As though she wanted it even more than he wanted to give it to her.
And she did. He knew it—reveled in it as she arched up, offering herself to him, giving in to him. And he took it without hesitation. Without guilt or shame.
She was here, they were alone, and this was for them and no one else. Not her parents, who would no doubt crow their marriage to the world, nor the gossip rags that would immediately track their every move.
No one knew what she allowed him to taste that afternoon, in his private study, with none but the walls to witness.
No one knew what she allowed him to touch.
What she allowed him to take.
No one heard her little gasp of pain, the sighs of pleasure that came afterward, the way she fell apart a heartbeat before he followed her, splintering from the pleasure of their secret, perfect love.
Just as he did not hear the door to the study open.
Just as he did not hear the shocked murmurings from the women assembled beyond.
Just as he did not realize what had happened, until Seraphina went stiff beneath his touch, pushing him off her, scrambling backward, trying unsuccessfully to cover herself.
Until the Countess of Wight barked out a horrified “Seraphina!” followed by, “You brute! Remove your hands from her person immediately!”
He did. Instantly. Not yet knowing that it was the last time he’d ever touch her with complete trust. Not yet understanding the full scope of the situation. “My lady,” he said, immediately retrieving his coat to cover Seraphina—to protect her. Sera first. Always. “You misunderstand.”
“I understand you are a bounder, Haven. The worst kind of cad.”
“Not the worst kind,” he said. “I intend to marry your daughter.”
Even with the disastrous events of the afternoon, the words lightened him. The brash countess would surely settle once she heard that. It wasn’t the most ideal of circumstances, and he and Sera would likely not be able to see each other in private until their wedding day, but they’d laugh about this in years to come, late at night, a passel of children abed in the chambers upstairs. He looked to Sera. “We shall marry.”
There wasn’t happiness in her eyes, however.
There was something else. Something like . . .
Guilt.
Confusion flared, and cast a look about the room, surprised to find another woman there, in the doorway. Another set of eyes, these filled with regret, and ever-present disdain.
His mother. His mother, who should have been in London.
“What are you doing here?”
She did not answer, but Haven did not need to hear it. He knew. When he looked at the Countess of Wight, it was confirmed. There was no regret in the woman’s eyes. No guilt. No anger.
Only strength.
It took no time to piece it together—it was the oldest tale there was. The countess had collected his mother and followed her daughter here, to Highley. Not out of some impressive maternal instinct for danger, but because she’d known what was to come.
Because they’d conspired to trap him. “No.” He looked to Seraphina. To the woman he loved. Willed her to deny it. “No.”
He resisted the truth even as he knew it to be true.
And then she nodded, and it crashed around him.
He wasn’t the catcher. He was the rat.
Chapter 11
Talbot Takeover; Haven Horrified!
He should have known she’d bring reinforcements.
He might have even imagined that she would bring sisters. But it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d bring all of them.
She had, however, and they were reinforcements of the highest order, as there were not four people in the world who loathed him more than his sisters-in-law.
Eventually, when he recovered his wits, he would not be able to blame her. After all, this was the place she’d been promised would be her sanctuary. The place that should have been her home, where her family was not only welcome, but grew. And, instead, it was a place that had left her with nothing but pain and anger. A place from which she had fled.
Reinforcements must have felt necessary.
He would understand it in a bit. But in that moment, Haven was not pleased. And that was before the most outrageous one deposited what appeared to be a feral cat into his arms and promptly vomited upon his boots.
He was an intelligent man, he liked to think, but he had not a single idea how to proceed from this precise course of events, except to narrow his gaze at the four women remaining in the carriage, each obviously resisting the urge to laugh.
Correction. Three were resisting the urge to laugh.
His wife was laughing. With what appeared to be immense pleasure, and damned if he didn’t warm at the sound—one of his very favorites. Even if he didn’t care for the situation that inspired it.
Haven adjusted his grip on the wild animal in his arms, setting one hand to the writhing beast’s back with firm control and willing it still. “Enough, beast,” he said for show, sending a silent, Come on, cat, at least allow me this, to whatever higher power managed felines.
Remarkably, blessedly, the power in question heeded his request, which left Haven able to turn to the cat’s owner and say, “May I be of some assistance, Lady Sesily?”
Sesily stood and leveled him with a cool look. “A decent gentleman would already have proffered his handkerchief.”
She’d never liked him. None of them had.
Not that he’d deserved their liking.
“I would not like to give you reason to find me lacking, but . . .” There was not much he could do with a wild beast in his arms.
“No need to worry, Haven,” Sesily said, her spirits clearly restored. “I find you immensely lacking without any additional reasons.”
He blinked. “I am heartened to see you are feeling so much repaired.”
