The Wicked Duke (28 page)

They handed over their horses at the portico. Lance led the way inside. “It is early, but I say this calls for celebratory cheer.”

He aimed toward the library. Marianne aimed to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Above.”

“The hell you are. If you ride with the devils, you can drink with them.” He held out his hand. After a small hesitation, she came and took it.

Ives threw himself onto a sofa in the library. Gareth leaned against a table. Marianne sat on a wooden chair.

“Nothing for me,” she said. “I do not care for ratafia.”

Lance carried over a glass. “It isn't ratafia. I would not insult you with that today.”

She peered into it. “What is it?”

“Whiskey. The best Scotland can make.” He handed glasses to his brothers too.

Marianne kept peering into her glass. “I have always been curious about its taste and fascination to men. I suppose a bit won't hurt.”

Gareth raised his glass. “A few more details, and it is over.”

Ives raised his. “To the life you once knew, Lance, and will now have again.”

They took long swallows of the spirits. Before he joined them, Lance raised his glass to Marianne as well.

Marianne watched, then gamely took a gulp of her own. For a two count she remained serene. Then the whiskey's effects hit her. Her eyes widened. Her face turned red. She coughed hard, then inhaled like she wanted to blow out a flame.

Hand to her mouth, she stood. “I will leave you now, so you can discuss those details while you celebrate,” she said. “I dare not stay for more such cheer. It might kill me.”

Lance walked with her to the door. There she leaned close. “Promise you will come to me tonight,” she whispered. Then she was gone.

*   *   *

C
elebrate they did. Marianne did not go down to dinner, but had it brought to her. Laughter came to her from below at times. The brothers were enjoying
Aylesbury's freedom from the prison in which he had been confined for almost a year.

She saw the difference in him as soon as Jeremiah Stone finished his story. She loved the man she knew already, but she suspected the real Lancelot Hemingford would dazzle her silly. Even on the ride back, the fullness of his spirit, now released in all its self-assured, arrogant independence, almost overwhelmed her.

His aura stretched as they rode, and assumed a stance that dared anyone to interfere with him, or object to his behavior, or deny him his due. The man on the horse next to hers transformed into a man she had only met on occasion before, and then mostly during the passion they shared.

It had all been in him all along, however, only obscured by shadows and at times lost in darkness. This Lancelot had been the source of her excitement. Her soul had known him all along. She had always thrilled to the wicked possibilities he offered without saying a word.

She expected the brothers also sorted out the details. How to confront her uncle would be high on the list. Demands on the coroner would be second. She suspected that would all be settled within the next few days. She would have to tell Mama to let her know as soon as a verdict came from Mr. Peterson.

As night fell, she did some arranging in her dressing room, then sent Katy away. She sat at her writing desk and penned a few letters. She sealed them, but did not prepare them for posting. Instead she tucked them into the table's drawer.

Then, with her heart so full of emotion she could barely breathe, she waited for her lover to come to her.

*   *   *

L
ance entered Marianne's chambers in high spirits. What waited for him there changed his mood. Thoughts of the day's victory, of his life's return to normal, flew from his mind when he saw her.

She lay on the bed, already naked. She had built up the fire so she might stay warm, and its amber glow moved over her skin as the flames danced. Her copper hair flowed on the pillows. Her breasts showed she was already aroused.

She rose on one arm, creating an erotic, sinuous line from her shoulders to her toes. “Oh, good. You are already undressed. I did not want to have to wait,” she said.

His blood was already high from the day's events. Her words only sent it higher. He went to the bed.

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

“Not even half so.”

“That is good too. I did not want you drunk.”

He cast off his robe. “You have a list of what you did not want, it seems. Is there another one of what you do want?”

She kneeled and faced him. Her arms encircled his neck. “Yes. I want everything.”

“Everything could take a long time.”

“It is fortunate that there are long nights in winter, then.”

She kissed his chest, slowly and carefully. Her hands glossed his body with soft caresses. He reached to embrace her, but she angled away.

“No. Let me—” She kissed his lips, then used her tongue aggressively. “I want to do this.” She tugged gently on his hand, inviting him onto the bed. She pressed his shoulders until he lay down, then straddled him and lowered her head to kiss again.

His hunger rebelled against the passive role she put him in. The earnest, sweet pleasure she gave lured him to compliance. She kissed him and touched him as if she savored the feel of him. Of everything. His body accepted the luxury of her ministration. His consciousness focused on each warmth and titillation she created.

Her own arousal showed. She expressed its steady rise with her mouth and hands. Soon she required more of him. She leaned forward, positioning her breasts near his mouth. He teased her with his tongue and mouth. Soon she was moaning, and rocking gently so her vulva tantalized his cock.

She rocked back on her heels so his cock nestled in her damp warmth. With her expression transformed beautifully by pleasure, she caressed his body, then leaned forward, lower now, to kiss his chest and torso.

She shifted ever lower, now straddling his thighs so she could caress and kiss his erection. Undone now, beyond sense or thought or any awareness except the erotic vision of her hand and mouth, insane from anticipation and urges too wild to control, he waited with a command and a plea for more yelling in his head.

She flipped her body so her back faced him as she sought better purchase. Her mouth enclosed him. He closed his eyes and submitted to her torture, glad that in
her everything she had started with this. He gritted his teeth and rode the pleasure higher and higher, forcing some control so it would last.

She did not end it that way, nor did he care. With quick moves she swung and faced him, and lowered herself so her tight passage replaced her mouth. She took her pleasure then, with moves subtle or hard, fast or slow as she chose. He watched what it did to her until neither of them could wait any longer. Grabbing her hips he held her firmly, and released the ferocity she had incited in his body and soul.

