Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Afull, plump mouth was planting soft kisses along his jaw and brushing his ear before straying down his neck.
Cedric felt his breath come faster as she ran her hands down the rigid muscles of his chest, and her tongue followed, licking fire against his nipples.
He felt his control slipping as her lips strayed down his body, and grasping her shoulders, stopping her kisses, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, caressing that soft, plumpness. He traced the outline of her mouth.
He thrust the full length of his finger into her mouth, stifling a groan as her cheeks hollowed on instinct, sucking on him. With a groan, he pulled away to cup her breasts, squeezing and kneading in such a way that had her moaning.
He smoothed his hands over her breasts and hips and dipped lower to cup her bottom before she sank between his legs, and she touched his thickened length.
The gentle strokes made his blood roar, and when her lips parted and set her mouth on him, fire raced up his spine— and he jolted awake with a gasp.
“Damnation,” he swore and rubbed his eyes.
As his vision began to settle and the heat surging through his blood began to fade, he was acutely aware of the thickness in his trousers. Sighing, he rolled over the lumpy couch and pulled the thick blanket more securely around him.
He had fallen asleep in his study again, the third time this week. It had been five days since the outing at the stables, and not only had he been swamped with work, but thoughts of his new wife constantly shoved work out of the way.
At that moment, he did not want to face another day at the study or being called out to the town to see his steward. All he wanted to do was to fall back asleep and into the arms of the dream minx teasing him with unholy kisses.
Eventually, he had to go to the bathing room to clean up. Cedric remained standing, his hands braced upon the desk and stared at his reflection in the oval, bronze-rimmed mirror.
His hand rose, unsteady, until his fingertips pressed against the ridged flesh that dragged from temple to jaw.
The mirror above the fireplace reflected every tiny spec of his horror: the puckered skin, the warped edge of his mouth, the coarse texture of his skin that no physician’s balm had ever softened.
“Grotesque,” His voice rasped with a bitterness sharpened by years of rehearsal.
Stepping away, he headed to his bedroom to change clothes, only to return to his study and call for coffee. Flipping the pages of another law book, he tried to find the reference for the lords abusing their power over tenants, when a knock came on his door.
“Enter,” he called even while his eyes were down on the book.
“Ahem,” Ariadne cleared her throat, and he looked up to see her holding a tray with two covered plates on it.
He frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I want to share breakfast with you,” she said, the morning light catching upon the pale blue silk of her gown.
“I do not eat—”
“Full meals for breakfast,” she interrupted him. “I know. And that needs to change. It is not healthy, and you cannot survive on coffee and toast, Cedric. You need to eat.”
He reached for his book again, slightly miffed that he had lost his train of thought. “I will eat later.”
“Do you allow Emily to skip her meals?” Ariadne asked.
“No, I do not,” he said. “Her health would be impacted and—” mid-sentence, he realized he was proving her point and trapped, he could only drop his pen, lean back into his chair, and eye her.
Her innocent expression was just a touch too innocent. Snorting, he said, “I don’t eat in my study.”
She looked at his coffee table, “I am sure we can make do.”
“If we sit there, I will have to lean over far too much or sit on the floor,” he said.
Standing, he called for Hunt and directed him to find a small table somewhere to put near the east window of his study.
Five minutes later, they were seated around a small round table, hastily covered with a lace cloth, and Ariadne unveiled the meals. Cedric stared at the eggs, cold slivers of duck, and well-seasoned potatoes as if she had served him shoe leather.
“Is it not to your liking?” She asked kindly. “I am sure I can ask the cook to prepare something else. Maybe cornmeal cakes and game pies, or—”
“No, no,” Cedric took up his utensils. “This is fine. Thank you for this.”
“It’s no problem at all,” Ariadne replied. “I would like to make this a permanent part of our daily routine; sharing either breakfast or supper when your schedule allows, that is.”
He noted her teasing smile. “You will never let that go, will you?”
“No,” she laughed while spearing a sliver of duck. “Your obsession with schedules is humorous.”
He grumbled. “You will be the death of me.”
“Do you agree on sharing meals?” She asked. “It will be a good way to get to know each other.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
With a tentative smile, she asked, “What do you wish to know?”
Cedric took a moment to savor the mix of sweet and savory on his tongue. It took all he could do not to moan at the simple pleasure, and swallowing, he wondered why he had decided to let this slip by for years.
Never again.
“Tell me about your childhood,” he said. “What were you like as a girl?”
“To be honest, I did not have much of a carefree childhood,” she said. “Mama got overwhelmed a lot, and Papa travelled for most of the month, so by the age of thirteen, I had to manage three varied siblings.
“I had to be resourceful, efficient, and competent in an array of skills. I love to cook and garden; they do go hand in hand,” she said, while sliding a cut piece of egg into her lips.
Cedric’s eyes latched onto the glimmering tines of the fork disappearing between her plump lips. His gut twisted a little with what could only be termed as jealousy.
Why do I want to be in that fork’s space?
“I probably won't be the best duchess when it comes to leaning into a life of leisure,” she said, “I want to cook and bake and plant and knit because it is what makes me happy.
“Unfortunately, I am afraid that if I do so, I will be encroaching on your staff’s territory. Mrs. Tully warned me that such things seem to upset the scale in the house.”
