Chapter 23
Three days passed with civil quietness in the house. Aside from the discussions they shared at the meals—he had missed that morning’s breakfast and deferred to supper—Emma found it maddeningly difficult to catch her new husband alone.
She did see him outside every morning with Titan, playing fetch. Once, he had even gotten a thick rope, and the two had a fierce tug-of-war before a small crowd of cheering groundsmen.
She was beginning to get a feel of who Vincent was, not only as the elusive duke the ton held him to be, but the man he was. He did not like frills, fuss, or unnecessary things around him. He preferred simplicity, clean lines, and rooms without clutter or chaos.
At home, he dressed plainly: faded trousers, loose shirts, and once or twice, she had even caught him barefoot.
“Your Grace,” Lilian curtsied from the parlor door later that evening, where Emma had curled herself into the chaise with a book. “His Grace is asking for you.”
“Where?” she perked up.
“His study, ma’am.”
Closing the book, she unfolded herself from the chaise longue and rose. Her maid led her through a quieter wing of the house to a door Emma had never entered before, and after the maid knocked and he gave the order, Emma stepped one foot inside—and stopped.
The room beyond was bathed in the red-amber glow from the setting sun.
Books occupied nearly every surface: stacked on tables, abandoned in chairs, crammed into shelves already bowing beneath their weight.
Yet for all the disorder, there was a warmth to the chamber that surprised her, a lived-in coziness that felt like a home inside a home.
She did not see Vincent at first, but she sensed him.
In all her life, Emma had never quite met anyone with the ability to do that. To fill up a room with their implied presence alone.
She shivered.
Vincent chuckled from somewhere beyond. “Are you waiting for me to extend a golden scepter, duchess?”
Rolling her eyes, Emma tempered her smile as she stepped into the room to find Vincent sitting on the floor behind his grand desk.
Swiping down his shabby clothes, he rose to a tower and came around it.
His fine linen shirt was open at the neck, exposing the slight indent at the base of his throat, the notches of his clavicles, and throat-drying glimpses of his muscular chest.
He cocked his head to the side, as if examining her presentation. The jetty strands of his hair touched his cheeks, grazing the granite edge of his stubble-covered jaw, and she trembled beneath the judgment.
“Join me,” he said at last, happy with what he saw and inclining his head.
Following his gaze, Emma found the magnificent feast laid out upon the Aubusson rugs.
In the middle of two thick, unlit beeswax candles stood three-tiered plates holding roasted meats, breads, and fruits, with the other adorned by slivers of tarts, buns, and cake that smelled of rum with cream dolloped on top.
“A picnic by candlelight…” she breathed in awe. “How romantic. I had not thought you the sentimental sort, Vincent.”
“I missed our first breakfast,” he explained coolly, his hand gentle around hers as he guided her down. “It seemed poor husbandry to let the day end without offering you something sweeter in its place.”
Retrieving a bottle of claret from the sideboard, he joined her while working the cork free, “Would you like some?”
“Please.” She watched him pour, then gathered her courage. “I have been thinking about what we spoke of at the pond that day… of what I want from this temporary marriage. I think I would like to champion a social cause.”
He passed her the glass, their fingers brushing around the stem before he withdrew.
“Boys have Eton, grammar schools, trade schools, apprenticeships,” she went on. “Some path laid before them, narrow as it may be. But girls, especially girls born lower than I, are so often sent straight into service or marriage before they can even begin to dream of anything more.”
“I want to change that…” she finished, then softened it with a small, wry breath.
“Or at least try to. I would like to establish a school for girls, to provide them not only with the basic tenets of education, but something steadier. A way to give them a fighting chance to hold their own in this world.”
His brows lifted, and she asked, “What is that look for?”
“I suspected you might choose something of this sort,” he admitted. “It’s personal for you, I assume, having seen both sides of the coin; the luxury from your father’s estate and the day by day with your grandmother…” He trailed off, dejected and sorry for his part to play in those circumstances.
“Partially,” she sighed. “I’ve always found it unjust the way women are treated as lesser creatures, as though our minds are decorative things.
Ladies are given a better chance, of course, but even then, every accomplishment is polished for someone else’s approval.
Music, languages, drawing, dancing. All to make us more endearing to prospective husbands.
Vincent leaned back in his chair and drew one knee up, considering her over the rim of his glass. “There are several properties I can offer you to begin with. One has rooms enough for the girls to board.”
“It would become an exclusively charitable organization,” she warned.
“I am aware,” he said, shrugging a single shoulder. “That does not change anything.”
“Good.” She reached for a syruped strawberry slice and slipped it between her lips. The sweetness burst over her tongue, and her eyes widened before she could school them. “Oh my… that is delicious.”
His gaze settled on the trace of red at her mouth. “Allow me the pleasure, then.” Reaching over, he plucked another sliver from the tier and held it to her, the fruit glossy between his fingers. “Open for me, Emma.”
The command turned the strawberry wicked.
She leaned in and wrapped her lips around his glistening fingers. When his eyes went heavy-lidded, an answering warmth curled in her middle.
He fed her twice again, but on the third, he nipped the strawberry slice between his teeth and leaned in, daring her to take it from his lips. The challenge was silent. She acquiesced and brushed her lips to his, parting them only enough to steal the berry from him.
“Mm. That one was most delicious…”
With a frustrated growl, Vincent tossed back the last of his drink and pulled her across the rug by the waist. His kiss came hard enough to steal the sweetness back from her mouth.
A demanding moan left her throat, and he soothed it with a deepening press.
