The Perfect Duchess

by Jen YatesNZ

  ‘Do you realize I’ve travelled the length of the damn country looking for you?’ he rasped.

  Sheri swallowed. She did know but her throat was so painfully constricted no words were possible.

  ‘A week and a bloody half I’ve been chasing after—you—when all I wanted was to be here—with you! Touching you, holding you, looking at you—like this!’

  She was helpless to get her hands free to cover the ugliness that always seemed so incongruous, so—awful—against the rest of her fair beauty. She wasn’t vain about that beauty, just terribly ashamed it was such a lie.

  ‘You promised—,’ she began desperately. ‘It’s ugly. I’m ugly! You’ll hate me if you see this! Any man would!’

  He stood so still, then like a cobra striking, his finger was jabbing at the wicked slash of white down his own cheek.

  ‘This is ugly,’ he rasped.

  Flying about on the stool, Sheri snatched his hand away from his face and placed her own over the livid mark.

  ‘It’s not!’ she cried. ‘It’s heroic!’

  For a long moment their gazes held, then he took her hands in his.

  ‘You think I could hate you?’ he whispered, horror dawning in his eyes as he drew her off the stool and guided her across the room to a full-length, free-standing mirror. There he slid his hands down to her wrists, drawing them behind her back so she stood revealed in all her naked femininity.

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘Look at me, Sher. Look at you—and listen well. I—love—you. I’ve hated every minute of every bloody day I’ve had to be away from you. I’ve hated your mother for lying to me, for refusing to trust me with the truth and thereby sending me off on that useless bloody trek north. I’ve hated Hadleigh for laying the mission on me in the first place—and Astonbury for—all of it!—But you, Sher, have stolen my heart. My need to get back to you has been a driving force through every minute of every day—as Suliman would testify if he could! I—love—you.—Look at me!’ he finished, his voice commanding and yet with an underlying note of desperation.

  Sheri shook her head.

  ‘You—no!’ she whispered. ‘How can you? I’m ugly.—I’m not beautiful—like you thought. You can only be disgusted!’

  ‘I love you, Sher,’ he said again.

  ‘I’m not ‘Sher’ or ‘Sherida’. I’m probably not even your wife!’ she shouted at him, her eyes flying wide and angry. ‘Nor am I Jassie!’

  Dom’s eyes closed and his head fell back on his shoulders for a moment, then with his jaw grinding with determination, he faced her once more in the mirror.

  ‘I didn’t know what love was until I thought I might lose you, Sher. That night I took you—before our wedding, was pure desperation and I knew then it wasn’t pride or need for a wife or any other damn reason anyone might dream up for my marrying you. It was because I loved you and I refused to stand aside and allow some other bastard ultimately claim you. Because you—are—mine! I could watch Jassie with Rogue—and feel happiness because she finally had her heart’s desire. When I realized I’d kill any bastard who tried to claim you from me, I finally understood the nature of love, Sher.’

  At least her breathing had started up again, albeit fast and shallow, as hope and excitement coursed through her. He was speaking words she’d secretly fantasized hearing for years. It was wishful thinking, surely, fooling her into believing.

  ‘How can you?’ she whispered, bitterness creeping into her voice, as she turned her gaze back to the mirror and flung her arms wide, ‘when I look like this?’

  Catching her arms in his grip once again he held them wide while a slow smile tilted the corners of his beautifully sculpted mouth, and danced like green-gold stars in his eyes, as he surveyed the hideous markings across her chest.

  ‘If you’d shown yourself to me that first night, my love, I’d not have wasted these last ten days separated from you! I thought it amusing when Hadleigh informed me of the birthmark Sylvaine Walsingham had across her chest as a baby and I imagined myself requesting every twenty-three year old woman I knew to bare her breasts for me. Would you have complied, I wonder?’

  Heat flooded her whole body.

  ‘I would not!’ she cried indignantly, struggling to free her arms.

  ‘Of course you would not—did not!’ he murmured, nuzzling against her ear. ‘But oh, how I wish you had. I want you very badly, my love.’

