Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MARJORIE WOKE AND it was still quite dark.
“Oh, apologies,” came Arthford’s voice. “I was only looking in on you. I didn’t mean to rouse you.”
She was tucked into a bed in Bluebelle Grange, a nice and large and comfortable bed, and she felt tired and sore and sad in a way she had not felt, well, perhaps ever. She was exhausted in her bones, in her soul. “No, I could not truly rest until I knew you were back,” she said.
“I don’t know why they put you in this room of all rooms,” he muttered, letting out a sigh.
“It’s a good room, I think,” she said, trying to sit up.
“It was hers when she stayed here,” he said.
The marchioness. She might have cared about that if she hadn’t been so exhausted. She beckoned. “Let us drive her out then, whatever remains of her. Come here.”
He looked down at himself. “I’m sweaty and dirty and—”
“Come here.”
He let out a breath and then began stripping off his clothing as he walked towards the bed.
She pulled aside the blankets.
He climbed in next to her. His skin was freezing, and she tried to warm him with her own.
He let out a series of noisy breaths, pulling her against him.
She sighed, feeling just better now that he was here. “Were there issues?”
“It went smoothly enough,” he said. “We sent off a messenger, one of my servants, who will claim to be from Briar Abbey and to say that Lilsbin’s horse arrived and that no one knows where he is. In the morning, we can go back there, with some of my own servants to help yours since they have been through so much. Once people start trying to search for Lilsbin, the story will unfold as it will.”
“You think it will work?”
“I cannot say,” he said. “But seeing as we had no reason to do away with him, I hope so.”
“The deed? What about the deed?” she said.
“I don’t know. We shall need to find Champeraigne, and he will be triumphant and awful.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose he wanted Lilsbin dead. I did his bidding.”
“Your carriage interior was also destroyed. We took out the cushions and threw them on the rubbish heap to be burned,” he said. “But I daresay no one will be looking at your carriage for blood, at least they should have no reason to.”
She held onto him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yes, it’s good to have you close again,” he breathed.
“That’s why it’s not about need, you see,” she said. “It’s about wanting a person, not about needing them. Maybe I don’t need anyone at all, maybe I truly could be self-sufficient in every way. But does that mean I must never want anyone to be near me at all?”
“Mmm,” he said softly, and she could tell, even in the darkness, that he was smiling. “Ah, well, I like that. You could want me even if I was worthless, could you not?”
“You are not worthless,” she said. She kissed him, not his mouth, but whatever she could get her mouth on. It happened to be his neck. It was prickly with newly grown stubble, and she liked that. “You are worth quite a great deal to me. You bring me happiness and satisfaction and joy.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said, still smiling. He moved his head so that he could claim her lips. “But I can at least strive to do that for you. If you’ll let me.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please.”
He lay his head down on the pillow.
“I’m tired, too,” she said, yawning.
“It’ll be morning far too soon,” he muttered.
They slept.
THEY SPENT THE next several days going back and forth between Briar Abbey and Bluebelle Grange.
Marjorie had not really met the Duke of Rutchester the night before, but she was introduced to him now. She knew the Duke of Dunrose, sort of, but not well, and she thought she would be uncomfortable around him, but he didn’t behave in the way that men did sometimes, when they seemed to think that they had gotten something from her after they’d paid to see her without clothes. He didn’t behave at all as if he possessed something of her.
Truly, the other dukes were too preoccupied with covering up the murder of Lilsbin to pay much mind to her at all.
Three days hence, Lilsbin’s brother arrived with a contingent of servants. They all went looking on the road for Lilsbin and found his body. It was as they had predicted, and the body had been ravaged by scavengers. No one was quite able to say what had happened, but the story that he’d been thrown from his horse and killed instantly seemed to make the most sense.
He had apparently been on his way to claim the house, but when Lilsbin’s brother discovered that Champeraigne did not own it and could not have gambled it away, he said it sounded like some sort of scheme the comte would concoct. He said that the comte was not to be trusted. Who could trust the French, anyway?
He seemed to have no interest in the property or in encroaching upon Marjorie’s happiness or life.
He and his party stayed on for another day and then made arrangements to bear Lilsbin’s remains home so that he could be buried in the family plot. The brother was now the new Viscount of Lilsbin.