Familiar with his kisses now, Emma tasted notes of rich oak from the aged Port on his tongue.
With each lick, each seductive nibble, she felt more lost, tilting her head back for all of his mouth. Unhappy with the inch of space still between them, he heaved her flush against him, and Emma felt his hard, lean body pressing down her taut nipples.
An animalistic growl vibrated from his chest into hers. She had one breath before his mouth claimed it, his tongue plunging deeper, dark and sweet and ruthless.
It was like setting a match to oil, and her desire burst to flames. The more he offered, the more she craved. Her fingers speared through his dark hair, sinking her pads into the soft, thick pelt and holding on for dear life.
Her breasts surged against his chest, and even with layers between them, she could feel his rock-hard contours, his unyielding masculinity. His hands cupped her hips, urged them even closer to where he was harder yet.
“Goddamn, you’re soft,” he grunted, mouth wet against hers.
“You’re not,” she panted, her thigh rubbing against a heavy ridge straining in his breeches as she flushed devastatingly, “Hard and… huge.”
“That’s because of you,” he growled in her ear before his lips latched around the lobe. “You drive me mad. Tell me what you want, Emma?”
She angled her head so his lips slipped down her neck. “You… I want to know how to pleasure you…”
He drew back to give her a searching look. “You are sure?”
“Yes,” she twisted her head to kiss his palm. “I am. The veil has to come off my eyes someday, and you already assured me by the end of our marriage, I would be thoroughly debauched.”
His laugh was dark and smoky. “I did say that.”
Gently, he eased her off his lap to shuck his shirt, and the sight of his bare torso made her breath stall in her lungs. He was leanly honed with slabs of muscle that adorned his upper chest, his abdomen rippling as he eased up to undo his trousers.
Her gaze followed his hands as they moved to his waistband, and he undid his placket. His eyes were half-lidded, and his mouth was taut with anticipation, as button by button, he exposed his manly flesh.
He was built like an ancient god, his manhood long, thick, and hard as marble. Candlelight glazed the rigid vein along his shaft; a clear bead gathered at the tip and shone there obscenely.
Taking her hand, he wrapped her slim fingers around him.
Slowly, he showed her the pace and pressure he liked, the sensitive spots under his dome, how to twist her fist all the way down to the root.
The act of pleasuring him, feeling that supple velvet skin slide over the steel core, made her dizzy with desire.
“You’re so… hard,” she breathed.
His base swelled even further, testing the limits of her grip. Her fingers looked so delicate against the veined length, the manicured tips just managing to meet around his throbbing girth.
“Devil take it,” his breath punched out of his lungs, “you’re going to make me come in your hand like a greenling.”
Emma felt her chest swell with the knowledge that she was evoking all this: his breathless state, his heaving chest, the strain in his thighs, and the beautiful ruin of his composure.
She loved that she was the one to prolong his bliss and revel in the knowledge that he was the one coming apart by her touch.
A curse left his mouth as his hips punched up, and she added a squeeze at the tip that made him grunt. His breath was thick, “I am about to spend, Emma…”
“What should I—”
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” he ordered. “Don’t stop, I—”
Emma gasped as his hot seed blasted her fingers, coating her palm with translucent rope. Even as he shuddered with bliss, Emma could not turn away from watching him.
When the last spasm was rung out of him, he sagged against the chair, chest still surging. Spellbound, Emma brought her finger to her lips, licked the tip, and her nose wrinkled.
“Did you just taste me?” His voice was rough and raw as he handed his discarded shirt to her to wipe her hands.
She inclined her head teasingly, “I did.”
“And?”
“It’s…” she paused, “…odd.”
“Are you telling me that I am to be an acquired taste?” he laughed as he tucked himself back in and redid his fall.
“It depends,” Emma said as she curled up into his side. “How long does that taste take to be acquired?”
Laughing, he took her mouth again. This kiss was long, thorough, slow, tender, and drugging. The pressure of his lips and firm plunges of his tongue spun her senses nearly as much as pleasuring him had done.
Pulling back, he kissed the almost invisible freckles on her cheeks. “Did you like touching me, sweeting?” he murmured.
“Yes…” she whispered bashfully.
“That is good, because I’ve waited far too long to feel a woman’s touch again.” He smiled at her sudden start of surprise. “And you were worth every second of the wait.”
The following day, Emma found herself on the veranda with Vincent and Titan nearby, breathing in the fresh afternoon spring. This time, the two were not playing; Vincent was readying for his afternoon swim while Titan was out there, snuffling at bushes and trotting about.
He’d asked her to join, but she’d come back from her morning walk about the woodland with Lilian and was too tired.
With a thick wrap around her shoulders, Emma sat and watched as he descended the shallow steps into the glimmering blue-green depths of the pool. The morning light skittered over the surface, throwing it into faceted gem shards.
She watched as he dipped down and resurged from the depths like Poseidon emerging from his kingdom.
With the water dripping down his muscular body, Vincent swept his hair from his eyes before plunging back in.
He started off with a slow swim, gently coursing through the water as if he had fins instead of feet.
Reaching the other end, he spun with a diver and propelled his body through the water with more speed than his trip there.
Emma watched as his arms plowed through the water harder, faster, with every lap.
She counted five laps before Titan came to her, poking his nose into her hand, and for a moment, Emma was confused as he trotted away.
He stopped, turned back, did it again, and ambled a few paces once more. It took Emma a hair longer than she would normally have to realize he was trying to get her to follow him down from the veranda, and she did.
The dog led her to a row of bushes, and he stopped at one to hunker down and snuffle.
“What is it, boy?”