Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hugh had not made the conscious decision to discard his mask permanently.
But when he entered the carriage with Amelia and Christiana, he found he had no desire to wear it.
Even when they stopped, he strode into posting houses with his face bare.
And yes, some people did cringe away from him, but there was no screaming or running away.
All the while, Christiana had her hand in the crook of his arm, a comforting presence.
“Have you noticed,” Amelia said in an offhand way to Christiana, “no one is actually scared of him?”
Hugh glanced at her, but she ignored him determinedly.
After Christiana had scolded her for traveling alone, she had been a little chastened, but that period of glorious quiet had now come to an end.
All day, she and Christiana had been whispering; this was, evidently, the product of their machinations.
“Rather less impactful than I had supposed,” Christiana said.
“Do you want to maintain your reputation?” Amelia asked, turning to him. “The one where people suspect you of drinking children’s blood to maintain your everlasting youth?”
“At least you didn’t say beauty,” he said dryly. “Then it would have been unrealistic.”
Amelia nodded. “In that case, I have a proposition. Please say yes.”
“That depends entirely on the proposition in question.”
“Attend my debut in London,” Amelia said. “I don’t think you can justify staying home all the time when it’s so obvious that people just aren’t afraid of you.”
“I would rather like the world to get to know you,” Christiana said, a trace of apology in her voice.
“And I think you would like that too, deep down. We can start small and see how you feel. Mrs. Barnaby’s dinner was a success—we can host a harvest ball and invite the local families to join. It’s time the ballroom was put to use.”
“And we can dance.” Amelia’s eyes shone. “Please say you’ll invite some eligible gentlemen.”
He cut down on his instinct to tell her she would be dancing with no one under his watch. Because, of course, she was a woman, and shortly about to enter her first Season in London. Better she get a taste of what to expect; her life had been so sheltered so far, largely because of him.
He had always assumed that the fire had been the end of his life—or at least of a life worth living. His pain had been a constant companion, and secluding himself from the world—shielding himself from its condemnation—had been a natural response to his situation.
But perhaps, with Christiana by his side, he could consider a different path.
He glanced at her to find her already watching him, amusement and tenderness in her gray gaze. “Well?” she asked.
“I’ll consider it,” he said.
Amelia squealed in excitement. “That means yes!”
Christiana’s smile widened, and the affection in his chest reached a breaking point. The moment they were home, he would show her precisely how much she meant to him. And then, God willing, he would proceed to show her for the remainder of his life.
Relief surged through Christiana as they finally arrived home. In her quieter moments, a small part of her still recalled her father’s words, but they had lost their power. Hugh had made sure of that.
Her father might never have cared for her, but Hugh did.
She would never learn the truth, and it didn’t matter.
She was who she was, and nothing would change that.
Nor did she want it to change; for Hugh, she might have wished herself to be prettier, but he liked her just the way she was, so she would learn to love herself too.
What reason was there to mourn her beginnings if they had resulted in this ending?
“Elkins,” Hugh said as soon as they entered the house. “What is the meaning of letting Lady Amelia leave the house in my pursuit?”
Elkins bowed. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I had—”
“It was entirely my fault,” Amelia said at once.
Christiana had no doubt this was the truth.
“If he had not let me go with a footman and maid accompanying me, I would have gone alone, and so I told them all. Elkins knows me well enough to know I was telling the truth, and he wanted to ensure I survived the journey.”
Hugh harrumphed in good-natured frustration. “The sooner you marry and are someone else’s problem, the better.”
“I have many plans for my Season,” Amelia said, eyes gleaming. “You will have to worry about nothing.”
“That, I very much doubt,” Hugh said.
Amelia stuck her nose in the air and stalked away. Christiana smiled at Elkins, who still looked a trifle nervous. “You did everything right, don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, offering her a bow.
She was the duchess. Coming back to this house, she felt like it.
