The Rusticated Duchess (34 page)

“Yes,” Clare agreed from the across the room. She waited while he crossed the carpet and handed her a glass of sherry.

“She would have loved them both, you know. My sire and Lennox. Genevieve and I are too close in age, and you said he lived at Lennox House until he went to France.”

Clare considered. “I suppose that might be true. Or at least they were amicable over her affection.”

Gloria sipped the sherry, gathered her courage and turned to face Clare. “So your agreement to not push me to have your children—it’s not because you have concerns about m-m-my breeding?” Her heart thumped and she stared up at him.

“What?
No!” he nearly roared. “Whatever would give you such an idea?”

Gloria felt her lower lip trembling, heard the rumbling in her ears, gripped the sherry glass and stared at him. “H-he always s-said that h-he didn’t mind sullying the bloodlines, since his father was an-an-an adulterer too.”

The emotions that played across Clare’s face were vivid but the low fury in his voice was unmistakable. “It’s a damn good thing that man is already dead, Glory.”

She shook, dropping the sherry glass on a nearby table, and crossed her arms in front of her. Rubbing her wrists, she paced restlessly and looked at the clock, then came back and stood in front of him. He watched her, like she was prey poised for flight.

But she would not run. Not now.

“Thank you,” she struggled to say.

He drew against his chest and held her. Gloria breathed deeply and welcomed the comfort, and Clare, inside her soul.

A brisk knock at the door sounded some long minutes later. She drew back and threw a startled glance at Clare but he shrugged his shoulders and stepped back to his desk, leaving her to occupy the window. “Enter,” he answered.

The door pushed in, and to Gloria’s surprise, an older gentleman stomped in. He leaned heavily on his cane, and he peered through his bushy eyebrows, sweeping the room and landing on Gloria even as she remained shadowed by the sunlight behind her. His white hair was tied back and his bulky frame was garbed in unadorned dark colours, but none of those stylistic preferences identified him.

He had the same eyes as Clare.

Even before he spoke, she sank into the appropriate curtsy. “Your Grace,” she greeted him.

He examined her from the toes of her black shoes to the black ribbon with cameo around her neck and up to her golden hair. “So have you agreed to do the honourable thing and marry my son, young lady?” he asked gruffly.

Gloria’s eyes opened wide even as Clare sputtered and began to intercede.

“Yes,” she said, lifting a hand to stop Clare from interfering. “Yes, I have consented to marry him.”

“That’s a good lass,” he approved, and Gloria smiled at him, recognising him as a congenial soul with brusque manners.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, a bit shyly, and let him take her hand.

“Come, my child. Come sit by the fireplace and let me tell you all the trouble m’boy caused when he was young.”

Gloria smiled and acquiesced, glancing to the man who so graciously stood aside, struck by the patient affection in Clare’s face. She had never seen a man look at his father in quite that manner, and at once Gloria knew just how much she liked it—and just how much she liked Clare.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Clare stared at the whisky in his hand and contemplated the day. After the shocking discussions in his study and his father’s interruption, he’d been secretly thrilled to hear her again acknowledge their intentions openly. He understood her reluctance, and even accepted it, but society and fate were stepping in to push them into the arrangement.

Given his own preferences, he realised, he would have come to the thought of marriage soon enough. An affair, while she lived in the cottage and he resided in the Castle, would not have been enough. He wanted her near him, to know where she was, to hear the sharp indignation of her voice when she was angry and to tug on the delicious sense of humour he’d discovered today and see what came of it. He wanted to see her conferring with his staff, and to see her wandering the corridors and halls with a toddling Eynon at her knees. He wanted to listen to her entertaining his neighbours in the drawing room, and see her hungry, passionate expression when he caught private moments with her.

Gloria might have even been more amenable to the notion of marriage, if he’d been able to introduce it—and a vision for their future—before brother-in-law and uncle had arrived. He could have waited out the time of her mourning and courted her properly.

