He swept back down her calf. “I must be ailing.”
“Feverish,” she decided, swallowing when he rubbed her instep with his thumb. “Or perhaps you are an impostor. What have you done with the real duke? The one who glowered at me in his private library that first day?”
His sensual lips quirked in the briefest ghost of a smile. “He stole a hellion’s smutty book, and she kissed him in an ill-conceived plot to win it back.”
Her heart beat faster. The way he looked at her melted her faster than Wenham Lake ice beneath a blazing summer sun. She felt flushed and buoyant, weightless in the water, her every care washed away in the steady lick of the warm bath.
“And then?” she dared ask, before adding a post script for good measure. “Though I must object to your characterization of the plot as ‘ill-conceived.’ It seemed quite inspired at the time.”
“Ill-conceived is what it was, for she did not regain her book. Instead, she was compromised. And then he married her.” He gripped her ankle and tugged, pulling her to him effortlessly.
She floated toward him, straddling his powerful thighs, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “And then?” she pressed again, bringing their lips to within an inch of touching.
And then she fell in love with him.
Her heart tripped, the breath leaving her in a rush. No, she could not say that. No matter how true it was. No matter how much she longed to. He was so near, so beloved, and how she wished she might have the bravery to confess her feelings. But in this matter, she was a coward, and she held her tongue and watched him instead.
He leaned forward, aligning their mouths for a quick, hard kiss before disengaging. “And then she attempted to seduce him in the bath, but he resisted.”
She raised a brow, reaching beneath the hot bath water to find his shaft. He was hard and full, ready for her. “Are you certain he resisted?” Feeling wicked, she stroked him, the silken sensation of the water between them heightening her awareness.
“Quite,” he gritted, “regardless of how tempting the hellion’s touch, he wished to worship her slowly and lingeringly.”
Oh. My.
She licked her lips. “How?”
“With his hands and his lips.” He kissed her again, catching the pout of her lower lip in his teeth before soothing the sting with a lick. “And his tongue.” He kissed her jaw, working his way down her throat. “Not to mention his cock.”
She could not suppress the sigh that left her lips. What wicked things he did to her. Who would have thought that the icy Duke of Disdain would marry the least behaved lady in all the ton, and that beneath his frigid façade smoldered such unrestrained passion? He awed her. The pain he had suffered, the horrors he had endured, she could not fathom. But here he was, raging with desire, gloriously alive. She vowed then that she would do her best to give him however much time he needed to reconcile his past with their future, that she would not press or push him. When he was ready, he would tell her, and she would be waiting for him, arms and heart wide open.
Bo tightened her grip on his erect cock. “What if the hellion did not wish to be worshipped? What if she wanted to worship the duke instead?” she whispered. It was the closest she dared come to revealing her feelings for him.
He shook his head, catching her wrist beneath the water, gently removing her hand. “The duke insists.”
“The hellion was never particularly adept at complying with the orders of others.” She slid the hand he had dislodged from his staff up the taut plane of his abdomen, enjoying the ripple of muscle, the way he tensed beneath her touch. She watched the water dripping down the wall of his chest, and could not resist lowering her lips to catch a droplet before flicking her tongue over his nipple.
The breath hissed from him. “Damn it, Boadicea, you don’t know what you do to me.”
If she did as little as a fraction of what he did to her, she would be well pleased. As it was, she relished him this way, needy and aroused. His cock a steely protrusion against her thigh. All for her, because of her. She loved how much he wanted her.
“Mmm.” She worked her way up his chest, to his neck, licking the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple. “You taste and smell so good,” she whispered against his wet skin. “Everywhere. It is my turn, Spencer.”
“Your turn?” he rasped, his hands sliding wetly up her back, beneath the curtain of her hair.
“My turn,” she repeated, kissing his ear, running her tongue over the whorl, rewarded by the tremor she felt run through him. Here, he was every bit as responsive as she, every bit as affected. “To worship you. With my mouth, and my tongue.” She licked again, kissed his clenched jaw, loving the abrasion of his stubble on her lips. “Let me, Spencer. Let me love you.”
He stiffened, and she stilled in the same instant. She had not meant to say it, but she had lost jurisdiction over herself, caught up in the moment and the desire. For a beat, she turned her options over in her mind, wondering what she ought to do. Fear won, and she rained kisses all the way across his jaw, to the corner of his sensual lips. Passion was a language he understood.
She cupped his beloved face, gazed into his eyes. “Let me make you come.”
“Bloody hell.” The epithet sounded torn from him. His fingers tangled in the wet locks of her nape, and he slammed his mouth into hers. The kiss was open-mouthed, hungry. Almost savage in its insistence.
She kissed him back with everything she had, unleashing all the desire, all the pent-up need, every last drop of the love welling inside her. If she could not tell him with words, she would tell him with her body, with her actions. Bo moaned into his mouth, letting him know how badly she wanted him, unashamed of his effect on her.
On a growl, he rose from the water, scooping her into his arms as he went. She gasped, hands flying to his shoulders for purchase. “Spencer!” She could not help but protest, conscious of the fact that he could so easily slip. Though he had lifted her into his arms on previous occasions, she knew that her tall frame was by no means light as a feather. “Put me down.”
