Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter Four

While I am at Aberfeld House with Mrs. Peterson and three maids, I concentrate on my tasks, anything to prevent me from worrying about my feelings for the duke. Am I falling in love with him? Or am I letting my fancy run wild, overwhelmed by his body’s magnificence? When Betsy and William are around, the duke treats me casually, as an old friend. When we are alone, he is affectionate, definitely showing an increasing desire for intimacy. The crazy thing is, I like it. Always in my mind there is the image of that bare back, those sinewy arms, that strong swing of the axe, his obvious strength.

Dreaming is hardly a new experience for me. I have dreamed of having a man desire me, but not a specific man. Up to now, that being was imaginary, a fantasy, with no specific hair color, eyes, or features. Now my dreams feature Philip. I know the beauty of the male body, with so many examples in paintings and statuary. But they cannot compare to his bare skin, glistening with perspiration, muscles rippling, or the sensuous feel of his lips, the heat of his embrace, the touch of gentle hands. When he caresses my neck, nuzzles my hair, and presses me to his chest, I feel like a woman. He is equally worthy for his concerns and responsible attitude, no longer a care-for-nothing rogue. And I can no longer avoid admitting it to myself. I have fallen in love with Philip Trent, the tenth duke of Aberfeld.

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When the duke calls on me at Bowen Hall, my father comes out of his library to greet him. We take seats in the morning room and Philip begins the conversation.

“The new saplings, I have read, start producing nuts when they are four or five years old, though the trees live fifty, sixty years, or more. The larger, the better, for timber or paneling.”

Father speaks up. “Did you know the Romans introduced walnut trees to England almost two thousand years ago?”

“You don’t say? That gives us a common bond, Lord Bowen.”

After little more than another quarter hour, Father heads back to his library for more reading. “I am very pleased to hear about your progress, Duke. Now I wish you good night and good weather tomorrow for your clearing work.”

“A fine man, the Baron,” Philip says as he moves beside me on the sofa.

“Oh, yes, a wonderful father. If he ever writes that book, it will be a gem.”

The duke talks of receiving several letters seeking a position as his valet. “I also need a new steward. I’ll pension off Mr. Cavel and see the old fellow comfortably retired, one of the few whose honesty I trust. All that and splitting old tree stumps, chopping down the scrawniest of the saplings that crowd out sunlight from one another.”

“I thought you said the old duke had not planted any trees for a long time.”

He gives me a peck on the cheek and laughs out loud. “What the humans don’t plant gives way to what the squirrels bury and then overlook.”

I join in his laughter. “Of course, Mother Nature has her way.” I snuggle against him.

“We foresters sometimes have an audience. It seems the village females like to watch us sweat.”

“Betsy and I have also admired the view.”

“By Jupiter, what is the attraction?”

“Come now, men without shirts?”

“Well then! If you have seen my bare chest, I insist on seeing yours.”

“What are you doing?” I screech. But I am too late.

Philip pushes down my filmy sleeves and plays with the swell of my breast above my stays, lifting one and kissing the tip. I purr; his touch makes me weak with desire and fills my veins with honey. I lean into him and try to breathe.

His voice sounds wobbly. “A fitting reward. Beyond my deepest imagination.”

All too soon, he restores my bodice to its proper place and kisses my shoulder. “Now my darling Meg, I must leave you before your father sees us.”

Sadly, I know he is correct.

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When the duke returns from the woods today, I meet him in the Great Hall. He compliments me on how the house is coming along. We’ve scrubbed the floors, washed window glass, and brought in a few of the barn cats to rid the corridors of mice. Mrs. Peterson found a sweep in a neighboring village to begin cleaning the chimneys of soot. We are currently sitting on a newly polished bench, gazing at the vast fireplace large enough to roast an ox.

“Do you think they fed hordes of people here?”

“Probably. If this part of the house came from the time of the Tudors, I’m sure all the nearby residents gathered here. Someday we can try roasting a couple of hogs and invite the entire parish.”

I nod and he reaches his arm around me in a half hug. “Anyone could walk in here,” he whispers. “Maybe your brother.”

“I know.”

“I want to kiss you, Meg. Will you come up with me?”

“Yes.”

We hasten up to his bedchamber and close the door behind us. I collapse into his embrace.

He knows what I crave. “My dearest, my Meg, my love.”

When he lifts me onto the soft bed, I welcome his warm weight against me. My pulse thumps so rapidly I know he can feel it. I arch closer, his heart throbbing against my breast. Lost, I sink into the waves of desire pulsing through every pore of my being, from my panting breaths to the deepest place in my secret core. His fingers find my breast and stroke the nipple into a tight point of ecstatic sensation. My urgent sighs, almost moans, match his murmurs as our kisses turn to probing passion that drives us further into the yielding mists of surrender. He is hard against my thigh and slides his hand under my skirt to caress my legs, then moves to touch the lips of my center, the fount of my essence. His fingers make me tremble, tormented by the exceptional urges shimmering through my body and stealing my consciousness.

“So warm, so wet,” he breathes into my neck. “Ah, Meg. I am helpless; I cannot stop.”

“Please, please,” I whimper, not knowing what I mean. More touching, or stopping before it is too late? Tears fill my eyes. From delight or fear?

He kisses them from my cheeks and pulls away, breathing deeply, tossing his head back and away from me, then straightening my skirt. “We cannot risk it, my darling, no matter how much…” His voice fades. He closes his eyes and stands to press his forehead against the cool window.

“I know. I know.” Slowly, my pulse diminishes, my body grows calmer. I am beginning to understand how this mysterious merging of bodies drives all humanity. I want more. I want all of it. I want to feel that overwhelming secret release I’ve heard about from the whispers of a few married friends.

“I will not take your innocence, Meg. It would be wicked, dishonorable.”

I cannot disagree.

That night, I try to sleep. But I am in a fog, lost in a mist of confusion. From now on, we cannot hide in his bedchamber or cower in Bowen Hall’s Drawing Room. In the twilight, we’ll take long walks or linger in the kitchen garden long ago gone to seed. We’ll consider what needs pruning, where there should be rows of lettuce or vines in bloom with beans or peas. No more should I feel his hard arousal and almost abandon my inhibitions. Stopping earlier was not from the fear of pain one expects upon losing virginity, not at all. I still feel the emptiness of my private places crying out to be filled. Oh yes, I’ve heard many stories, some of pain and blood, but others of achingly beautiful passion to fulfill a hunger like no other. I cannot expect he will allow his passion to override his decency. And I do not wish to tempt him, either. Nevertheless, my tears flow as I slip into oblivion, dreaming that my body swells to meet his, but in reality, it encounters nothing. Just emptiness.

And so pass the first weeks of summer.