Mrs. Quince hurried to greet them. “I’m glad you’re back, Your Graces. Your rooms are all prepared, and I’ll tell Mrs. Gibbs to get a start on with dinner. We’ll eat slightly later to give you time to change.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Quince.” Hugh took Christiana’s hand. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“Now?”
“Well, we ought to change before dinner.” His eyes flared with want, and the sight of it made her near dizzy. “Would you allow me the honor of accompanying me upstairs, Your Grace?”
“If it pleases you, My Lord Duke.”
He flicked the tip of her nose, almost dislodging her glasses, and led her upstairs. Once again, he wasn’t wearing his gloves, and she wondered if he noticed he was holding her hand with his burned one.
Reminding him how to love himself would be a challenge, but she knew she could make it happen.
The moment they reached the dressing room, he shut the door and pressed her against it. His palms rested against the wood on either side of her face.
“Look at me, Chris.” He waited until she met his gaze before saying, “Do you want me to accompany you to London with Amelia when the time comes?”
Her breath caught, but she managed a smile. “Has she terrified you into needing to oversee her behavior?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “If I had my way—Hugh, if I had my way, we would be together always.”
He nodded, as though her answer had settled something in his head. “Then it’s settled.”
“Just like that?”
He stroked her face, then slowly slid her glasses off her face.
The rest of the world blurred; only his features remained in focus, close enough that she could distinguish them.
She liked that—liked it when he commanded her attention so utterly.
When they were together, when they were alone, she trusted him enough that she didn’t need the use of her vision.
“Just like that,” he said. “You see, I would very much like you by my side, too.”
“And if I were to choose to visit my father’s estate on occasion?”
“Then I would join you.”
“He will die soon.” She tested the words, trying them on for truth. “I no longer think I care.”
The left-hand side of his mouth curved in her favorite lopsided smile. “I won’t pretend to be saddened by this revelation, except for your sake.”
“I have a new family now. And”—she searched his face for any sign of distress as she ventured a new thought that had been occurring to her of late—“I think it likely that we will shortly have a new family if we continue as we are.”
His eyes flashed with an expression she couldn’t read, and his thumb swiped over her cheek. “Does that alarm you?”
Logically, it ought to have. From what she understood, childbirth was extraordinarily painful, and some women didn’t survive.
Medically speaking, it was a risky procedure.
And until marrying Hugh, she had been ambivalent about the prospect of children; she had presumed she would be perfectly content without them.
Now, everything was different.
“No,” she said, smiling. “It doesn’t alarm me in the slightest.”
As though her words had snapped his restraint, he brought her to him and kissed her, hard, his fingers fumbling with the buttons at the back of her dress.
Need crashed through her, and she clenched around nothing.
How long had it been since they had last come together?
Only a week, but it felt like a lifetime.
Urgent now, she turned her attention to his clothes.
Coat, cravat, waistcoat, shirt, boots, pantaloons.
They undressed each other with breathless anticipation, finally standing naked before one another.
He had already carefully put her glasses aside, but she still saw him perfectly clearly.
Every inch of rough, mottled skin. Coming forward now, she traced her hands across it, kissing his scarred right shoulder.
“I love you,” she said as his hands came to her back—one rough, one smooth. “I hadn’t known how much until I worried I had lost you.”
“Never.” He said the word so firmly, she had no choice but to believe him.
He cupped her backside, then dropped his hands to her upper thighs and lifted her so she was hefted in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Her heart ached, but it was not the ache of heartbreak or pain—it was a yearning to be closer.
For the first time, she felt as though her vulnerability were echoed in him.
This was not an exercise in curiosity or experimentation, or even lust.
They were here out of need. To seal a contract they had begun with words. Love was desire all of its own, reflected in her hands on his skin, her mouth on his, and the delicious dampness between her legs.
She needed this union like she needed to breathe—to finally, finally, be one with him in a primal, vital way.
And he needed it just as much.
She could tell in the silent promise of his caresses. The tender, gentle way he scraped his teeth across her skin and throbbed, hungry, against her stomach. When he laid her down across the bed, kneeling before her in supplication, she felt as though he had handed her a prize.
