Chapter 6 #2
I lower my eyes as heat surges to my cheeks. I cannot believe he would imply I am nervous! And in front of the servants, no less! Does the man have no decorum? I lift my face, determined he shall not outmatch me in this. “Not at all, Your Grace. I am fully refreshed.”
Do his eyes flash, or is that a trick of the flickering candlelight? “I am pleased to hear it. In that case, you must take some nourishment.”
Every muscle I possess tightens at the way he says must. I must fight against the urge to look to the servants, wondering if their faces will betray them as scandalized or amused by my humiliation.
Instead, my gaze locks on to my new husband’s, and I pick up the weighty silver fork, and spear a potato.
Without breaking eye contact, I bring it to my mouth and eat it.
Then I set down my fork once more. “There. Surely you are satisfied?”
“I shall be when I see you eat several more.”
The velvet richness of his murmur does something to me that makes me forget myself.
I forget about the servants. I forget about being embarrassed.
I find myself ensnared by his gaze, watching his mouth for the slightest movement betraying that he is not in earnest. But I do not detect even a flicker.
I drop my gaze, cursing him for having bested me in this, too, and I make quick work of following his order—for there is no denying that is exactly what it was.
I eat two more small potatoes flecked with butter and cream.
I manage three green beans and one bite of braised beef before I find the courage to meet his eyes once more.
I expect to find him mocking, or victorious, but he is only observing me with the same somber expression.
“Well done, my lady.”
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh that threatens to split my corset.
It is most undignified, but I cannot control my body in his presence.
It vexes me in a way most unsettling. Even before I know my own mind, I am rising and pushing back my chair.
“I think I shall retire for the evening, Your Grace.”
He rises as well, his face giving no hint of what he is thinking. He inclines his head. “As you wish, my lady.”
I hesitate, torn between wishing to withdraw and be rid of his presence, and the knowledge that we are to consummate our new marriage.
The duke’s face gives no sign of his having such thoughts—I cannot tell whether he will be pleased by my exit or irritated.
I add it to the list of his sins I am crafting.
“If you require some assistance—”
“Are you coming?” It is a bald question, asked with the explicit purpose to elicit a reaction, but again, His Grace does not change in expression. It is enough to make a lady worry she cannot inspire anything in a man.
“Is that your wish, my lady?”
My stomach tightens and the sensation soars until it reaches my throat. “Yes,” I manage to say at last, the word a whisper I barely hear.
But His Grace seems to. Or he can sense it on my face. Either way, he approaches my end of the table and offers me his arm. I take it, in part to hide my fingers’ quivering.
“You may retire,” I hear the Duke say, but I do not turn my head to see to whom he speaks.
I find myself consumed with his nearness—the heat from his body seems to reach toward me, like tantalizing tendrils that beckon me closer. It is all I can do to ignore the siren call of his broad shoulders, his strong chest.
Lord Ashbury was my only lover. Though I am not coming to my marital bed a virgin, I am far from experienced, and the apprehension of this moment is enough to have my stomach in knots.
What if I mess up somehow? What if he finds me lacking? What if he discovers my secret?
With each step, my fear swells, but I walk on. I have little choice. I must see to this—for the sake of my child, and my family’s continued good name, no matter how urgent the disquiet in my breast grows.
“My lady.” He gallantly ushers me into my new apartments.
I cross the threshold and have hardly entered the space—indeed, though I do allow my gaze to sweep over the room, all the details go unnoticed by me. I have far more important matters on my mind when I spin around to face him.
He arches an eyebrow, his expression surprised. “Yes, my lady?”
“I… how do we… I do not…”
“Do you wish to ask me something, my dear?” His lips quirk at the corners, and his eyes shine at me with a knowing humor that makes my stomach flutter.
He wishes me to say it? That is most perplexing.
Unsettling, even. Though such matters are not oft mentioned among us highborn, proper ladies, I have always been under the impression that the gentleman wants the consummation of the marriage more than the lady.
Why then does the duke wait? Why does he wish me to give voice to feelings he surely feels more than I?
Unless… perhaps his pulse does not race when I am near. Perhaps his heart does not pound twice as hard? Perhaps he does not find me pleasing to gaze upon?
I swallow past the doubt that has crept up my throat. “We must…” I draw my breath sharply and refuse to be put off by his cool nonchalance. I lift my chin, determined to say what I must. “We must consummate our union, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” His voice is a silken murmur that threatens to buckle my knees. “I am willing. All I require is for you to tell me why you wish to.”
Before I can remember a highborn lady never loses her composure, I am blinking at him, mystified. “We… we must, my lord. To… to solidify our marriage.”
