When the Duke Returns (21 page)

The Dower House
March 3, 1784

A
s the dowager's carriage drove away, Isidore walked back to the Dower House with one thought in her mind. She was a fool. Simeon may not love her, but he was the man she had. And she could not allow him to be in this fetid, empty house by himself. He could learn to love her. She thought of the way he whirled and struck, and knew the feeling in her heart for what it was. She was halfway to being hopelessly in love with him, for all the same reasons that drove his mother to despise him: for his strength, for his uniqueness, for the Simeon-ness of him.

Simeon rose from the desk when she entered. “You
entered Revels House without my permission,” he stated, by way of greeting. “I asked you to wait for me because I knew those men posed a danger.”

“I thought you were accompanying me in order to add your voice to my entreaty.”

“And you thought that my participation would be a disadvantage,” he said. His jaw was set, his shoulders rigid.

“Yes.”

“I commanded you.”

“I don't recognize commands,” she stated, making sure that he knew exactly what she was saying.

“I didn't want to frighten you by mentioning the Dead Watch.”

“I don't frighten easily.” But she didn't feel like squabbling, so she said, “Simeon, I just want to say that you were
magnificent
!”

“That is very kind of you.”

“I think your mother was flustered by the shock, the horror of all that had happened,” Isidore said, galloping on without any encouragement from his expression.

“She was horrified by my exhibition of foreign skills,” he said. But his voice was dry, and not wounded.

“I thought the way you whirled and struck was amazing.”

He met her eyes, and she could read them, if no one else could. “She'll never like me.”

“That is her weakness and her loss,” Isidore said firmly. “As Honeydew may have informed you, she left to stay with her sister. I think she will be much happier for a visit.”

“Honeydew does not believe she is ever coming back. She asked for all her things, including the furniture in her bedchamber.”

“Then we will be happy to send it along,” Isidore said. “That will save it a trip to London, though it may fall apart on the journey, of course.”

“If you entered my aunt's house, you might think you'd stepped back two hundred years.”

“In that case your mother's furniture will feel right at home.” Isidore drifted closer. Yes, she deserved love and courtship. But sometimes a woman had to take what she could get, especially if it came in a muscled, beautiful, and entirely desirable package.

“Doubtless.”

Isidore took a deep breath, remembering Jemma's various lessons regarding men. Then she reached down and pulled off one of her slippers. Simeon watched as she dropped it on the floor. She pulled off another and placed it precisely next to the first.

“Isidore?” he asked. Naturally, his voice held the kind of mild curiosity with which one might inquire if the vicar was staying for supper.

She didn't answer. She pulled up her skirts and snagged one stocking from its garter. It flowed to the ground and pooled at her ankle. She put out a toe and the stocking rolled off of its own accord. She thought that Simeon's eyes looked less calm, so she made an event of the second stocking.

“Isidore,” Simeon repeated. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing myself.”

“Honeydew will likely enter at any moment.”

Isidore pulled up her skirts and undid the little ties that held her panniers around her waist. They collapsed silently to the floor and she stepped out of them. “You had better send him away,” she said. “I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed by your wife.”

“You don't want to be my wife,” he said, but his voice had a husky undertone.

“No, I don't,” she said agreeably. She was wrestling with her petticoat now. “I deserve better than you.”

“You do.”

“I deserve to be courted.” Her petticoat fell and she kicked her way out of it. “With flowers, jewels, and poetry written specially for the occasion. I deserve to be adored. Someone should be kneeling at my feet.” She looked pointedly at Simeon, but he showed no signs of abasing himself, so she began unlacing her bodice.

“I deserve,” she finished, “to be loved.”

“Yes,” he said. Still he didn't move.

Inside, Isidore felt as if a drop of ice water was running down her back. He wasn't panting at her feet the way Jemma had promised. Perhaps he thought her thighs were too plump, but men liked plump thighs, didn't they?

He just stood there, saying nothing although she had finished unlacing her bodice. She could back silently into the bedroom, pretending that none of this had happened, or she could drop her gown. She looked at Simeon again. He could have been carved out of wood.

Like a flash flood, Isidore felt a wave of red coming over her face. Her bodice was open all down the front, though of course her breasts didn't show due to her chemise. That was one saving grace.

