Chapter 14
Fourteen
Dear Mr. Forrester,
The last time we were together, you advised me that you were at my service no matter how great or small my need may be—I am in need of your assistance with a matter of great import. I’m afraid it may cause you some distress and I would not ask it of you if it was not completely necessary. Please accept my sincere apologies with this request.
I require a copy of L’Arétin Francais Les Epices de Venvs published by Felix Nogaret Aux Depens des Fermier Generaux in 1787. There are only two copies known to be in London—one is in Prinny’s possession, and the other is owned by the Earl of Astley. If you could obtain it from him on loan, I would greatly appreciate it. However, my identity must not be revealed.
The other book I would like you to acquire is a bit easier to obtain. Lady Benton was given a book by her husband as an engagement gift that he commissioned when they were betrothed, The Memoirs of Wanton Woman, London, printed for T. Benton. Lady Benton will be expecting you.
Your utmost discretion is needed for this venture as I do not wish for the Ton to hear of these acquisitions.
Respectfully,
Lady Phoebe Drake
—A letter from Lady Phoebe Drake to Mr. Joshua Forrester, Barrister of the late Edward Charles Hancock, Duke of Nithesdale, January 1811
I t was everything she’d read about, and more . The ‘more’ was indescribable, so she understood why the books never expounded upon it. A writer couldn’t possibly describe the ethereal out-of-body experience of sex. She wasn’t sure how to put the act into coherent thoughts. The closest description she could come up with was pure, heavenly bliss. Or maybe, wicked heavenly bliss.
She would go to hell for comparing her experience with Nash with divinity. Yet the divine had created every erotic touch she’d experienced. Nash had simply peeled away layers of social mores and proprieties placed on her as a woman and unleashed the wanton within. Was that evil?
She didn’t know.
The rapture of sex was in many ways comparable to her fall from the loft in the stable when she was nine years old. The hazards were very real—one could kill her, the other could leave her hanging in purgatory—unsatisfied. Luckily the first fall only left her with a broken arm and a scar on the back of her leg that gave away her identity to Nash.
Heart-stopping fear chased by heart-pounding ecstasy. In both cases, society would judge who was evil and who was holy. She was pretty sure she would never be placed in the holy category.
The fall from the hayloft and sex did have one thing in common—they both made her recognize her mortality. When her grip slipped at nine, and the ground came rushing toward her, she had a feeling of being robbed. Tonight, a part of her had died as well. She’d fallen over an erotic precipice and still she felt as if she’d been swindled. How did one go on, knowing it would never happen again?
The irony was not lost on her. She had given her virtue to the man she loathed most in this world. Her sworn enemy she wanted to destroy, and yet she had ended up begging him to bed her—and now she wanted more.
How cruel fate could be!
She glanced over at the sleeping form next to her. He didn’t fear her in the least. The woman who had thought about, dreamt about, fantasized about destroying him for the past eight years … and in the end … She. Begged. Him.
Like a gentleman, he capitulated, gave into her pleas. To. Help. Her.
Then again, she wasn’t the one he wanted to help. For some reason he was obsessed with finding her sisters. Helping them. At least that’s what he professed. Was it possible for a man to change, for a conscience to grow?
She studied him. In repose, the arrogant aristocratic features she had despised softened, almost making her believe he was a man with honourable intentions. The straight line of his nose that had been a study of perfection when she was a teen, was now marred by a slight bump across the bridge. It spoke of the Duke going toe to toe with someone on at least one occasion since the day they’d met, and she wondered what would cause a duke to brawl.
His jaw had squared off since that day at Urquhart, and the deep shadow of his beard filled in with age. Not that he was old. He was in the prime of his life. His lips were soft and his eyes … they had echoed the flames of fire she’d felt in the heat of passion. He was a different man in bed than he was out of bed. Gone was the aloof, uncaring blue blood, only to be replaced by a man who bared all as a lover.
She sat up and the sheet slipped from her body, exposing her breasts to the chilled air. She blushed and looked down at the Duke, expecting a comment about not being as lush as Lady Drake. Instead, she found him still sound asleep, his lips gently parted, a look of innocence …
She rolled her eyes. She knew first-hand how wicked that mouth was, and she hated to admit she craved more of it. Even now, her body heated with desire despite the soreness she felt from the experience.
She had to leave. She wanted to stay. Pulling her gaze away, she slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb the Duke’s slumber, and hurriedly dressed in her undergarments and gown. She had no idea where the pins for her hair were, probably strewn all over the bed and floor. She platted the long, messy strands of her hair and let it fall over one shoulder. Hopefully the halls were dark enough she could slip unnoticed into her rooms.
She stuffed her stockings into her bodice, giving her décolletage a more enhanced appearance and stepped into her slippers. Reaching for the door, she hesitated. She had to see him one more time.
Slowly she approached the dais where he lay in the large bed as if it were his throne, his body covered from the waist down. The moonlight still peeked through the window coverings, exposing a sliver of his jaw, but she wanted to see all of him—every last exotic inch one last time. She deserved the exquisite torture the memory would bring for years to come.
She turned and slowly pulled the dark velvet hangings away from the window, the moonlight falling across his broad chest one glorious plane after the other, as if exposing her to the glories of heaven. He was a masterpiece, sculpted and refined. Smooth skin stretched taught over cords of muscle and sinew. Michelangelo would take one look at him, and demand to cleave his form from marble.
She turned and walked away, slipping out the door without even a creak.
* * *
She had ruined him for all others.
She may not know what he had in mind for her future, but she would succumb to his desire to marry, even if he had to publicly seduce her to get the deed done. Then her sisters would be cared for and suitable matches would be made to secure their futures. The horrible deeds of his father would be erased, and his conscience would be clear … with the added bonus of having a vixen for a wife.
What more could he ask for?
Knowing that she would never tell him what room she inhabited in the manor, he quickly donned his breeches, grabbed his shirt, and slipped out into the hall. It didn’t matter that the floors were cold against his bare feet, without his boots she would not hear him following her, and at this point, that was more important than propriety.
He suspected Iseabail was staying in the family wing adjoining Lady Drake’s rooms. In the light of day, there would be no mistaking the differences between the ladies, but at night they could easily fool an undiscriminating eye, provided it was dark.
He made his way to the family’s wing without running into a soul, only to find all the rooms darkened and no noise emanating from inside. He looked up and down the hallway, waiting for something …
A clock struck half past the hour somewhere down the hall and that’s when he saw it. A candle flicker to life in the second room down on the right. He moved closer and put his ear to the door. Then he smiled as he heard her hum a lullaby, and retreated before whispering, “Sweet dreams, Duchess.”