Chapter Twenty-Seven
“The damask, I think. It’ll age better with the mahogany panelling.”
Cecilia stood in what remained of the east wing drawing room while sunlight streamed through newly fitted windows. Dust motes danced through afternoon light, and somewhere overhead, workmen’s hammers provided percussion to the estate’s symphony of reconstruction.
Mrs Whittaker nodded approvingly, her features softening in a way that would have been unthinkable three months ago. “Quite right, Your Grace. The damask will complement the restored woodwork beautifully.”
Before Cecilia could respond, a young footman named Timothy appeared in the doorway, cap clutched between callused hands, his face flushed with excitement.
“Your Grace? Begging your pardon, but His Grace requests your presence in the blue parlour. Says there’s visitors arrived unexpected-like, and you’d want to know straightaway. ”
Cecilia’s stomach tightened reflexively—a habitual response to urgency that she couldn’t quite shake, despite months of safety. “Did he say who?”
“Duke and Duchess of Duskbourne, Your Grace.” Timothy’s grin suggested he’d been hoping to deliver this particular news. “Arrived in a right fancy carriage, they did.”
Relief and pleasure flooded through her in equal measure. “Tell His Grace I’ll be there directly.” She handed the ledger to Mrs Whittaker.
The blue parlour hummed with laughter when Cecilia arrived, and she paused in the doorway to simply observe.
Adrian stood by the fireplace, relaxed in a way that still caught her breath—one shoulder propped against the mantel, dark eyes bright with genuine amusement.
And sprawled across the settee with characteristic irreverence sat Cassian, looking thoroughly pleased with himself whilst his wife Charlotte perched beside him, elegant as always.
“There she is!” Cassian rose immediately, crossing to Cecilia with easy warmth. “The Duchess of Devonshire herself.”
“You’re early!”
“We were overcome with curiosity,” Charlotte admitted, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as she squeezed Cecilia’s hands.
“London is absolutely abuzz with tales of your reconstruction efforts. I simply had to see whether you’d actually managed to charm Mrs Whittaker, or if the rumours were exaggerated. ”
Heat rose in Cecilia’s cheeks.
Charlotte shared a meaningful look with her husband. “Darling, I told you she’d be magnificent.”
Adrian’s fingers pressed gently against Cecilia’s spine. “She’s been extraordinary. Do you know she’s somehow convinced Mrs Whittaker that sage green is preferable to her beloved rose damask? I’m fairly certain that’s the greater tactical victory.”
“Mrs Whittaker’s taste isn’t that bad,” Cecilia protested.
“She wanted to paper the music room in a floral pattern that would have given visiting guests permanent headaches,” Adrian countered.
“London society will be forever grateful,” Charlotte interjected meaningfully. “That’s actually why we came early. Cassian has news.”
“Henry?” The name emerged flat, carefully controlled in that particular way Adrian had when emotion threatened to overwhelm his famous composure.
“The magistrate made quite a spectacle of it—said gentleman or not, attempted murder and fraud against one’s own family would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
Silence settled heavy and strange. Cecilia felt Adrian’s breath hitch once—sharply, before his iron control reasserted itself.
“Good.” The word emerged rough, almost broken.
Cecilia’s hand found his, threading their fingers together in silent support.
“Society is calling you both remarkably brave. The gossip has shifted entirely in your favour.”
“Shifted how?” Cecilia’s voice sounded distant to her own ears.
“You’re admired,” Cassian leaned forward, his tone earnest now. “It’s become rather romantic, actually—I overheard three separate matrons at Lady Ashworth’s musicale last week debating whether your love story rivals anything currently in Minerva Press circulation.”
“Our love story?” Adrian’s tone carried amusement and something deeper, more vulnerable. “Is that what the ton’s calling it?”
“What would you call it?” Charlotte challenged softly.
Adrian’s gaze dropped to Cecilia, dark and utterly unguarded.
“Actually,” Adrian continued, his attention never leaving Cecilia’s face, “I’ve been considering something. A suggestion, really, that I’d like your opinion on.”
“Oh?” Her voice emerged embarrassingly breathless.
“Our wedding was... functional.” His thumb traced small circles against her spine, sending heat spiralling through her body.
“I remember,” Cecilia managed, uncertain where this was leading.
“I thought perhaps we might have another.”
Her heart stuttered violently. “Another wedding?”
“A private one. Just us.” The uncertainty in his expression was new, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen. “Perhaps in the small chapel here at Ravenscar—the one overlooking the rose gardens. If you’d like.”
Cecilia’s throat closed around words she couldn’t quite form, emotion swelling too large for speech.
“You don’t have to answer now,” Adrian added quickly, misreading her silence. “I merely thought—”
The words burst from her, fierce and certain. “Yes, I’d like that very much. More than I can properly express without embarrassing myself in front of company.”
Adrian’s smile transformed his face—rare and devastating and completely unguarded. Before Cecilia could process the expression, he’d pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a kiss that made her forget entirely that they had an audience.
Cassian cleared his throat pointedly.
Adrian pulled back fractionally, though his forehead remained pressed to Cecilia’s, his breath warm against her mouth. “We should probably—”
“Show them the east wing,” Cecilia finished breathlessly, still lost in the warmth of his dark eyes. “And the gardens. And possibly feed them dinner at some point, as is customary for guests.”
“Dinner would be lovely,” Charlotte agreed, rich amusement colouring her voice. “Though watching you two is rather entertaining in itself.”
They spent the afternoon touring the repairs, Cecilia and Charlotte falling into easy conversation about fabrics and London gossip whilst Adrian and Cassian discussed investments and parliamentary politics.
Dinner proved loud and laughter-filled, the dining room echoing with warmth that would have been unthinkable months ago.
By the time their guests retired to their chambers, Cecilia’s cheeks ached from smiling.