“I am sure Mrs. Tully will allow you to putter around the kitchen if you truly want to,” Cedric replied. “Tell me about your sisters. What is your family like?”
While nursing his coffee, he’d listened in rapt fascination as she wove a tight-knit story. She told him about her sisters, how dainty Celestine stayed firmly in the feminine arena, obsessed with silks, fashion plates, how she loved playing the pianoforte, and her beauty regimen.
“God forbid you interrupt her while she is doing her vinegar ablutions,” Cecilia laughed softly. “She fears a spot on her face more than Mother fears none of them marrying.”
He snorted, “Do you not have those qualms?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t have the time or luxury, or frankly, the desire to do so.”
He listened to her telling him about Marigold, a consummate wallflower, and Isolde, a tomboy rebel.
Her accounts were so uniquely her; her insight into how varied her sisters' mindsets were told him she was very observant and intelligent, amusing, and often self-deprecating.
She spoke candidly of missing her father, who travelled a lot, and how self-deprecating she was about how she described herself as “overly plump”.
He stopped her, “Overly plump? You?”
“Who else?” She responded while angling her head. “When I debuted in my season, I overheard a lord say these words, ad verbatim, ‘she is pretty enough, but her rolls are not the ones I desire.”
Cedric stared at his wife long enough that she began to frown. “Is there—is there something in my teeth?”
“Those men are not men, they were boys. I have never heard such insanity in my life,” he said.
Her cheeks pinked, and her lips parted once, then closed only to open and close once more. Tenderness flooded his chest at how flustered she looked.
“You’re perfect exactly as you are,” he said.
She finished her food, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
He got the impression that she did not get many compliments. Maybe he should start to correct that.
“Did you have any suitors?” He asked.
“No,” she said quietly. “Not one in three years. The lords would look right past me. Sometimes, it feels that they were looking right through me.”
As Cedric listened to his wife speak, he began to recognize the roots of her quiet demeanor.
It became clear to him that her gentle nature and humorous self-deprecation masked a deep-seated insecurity. This insight stirred something powerful within him— a fierce desire to shield her from the pain she carried and to offer her comfort and reassurance.
Do you really think this person will hurt you?
“Did you enjoy your meal?” she asked. “It looks like you did.”
He looked down at his empty plate. “I did. Did you make this menu or was it Mrs. Tully?”
“I did,” she said. “I remembered a meal my father used to have, and I thought you might enjoy it. I had hoped I’d be able to sway you into changing into a better habit.”
He nodded, “You can create any menu you’d like, but bear in mind that I do not like ham, tongue, mackerel, smelt, plover's, or sweetbreads. Everything else is fine.”
“Noted,” she said. “What do you have to do this morning?”
He sagged into the back of his chair as the long list of letters, Crown mementos, budgets, and petitions from parishioners danced in front of his mind’s eye.
“I have a mountain of work to finish. You should, too, as I assume many ladies have sent out invitations for balls, soirees, luncheons, and whatnot.” He rubbed his cheek and winced at the feel of the abrasive five o’clock stubble coming through. “I need a shave too.”
“I will leave you to your day,” she said. “And tomorrow, I would like to know about your childhood, too. From the snippets you told me, it didn’t sound like you had an easy one either.”
Cedric laughed dryly. “To say the least.”
Two maids came and cleared the table before Ariadne stood. “May I—”
He cocked his head. “May you what?”
She leaned in to brush her lips across his cheek, his scarred cheek. It made him jolt. “Have a good day.”
As she left the room, his hand drifted to his cheek, and wonder twisted his chest in knots.
She had kissed his ruined flesh, a sight that made women and children flinch.
More than that, Ariadne had not looked at him as something to be shied away from.
She looked at him as he dreamed of being looked at, as a normal man with a handsome face.
She just said men looked right through her. If anyone knows how that feels, it is her. She would not do that to anyone.
He dropped his hand as Hunt came inside, “Should I remove the table, Your Grace?”
“No,” Cedric replied. “Let it stay. I have a feeling that we’ll be using it more.”
A footman came to the door with a silver tray and a letter in hand. Bowing, he said, “This was received for you, Your Grace.”
Taking the letter, he noticed that there was no return address, but flipping it over, he stalled at seeing his name written in his brother’s messy scrawl.
Instantly, the strains of happiness he had just felt vanished like smoke in the breeze. Lips pressed tight, he grabbed a pen knife and swiftly slashed it open. The card was short and the words swift to the point.
Did you truly marry that platter-faced chit, or are the papers lying? Good god, Cedric. I thought you had more sense than to dig your own grave. Alas, I am free to live how I please, without a care in the world, leg-shackled to an ugly wife.
He could feel Leander laughing at him, mocking him, calling him a fool for doing something, for marrying someone Leander deemed inferior.
“Find out who delivered this,” he instructed Hunt. “I do not care if you have to trace the origins to the ninth circle of hell, do it.”
“It will be done,” Hunt nodded, and by the gleam in his eye, Cedric knew his faithful friend took this not only as a challenge but as his own mission.
He looked down at the mocking note and crushed it with a brutal fist. “I will see you soon, brother.”