Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“ T his meal is delicious,” Mr. Ainsworth crowed, patting his mouth with a napkin delicately before tucking back into the roast pheasant they were dining upon. “A finer one I can’t remember.”
Cecilia beamed at him. “I can take no credit. It is all thanks to Mrs. Fitzclarence. She has been a godsend, in teaching me the ropes of the house. I am afraid I am a bit overwhelmed by the scope of the property. It seems quite daunting.”
Mr. Ainsworth laughed kindly, tilting his head. “Oh, I would not worry about it, Your Grace. Just look at your husband. When I first met him, he was a raucous young boy, and now he keeps this estate in as fine condition as one could imagine.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot you knew the duke when he was young,” Cecilia said, trying not to stumble over the still-unfamiliar rhythm of her husband’s given name. “You must have many interesting stories of his childhood then, I am certain?”
“Certainly not,” Ian said sharply.
“Interesting?” Mr. Ainsworth, patting his mouth with his napkin, leaned back in his chair and guffawed. “Oh, Your Grace. Interesting does not even begin to cover it.”
“You exaggerate, Mr. Ainsworth,” Ian said, rolling his eyes, though there was a good-natured lilt to his voice.
Mr. Ainsworth cleared his throat. “First of all,” he began, “the first several times I met the young duke, he would not say a single word to me! I was certain he was either mute or hated me, or both.”
“I suppose you and I have something in common then, Mr. Ainsworth,” Cecilia joked.
It felt dangerous, joking in a way that so nearly alluded to the truth of her and Ian’s contentious relationship. But it was also a relief. With Mr. Ainsworth here, she felt none of the loneliness she had felt on her first night. And, she had to admit, however begrudgingly, that Ian seemed to lighten up around the old man, as well.
“Well, that is no surprise. I have heard worse stories of men unable to properly handle themselves around the objects of their affections.” Cecilia concealed a laugh in her wine glass at that. “Of course, in the end, it came out that he was just shy. I had no way of knowing; I have no children of my own, you see.”
“I hardly think this an interesting story, Mr. Ainsworth.”
“But when he finally did speak to me—oh, goodness, he could hardly stop! Began debating me about the nature of some law or other.” Mr. Ainsworth said this with pride, as though he were talking about a son of his own. Cecilia looked over at Ian, again, who, though he was slightly red, did not protest at all. “So young, too. He did get his facts somewhat jumbled up, but even then, he was able to hold his own in an argument.”
“Ah,” Cecilia said before she could help herself. “I see some things never change.”
“Ah, Your Grace,” Mr. Ainsworth said, smiling over at the younger man, “have you not yet realized it is futile to try and win an argument against the lady of the house? Happy wife, happy life, after all, Your Grace; happy wife, happy life.”
“Yes, well.” Ian cleared his throat, picking up his wine glass. “At least now when I go tete a tete with someone, I am certain to have all of my facts in order.” He took a hearty swig of wine.
“Most of the time,” Cecilia said, smiling sweetly at him. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, though he did not respond, merely taking another, deeper sip of wine.
“Oh, goodness,” Mr. Ainsworth continued, clapping his hands together as though he had not heard Cecilia’s low-pitched comment at all. “Has he ever told you the story of where his dislike of apple tarts originated from?”
“I did not even know he had a dislike of apples,” Cecilia said, looking back and forth between them. “Why, when you were having dinner at my house not so long ago, I recall you eating our baked apple dessert with no hesitation.”
Ian winced, as though remembering. “Yes, well. It would have been rude to refuse it. I could hardly risk offending your mother.”
Cecilia’s eyes widened as she realized he was not entirely joking. “You really did not like it?” she cried. “But it is our cook’s best recipe!”
Ian held up his hands. “I do not deny the skill of your family’s cook, La—Cecilia. It is a matter of personal taste, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunate indeed! Especially given that you were always so fond of that particular fruit,” Mr. Ainsworth said, clucking his tongue.
Ian shrugged. “I suppose I got my fill of them.”
“You could certainly say that again.” Mr. Ainsworth turned back to address Cecilia. “You see, Your Grace, when your husband was seven, he could not get enough of them! Then, the night before his eighth birthday, the cook had made an extra batch, especially for the young master, and left them out overnight in the kitchen to cool. But when she came downstairs the next morning, all of the apple tarts were gone! Nothing but crumbs on the plate.”
“Ah. I wonder where they could have gone,” Cecilia said with a laugh.