“Oh.” His countenance displays confusion. “Is that why?”
“O-of course.” I cringe inwardly, hating how my voice has betrayed my confusion.
“Truly?” He steps toward me, his face the picture of delight—delight, I can tell plainly, at causing me distress.
I back away hastily. “Yes. Of course. This is how it is done.”
He lifts his brow higher and offers a haughty, amused chuckle, and I hate him for it.
I hate my body even more, for the sound caresses my ear, and the ball of nerves in the pit of my stomach tightens to the point of anguish. With sudden clarity I see that only the duke can provide the cure.
“Are… Do you wish to delay?”
“No, my lady.”
His words are soft, as sweet as honeycomb, yet they do nothing to comfort, to soothe.
“I only wish you to tell me what you want, and precisely why you want it.”
I stare back at him, unspeaking, for moments that feel as though they go on forever.
It takes me far too long to understand what he implies.
When I do, I am quite overcome by the heat of my indignation.
My cheeks prickle with the shame of it… and yet.
There is something more to the heat, I fear.
I set aside the traitorous lust of my body and regard my new husband with disdain.
“You want me to tell you I long for you.” It is not a question.
When his eyes flash, he confirms it without a word. “I only wish you to tell the truth.”
My shame soars, outflanked only by my pride. “I was born to this life, Your Grace. I need not say anything to you, and I certainly do not intend to offer false flattery.”
He is evidently unaffected by both my barb and my sharp tone. “I am not suggesting you tell me anything false, my dear.”
I frown—oh, how I long for his composure, but having already lost that battle, I refuse to lose this one as well. “You are the one in want of this evening, Your Grace.”
“Truly? What makes you say so?”
The flames in my face burn hotter. He denies it?
He must think me a fool! “You did not go through all the trouble of going to my father and blackmailing him for my hand if you did not wish to consummate.” My fury is intensifying, made all the worse by the picture of calm he presents.
My fingers itch to find something to launch at him, but as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I feel my bottom quivers, the surface tingling with a reminder of what had occurred when I had last behaved thus.
“I did not say I did not wish to lie with you, my lady. Merely that I wish for you to acknowledge your own longing.”
I grit my teeth together so that I do not shout at him. I do not wish to bring a servant running—experiencing this without an audience is humiliating enough. “I will not.” I spit each word at him, thrown like gauntlets at his feet. I breathe hard, my nostrils flaring, incensed.
He nods, as though this is of little consequence to him.
It is maddening! I ball my hands into fists at my sides, determined he should not vex me to the point of physical violence.
“As you wish, my lady. I will leave you to rest.” But when he moves, instead of withdrawing, he steps closer.
I move back, but he matches me step for step in the strangest, most titillating dance I have ever participated in. I back away, and he approaches, the magnetism in his eyes ensnaring my gaze. Unable to look away, I retreat while he advances yet again.
His expression is a study in determination—his jaw set, his mouth a firm line.
A quiver works down my body until every inch of me trembles beneath it. In this moment, I am most grateful to still have the protection of my gown.
The nearer he moves, the more his scent reaches toward me—the masculine musk of sandalwood and cigar smoke, with the smallest hint of brandy. I have heard the occasional woman remark to Mother they find the scent of their husbands repugnant, and I have long ago accepted it as a fact of marriage.
Yet, as far as the duke is concerned, his scent enflames my senses. My heart launches itself with such violence, such haste, that I am startled he does not seem to hear it.
“Oh!” I breathe as my legs catch against a piece of sturdy furniture.
The duke reaches out a hand, and for a moment, I believe he means to steady me. Instead, he gives me a small push so that I fall back.
I land solidly in the seat of an armchair, which startles me, but far less than the way he looms over me—and the intense authority in his bearing causes my throat to tighten until it renders me speechless.
“I will set the course for how this union between us will be run, straight from the onset. Therefore, my dear, if you do not wish to confess the fullness of your feelings to me, we shall not consummate until you can bring yourself to follow my instruction.”
Fingers of longing and honor claw at me in equal measure as I gaze, spellbound, into his handsome, solemn face. “And if I do not long for you, as you imply? What then, Your Grace?”
“Do you truly wish to pretend?” He examines my face, and I shiver; it is as though he can peer past flesh and bone into the depths of my very soul.
“That is a game you will lose, my lady.” He bends nearer until his lips brush against my ear.
“We both know you are no inexperienced maid. As such… I forbid you to touch yourself. You will give me satisfaction… or have none yourself.”
With that, he straightens, looking at me as though his words have not caused an inner quaking in my core that threatens to overtake me.
“Oh, and be assured, if you do, I shall know. Goodnight, my dear. I do hope you sleep well.”