  He pulled her arms in against the front of her hips, pressing her bottom back against the hard ridge in his trousers which testified to the truth of his assertion.

  ‘You have beautiful breasts, Sher. I always knew you would, used to wonder why you hid such bounty behind high necklines and gowns that appeared downright prudish—until one was presented with the back view. You—’

  Suddenly, he stopped speaking, his eyes going wide as he stared at her breasts. Then he released her hands at her side and raised a finger to trace the oddly darker shadows on the swell of her breasts.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he commanded, stepping away to pick up a stick of charcoal from her worktable.

  When he came back he caught both her hands together in his and held them behind her back, then touched the charcoal to a few of the darker patches on her chest in quick succession, as an artist might lightly sketch an outline. Suddenly, there on her chest was the howling wolf’s head that adorned the Wolverton coat of arms, the sea of banners in the Great Hall, and every entryway into Wolverton Castle and the front door of Wolverton House on Bruton Street.

  ‘Dear God, Sher! Do you see what this is?’ he whispered. When she couldn’t answer, he swung her round into his arms and pulled her close against his chest. The press of her breasts against the stuff of his jacket sent sparks of fire rushing through her veins, but it was the rough passion in his voice that stole the strength from her limbs. ‘You—are—mine. You carry the mark of Wolverton branded on your skin! You were born for me.’

  …

  Urgency beat through his blood. He had to possess her now; show her she was always meant for him. He’d love her until she was powerless to do anything but love him back—as deeply, as irrefutably as he loved her.

  Swinging her up into his arms, he strode out of the room and into the bedroom he’d passed through earlier to find her in the studio. He cared for nothing save it held a bed.

  Reaching his objective, an ancient carved black oak four poster spread with a feather-filled damask comforter in shades of rose and gold, he laid her back across its softness. Ripping off his neck cloth, he leaned in to kiss and lick and suckle at the pouting nipples begging for his attention. Coat swiftly followed neck cloth to the floor .As he claimed her mouth, open and trembling for him, her hands began tugging at the buttons on his shirt and slipping inside to spread over the hard contours of his chest before she’d finished the task. Her mouth was sweet, hungry, responsive; her tongue danced as if her need was as great as his.

  He needed to be naked, able to feel the full silky-soft, feminine length of her against his hard masculinity. His boots and the rest of his attire quickly littered the floor, his eyes never leaving the glorious temptation of her, laid out for him; surrendering to him; naked; marked for him.

  She was all female perfection, from the silver-gilt cloud of hair crowning her head, to the luminous, pansy-brown eyes, the full curvy mouth of a courtesan, the lushness of her breasts and the willowy curves of her torso; to the long shapely legs he wanted wrapped around him. Perfection—only enhanced by the strange markings that had no doubt tortured her all her life, markings which clearly showed she’d been meant for the Duke of Wolverton.

  Stepping out of his buckskins, he came down into her arms and took her mouth as if she was the very air he needed for survival. She’d been untutored on their wedding night, but had quickly learned the power of responding, knew instinctively perhaps, how to dance her tongue with his, how to mold their mouths together to savor each other’s tastes and textures.

  Her hands gripped his head, her lo
ng slim fingers combing through his hair and digging into his scalp with a pressure as inciting as it was satisfying. That her passion, her desire meshed with and fueled his, was deeply gratifying.

  Ploughing his fingers through her hair, he fanned it out across the bed, then lifted his head to appreciate the picture she made, a silver-gilded goddess against the rose and gold damask.

  Cupping her face with his hands, he murmured, ‘You’re beautiful, perfect. I—love—you, Sher.’

  There was only one goal in his mind now. He wanted to hear those three words on her lips. I love you. He needed them with a fierce desperation, but disbelief still shadowed her eyes. Still she perceived only her ugliness, doubted any man could love her; or more specifically, that he could love her.

  He’d have to show her.

  Pressing her wrists to the bed above her head, he secured them with one hand. For a moment he held her gaze, let her see the power of his feelings as he savored her spread beneath him.