“As did all of us,” Mr. Ainsworth agreed. “But not for very long, for it was only an hour or so later when the birthday boy would not get out of bed, complaining of a most terrible stomachache.”
“It was dreadful!” Ian protested though Cecilia saw how a small smile played at his lips. “I could hardly bear the sight of apples for months. Even now, I barely acknowledge the dreadful things.”
“But you know,” Mr. Ainsworth added, “before that incident, he would turn his nose up at any and all other desserts. So perhaps it was a happy occasion, after all. You would never know it to look at him now, Your Grace, but your husband was quite the picky eater as a child. Very particular.”
“I had…high standards,” Ian admitted, swirling his wine around in his glass. “I always have.”
“Have you really?” Cecilia asked, a slight edge to her voice. “In all your endeavors?”
“Yes,” Ian said, locking her in his gaze. “In food, in travel, in company. In women.” He raised his glass to her, smirking slightly. “As is evidenced by my lovely wife,” he continued smoothly, the sarcasm in his voice only barely detectable.
Cecilia parodied his toast back to him, before taking a generous sip of wine herself.
“Yes, very high,” Mr. Ainsworth said, seemingly oblivious to any of the tension bubbling up between his two hosts. “So high, in fact, that he was the scrawniest little child I had ever seen! Your mother used to worry sick about the feeding of you, I remember.” He pursed his lips and nodded, remembering. “But your father was convinced that you would grow in time and that the best thing was to continue on your athletic education, and I suppose he was right.”
“Mr. Ainsworth.” Ian coughed. “I am certain Her Grace is not interested in any more stories of my childhood.”
“Oh, I am certain she must be,” Mr. Ainsworth said. He wagged his pipe at Ian, furrowing his brows together as he pretended to scold the younger man. “I know how you young men can be around your paramours—unable or unwilling to tell any stories that do not paint you in the most strapping of lights. You must allow an old man his fun, after all.”
“I must say, I never have seen anyone have such a familiar relationship with one’s solicitor. It is quite heartwarming,” Cecilia said.
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Ainsworth puffed at his pipe and placed his other hand on the table. “His parents were rather good friends, in addition to being clients; our families have worked together for generations, you see. The loss of them was a great loss to not only their family but to everyone who knew them.” He grabbed his wine, and raised it in Ian’s direction, as though toasting. “If anything, it was a great comfort to me to get to help raise their son.”
“That is enough ,” Ian said sharply, with a hand hitting the table.
At once, the room fell silent.
Everyone at the table froze, Ian included. His nostrils flared as he breathed, trying to calm himself. Mr. Ainsworth took another strong pull from his pipe, seemingly unperturbed, but it was clear from his silence that he was aware he had hit too close to a sore topic.
Cecilia looked back and forth between the two of them.
All of this time, she had never thought of Ian as anything more than a cavalier, libertine sort of character. Someone who took life very lightly, unconcerned with anything other than his own pleasure, and not caring who he bothered in his pursuit of it.
Already the arrival of Mr. Ainsworth had reframed so much of this perception she had formed and created so many questions. But this was something new altogether. This shattered the image of the carefree rake.
She had not realized, before, that he was capable of hurting so deeply.
After a moment, she cleared her throat, in an attempt to relieve some of the tension that still hung thick like a cloud in the room.
“You know,” she said, tone calm and conversational as though nothing had just passed between their gazes. “I do not believe I have thanked you properly for the wine, yet, Mr. Ainsworth. It complements the meal beautifully. However could you have guessed?”
“Ah, a beautiful vintage like this would be difficult to pair ill with anything,” Mr. Ainsworth said, unperturbed by the sudden change in subject. “And there is no need to thank me, really. I could hardly show up without a wedding gift in tow, especially with the degree to which I am imposing on your days of early newlywed bliss! I am quite relieved we were able to settle all of the business you wanted to look over, and so quickly.”
“Looks as though you were right. He had all of his facts straight,” Cecilia said, after a particularly long sip of wine. “This time, at least.”
“Yes.” Ian nodded. “I am fortunate to have such an efficient benefactor.”
“Now.” Mr. Ainsworth put his napkin down on the table and began to rise from his seat. “Look at the time. An old man like me really should be getting to bed. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Graces. Madam, it was an absolute pleasure to meet you. I had hoped His Grace would make a fine match, but I never could have imagined he would meet such a delightful young lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ainsworth,” Cecilia said, nodding. “I hope you will be back to visit us soon.”
“Mr. Ainsworth,” Ian said. “Thank you again for coming up to the estate. The staff has prepared your usual chambers for you.”