A second later she had fled into the bedchamber and closed the door. She tripped on the threshold and fell to her knees with a hard thump. A sob was rising in her throat but she cut it off. She would pretend that nothing happened. Nothing. She just happened to partially undress before him, and if he heard even a whisper of a sob, then he would feel sorry for her and—

Though she hadn't heard the sound of footsteps, he spoke just outside the door. “Isidore?”

“No,” she said, thankful that her voice didn't tremble.
She knelt on the hard wood, her hands shaking, holding her bodice together.

“No?”

She cleared her throat. “I'm not available at the moment.”

“Why aren't you available?”

A flash of rage had her off her knees. “Why? What did you think I was available
for
?”

There was silence. He was a gentleman. It wasn't his fault that she had listened to Jemma and thought that all men were at the mercy of their loins. Obviously, she had the remarkable bad luck to be married to the one man who was in control of his body. Wonderful.

Though, of course, it was likely that men controlled their bodies best when they didn't feel true desire. A tear slipped over her clenched fists.

“Isidore, I'm coming in.”

“I'd rather you didn't,” she snapped. “This was all a misunderstanding, and may we
please
just forget it ever happened?”

“No.”

She swallowed. “Just go away, please.”

There was a muffled thump. But it wasn't the door. He was probably leaving. Isidore sat down on the bed, her back to the door. He could go to blazes, for all she cared. Any number of men in London would look faint when she took off a glove, never mind dropping a petticoat.

“Isidore, will you open the door?”

“For God's sake,” she shouted back, losing her temper. “Will you leave me alone? Haven't you embarrassed me enough?”

“How much revenge do you intend to take?”

What a stupid question. “You are quite safe. Now if you would just please
leave
!”

“I can't. I took my clothes off.”

“You—”

“I'm quite naked. And while it's not very chilly today, there is a good likelihood that Honeydew will enter at any moment.”

Isidore's hands fell from her mouth. Being Simeon, he sounded entirely practical. “I think I hear voices on the garden path,” he added.

“No, you don't,” Isidore said, but her voice was weak. She was consumed by a blaze of curiosity. “You're really naked?
Naked
?”

“I've never stood naked in a sitting room before,” he said.

“Well, enjoy it,” she said weakly.

There was a moment's silence while she thought about the fact that Simeon was out there without clothes. He had taken his clothing off?

“Isidore,” he said quietly, “Honeydew is walking toward the Dower House. I can see him through the window.”

She threw the bedchamber door open, grabbed his arm, and jerked him forward.

There he was.

Afternoon sun was slanting onto the wide planks, stained dark with years. At first Isidore just saw his feet. They looked just as large and male as they had after his bath. He dropped the clothing he held on the floor.

Her own toes curled. Of course she should meet his eyes. She should look higher than his knees. But—

She was staring at his thighs when they suddenly moved in her direction. “I suggest,” came a voice somewhere above her ear, a rather strained voice, she thought, “that we retire to your bed.”

His voice had no semblance of control. It was rough
like velvet and his eyes were half closed, but not slumbering. It was as if the beast inside him had woken up. “I never meant to embarrass you,” he said.

She smiled, a bit tightly.

“I don't think very quickly,” he said. “No, listen to me, Isidore.”

She raised her eyes. Truly, it was rather fascinating—

“When things happen quickly, as when you took off your clothes, I can't think what to say. It wasn't that I didn't—”

“It's all right,” she said.

“I want you. Desperately.”

“Oh.” He was making her feel embarrassed now.

“I'm not good at talking.” When he moved it was so sudden that she didn't even know what was happening until she felt the bedcover at her back, and he reared over her, gently pulling her bodice apart.

It occurred to her that she was supposed to squeal with fright but instead she arched her back so that he could pull off her sleeves. The muscles in his shoulder bunched as he gently untied her chemise and pulled it over her head.

“What should we do next?” she asked. He seemed to know. He lowered his long body on top of her, balanced on his elbows.

Isidore gulped. “Aren't you going to—”

But he was kissing her, deep boneless kisses, the kind that made her wind her arms around his neck, and pull his body down onto hers.

Her hands slid down his back and onto his bottom, curved over warm muscles, slipped between his legs. “You—” His voice was pained. He arched his back. “Oh God, Isidore, that feels so good.”

She started laughing and his mouth came down on hers with desperation. And then he pressed against her.
It was extremely odd. Like a door opening, Isidore thought. First there was only herself, and then somehow there was room enough for him as well.