It felt unfinished to Marjorie, but it was apparently the way of it. She understood, from listening to the conversation of Arthford and the others, that they were well-versed in this sort of thing. It was a violent life Arthford lived. And since she was attached to him now, her life would be violent as well.
But she had no real thoughts of trying to jettison him from her life anymore.
Something had changed. It was strange, because it was just such a small shift, but she realized she’d been denying herself love and happiness out of fear. She’d been afraid to be weak, and she’d been afraid that allowing herself to need someone else would make her weak.
But, well, it was simply the truth, wasn’t it?
Humans were weak.
Even Arthford was weak.
He was a duke, and he had money and lands and a title and he had all the advantages that was conferred upon him as a man. But if Champeraigne’s sword cane had gone in him at a different angle, he would be dead.
There was no such thing as being invincible.
Not as a man, not as a woman.
Not even as a ferocious beast.
Everything was weak in some way.
Trying to stop herself from being weak was like trying to stop the sun from rising in the morning. It was impossible. She would never be invulnerable.
She was, however, rather good at taking care of herself, and she would not alter that fact, nor would she pretend to need a man for things she didn’t actually need him for.
She didn’t need Arthford for her safety or her survival, so she would never depend on him in that way. But she could choose him, of her own free will, and since he seemed to wish to choose her as well, she thought that might be a wonderful way to spend the rest of her life.
Of course, they weren’t talking about that.
They were sleeping in the same bed every night. Either hers at Briar Abbey, if they stayed there, or his at Bluebelle Grange, if they stayed there. He was still recovering from his wound and she was bruised all over, so there had been little more than kissing between them, though they often tangled themselves up, limbs crossed, torsos pressed together, when they lay together at night.
He didn’t talk about marrying her anymore.
She didn’t ask.
But they also assumed they were going to be together, one way or the other, and they were. Together, that was. After the new Lilsbin departed, they were either at her house or his. Rutchester and Dunrose lingered for several days, but then they departed as well.
Sometimes, they had conversations about the near future. It was assumed they were spending Christmas together, and they discussed whether it should be at Bluebelle Grange or not. He offered to give her money to pad out the Christmas boxes for her servants on Boxing Day, and she accepted the help without any protest.
She thought about bringing it up. She had a stray thought that perhaps he didn’t want to marry her anymore, that perhaps she had turned him off from the thought of it when she’d become a murderess or something, but then she decided that was ludicrous. It wasn’t the least bit like him, for one thing, and she was positive that he adored her.
Then she thought it must really be because she’d denied him rather strenuously. She probably needed to undo that, and to tell him she would marry him after all.
So, she resolved to do exactly that.
Except… she didn’t.
Time passed.
A week had gone by since Lilsbin had been discovered, and then two weeks, and then three. Her bruises had faded, and the soreness did not linger. His wound had closed over, but he still had to be careful about the way he moved, so as not to cause himself to re-injure himself.
She had grown used to his body reacting to being close to hers. They would lie together at night, and she would feel the hardness of him pressing into her skin. When he had been very hurt, she had simply ignored it, because she didn’t wish to hurt him, but she began to wonder about that.
One night, when it was happening again, she realized she could most definitely pleasure him with her mouth, because he could lie there, quite still, and it wouldn’t do him any damage.
She scooted down in the bed, fumbling with his small clothes.
“What are you doing?” he said thickly.
She stroked him through the thin fabric. “I’ve been waiting, because I didn’t wish to hurt you—”
“Oh, that’s why?”
“Obviously,” she said and she had him out now. She put her mouth on him.
He groaned. “I forgot how good you are at that.”
She didn’t think she was good at it, but she liked the way his skin felt against her tongue, liked the salty taste of him, the smoothness of the way she could glide over him, liked playing the game of how far she could take him down her throat before it was too much.
She amused herself with that for some time. At first he tried to protest, but she ignored him, and then he seemed to decide to surrender to her.
It was good. She felt herself swelling and waking up and growing more and more aroused. She perched over him, squeezing her thighs together as she grew more and more heavy and excited between her thighs, and each squeeze of her thighs began to nudge her toward her own peak of pleasure.
She wondered idly, suckling her duke’s prick, if she could make herself climax this way, just from having him in her mouth, just from squeezing her own cunny with her thighs. She wondered—
“Up,” he said hoarsely. “Get up here.”
“Hmm?” she said around him.
