his seed jetted hotly inside his wife, as her fulfillment wrung him of his own.

Afterward, he rolled them both onto their sides so that they faced each other, their bodies still joined. He kissed her forehead and ran a possessive hand over her hip.

“How do you feel?” he said softly.

“Wonderful.” Eyes dreamy, she whispered, “I love you, Alaric.”

He went still. Even as wild wings of pleasure beat in his chest, an equally strong panic set in. The past bared its feral claws, humiliation gutting him as he recalled the times he’d spoken of love, how Laura had extorted countless such professions from him. How desperate he’d been for her affection and how in the end it hadn’t been enough. How
he
hadn’t been enough.

You’re a selfish bastard. You’re not capable of love—or deserving of it.

Sudden anger chilled his insides, banishing the afterglow. He’d been clear with Emma, honest from the start. She couldn’t expect his love when he had none to give, and lying would only make matters worse in the long run.

Suspicion pierced him.
Does she think she can manipulate me? Because she convinced me to elope with her, does she think she has me wrapped around her finger?

That misconception
had
to be nipped in the bud.

“Thank you, pet,” he said coolly, “but it isn’t necessary.”

The lazy contentment in her eyes faded. A myriad of emotions flitted across her face, and he tensed for the inevitable backlash. For the accusations and tears.

After a moment, she laid a hand on his jaw. Her eyes steady and clear, she said, “I know.”

When she said nothing else, profound relief trickled through him. She wasn’t trying to ambush him, control him. Shame spurred his heartbeat, yet he didn’t know how to apologize ... so instead he kissed her. The ready sweetness of her response flummoxed him, and despite their recent coupling, desperate hunger rose in him again.

Tumbling her onto the pillows, he let his need take over, intent upon showing her that passion was enough to build a marriage on.

Because it had to be.

Chapter Thirty-Six

On her fifth morning at Strathmore, Emma decided that she’d had enough.

Not of her new home, which turned out to be magnificent despite it not being an authentic castle. She was certain her sisters would be tickled pink over the grand turreted towers and the view of the rolling green hills and shimmering loch from the battlement.

She didn’t even mind her new role as duchess, which was not as intimidating as she’d imagined. Returning from London, Jarvis had offered felicitations with a twinkle in his eyes and then proceeded to introduce her to the staff. Emma took pains to remember everyone’s name and was relieved to find them an efficient, no-nonsense bunch. She especially liked the cook, Mrs. Murray, who’d generously shared the recipe for the duke’s favorite Scotch pie.

Overall, Emma thought she was settling quite nicely into her new life—with one exception: her husband was driving her mad.

As she descended the sweeping staircase, she reflected that her present state of exasperation wasn’t due to his cool reception to her words of love. His reply had smarted—but, truthfully, it hadn’t surprised her all that much either. He’d told her his views on love, and she didn’t expect him to change overnight, especially knowing what she did of his history.

Her love was a gift; she’d offered it without strings.

At the same time, she didn’t expect him to
block her out
because of it.

Ever since their wedding night, Alaric’s behavior had been ... strange.

On the one hand, some of his old impassiveness had returned. ’Twas as if the progress they’d made before their marriage had eroded. Any time she brought up a more intimate topic of conversation, he regressed to politeness. Or shut her out with excuses—he had tenants to visit, correspondence to dictate.

Paint to watch dry on a wall, perhaps?

Her fear that she’d made a mistake in her marriage might have turned into full-fledged panic ... if Alaric hadn’t expressed his need for her in other ways.

Because even as he withdrew from her emotionally, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her physically. When they were together, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Yesterday, they’d had a picnic in one of the estate’s wooded glens, and blood rushed beneath her skin as she recalled their lusty frolic outdoors. How he’d bade her to sit atop his mouth, his tongue impaling her as she writhed in helpless pleasure. After her bursting climax, he’d pressed her onto her hands and knees, entering her swiftly from behind, the passionate sounds of their coupling echoing through the forest …

Then he’d brought her home to his bed and made love to her until dawn.

There were the tokens of his affection as well. He showered her with
things
. Everything from baubles to bonbons—and yesterday he’d given her a beautiful silver-white mare that he planned to teach her to ride. The day before that he’d bought her a desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl and had it set up for her in his study so that they could work in each other’s company.

Emma was patient, but Alaric’s contradictory behavior was testing even her limits. She was a practical sort and didn’t require words to tell her that he cared for her, enjoyed her company—his actions in this regard spoke clearly. Why, then, was he simultaneously trying to erect a wall between them?