The first slide of his tongue against her made her squirm in delight.
Made her heart feel as though it would burst through her chest. Pleasure and love mingled until she was alight with sensation.
He touched her with his scarred hand, and the scrape of his rough skin against her made her gasp. She arched her back.
He sucked, and she saw stars.
One finger circled her pearl; the other slid inside her. She would pray at the altar of pleasure before this was over. Her body was still a mystery to her because he had licked her before, and it had never, not once, felt like this.
She was bare in more ways than one, lying exposed.
And he took her vulnerability, soothing it, gathering her in his arms.
The vibration of his moan shivered through her. When she glanced down, she saw his dark head between her legs, his hands working her, muscles flexing, and his hips shifting as he pressed himself against the side of the mattress.
She loved him. She did. And she would explode with it. Heat coalesced inside her. Perhaps she would die of pleasure; perhaps they would take each other down in a blaze of light. This was too much—no one could survive it.
“Chris,” he said, soft against her.
She broke.
The agony of bliss came to her wordless, transformative.
She fluttered rhythmically around him, and he held her as her body rocked and his name fell from her lips.
She pleaded with Hugh and God alike that it would not stop, that she could live in this moment forever, on the cusp of breaking apart and being made anew.
When the pleasure finally fled, all that remained was Hugh.
He rose above her, wordless, and rolled them both so she lay on her side, and he lay facing her.
With one arm, he raised her leg, opening her to him.
Their bodies slotted together as though they had been made for one another; he slipped inside so easily, she caught her breath.
His face went blank. She watched him eagerly, greedily, drinking in every last moment.
When his eyes fluttered open, she thought she might drown in them.
His hand found her hip, holding her still as he slid out, then back in. A slow, steady rhythm that she already knew would break her in a thousand different ways. It would rend them both in two.
She never wanted it to stop.
He kissed her, mouth damp with the taste of her arousal, and rocked into her again. For once, she did not think about her appearance, or about some scientific conclusion on the intricacies of womanly desire. All she knew was him. Them.
With every thrust, she was catapulted deeper. He slid a hand between them, exactly where she needed him.
How could she ever have thought she could live without this?
His breath shattered, and he groaned into her mouth, drawing back so he could see her face. Their gasps mingled in the space between them.
“You,” he said, hoarse but determined, as though he could not hold on to the words any longer, “are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, Christiana, and I love you.”
She had not known she’d needed the words, but perhaps she had, because hearing them made her spasm around him with another climax. He groaned, pausing the movement of his hips until the waves of her pleasure eased, before pressing inside her one last time, right to the hilt.
She watched pleasure bloom across his face as his release found him, and although she couldn’t quite, she imagined she could feel the pulse of his climax, the slickness of his seed inside her.
They were joined. A covenant that would last them the rest of their mortal lives. In his eyes, she was beautiful, and it didn’t occur to her once to dispute it. And she adored him beyond all reason. Logic played no role in matters of the heart.
She rested her head above his thudding heart, and his arms closed around her. They lay quietly, listening to the sound of their breathing.
All her life, she had been searching for meaning in books, and she had found it here, in the embrace of the man she loved.
“I’ve made moves to purchase your father’s house,” he said. “He may die before the sale is completed, but I doubt he will refuse, given the circumstances.”
The circumstances to do with his lack of funds.
“I thought to house him in the dower house until he passes,” he said. “Would that be acceptable?”
“You could cast him into the streets and that would be acceptable.”
“I considered it when I saw you in Wakeford,” he admitted, his hand landing on her hip in a proprietary gesture that made her blood heat. “But I would rather you looked back on this period of your life with no regrets.”
“You want me to take the high road.”
“I do. Will you?”
She smiled, leaning forward and kissing him on the lips. “I’ll take whichever road you wish me to, so long as you are there beside me.”
He cradled her against his chest. “Now that,” he said, “is a guarantee.” And his heart thrummed in agreement.