“No.” With a masterful illustration of his exquisitely honed strength, he stepped from the tub, still holding her tight, in one fluid motion.
“Spencer,” she tried again, when he began striding from the bathroom to his chamber.
“Hush,” he chastised, his tone gentle. “The duke insists.”
They were both soaked, and though the castle was drafty in the cooler evening air in spite of its renovations, she was not at all cold. No indeed, she was positively aflame. She clung to him as he carried her all the way to his bed and laid her upon it with such tender care that her heart ached.
As he joined her, she admired the rugged beauty of his body. He slid between her legs, their wet skin connecting in perfect, delicious friction. But when he would have once more taken charge of their lovemaking, she was determined to thwart him. Some far recess of her mind recalled the manner in which he clung to control, and she wanted to upend him. Perhaps if there was a way to break him free of his past, it was this, the only dynamic between them that was easy and without conflict.
While he did not love her, he did desire her every bit as much as she desired him. In this, they were equals. And she longed, how she longed, to break him free of the cage he had built around himself. Maybe this was the way.
She braced the heels of her palms flat against both his shoulders and pushed, not stopping until he relented and submitted to her dominance. He allowed her to roll him on his back. She straddled him, her wet, hungry flesh upon his stomach, and leaned over him until their noses touched.
“The duchess insists more,” she challenged.
And then, without waiting for another word from him, she lowered her mouth to his neck. Here he smelled so divine, of the soap from their bath, and all man. All wonderful. She kissed the cords down to his hard clavicle and then lower, across his pectoral, over each slab of his abdomen, to the soft trail of hair that led lower still.
Mmm.
<
br /> Her hands trailed after her mouth, and she breathed him in, deep and full, her palms framing his hips. She caressed, moved down, to where his cock strained, full and proud, jutting toward her, dark and engorged, a drop of seed weeping from the slit on his crown.
When they had enacted the woodcut from her bawdy book a few nights ago, he had not spent in her mouth. Instead, he had pulled away, sinking inside her for a few deep thrusts before slipping from her body and delivering his seed into the sheets once more. This time, she was not going to allow him to withdraw.
“Boadicea.”
She paused, glancing back up the sculpted planes of his body to meet his gaze. “Spencer, hold your tongue. Let me worship you.” She kissed the patch of skin beneath his navel.
“Fuck.”
She smiled, dipped her head. “Yes.” Then her fingers circled his shaft, and her mouth closed over him. His hips jerked, and she took as much of his length as she could, sucking and stroking with her tongue. His moan spurred her on, sending moisture between her thighs, a deep pulse of want.
“Sweeting, stop. I don’t want to…”
She ignored him, continuing her assault, gratified when his words trailed off. She wanted him to lose his mind, to lose his thought, to lose every instinct that told him he must restrain himself. If she could not have him spend inside her womb, then she would at least have this.
His fingers tangled in her hair once more, but instead of dislodging her, he held her fast, guiding her, showing her what he liked. How much suction, how fast. She found her rhythm, relaxed her throat, and welcomed him deeper still, moaning her pleasure in time to the sweet sounds of his surrender.
“I cannot,” he groaned.
But he could. And he would.
Bo sucked greedily, wanting as much of him as she could have. Wanting all of him. Everything. Anything he would give. One hand palmed his bum, the other cupped the base of his shaft, her lips and tongue and throat moving over him, up and down, up and down.
A guttural sound tore from him, his hips jerking upward, and then the molten spurt of his seed hit the back of her throat. She swallowed all of it, all of him, and it was not enough, but it would have to do.
For now.
When she was satisfied that he was spent, she rose to her haunches, pleased to see the relaxed lines of his handsome face, the glazed pleasure in his vivid eyes. “And then?” she could not resist asking.
“And then he knew he had somehow found the only duchess in the world who could ever suit him,” he said softly.
It was not a declaration of love, but it was enough.
Chapter 21
Spencer had a problem.
A large and unexpected and most definitely unwanted problem.
He spurred his mount into a gallop, feeling the wind and early morning mists in his face, hoping it would rattle something loose inside him and send the problem flying into the atmosphere. But the problem remained lodged in his chest, stubborn, refusing to go away.
The problem was a sensation, a physical ache. But it was also something far more imprecise, the stirrings of something terrifying. Something he did not believe in. Something he would not feel.
He had woken that morning, his wife nuzzled against his chest, her auburn hair unfurled across him in silken curls. And he had felt it then, gazing down at her slumber-softened face, the pink lips he loved to kiss, the ethereal dusting of freckles on her nose, the beauty mark he could see in his sleep. It had struck him, in one swift and breathtaking rush.
Something was shifting, changing inside him. It was a change he did not need. And so he had disengaged from her, taking care not to disturb her sleep, dressed for riding, and left without her. That in itself had felt almost like a betrayal, for he had not ridden without her since that first day. She was an accomplished horsewoman, and her enthusiasm for his Arabians pleased him.