*   *   *

M
arianne did not sleep that night. There was no time. When she spoke of everything, he had taken her at her word. Three times, then four they explored erotic games, the last time with her spread-eagle at the fireplace, her arms wide and grasping the mantel and her body bowed to him.

Between each time, while they embraced each other in rest, she memorized all that she could of what had happened. The sensations, his body, her ecstasy—she made new memories so she might keep the night alive forever. She savored the love filling her all night. It changed the pleasure and made it better. It wrung more intensity from the intimacy by wrapping it in emotions more blissful than any physical release could express on its own. She even grasped at the poignant ache beneath it all, the burgeoning nostalgia and the danger of pain.

She thought he was with her in some of that, at times.
She could not tell. He was with her otherwise, however. In the pleasure and the bliss. He had brought all of himself to her tonight. No shadows burdened his spirit and no anger made him dangerous. After her initial game of control, his full spirit took command, and she thrilled at how he handled her with both dominance and care.

When the barest light showed out her windows, she turned in his arms so she faced him and his breath tickled her face. He had been sleeping, but her movements woke him. He pulled her closer as he stirred. She kissed his face, then his shoulders with a heart so full she could not contain it.

His lids rose. “Is it your intention to kill me with pleasure tonight, Marianne?”

“I do not seek to impose on you again. I think we have tried everything.”

He smiled. “Hardly, but perhaps enough for now.”

She studied his face hard. His mouth and his scar and the dark eyes watching her. “What will you do today?”

“We will settle some of those details. Without you, in case you thought to come with us.”

“I did not think to do that. I will be glad when it is all over, though.”

“I am already glad, because it is all over in my mind. And damn, it feels good.”

She laughed and kissed his chest. “I know.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Oh, yes.” She kissed again. “You are probably planning on how to raise some hell.”

He laughed. “How did you know?”

“That is who you are, isn't it?”

He grabbed her and playfully threw her down on her back. A different joy entered him.

It had not been enough for now, after all.

T
he next day, Lance, Ives, and Gareth called on Thaddeus Peterson while he took his coffee. Lance let Ives do the talking.

Ives used a most reasonable tone of voice. One that lured and cajoled, that even flattered and dissembled. By the time he was done, Peterson's face had turned to stone.

Lance assumed that Ives's several uses of the words
slander
and
criminal libel
had something to do with Peterson's expression. Ives had neither threatened nor accused. He had merely expressed profound sympathy for the difficulties in Peterson's duties, and the vulnerabilities it created if he, through inaction or false judgment, smeared a good man's name.

His brothers chose to ride on to Cheltenham for a few hours after that. Lance returned home in high spirits. Once Radley pressed Peterson more directly—and after
the letter Lance had sent Radley this morning, some hard pressing should transpire very soon—Percy's death would be ruled as by natural causes.

Heady with a rare intoxication, he went looking for Marianne so he could share his joy with her again. In a few days they would go back up to London. There were still many things he wanted to show her there. She should be thinking about her wardrobe for the coronation too.

She had left her apartment, and her maid only shrugged when he asked where she had gone. Down below, he learned that once more she had visited her cousin, this time in the coach. While the butler explained this, a footman nearby began looking as guilty as hell and nervous about something. Lance called him over.

“Is there something about the lady's visit that I should know?” he asked.

“She departed soon after you did, Your Grace,” the footman said. An unmistakable defensive note rang in his voice. “Called for the coach and came out at once.”

“Then why are you all but shitting in your breeches, boy?”

The footman wiped his nose. His gaze darted left and right, like he sought an escape path. “She gave me a command, she did.”

“What was it?”

“That was the command. To tell no one about—” He broke off.

“I now command you to tell me what she commanded you not to tell me,” Lance said. “When there are two such commands, I win.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Tell him,” the butler snapped.

“She took a trunk, Your Grace. And the coach is not likely to return today either, from what I heard. She is having it take her someplace after she visits her family.”

The butler's face turned red. “You knew this, and did not inform me?”

“She commanded my silence,” he pleaded.

Lance walked away, and back up the stairs, while the two of them bickered. He did not want to understand what he had just heard, but he did. All too well.

She had left. Gone. After a night when he felt her essence inside him, touching his own, she had abandoned him.

He returned to her apartment. The maid Katy was nowhere to be found. Of course not. She did not want to betray her mistress either.

In the dressing room he found the duchess clothes, but none of the others. In her sitting room, propped on her writing desk, he saw the letter with
Aylesbury
scrawled large on it. He tore it open.

My dear Lancelot,

How does one address a man who is both duke and husband? Not like this, I suspect. However, as I began this letter, writing
Aylesbury
felt too formal, especially this morning. I do not pen a state document, do I?

I think you know why I have left. Not because of anything you said or did. Not because I lack affection for you. Rather you were terribly used by my
uncle, blackmailed into the marriage for all intents and purposes, and that is wrong.

Yesterday, Ives toasted to your having your life back, the one you were intended to live. I am not a part of that life. I never can be, not really. I too want you to have your full legacy, and sons by a woman whose stature is worthy of you and them. The truth is, except for my uncle's scheme, you would have never married me.

You were defrauded by him. Surely Ives can find a way to argue the marriage was a fraud too. Do not worry about my uncle's reputation, or mine, as you pursue your freedom. I am an insignificant person in your world, and none of those people will even remember my name in five years.

I am sure I will see you again. I will look forward to that, and in the meantime I will cherish many memories.

Marianne Radley

It was a sensible letter, well thought out and rational. Anyone who knew their situation would agree with her in all that she said.

She assumed he would be grateful for her understanding, and glad she was so noble and good. She took it for granted that he wanted this too. She thought he would be happy.

Instead he was furious, and wounded more deeply than he had thought ever possible.