He made a rough sound, low in his throat and pressed deeper. Isidore waited for the pain that was supposed to come, but nothing happened.

Well, that was good.

He pulled back and then thrust forward again.

It felt good. It did. Well, perhaps it didn't feel that good. There was a little pulling feeling that she didn't care for all that much. Isidore tried to push away that disloyal thought. He was supposed to do whatever, and she could just do what she wished. And what she wished was to touch him.

Stroking his back felt like nothing she'd experienced before. It was all rippling muscle, ridges and curves that moved under her fingers as he—

He did that thrusting thing.

The truth was, she didn't really care for it all that much.

But he did. That was the wonderful thing about it—there wasn't an ounce of composure about Simeon now, nothing of the controlled man. His face was alive with pleasure. She ran her hands over his cheekbones and he thrust forward so hard that she actually gasped and raised her knees.

Which felt better, for some reason.

He made another sound in his throat, as if he were dying, and that made her smile. “Isidore,” he said. “Are you—are you—”

“Yes?” she said helpfully.

“I can't control myself much longer.” His voice sound dark and anguished.

No wonder women love bedroom activities. “That's just as it ought to be,” she cooed. Every time she moved,
he gasped, so she arched her back again. It felt better that way for her as well. If she moved, he lost control. Which was exactly what she wanted, Isidore thought. He pulled back and gripped her hips so hard that it was going to leave bruises, pulled her up and toward him. He was definitely out of control.

Simeon's head was roaring, his body rejoicing in a rhythm that he felt as if he'd known for years. It was like a glorious race. It was pure physical joy. Isidore's body was soft, warm, wet—

He couldn't wait much longer. And yet it was like seeing the finish line and not wanting to reach it. He didn't want to come.

He didn't want—

Pleasure was roaring in his legs, and Isidore was meeting him now, raising her hips in a way that made him want to bite her on the collarbone, act like a rampaging beast.

His vision was almost black by the time he let himself go, wild and fierce. He thrust forward, dimly hearing the bed frame pound the cottage wall, dimly sensing Isidore's little laugh, dimly—

He was outside himself. The smell of Isidore and her curvy little body, her laugh, the sound of her voice, the way she touched him without fear and without shame, took him to another place.

He threw his head back and roared like a man who was never quiet, like a lion claiming his mate.

The Dower House
March 3, 1784

S
imeon came back into his body very slowly. Valamksepa used to talk about a noncorporeal experience that fasting monks experienced. Simeon never thought it sounded like an appealing prospect, but he might have to rethink that naïve supposition.

He was covered with sweat, panting as if he'd had a long run, and happier than he'd been in years. Isidore had her eyes closed, so he drank her in: the slightly exotic tilt of her eyes, her little nose, her creamy skin. She was exquisite. She was his. She was impulsive and infuriating and all too emotional, but she was his fate.

There are exquisite aspects to surrendering to one's fate.

“Did it hurt, Isidore?” he asked, suddenly remembering that she too had been a virgin, and rolling off her body.

She opened her eyes. “No, not at all. Did it hurt for you?”

“No, but no one says that it ought to.”

“It was not terribly uncomfortable,” she said, coming up on her elbows and peering down her body.

He followed her eyes. She had the most curvy, creamy body that he could have imagined.

“No blood,” she said relievedly, flopping back down again. “A few bruises on my hips. So what did you think?”

Simeon had never been very good at explaining things. How could he explain a rush of pleasure so acute that it felt as if his skin were alive, as if he knew her body as well as his own, as if he was seeing the world in color after being blind?

“I liked it,” Isidore continued.

That was good. Simeon lay back because if he didn't stop looking at her, he would leap on top of her again. His rod stirred at the thought.

“It's not something I would want to do every day,” she continued, “but from what I hear, people don't do it all that often anyway.”

Simeon turned his head.

She was looking at him, rather shyly. “Do you mind that we consummated our marriage, Simeon?”

It didn't sound as if Isidore had fallen out of herself while making love to him. In fact, now he thought about it…

Not that he knew much about women's bodies. He'd always avoided salacious campfire talk. She didn't experience great pleasure.

That was entirely unacceptable.

Likely she wouldn't wish to try making love again for a time. That too was unacceptable. He made a plan and implemented it, all in one second.

“We weren't very good,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, ignoring her question.

She blinked. “We weren't?”

“No.”

“I thought—”

“We need to work on it. You shouldn't like to be a failure, would you?”