As it was, she had been more excited about the bolts of fabric that had arrived with his steward and footmen after dinner that night than she had been with the prospect of marriage. She’d deserted the table as soon as their success had been announced, and secluded Mrs Sinclair, Mrs Flannery, Mrs Pitcher and Astrid, as well as several of the Castle maids, into her suite with the aim of constructing an appropriate wedding dress as soon as possible.

He’d stared moodily at the fire in the library while Arwyn and his father had played chess and retired. That was two nights ago.

Since then, the women had spent every minute that could be spared from Eynon and the household in Gloria’s sitting room, sewing.

The first night, Clare had paced his carpet until he’d heard the women depart and Gloria’s room was quiet. Approaching the door, he’d pushed on the handle only to find it still locked from the incident with the olive oil bottle. It had taken another fifteen minutes to retrieve the correct key from the Castle vault and release the catch.

While he would respect Gloria’s refusal to share his bed, he’d be damned if she would exclude him.

It appeared, when he stood over her bed, she had not tried to exclude him. She’d only forgotten to unlock the door. Exhausted, she stretched out in the bed with no more than a black silk shawl wound around her bare skin. The candle still burned on one of the bedside tables. Much to his amusement, a small bottle of oil adorned the opposite table.

In the end, he’d put out the light and drawn the covers over her exhausted form before sliding into the bed and holding her close.

The following night had seen her asleep on the settee as she had obviously tried to wait up for him. He’d carried her to his bed and undressed her himself, enjoying her sleepy, fumbling caresses but firmly tucking the blankets up about her neck before kissing her forehead and drawing the curtains on his bed. By the time he’d banked the fire in his chamber and snuffed the candles, Gloria was soundly asleep.

Clare was in no mood to have her half-asleep this eve. He estimated that the women would occupy her sitting room for at least another hour before retiring and he frowned into the fire. Tonight he’d been grumpy with Arwyn and his father, until the duke had hmphed and advised him to do something more productive with his time than wait. Arwyn had shaken his head and excused himself, and after departing, the duke had tersely informed Clare that Arwyn had been spending his days observing and inspecting the guards and castle defences.

“The boy knows something unwelcome is expected, and he’s worked out it has to do with your lady,” Lauderdale had grunted. “So he’s paying attention, questioning the strategies, searching for holes in the defence, even though he has no idea what might be coming. And meanwhile, son, what have you been doing?”

Guilt had sunk into Clare’s gut. Lauderdale was correct—Clare had been remiss in their defence since returning to Norham Castle. He’d always considered this bastion a place of safety. The male servants were trained and ordered in any conceivable defence of the Castle, though they were not soldiers. They’d been briefed to allow no one inside the gates, and guards and scouts scoured his walls, lands and the town. Still, Clare had done little to lead or inspire them. He’d been too busy pacing, hungry for the smell, touch and taste of his woman.

Tomorrow at dawn, his negligence would end.

Behind him, Clare heard the door to the study open. He didn’t move, unsurprised that Flannery had come to relieve him of his glass.

The scent of tea and lemon reached him before her voice.

He rose out of the chair to find her crossing the room. “Jeremy,” she said, and the word was weary and intimate all in three syllables. He almost shuddered to hear it slip from her lips, and he stared at them, swallowing hard as he resisted the need to find more of him inside her mouth. She didn’t stop but stepped up against him, her palms sliding up his shoulders and gripping him lightly. “It’s finished,” she whispered, even as his mouth descended.

Finished? Clare couldn’t fathom what was finished, only that she was there in his arms, soft and supple and gifting her time and attention to him. The sweet, pink flesh of her lips parted so he could taste and inhale the intoxicating flavour of her mouth. Her fingers clenched on the back of his neck, then slid into the short curls on the back of his head. Instinctively, he lifted her up against his chest, cradling her against his pelvis.

“Bedtime, then?” he managed thickly, his tongue swollen as hers licked along his lower lip.

“Yes. But tomorrow, will we do it tomorrow?” she murmured.

Clare blinked.
Tomorrow?

It was finished.

Understanding crashed through him. The dress was finished. Tomorrow she would marry him.

“Yes,” he agreed simply, fervently. Tomorrow.