“Please. It’s been torturous, all these weeks, and I thought you didn’t want it, and I wasn’t ever going to pressure you—”
She popped off him. “But why did you think I didn’t want it?”
“I don’t know. I did sort of destroy your whole fucking life, didn’t I? I don’t even know why you want to be in my arms at night, but I wanted whatever you were going to give me—and I definitely don’t deserve this.”
“I thought we were beyond this deserving business,” she said.
“Is anyone really beyond that?” He shook his head at her. “No more of this discussion. Up here, now.”
“Up where?”
His mouth curved into a wicked grin. “Straddle my damnable face, Marjorie.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t do that.”
“Oh, you can, and what’s more, I very much want you to, so do it now .”
“I’ll smother you.”
He groaned. “Please.”
Her stomach turned over. Oh, my, it was frightfully wicked, wasn’t it, but something about the wickedness pleased her in a way that she could not deny.
She did it.
He reached up, seized her hips, and pulled her down onto his mouth.
She cried out.
His tongue was hot, slippery pleasure, and she was already close, already very near the tipping point.
He reached up and found her breasts, teasing her under her shift.
She made a humming noise.
He growled into her sex.
She arched her back, craning her neck as she shut her eyes and felt as if she were reaching up, a tree reaching for the rays of sunshine, little bits of herself like blossoms trying to open.
He dragged his tongue over the most sensitive part of her, and she opened herself a bit more.
He did it again, and it was just a bit closer.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Come for me,” he rumbled into her. “Come right here, right on my tongue, come surrounding me. I want to feel you on my lips when you burst.”
And burst she did, burst in a jolt, as if she were an array of blossoms bursting open at once, bursting like springtime, and it was heavenly and sweet and good, and he was murmuring praise into her body, urging her on, making each little tremor that went through her feel more intense.
When she was done and panting and practically sobbing, he grasped her waist and nudged her down his body, down onto his waiting erection, which he speared her with.
She let out a mangled sound. “You’ll hurt yourself. Your wound!”
“Well, you’ll just have to do all the work, then,” he breathed, moving her hips himself, moving her up and down on him.
She laughed, finding a rhythm, working herself against him. She was so wondrously sensitive, and he was so deliciously curved. This way, she could angle herself in exactly the right way, control exactly how much of him she got, exactly the way he rubbed against the sensitive part inside her.
She rode him, rode him astride, like he was a horse, and she bent down from time to time to steal kisses from his lips, and when he warned her he was close, she ground her hips down on him, sealing him deep, deep inside of her and begged him to give her his release.
Which he did, digging his fingers into her hips, and letting out a series of hoarse cries.
And she reached in between them to find her swollen clitoris and it only took one nudge before she was blossoming for the sunshine yet again.
In the wake of it, she lay on his chest, his softening member still lodged inside her, and she felt complete and happy and pleased. She sighed, reaching up to tangle a hand in his hair. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he said lazily.
“Are you certain? Your wound, if we were too vigorous—”
“Why did you do that?”
“Oh, are we having this deserving conversation now? I don’t think of it as something you deserve, I suppose. I happen to very much like your prick, and I also like the way it feels in my mouth, and I’ve been wanting to put it back there—”
“No, no, why did you tell me to spend inside you?”
She lifted her head from his chest to look in his eyes. Oh, dear. She hadn’t been thinking about—
What was wrong with her?
“That’s how you get me with child,” she breathed in understanding.
“Look,” he said, very serious, “I’m willing to rethink all of this, and if you’re truly going back to this idea of being my mistress, and you will not budge on it, then… but if we have children, Marjorie, and they’re illegitimate, it’s just—”
“Oh!” She laughed. “No, I do want to marry you, Simon.”
“You do?” He was suddenly grinning, a huge smile that overtook his entire face. “You really do?”
“Yes, I do,” she said softly.
“Well, then,” he breathed. “Well, that’s all right, then.” He started to move, and then flinched and stopped. “All right,” he grunted. “I can’t actually roll us over. Never mind.”
She giggled, moving. “I’ll get off of you—”
“I don’t really mind you being there—”
But she was off, stretching out next to him, laying her head on his chest, and he wound an arm around her, and rained kisses over her forehead.
“I really am going to be the worst duchess of all time,” she informed him.
“I would expect positively nothing less from you,” he said affectionately.