The older man waved him off. “No, no,” he said genially, shaking his head before continuing, “My carriage is already set to take me back home. I could not impose.”
“It is never an imposition,” Ian replied. “You know that, Mr. Ainsworth. You have been with the estate longer than I have, for heaven’s sake.”
“Ah, my lord.” Mr. Ainsworth shook his head one last time, more firmly than before. “You are too kind,” he said gently. “Next time, perhaps, I shall stay next time.”
“I hope this is not because of my earlier outburst,” Ian finally said. “I ask that you forgive me.”
Mr. Ainsworth shook his head. “Don’t think a moment more about it, Your Grace,” he said gently. “It is just that I refuse to be in the way of a young couple on their honeymoon! Let me return to my own home. I am sure the two of you would like some time alone.”
Cecilia choked on her wine.
Ian said nothing, but his eyes grew wide.
“So you see, it is not inconvenient at all for me to go,” Mr. Ainsworth continued, as though oblivious to the shock he had set off throughout the room. “Your Grace—Your Grace—I bid you both good night. Thank you once more for the hospitality you have shown me. I look forward to seeing the both of you in good health soon.”
Ian tried to say something, but only managed to stutter out a goodbye.
After that, both he and Cecilia found they could do nothing but sit in tense silence as Mr. Ainsworth happily bowed once again and bustled out of the room.
With Mr. Ainsworth gone from the room, Cecilia felt even more acutely aware of the energy that hung thickly between her and Ian. She picked up her wineglass, in order to calm her nerves, before realizing that the wine was likely not helping her state of mind. Indeed, the wine she had already consumed had left her head tingling pleasantly and softened her so that she could hardly stop her gaze from sliding back over to Ian.
She wanted him. Sitting here, alone in a room with him, it was impossible to pretend otherwise, even to herself.
She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted for him to take her in his arms, and trace a path along her neck, down to where the neckline of her dress began.
She wanted him to rid her of her clothes, and rid himself of his, and teach her exactly what it was that he had learned in all of his years raking his way across the country and the continent.
She wanted him to make her his wife, in deed as well as in word.
They stared at each other for a long, long time.
Finally, Cecilia cleared her throat.
“Well,” she said. “Mr. Ainsworth was correct. It is quite late. I should be off to bed, as well.”
Regardless of what she wanted—regardless of the desires that the wine had only served to heighten—it would be a terrible idea to lie with her husband, she knew.
Though the wine, and the look he was giving her, was making it difficult to remember exactly what the reasons where why it would be such a terrible idea…
No! She mustn’t.
With a tremendous amount of effort and self-restraint, Cecilia pushed away from the table, smoothing down her dress, and headed to leave.
As she reached the doorway, Ian spoke. “You seemed to have some difficulties with your wine, earlier,” he drawled. “An overindulgence?”
Cecilia paused.
I could still leave, she thought. If she simply ignored his question, and left, she would be in her room in minutes, safely alone and asleep and no longer at the mercy of these intoxicating, impossible feelings.
But when had she ever been able to resist a bit of banter with the Duke of Harwick?
She turned around—slightly more clumsily than she would have sober, she had to admit—and met his gaze, trying not to let on to the way looking at him made her feel as though she were melting from the inside out.
“A laugh,” she said frostily. “I was most amused by your solicitor’s last comment.”
Ian stood up immediately, eyes narrowed. “You may be the lady of the house,” he said, his voice deadly serious, “but I will not tolerate any slander of Mr. Ainsworth’s name. He is a decent man, he is practically family?—”
“I am not mocking him!” Cecilia said incredulously. “ He has been nothing but lovely.” Ian seemed to calm immediately at the reassurance, further emphasizing to Cecilia how Mr. Ainsworth was perhaps the closest thing he had to family. She continued, “I merely found it amusing. His suggestion that you and I would share a room. The very idea is preposterous.”
That stopped him. “Is that so?” he asked. His tone had changed. None of the earlier rage was present, but his voice was still low. Focused. There was an intensity there that further stoked the flames making their way to her core.
She tried to keep her reaction from her face, keeping her voice cool. “I should think after your comments in the carriage that you would agree. As you yourself said, this is a marriage of convenience,” she reminded him icily.
“Yes,” he said. “It is still, however, a marriage. There is nothing laughable about the idea of a husband and wife sharing a bed.”
She scoffed, even as her mind filled with images of their bodies intertwined. “As if I would ever want to share a bed with you,” she bit out.