  ‘You—are—mine. My perfect duchess,’ he said, bending to emphasize each word with kisses along her jaw, down the silken skin of her neck to the soft hollow of her throat. She squirmed, almost giggled, as if the butterfly touch of his lips tickled—as he’d intended it should. He loved the sounds of his Ice Queen melting.

  Tasting and nipping down her chest to the swell of her left breast, he stopped to study the outline of the wolf’s head, brought into stark relief with a few strokes of the charcoal; and brushed it off.

  With one searing glance between them, he dipped his head and took her nipple deep into his mouth.

  ‘Dom!’ she cried, her body arching upwards.

  She wasn’t protesting; was responding—helplessly. God, he loved that he could do this to her.

  ‘What, Sher? What do you want?’ he whispered roughly, moving to her other breast, curling his tongue around her nipple and suckling hard. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he commanded when she continued to writhe and whimper in her need.

  ‘You!’ she cried. ‘Oh God, Dom! Please!’

  Releasing her wrists he came up on his knees between her thighs, kneeling over her like a predator with its prey. She reached to pull him down to her, but he resisted, tempting her instead, to look her fill of his straining arousal. As her eyes roamed from the taut muscles of his neck and chest, over his hard rippling belly to his cock jutting rigidly from its nest of black hair at his groin, they widened, darkened and filled with fiery sparks of desire.

  She reached for him but he couldn’t allow her to touch him yet. He’d not done worshipping at the shrine of her body. If she touched him he’d not be able to resist taking her, losing himself in her. She’d be screaming in ecstasy before he gave in to his own need.

  Gliding his hands up her thighs, he pressed them wide, exposing her every secret to him. She struggled to pull her legs together, to twist her body out of his grip, to push his shoulders to dislodge him from her.

  He laughed softly at her puny efforts then lowered his head to taste the essence of her womanhood, the unique flavor of Sheri, his wife.

  ‘Mine,’ he growled, spreading the soft pink flesh open with his thumbs and burying his tongue as deeply as he could reach inside her. ‘God, Sher, I’ve wanted this, wanted you! I’ve never—been tormented by my need for a woman—as I’ve been tormented for want of you these last ten days. If I travel in future, you travel with me!’

  Closing his mouth over her, he delved deep with his tongue, rasping it back and forth over the sensitive nubbin until her body began thrashing beneath him, writhing in her desperate quest for fulfilment, accompanied by incoherent pleading.

  When she arched upward into orgasmic spasm and a long drawn out cry of release filled the room, he rose up, driving deep and hard.

  ‘Yes!’ Sheri cried, her fingers scoring his back and buttocks as she pulled him desperately into her. ‘Do-o-om!’

  His name was a hoarsely whispered scream as she surged into a second climax. He plunged harder, deeper with every thrust until a helpless growl of release tore from his throat and he spilled his seed deep in her womb with a force that rendered him as weak as a newborn. Slowly he dropped down to fold her in his arms and roll their bodies to lie on their sides, still tightly entwined. It was several minutes before either of them could do more than drag breath into labored lungs.

  At last he demanded, ‘Do you believe I love you, Sher? It has nothing to do with your beauty or what you perceive to be your imperfections. Nor has it anything to do with your identity as either Sherida or Sylvaine. I love you, my wife, the intrinsic you, who honors me and the Wolverton title and estates with your integrity, your inner strength and natural poise. I love who you are, whatever name you go by, whatever blemish may mar your skin.’

  He watched as she valiantly fought to clear the clouds of doubt that continued to drift in her eyes and his heart started to thud with the dull beat of dread and the beginnings of a pain so intense he could never have imagined it. Not only had he not understood what constituted true love, he’d not even begun to comprehend what it would mean if that love was not reciprocated.

  Slowly Sheri pushed herself away from his body to lie back on the pillows and pull the edge of the comforter over her nakedness. The coldness of her retreat penetrated to his inner core.

  ‘I need you to believe me, Sher.’

  Her fingers clutched and pulled at the comforter, trying to haul it up to her neck.

