Chapter 13 #2
The duchess came to her senses. “Here, William? We cannot.”
“Here. Now,” he said roughly. His fingers stopped their work and he gripped her, pulling her against his body. “Am I dreaming, Yolande? I can’t bear it if I’m dreaming.”
She tilted her head back. “No, my love. You aren’t dreaming unless I’m dreaming, too. And I make you a promise, if this is a dream, I’m coming to your bed as soon as I awake.”
He buried his head in her curls and laughed. “No man deserves to be this happy.” His hands traveled up and his fingers brushed softly over her breasts. She trembled at the power of a wave of giddy lust.
“William!” she gasped.
“Yes. But I must be growing old,” he said as he continued the delicate torment. “Bed does sound like an attractive notion. As I remember, making love on the floor can be deuced uncomfortable.”
Reluctantly, the duchess agreed though she didn’t know if her legs could support her to the upper floor, and she did not want to part from him. She was terrified this moment would evaporate. But she pulled free of his hands and said, “It will take me only a few moments to be ready.”
He pulled her back into his arms. “I go with you,” he said. He traced her face with unsteady fingers then kissed her hungrily. Then pulled back.
“Thomas!” he shouted and a footman popped into the room. “Go tell my valet and the duchess’s maid they will not be required.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the footman, but his eyes bulged at the sight of his disheveled master and mistress entwined together.
As the footman left on his errand, the duchess chuckled and hid her face in the duke’s shoulder. “What will they think?”
“Who cares?” He placed his hands beneath her breasts and pushed their fullness up, then slowly and deliberately he lowered his lips first to one nipple then the other. As they swelled beneath the cloth he brought his teeth to bear gently so that the duchess moaned and clutched at him.
“I told you my memory was returning,” he said with a grin “Let’s to bed, reine de mon coeur.”
The marquess returned to Marlborough Square rather early. Tonight had been the farewell party for Con and Dare, but it had also turned into a farewell to his days of bachelor freedom.
It had been pleasant enough, but he’d begun to find the bawdy jokes of his friends tiresome and their advice inappropriate to his bedding of Elizabeth Armitage. He’d noticed Nicholas twice turn the conversation when it became too crude, which he wouldn’t have bothered to do in other circumstances.
In the end, though, Lucien had slipped away and walked home to clear his head. It would not be a bad idea anyway to have all his wits about him tomorrow.
It had only occurred to him this evening that he’d never tried to bed a woman without the positive desire to do so. Sometimes it had been only a momentary lust; at other times, as with Blanche, it had been something much deeper, but the desire had always been strong.
Did he desire Elizabeth Armitage? Not particularly. He admired her spirit and her wit; when animated she became quite pretty, but she stirred no ardent feelings in him, apart from the times she’d roused his temper.
The one time he’d kissed her there’d been something, but he had ended it without regret, except the regret that he had forced on her a kiss she did not want. What if she resisted consummation? He doubted he could bring himself to force her.
Even if she was acquiescent there was no guarantee that he would feel desire. It was going to be damned embarrassing if he couldn’t perform.
He entered the house. “Everyone abed, Thomas?” he inquired of the night footman.
“Yes, m’lord. The duke and duchess retired not long ago, m’lord.”
The marquess went up the stairs feeling mildly surprised that the footman had volunteered that extra sentence.
He then became aware it had been said in a strange voice.
He looked back at the young man in his livery and powdered hair.
The footman was sitting in the chair provided at night, upright and alert.
Impersonal, as a good servant should be.
He was not to know that the young man was still stunned by the sight of those rarefied beings, the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven, making their way, disheveled and laughing, up the stairs, arms wrapped around each other. At their age, too.
The marquess thought of going to speak to his mother as she was presumably still awake. He felt strangely restless and in need of something. At the duchess’s door, however, he heard faint voices and didn’t knock.
The maid? No, a man’s voice. The marquess did not particularly want to see the duke. As he turned away, however, he thought he heard a faint shriek. He turned quickly back, but the sound was followed by laughter.