She drew back, to all appearances less affected by the kiss than he had been. “I need to inform Astrid. What time should I be ready? I’ll need time to prepare, so not too early.”

Clare squeezed his eyes closed and forced himself to think, drawing a deep breath. Of course, that brought her sweetness into his head again. “Ah, ten o’clock? That will get us to the church by half past the hour. Lauderdale and Arwyn can be informed when they wake in the morning.”

She smiled, nodding, and Clare nearly fell on her and dragged her to the settee, his fingers fisting as he resisted. “Perfect. Will you speak to Flannery about that, and I’ll be sure Astrid, Jenson, Colman and Eynon are ready.” She glanced around the dark room, and raised a brow. “Are you finished here for tonight? Are you ready to come upstairs?”

Clare growled, unable to hide the desire on his face as his gaze flew down her body. “I’m certainly ready to come,” he muttered.

Her brows flew up in surprise, and she laughed outright. “Walk with me then,” she purred, pushing her index finger down his stubbly jawline. “We’ll prepare for bed, give directions for the morning, and your man will leave, and Astrid will depart, and…” She trailed off suggestively.

Clare didn’t bother to reply. He left his whisky glass, retrieved the candle and took her hand in his. Together they climbed the main stairs while Clare wondered if they would retire together like this on countless nights to come.

He hoped so. He slowed down so that she could more easily stay at his side, her hip brushing his.

Clare had to remind his fingers to release hers when they stepped into her room. “Fifteen minutes,” he grunted. “Be ready. I’m going to return here and you are going to be beneath me. It will be hard, fast and so fucking pleasurable that you’ll see stars.”

Gloria’s breath caught and sensual awareness—desire—bloomed on her cheeks, in her eyes, in the swipe of her tongue against her bottom lip. “Hurry,” she whispered, the tone so faint he wasn’t certain if she’d actually spoken or if he’d simply fantasised it. “Please hurry,” she repeated, and he did.

Eighteen interminable minutes later, he pushed aside the door again and re-entered her room. The candles were doused, though a fire was banked and glowed. The bed curtains were drawn except for the opening that faced the fire. He stopped beside the bed and looked at her, and his stomach clenched at the vision of his future.

Gloria waited for him on her side, her skin bare to the room and his eyes. Without a thought in his head, he set the candle on the table and untied his dressing gown, letting it drop unheeded to the floor.

As he’d promised, he was ready to take her in those first minutes, his cock already hard and aching with the need to claim her. There was no possibility that he could be patient enough tonight to walk her through the preparations for taking her tight, near-virginal bottom, and he desperately needed to slide inside that hot cavern that would belong to him in a little more than twelve hours.

“On your back,” he growled, and Gloria’s expressive face softened as her mouth opened and she drew a quick, needy breath. To his surprise, she obeyed him, rolling onto her back and opening her arms to him even as he crawled over her. He forced his knees between hers, opening her wider, and his body came down on hers.

Clare allowed his weight to press her into the feather down. She was warm, and undulated against him, offering her body up to his. He growled as she slid the soles of her feet over the back of his thighs. The supple muscles of her inner thighs stroked his hips. “Yes,” he grunted, his cock probing the tight crease between her labia and her thigh. “Are you ready?”

She whispered his name in a heartfelt, needy answer and Clare’s hands cupped her hips, then slid lower until they trapped the globes of her bottom and squeezed. His long fingers separated her cheeks and held her open as his cock probed and tested her arousal. He couldn’t provide much more than that simple foreplay, not then, not after two nights of holding her exhausted body and the promise of the morrow. His erection so painful he could hardly hear for the drumming inside his head, he still felt the oozing heat that leaked from inside her.

He dug his elbows into the mattress so she had an inch to breathe. But Gloria refused it. She rocked against his skin, lifting up on her elbows to close the gap he’d provided, her heated skin sliding against the flaming expanse of his chest, pelvis, hips. She used her knees to grip his thighs. “Now,” she moaned.

Clare took her at her single word, thrusting forcefully into her open channel until he was completely buried inside her. As he stretched her, Gloria arched her back and forced her knees higher, until her ankles crossed over the small of Clare’s back.