She didn't respond as impulsively as he hoped. “I don't think I was a failure,” she said. “Nor you either. What were you expecting?”

“More,” he said, though he wasn't actually sure there could be anything
more
than what he'd experienced. “It's because we're beginners,” he added hastily.

“I suppose that could be true,” Isidore said. “What do you think we did wrong? How did it feel for you?”

“Short,” he said, realizing that was true. “Surely it should take longer than a few minutes.”

“I don't know,” Isidore said. “You're—you're—” She waved her hand.

“One of the things that's odd is that we were so intimate,” Simeon said, realizing he really meant it. “We joined our bodies together, and yet I don't truly understand your body.”

“How could you understand it?”

“Well,” he said, reaching out delicately, “how does it feel to have breasts?”

She started laughing, a delicious low gust of laughter. “How does it
feel
? Simeon, do you think that you're a normal man?”

“It seems like a logical question to me. I don't have
anything of that nature standing out from my chest. Are you aware of them all the time? Do you know they're there?”

“Do you know that your knees are there all the time?”

“Only when I use them. But those don't have any use. That is—”

“Of course they have use,” she said, sitting up. “I just don't have a baby to use them yet.”

“Will you nurse your own children?”

“My mother nursed me,” Isidore said. “Italian gentlewomen nurse their own children. My mother believed that babies are less likely to survive if they're given to a wet nurse.”

Simeon didn't want to talk about babies. “I just thought,” he said slowly, “that women's breasts felt good. For example…” He reached out his hand, realizing with a certain remote part of his brain that his fingers were trembling, and cupped the sweet heaviness of her breast. “What does that feel like?”

“Fine,” she said. “My goodness, it's strange to think that you can just touch me like that. No one touches me.”

“But I'm your husband now. In truth and in law.” He let his thumb wander in a little caress.

“I suppose.”

“And how does this feel?” He rubbed his thumb over her nipple.

“Oh—”

He did it again. “Isidore?”

She opened her mouth but no words emerged. “I have heard that women find this quite pleasant as well,” Simeon said, feeling more cheerful. He bent his head and put his lips to her breast.

She cleared her throat. “Simeon, you're not a child and—”

His lips closed around her nipple. Children had noth
ing to do with the way desire coursed through his legs, through his heart.

Her hand fell from his shoulder onto the bed, boneless. He started suckling her, and her head fell back. Harder, and a muffled little sound hung in the air. His body was rigid, throbbing. But he was in control.

He pulled back. “See?” he said, talking around the tightness in his throat, the groan that wanted to come out. “We're not there.”

She opened her eyes. They were a little dazed, sweet, unfocused.

“Where?” There was a tremor in her voice.

Simeon forced himself to roll away, sit up casually. “We don't know anything about each other's bodies,” he said over his shoulder. If he looked at her any longer, he'd leap on top of her. “We'll have to practice.”

“Practice?” Isidore's voice was husky and a little irritated. He loved it.

“Tonight, perhaps.” He pulled on his shirt, still not looking. “If we feel like it.”

There was a sudden motion and she was sitting up. But the next thing she said was a mile from the husky nymph he was imagining.

“Simeon!” A shrew would be proud of that squeal. “What did you
do
?”

He swung around. “What?”

She was staring down at her legs. “You—you peed on me!” She swallowed. “
In
me!”

“Any blood?” He bent over and peered interestedly.

“That's not blood.” She hastily wiped off her leg, and jumped off the bed. A second later she had her chemise over her head. He'd ripped it, so it fell open in the front, but she didn't seem to notice.

“It's not pee. Didn't anyone tell you about bedding?”

“My aunt forgot to mention this charming detail.”

“It's just a little fluid, carrying my part of a baby.”

She looked down at her legs, now decently covered.

“I'll show you tonight,” he said, pulling on his trousers.

“Show me what?” she asked suspiciously.

“How my body works.”

In the back of his mind, he was thinking about the way she touched his body. Even now her eyes seemed to be drawn to his body, so he slowed his fingers, pulled his trousers up the curve of his arse slower than he needed to.

“I can demonstrate without making love,” he said casually, meeting her eyes when she finally looked up again. “Since you didn't find it entirely pleasurable.”

“Neither did you,” she said defensively.

“We'll improve.”

“Of course,” she said. “Good.”

“Tonight,” he said, throwing his coat over his shoulder.