He stood looking at the mahogany panels with perplexity. If he didn’t know better, he’d think there was a private orgy going on in there.
His mother and whom, was the disturbing question. A strange thought that was all the fault of Elizabeth Armitage and her dubious, radical morals.
He went quickly to the duke’s suite which was around the corner. A knock on the door brought no one, so he opened it. In the three rooms there was no sign of the duke. His bed was turned down, his nightshirt laid out, his washing water cooling and unused.
The marquess walked slowly back past his mother’s rooms and unashamedly listened again.
The sounds were faint but quite unmistakable.
A smile broadened to a grin. Thank God he’d been wrong all these years.
In some quite illogical way, he felt the evidence of his parents’—he hesitated a moment over the word in his mind and then let it lie—his parents’ intimacy gave hope for his own marriage.
He was soon deep and dreamlessly asleep while elsewhere in the big house the duke and duchess scarcely slept the whole night long.
Beth felt like a doll the next day, her wedding day.
She was moved and placed by others. As she was supposed not to see her bridegroom before the evening wedding, she was confined to her rooms. She felt some slight disgruntlement that he doubtless was free to go where he wished, but in fact the arrangement suited her well enough.
She was in a fine state of nerves and was sure she would disgrace herself in public.
The duchess spent some time with her in the morning and seemed to be in quite extraordinary spirits, despite looking tired and even yawning once.
Beth also received a flying visit from one of the marquess’s sisters, Lady Graviston.
The former Lady Maria was petite and very smart but not of an analytical nature.
She appeared to accept her brother’s choice of bride without question, said all the right things, then talked for twenty minutes about her three lively children.
She then kissed Beth’s cheek and announced she must be off if she were to look her best for the wedding.
The marquess’ other sister, Lady Joanne Cuthbert-Harby had previously sent a polite note of regret as she was “expecting an interesting event” at any moment. It would be her fifth child. All this evidence of fecundity did little to soothe Beth’s nerves.
The duke visited her. He, too, seemed to be in marvelous spirits but then he was seeing the fruition of his plans.
He brought with him the marquess’ bride gift, a splendid diamond parure, far grander than the one she had rejected.
It included a tiara with diamond drops which swayed and twinkled in the light.
Beth tried to balk at the tiara but was soon persuaded it was appropriate to her position.
She found, faced with the awareness of the night to come, she had no heart for minor battles.
Even Miss Mallory, when she arrived, was little comfort. There was such a vast gulf between them now, made greater by deception, that Beth found her time with the lady more trial than support.
“I have to confess,” said Miss Mallory, as she sipped her tea, “that it is delightful to travel in such comfort. So kind of the duke to send a carriage just for me. And this house is very beautiful.”
“You must come to visit Belcraven Park sometime, Aunt Emma,” said Beth, not without a touch of dryness.
Miss Mallory did not seem to notice. “I have heard it is famous. You look very fine, Beth.” She showed her principles had not been totally undermined by wealth, however. “Are you happy, Beth? There is still time to change your mind if you have doubts.”
Doubts, thought Beth. Doubts was a mild word for it. For her aunt’s sake, however, she smiled and lied. “Very happy. The marquess and I get along remarkably.”
“Well, I am relieved. Though I could understand the duke’s predicament, I did not like his solution, and I was very surprised you so quickly agreed. I was afraid you had been swayed by worldly considerations, and perhaps,” she added in a whisper, though they were quite alone, “lust.”
Beth could feel herself go red. “Certainly not!”
“Of course, of course,” said Miss Mallory, quite pink herself. “You saw in the marquess the finer feelings. You are wiser than I. How unfair it is that when we see a handsome man or a beautiful woman, we are inclined to think them shallow or thoughtless.”
Beth could not face more discussion of her marriage. “How is the school? I do miss it,” she said, then added quickly, “even though I am so happy here.”
“And everyone misses you, my dear. I have had such a time finding a replacement. The applicants are either quite silly or too harsh. I believe I have one now who will do, however. Little else has changed, except that Clarissa Greystone has left at last.”
“Really? How came that about?”