But he had gone anyway, hoping that the separation would do his addled mind some good. It was the sixth day of their honeymoon. Tomorrow would be the last, and they would return to Boswell Manor, his mother, his brother, his endless string of duties, and the onerous weight of the past he had managed to shake during their idyll. Every minute of the last week had been spent wrapped up in each other, and he was loath for their time together to come to an end. When they weren’t riding, they were making love. It came as no surprise that Boadicea was an eager, passionate, and bold lover. She was everything he had never dared to want.
She scared the hell out of him. The feelings she roused within him frightened him witless as well. He pounded across the park, his horse’s flying hooves taking him farther and farther from the sleeping wife he had left behind. But not the problem. The problem remained, burrowed too deep to remove, inescapable and all-consuming. The problem was a part of him now, and he must deal with it somehow. It would not be ignored or excised. It would not be avoided or silenced.
It was there, beating beneath the surface of every waking moment.
It was there, beating like a bloody heart.
Because it was a heart. It was his heart. And it was feeling things it had no right to feel. Everything was changing. He had changed.
He was falling in love with his wife.
There, he had allowed himself to think it, to entertain the hideous word in his mind for the first time in relation to Boadicea. Love. He had not believed it possible, not for him, at least. He had thought the past had inured him to any such superfluous complication.
But the problem, the damnable emotion swelling in his chest, was insistent. It burned, growing each time he kissed her, each time she looked at him with such open affection, each time he sank inside her body and lost himself until they became one.
It was like a wound that must be cauterized, and he had to stem the bleeding to prevent further loss. He leaned low over his horse’s neck, urging her on, needing the speed and the thrill, the wide-open distraction. The mere thought of loving Boadicea made his mouth go dry and his hands tremble as they gripped the reins.
Yes, loving her was a big, bloody problem. Because as it was, the strength of emotion surging within him whenever she walked into a chamber nearly knocked him on his arse. What he felt for her was a different world from the way he had felt for Millicent.
Their marriage had been arranged by their families, an alliance rather than a love match. But he had nevertheless grown to care for his former wife, and even when the madness had taken her and she had betrayed their vows, even as she’d trained the pistol upon him with every intent to commit murder, he had not stopped caring. He knew that the person she was before, the innocent, mild-mannered lady he had wed, would never have done what she did.
No, that came later, after the grief of their only son’s death.
He rode harder, forcing himself to recall the sight of his infant in his arms, pale and still and perfectly formed. Born without taking a single breath. He could still remember every detail of the death mask, though he had buried it alongside Millicent. He made himself feel, once again, the bitter agony of losing his flesh and blood, of the babe that never lived, of the abject despair of watching his wife’s lucidity slip away.
Darkness roared through him, and he embraced it, allowing it to infect him like the disease it was. He stared into the horizon and saw Millicent’s flat, dead eyes. Heard again her voice, tinged with unhinged desperation.
Say it. You killed our baby.
The pistol, rising before him. His own mortality staring him in the face.
You are the devil, Bainbridge. You murdered my son, and now I must murder you.
And then his own voice, feigning a calm he did not feel.
I did it, Millicent. It is my fault, all of this. Please, give me the pistol.
The final fury of her scream rang through his brain, mingling with the pounding of his mount’s hooves into the earth. He held his breath now as he had in that moment, certain his life was over. And then the pistol had gone off, its bullet tearing through her temple with such eerie precision.
Blood, so much of it.
He lifted his head to the skies and let loose a bellow of his own as he galloped across the land, and it echoed through the valley and ricocheted off the surrounding trees. No matter how much time passed, no matter where he went, he would never be able to erase the past or the reach of its skeletal hand. Where once it had tortured him, now it spurred him on, reminding him that while a part of him had survived Millicent’s madness and death, he could not risk opening himself to such devastation again. For as strong as his feelings for Boadicea were, he would never endure a second time.
I have seen such puerperal mania cases before. Giving birth to a child can affect a woman’s mind.
He could not watch the light leave her blue eyes. Could not watch her seep away from him. No, indeed. He could not afford to allow his love for her to grow any more than it already had. Because inevitably would follow her desire to have children, and his to please her.
Distance was what he needed. Physical as well as emotional. Whatever had happened between them here at Ridgely Castle, this was all that they could ever have. He would do whatever it took to ensure that it did not develop into something more.
It was for the best that they return to Boswell Manor on the morrow. He would fall back into his familiar, dutiful role, and Boadicea could busy herself with her Lady’s Suffrage Society. Distance and distraction was all he needed.
That and to regain the control he had somehow lost.
Those were his only options for self-preservation, and the realization was a stone sinking in his gut as he galloped away from his future and his past all at once.
* * *
Bo returned to Boswell Manor to the greeting of the domestics, sans the pained face of her mother-in-law and the bitter quietness of her brother-in-law, who were thankfully nowhere to be found upon their arrival. A week had passed since she had left, somewhat in shock and quite nervous to be the new Duchess of Bainbridge. In the intervening time, so short and yet so transforming that it might have been a lifetime instead, much had altered.
Heart’s Temptation Series Books 4-6 Page 76