He chuckled, taking a few steps towards her. Though her pulse rose at the movement, she did not—could not—bring herself to walk away. “You would enjoy it, certainly.”
Cecilia fought to keep her breathing steady. If it was anything close to the feeling she felt when they were engaged in verbal sparring, she had no trouble believing she would enjoy it. “Do not make me laugh, my lord,” she said. Her voice dropped lower. “The mere fact of your having been familiar with so many ladies is not enough to convince me of that.”
His eyebrow raised. “But you have thought of me with other ladies,” he said.
Cecilia felt her entire body heat, in a flush that no doubt showed on her cheeks. “I—” She stopped.
Ian continued to walk towards her. His eyes dragged up and down across her figure. Rather than feeling embarrassed she luxuriated in it, in the feeling of having his entire attention.
“This is indeed a marriage of convenience, my lady,” he said, his voice an intoxicating rasp. “I will leave you alone for as long as you wish me to. But in the night, when your thoughts wander to thoughts of me, know that I could take you to the heights of pleasure and make you scream my name.”
“You are an immodest scoundrel,” she said, though she found herself unable to infuse the words with the usual amount of bite.
He laughed. “You say that as though you are surprised,” he replied playfully. “You have done nothing since we met but accuse me of being a scoundrel.”
“And worse,” she countered.
“Really? I should like to hear what worse,” he said, eyes alight with interest.
“A rascal,” she said. “Libertine, immoral. And a rake, of course,” she said.
“You know,” he said, “I have never understood what is meant to be so immoral about being a rake.”
She laughed. “You cannot be serious,” she said.
“I am incredibly serious. What could be immoral about the pursuit of pleasure?” he asked.
“It is selfish, for one,” she countered.
He smirked. “Perhaps that is your assumption,” he said. “But I assure you, my lady—I pay a very great deal of attention to the desires of the women I am with. I have never had a woman in my bed who had not first begged to be there; and I have never had a woman leave my bed anything but satisfied. I should think they were all quite grateful, for all the experience I had gained.”
“You do not know that,” she said, though her voice faltered. “They could have lied.”
He took a step in. “It is very easy to lay with one’s words, my lady,” he began, his voice turning rougher with desire. “It is much harder—impossible, even—to lie with one’s body.”
Her eyes dropped down once more to his lips. “Is that so?” she asked. Her voice was nearly a whisper.
“Yes.” He nodded. “For example, if I were to be standing face to face with a lady, and I noticed her breath hitched every time I stepped in closer, or her cheeks and chest went a most delicious red any time I said something immodest, or I noticed her looking at my lips for an unseemly length of time—then, I would feel quite confident in saying that the lady in question wanted me to kiss her.” He tilted his head, pinning her with that intoxicating gaze. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
For once, Cecilia seemed to have no verbal response. Instead, she nodded, and angled her head upwards.
Ian took the invitation, leaning down to meet her lips with his.
When they kissed, she felt a burst of flame erupt inside of her, deep and burning. He pressed her against the wall, pinning her there with the length of his body against hers. Even through the fabric of their clothes between them, it only stoked the fire more to feel him so close. She pressed back against him hungrily.
Her lips parted, and his tongue entered her mouth, brushing against hers in a way that made her weak at the knees. Her hands roamed his chest, his shoulders, drinking in the feel of him. His hands similarly dragged across her body, sending sparks of pleasure up everywhere they traveled.
Ian began kissing her neck. She moaned at the feeling of his mouth, hot against her skin. One of his large, strong hands slid up to cup her breast. She could not help but arch her back, pressing herself further into his touch.
At the sound of the door opening, they broke apart.
Their butler, Barnaby, entered the room. “Apologies for the interruption, Your Grace. I am here to fetch Mr. Ainsworth’s pipe for him. It appears he forgot it at the table after dinner.”
There was a long pause. “Yes, of course, Barnaby,” Ian finally said, avoiding eye contact with the butler and Cecilia alike. “You will find it just over there. Thank you.”
“Of course, sir.”
After grabbing the pipe, Barnaby left the room.
Cecilia and Ian looked at each other for a long moment. The fire in his eyes mirrored the longing that burned deep within her. It was wonderful.
It was…terrifying.
Cecilia rushed out of the room.
Once safely in her own room with the door shut behind her, she collapsed against the door, her eyes shut and her chest still heaving. She pressed a hand to her chest and tried to steady her breathing. But it was almost impossible to hold back the memories of Ian’s mouth and hands on her.
What more would she have let him do if the butler had not come into the room?
What more would she have asked him to do?