Perhaps he was adjusting to being a husband.

Well, she’d given him five days. That was long enough.

Arriving at the door to his study, she marched in, ready to do battle if necessary to get her answers.

“Good morning, pet.” Rising from his desk, he came to her. The smile that warmed his eyes turned her knees to water. “You look good enough to eat.”

Her wits scattered. Breathlessly, she said, “So do you.”

“I’ve created a monster. Lucky me,” he murmured as he drew her in for his kiss.

The entry of a footman—followed by his hasty apology and retreat—made them come up for air.

“Goodness, what will the servants think of us?” Emma said with a flustered laugh.

“They’ll think I’m a red-blooded Scotsman with an itch for his wife.”

As tempted as Emma was to give into the seductive gleam in his eyes, she knew they had matters to address. She smoothed her skirts and, to distract herself from licentious impulses, wandered a safe distance over to the shelves that covered the far wall of the room.

As she tried to marshal her thoughts and strategy, her gaze caught on an object. Sitting alone on a shelf and encased in a glass box, the Grecian urn looked ancient: its ebony glaze was crackled, one of the two curving handles missing. Nonetheless, the red-brown drawings on its surface remained intact and raised goose pimples on her skin.

She recognized that figure. The soldier with the crested helmet, his anguished expression, those raised fists pounding against the walls of the urn for eternity.

She’d seen that same character depicted in that horrid painting in Alaric’s bedroom.

Intuition flashed: what significance did this suffering soldier have for Alaric? Why did this ravaged figure invade his innermost sanctuaries?

“Who is that?” she said, pointing at the urn. “The man, I mean. He’s the same one in that painting you have in London, isn’t he?”

Silence. For an instant, she thought he might not respond.

“That’s Ares. The Greek God of War,” Alaric said tonelessly. “The painting and urn depict a myth about him.”

Foreboding crept over her. “What is the myth about?”

“According to legend, Ares was born of immaculate conception. His mother, the goddess Hera, conceived him on her own to gain revenge on her unfaithful husband Zeus. Not surprisingly, Zeus felt no kinship toward Ares, who was not of his blood.” Alaric retreated behind his desk, shuffling papers as he continued to tell the story with cool detachment. “After giving birth, Hera’s vengeance was accomplished so she, too, was indifferent to the child. Thus, when Ares one day went missing, neither of his parents noticed—or cared particularly.”

Emma’s throat cinched. “What happened to him?”

“Being a lad, he liked to play with his friends. It happened that he chose his friends poorly.” Alaric shrugged. “He got caught up with a pair of Giants—twins with a nasty sense of humor. For fun, they trapped him in a bronze jar and locked the lid. They held him captive for years, and the isolation almost made him lose his mind.”

She couldn’t bear the bleakness of his tone. She crossed over to him, yet the wintry cast of his eyes warned her not to approach too closely.

Facing him across the desk, she said, “How did Ares get out?”

“Another god ended up freeing him. Ever since that incident, however, Ares was filled with uncontrollable fury and a taste for destruction. He was mindlessly aggressive—it wasn’t for nothing that he became the God of War. Needless to say, the other gods didn’t like him much.”

“He was misunderstood,” Emma said fiercely. “All he needed was love and compassion.”

“He was a bastard—unloved and unwanted.” To her disbelief, Alaric turned back to his papers. “Now if there’s nothing else, I have work to—”

“Why does Ares matter to you?” she said.

Alaric flicked a glance at her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“He’s in your bedchamber, your study. You named your deerhounds after his companions. Surely there must be a reason for it.”

“Perhaps I merely find his story interesting.”

“Perhaps you could do me the courtesy of telling me the truth.”

The indifference fled his eyes. He quickly masked it with distaste. “Emma, I’m busy. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Her simmering temper boiled over. “Our
marriage
is not nonsense. Stop shutting me out—I won’t stand for it.”

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” His expression hardened.

“I am
not
your dead wife,” she said in annoyance. “What we’re having is known as a conversation. It’s what married people do.”

“And if I don’t want to talk?” he said icily.

“Then be a coward and hide in your blasted jar!”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

He was white-lipped, livid. She was too angry to care.

“It means that
you’re
the one putting up the wall between us,” she snapped. “If you’re too afraid to tell me what’s really going on, then you deserve to stay right where you are.”