  ‘You don’t know what you ask, Dom. To believe after all this time you—finally—love me? I’m scared to even entertain the dream—’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, sitting up abruptly and pressing his head back against the richly carved headboard. The beat of his heart had increased slightly, taken on a different cadence—lighter, more hopeful.

  ‘Do you remember my coming-out ball? You must’ve been home on leave because you—were in uniform. You danced the Roger de Coverley with me. I so wished it was a waltz, but there were no waltzes that night. I doubt you even remember—but I’ve never forgotten. My heart dropped into your keeping that night. I was powerless to retrieve it. No one else was ever going to do. I knew it was foolish, but told myself Springwoods and the horses would have to be enough, for I’d never marry anyone else. You cannot imagine the terror of reading the lists of fallen soldiers after each battle, the awful compulsion to read them, even though I’d no idea what I’d do, how I’d cope if I found your name there. I knew it was hopeless, for you’d never seen me in that way—in fact, I’d wager you didn’t see me at all! Then you asked Jassie to marry you. She turned you down, but somehow it became common knowledge you loved her—as hopelessly as I loved you—though that was known to no one, save me. Not even to Jassie did I confess it. Not when she came crying to me in her terrible pain and longing for Windermere, or for the pain she’d unwittingly caused you. She didn’t need to know about my pain when she confessed she could’ve loved you very well had she not belonged to Windermere, heart and soul, since childhood.—And I’ve always known the pain I suffered through those years would be nothing to what I would feel, if I had your love for a brief time and then you transferred it to someone else. I doubt I’d have the strength to survive that.’

  Her fingers twisted at a corner of the comforter, her eyes downcast and color flared and faded in her cheeks, following the tides of her thoughts.

  Her pain seared to his bones. Slowly he reached for her, turned her chin with his fingertips, so she had to look at him. Still her lashes shaded her eyes, but she couldn’t prevent the welling of moisture that flowed over her eyelids, down her cheeks to dribble over his fingers.

  ‘Ah, Sher,’ he whispered, drawing her into his arms and pressing his lips to her eyes. ‘I don’t deserve what you’ve just revealed to me. I don’t deserve you! How could I have been so blind all those years? You have my love—not briefly; not just for a season. You have my love for a lifetime. I’ll spend the rest of my days proving that to you.’

  She lifted her glistening eyes to hi
s and his heart contracted.

  ‘Just one more—silly doubt,’ she confessed. ‘I—got an anonymous letter this morning from someone who said I should expect to share my husband with many others as he was—is—greatly sought after in his role as—Master of Virgins at the Matrix Club.’ Briefly her eyes squeezed shut and tears seeped between her lids and tracked down her cheeks. Then she whispered, ‘I have to admit I felt sort of honored and privileged to think there might be any truth in that—but even so—I couldn’t bear it if—after this—you still—had other women.’

  Her chin dropped to her chest and her fingers clutched painfully at his shoulders. Nowhere near as wretchedly as her pain tore at his heart.

  He slipped a hand into the silky tangle of her hair and pulled her in for a slow, intense, heated kiss. ‘You’ll never have to share me, Sheri-my-love, I promise you. I’ve already resigned my interest in the Club—and perhaps if I explain about the Matrix Club, and my role there, you’ll understand.’

  He settled her more comfortably in the crook of his arm and spent a moment ordering his thoughts. This was not a conversation he’d ever imagined having with a wife, even less with the woman he loved.

  ‘I also received a letter, threatening to tell you of these things if I didn’t—comply with certain conditions. The letter probably arrived a couple of days after I left for Derbyshire and I didn’t see it until I got back. But recognizing the man who delivered it as one of Veronica’s sycophants, Grigg gave him the right-about as I’d warned him to do. No doubt she took that as a refusal of her terms and acted as threatened—also no doubt, with relish! It bothers me how she came by the information and I will inform Knight there is a leak in his security.’

  ‘Knight?’ she asked, startled.

  ‘Mmm.’

  For a moment he debated how much he should reveal, then realized if they were to love and trust one another, there should be no secrets between them.