Chapter 10 #3
“Look at me, Wife.” I wait until she reluctantly brings her gaze to mine.
“Good lass,” I murmur, delighted by the flash of pleasure in her eyes.
“I am a bastard,” I say without rancor. “There is no mistaking it, and truly, I am not ashamed. That was not true for many years—indeed, for most of my life. But it is true now. I cannot help my low birth, no more than the child you carry can determine its.”
Her eyes are shining with tears anew, and her lower lip trembles at my words. The tightness in her expression makes it plain she expects condemnation, but I have none to give.
“I would never shame a child for an action it bears no responsibility for,” I say slowly, hoping each word imparts my meaning. But it is no matter if I must say it once, or twenty times, or a hundred. I will ensure she knows I mean them, however long it takes.
“But…” Her lips twist, and I suspect she battles against more tears. “If that is the case, then why… why would you…”
“Foolish pride, I suppose.” I shrug a shoulder and give her an ironic smile. “I wished to hear that you desired me. But it was not in an effort to shame you, please believe me. You are my wife. I swore to protect you, and that means protecting your good name.”
As she gazes at me, a lone tear falls making a silvery path down her cheek. “You… you think my name is good? Even… even when you know…”
“We all have a past, my dear. Perhaps one day you might tell me of yours. Regardless, you are of Denham House. You are a duchess. No one questions your character—if that was the case, you would have heard them whispering of that, would you not?”
She considers this, and I can see emotions flicker over her face as she weighs my words. At last, she offers a small, tremulous smile. “I suppose so.”
“There, you see?” I move a hand from her waist to wipe her tears. It is my bare hand, and it is an utter delight to touch her without cloth between us. The way she grows taut and still on my knee makes me think she is entranced by it as well.
“You… you mean it? Truly? About my child, I mean?”
“Our child,” I correct her softly. “For that is what the world will see, so that is what he—or she—will be.”
“But…” She twists her hands in her lap. “What if I make you angry again? What if I am horrid, what if—”
I can see now the game I attempted to play has caused her fear concerning her future, and I can scarcely forgive myself. But if I am to correct my great folly, I must have her speak all her fears aloud without holding even one back.
“—what if it is a boy? You shall want your own name to be carried down in the line, and then all Beau Monde shall know I… that I…”
“Say it,” I encourage, my tone soft. I do not wish her to speak anymore against herself— each fear twists like a knife in my gut, but I see now there must be no secret fears lurking in the corners of our union.
“There will be no explanation we can offer to make the Ton understand why the son I bore would be passed over in favor of another, and my father will never speak to me again! For I have ruined his good name and… and….” She has worked herself into a hysterical knot of questions and fears, but I think we have gotten to the end at last.
I hold her tightly against me. She has buried her face in my chest and sobs anew. Each cry claws at my heart and I fear my chest will be in shreds by the time she is done. Yet, I force myself to endure it. It is no worse than what she has been enduring, and I deserve it.
When she at last settles on a softer cry, I speak. “Freya… Freya, my love… no more tears now, darling… it is not good for you. Think of the child, dearest.” I press soft kisses to her head with each appeal.
She looks up, her face streaked with evidence of her distress. “I… I am most sorry, my l-lord. I did not means to…” She sniffles. “I did not mean to forget myself.”
“Shush, poppet. You can forget yourself with your husband as often as you need to.” My arms tighten around her. “But I shall endeavor to do better so that you shan’t have need to.”
She offers a tremulous smile.
Her smile is such a tempting sight, I am nearly unable to refrain from accepting the invitation of those bewitching lips. “If it is a boy,” I say, forcing my mind to the most important matter, “he shall be next in line.”
Her brow furrows, then her eyes widen at my implication. “No, my lord. You… you cannot. This is your opportunity to—”
I press my mouth to hers to silence her and regain her attention.
The jolt that runs through my body makes it nearly impossible to release her.
When I do, her face is a tempest of emotions.
“This is my opportunity to have what I always wanted.” I am finishing her sentence, offering voice to the words she would have said if I gave her the chance.
But I hope she hears it is not riches or even the title I crave.
I only yearn for her and the family we shall create.
I am struck with a shocking certainty that when our union is finally made true, she will not simply fade into the background, a lust I have sated.