“Thank you,” she said quietly as Adrian closed the door to their private sitting room—the cosy space between their bedchambers that had become their refuge. “For suggesting the second wedding. For wanting to do it properly this time.”
Adrian crossed to where she stood by the window, moonlight painting silver across her red hair. “I should be thanking you. You’ve rebuilt more than the east wing, Cecilia. You’ve rebuilt this.” He lifted her hand and placed it over his heart. “You breathed life into this again. Into me.”
He kissed her, but not with the desperate claiming of early passion nor the gentle affection of daily intimacy, but something new.
Promise, perhaps. Commitment freely chosen rather than obligation grudgingly accepted.
Cecilia’s hands found his cravat, fingers working the intricate knot loose with ease.
“We should go to bed,” she murmured against his mouth, even as her body pressed closer.
Adrian made no move toward either bedchamber, his attention focused entirely on the tiny pearl buttons running down her spine. “I’m finding myself remarkably content right here.”
Cecilia’s laugh caught as his mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear, his teeth grazing skin before his tongue soothed the sting. The dual sensation sent sparks racing down her spine. “In the sitting room?”
His voice dropped to that low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her bones, settling as liquid heat between her thighs. “We haven’t christened this room yet. Seems a missed opportunity, considering how thoroughly we’ve enjoyed ourselves in every other room of this wing.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
His hands spanned her waist, lifting her with easy strength onto the small writing desk by the window. Cool wood pressed against her thighs through silk—such contrast to the burning heat of his body as he stepped between her parted legs.
“Oh, Adrian,” Cecilia whispered breathlessly, watching moonlight paint silver across the sharp planes of his face, turning his dark eyes molten. “I love the way you look at me… like you’re contemplating something thoroughly improper.”
“Oh, but I am.” Adrian’s gaze turned hungry. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her core through layers of fabric. “Like worshipping every inch of you until you scream my name loud enough to wake our guests.”
Heat flooded through Cecilia at his words, at the dark promise blazing in his eyes. Her breath came faster, shallower. “That would be terribly rude.”
“Terribly,” he agreed, his clever fingers finding the hem of her skirt with agonising slowness.
When his palm finally connected with her bare calf, they both gasped—the simple touch sending electricity arcing between them.
His hand slid higher, callused fingertips dragging up her stockinged thigh with deliberate leisure.
She pulled him closer, her legs wrapping around his hips to lock him against her. Through the thin barrier of her undergarments, she could feel every rigid inch of him. “Though, I’ve been thinking...”
“Dangerous occupation.” His breath hitched audibly as her hands found warm skin beneath his shirt, her nails dragging lightly across his chest. “Thinking about what?”
Cecilia pushed his waistcoat off his shoulders, then tugged his shirt free with trembling eagerness.
Moonlight painted silver across the muscled planes of his chest—all that beautiful skin she’d mapped thoroughly with hands and mouth over recent weeks, yet somehow it still stole her breath.
“Will you let me take charge? Just for tonight.”
Adrian went utterly still, his gaze sharpening with interest and something darker, more primal. “Take charge how, precisely?”
Instead of answering, Cecilia slid off the desk, her hands pressing against his chest until his knees hit the settee behind him. “Sit.”
He obeyed immediately, control fraying visibly at the edges.
Cecilia straddled his lap, her nightdress riding up her thighs as she settled against him. The impressive length of his arousal pressed exactly where she wanted it, and the friction made them both groan.
“This is new,” Adrian managed, his voice rough as gravel. His hands found her hips, “And surprisingly... enticing.”
Cecilia’s fingers found the fastenings of his breeches, working them open with deliberate slowness, pulling his rigid length free.
“What precisely is it you want to do to me, Cecilia?” The question emerged strangled, desperate.
She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “I want to ride you until you forget your own name, husband. Until the only one you remember is mine.”
A strangled curse tore from Adrian’s throat—half curse, half prayer. His hips jerked involuntarily beneath her.
“Tell me what you want,” Cecilia demanded and stroked his velvet hardness. His sharp intake of breath sent feminine satisfaction curling through her. “I want to hear you say it.”
The words emerged ragged, uncontrolled in a way she’d never heard from him. “I want to be buried so deep inside you that we can’t tell where you end and I begin.”
“Good answer.” Cecilia’s breath came in shallow pants now, her own arousal slicking her thighs.
She lifted herself slightly, guiding him to her entrance.
She sank down slowly, taking him inch by devastating inch whilst they both struggled for breath.
His thickness stretched her exquisitely, a delicious edge between pleasure and the sweetest pressure.
“Ah…” The sensation overwhelmed her, made her inner walls pulse around him as her head fell back with a gasp. She began to move—rising almost completely off him before sinking back down, establishing a rhythm that had them both trembling. Each descent felt deeper than the last.
“Touch me,” she demanded.
His thumb found the sensitive pearl between her thighs, circling with devastating precision whilst his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her down for a bruising kiss.
“Yes… Oh, God… yes!” Pleasure crashed through Cecilia in devastating waves, her body clenching rhythmically around him as she cried out against his mouth. She ground down deep and slow, prolonging the exquisite pulses whilst stars exploded behind her eyes.
Adrian followed her with a hoarse shout, his hips surging up to meet her as his release tore through him.
“That was...” Cecilia couldn’t finish the sentence, her mind still pleasantly blank, her body humming with satisfaction.
“Definitely audible from the guest wing.” Adrian supplied, his voice rough and wrecked.
“Cassian and Charlotte are civilised people. They’ll pretend they heard nothing.”
“We’re going to be disgustingly happy, aren’t we?”
“Absolutely revolting,” he agreed. “The scandal of the season—a duke and duchess genuinely devoted to one another. Society won’t know what to do with us.”