The way this woman awakens the fire in my blood, the way she whispers me into being in a way I never knew was possible?
This is not a feeling I ever wish to be free of.
Which means Prince James is right about one thing more, damn it all.
Duchess Freya
The hour grows late. I can feel it without needing to look outside to study the sky.
I feel it in the heaviness of my bones that precedes sleep.
All the tears I shed has not helped matters, either.
Yet, I feel the soft stirrings of something new—something exciting—beginning between His Grace and I, and I do not wish to sleep.
Perhaps it is merely all the commotion of the evening, perhaps I shall feel differently in the morning, but I find I believe him.
I find him earnest in his speech, and I believe he means what he says.
Only time will prove him true, of course, but if I am right, then I have stumbled onto one of the most respectable men in all the Beau Monde.
It is nearly beyond imagining, and I am seized by tenderness for him. He has made me feel seen, secure and protected. How many women are fortunate enough to be in such a union? I only wish I have something to offer him in return to show my gratitude.
Then I realize, in fact, I do. Not only that, my offering is all he has ever longed for.
“My lord?”
He has not stopped searching my face, but at my prompting, his gaze locks upon my own. “Yes, my lady?”
“I confess it.”
His eyes fall still upon my face, and I feel his body tighten in anticipation.
“I do want you. I… I think I always have, nearly from the start.”
His face is as still as his body, as though wiped of expression. But as his eyes peer into mine, I see the moment he believes me. His eyes darken with emotion. It does not appear to be happiness, exactly, but instead a searing passion. “Truly?” he murmurs.
The word is a caress to my ear, and I sigh against him. “I would never lie to you, my lord, for I know how I shall end up.” I pull a face, and he begins a to laugh, a deep rumbling laugh that radiates joy.
He still chuckles as he kisses me again, and I lift my face, eager to taste him. His lips press upon my own, firm and insistent. Passion consumes me, and I am wrapping my arms around his neck even before I am aware of moving.
Our kisses are not shy, or slowly exploring, as I thought might be the case when a couple embraces for the first time. These are no chaste kisses, but speak of passion that has been burning beneath the surface for far too long without expression.
What I said to His Grace is true, and my declaration is followed by my lips upon his own, my mouth opening eagerly for his tongue to sweep inside. I hunger for this man, and I shall see myself satisfied this night.
When the duke breaks our kiss and moves me from his lap and sets me on my feet, I am so stunned by the sudden change I nearly collapse. He quickly steadies me, and when I look to him, I see the longing laid bare upon his face.
“What… what is it, my lord?”
“I want to see you.” His voice is a husky thread of desire that renders me utterly breathless. “I must.”
I have no idea how I manage, but I find the strength to inquire, “Shall I call for my lady’s maid? She—”
“There is no time.” With haste, he rises and reaches for my corset stays.
“My lord—”
His mouth crushes against mine, swallowing my protest. At the same time, he yanks at my corset stays and I am able to breathe freely at last. It is timely indeed, as my husband seems intent upon stealing my very breath.
With a ferocious pull, he yanks my gown until I hear a tear.
“You have nearly pulled it apart, my lord.” I giggle as I observe the torn fabric.
“Are you sorry?” His eyes radiate with need, and I cannot find it within me to care about a gown.
“Nay, my lord. But do take more care, or you shall spend a large portion of your newfound wealth replacing my fine garments.”
“Impudent wench,” he scolds, but there is a smile playing upon his mouth. “Raise your arms.”
I obey at once, and though it takes some effort, my gown is wrestled off. His Grace does not trouble to lay it over a chair, but merely tosses it aside.
“Neatly, please,” I say, my voice full of mirth as I toss back at him the same words he said to me upon my first smacking.
“Oho! You are impudent!” Though he schools his features, he cannot hide the humor in his gaze.
“Fortunately for us both, Madam, I know just how to deal with such folly.” He lunges, but I anticipated this and bound away before he can catch me.
“Get back here this instant, Duchess. Unless you wish for another trip over my knee.”
I flee across the room, squealing with laughter. The duke’s footsteps sound in heavy-footed pursuit, and I am nearly through the doorway when his hands span my waist.
“No!” I protest, wriggling and kicking. “Set me down!”