“Knowing I ruined your boots does help matters along.”
“I see you are as charming as ever,” he said dryly, lifting the animal in his arms. “And with significantly more cats.”
The cat protested with a mighty yowl.
So much for the feline gods.
Sesily reached for the animal. “Only a monster would punish a cat for an unavoidable owner infraction.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, “I’m not punishing the damn cat. If you take him from me, I shall find you a handkerchief.”
“No. No one is taking the cat. The cat is going back into his basket until Sesily has a room.” Sera stepped down from the carriage, basket in hand, heading directly for them. “And a bath.”
With that, the other women seemed to fade away, dwarfed and diminished by Seraphina, tall and beautiful, blue eyes clear and calm even as he knew she must be thinking about all the same things he thought about in this place. She looked utter perfection, even with the perspiration that coated the bridge of her nose and the wide expanse of skin above the bodice of her dress.
Not that he was noticing the skin there. The slope of her breasts.
He was simply noticing that the carriage must have been warm, what with the way her flushed skin rose and fell. Straining against the heather-grey fabric of the frock. It was nearly too tight for her. Perhaps she should take it off.
For her own comfort.
He cleared his throat.
“Your Grace.”
Haven swallowed sharply, his gaze immediately snapping to hers. She appeared to be waiting for him to act. Had she said something? He opened his mouth, willing words to come. What came was, “Er.”
Which was not a word at all.
One perfect black brow rose.
He cleared his throat again, but refused to speak and thus make an additional fool of himself. Silence could not be criticized.
The youngest Talbot sister, Sophie, snickered from her place several feet away. She’d always been considered the quiet one. That was, until three years ago, when she’d planted him ass-deep in a fishpond and ruined his b
est boots. After that, she’d found a bastard of a husband and her own voice, which she did not hesitate to use in the moment. “Perhaps the cat has got his tongue?”
One side of Sera’s mouth twitched. “A woman can dream.”
His brows snapped together. “What do you want?”
Her red lips curved. “The cat, Haven.” She extended the open basket to him. “I want the cat.”
Of course she did. She’d said as much.
Miraculously, the animal accepted its imprisonment without argument, after which Haven extracted his handkerchief and offered it to Sesily, who took it without hesitation. It was only then, when silence fell in the span of a heartbeat or two, that Haven realized that his best laid plans had gone entirely to waste.
Sera seemed to notice it as well. “Where are they?”
He feigned ignorance. “Who?”
Her brow furrowed. “The girls, Haven. Where are my replacements?”
As though she could ever be replaced.
He ignored the thought. “It’s a good thing they aren’t here, considering we’re going to have to find four additional bedchambers for today’s unexpected guests. How long are they staying?”
“Where is your brotherly love, Duke?” the one married to Earl Clare asked.
He ignored the question. “How long, Seraphina?”
She smiled, all serenity, and patted his cheek. “There are thirty bedchambers in this monstrosity of a house,” she scoffed. “I think you’ll be able to find space for family.”
“Monstrosity?”
“No one requires a home this large.” The words were full of distraction as she looked to a massive old tree, heavy with summer. A single crow sat on a low-hanging branch, and it seemed Sera was watching the black bird.
“There was a time when you liked it,” he said.
She looked back to him then and said, softly, “No longer.”
Of course she didn’t. He was an ass for making her come here. For making her remember all they’d lost.
She continued, unaware of the riot of his thoughts. “Are you saying you haven’t the room?”
“Of course we’ve the room.” He turned and began to climb the stairs, suddenly keenly aware that the last time Sera had been here, she’d left him. And he’d deserved it. He resisted the urge to turn back and take hold of her. To prevent a repeat of the events of the past.
“Where are they?” Sera repeated her question. She followed him into the main entryway, flanked by her sisters—each wilder and stronger than the next—and his plans for the evening were suddenly outrageous. Misguided. Impossible. “Why did you summon me here with such insistence?”
What if he told her the truth?
“Are they even here?”
What if he told her he’d expected her to come alone?
“Haven?”
What if he told her he had planned to win her back?
“And why aren’t there any staff about?” He turned to face her, prepared to tell her the truth, but when he met her wide eyes, he saw that she already knew the truth. “Where is the staff?”
“I gave them the afternoon off,” he said, injecting the words with enough ducal force to inhibit any further questions.
He failed to remember that the Talbot sisters had never been intimidated by ducal force. Five pairs of knowing eyes bored into him, seeming to lay him bare.
“Why?” Lady Sesily said, handkerchief still at her lips.
Malcolm ignored the question and looked away to the crow on the tree, now no longer alone. There were still black birds there, seeming to watch him in return. He straightened his shoulders, channeled his ducal line, and, focused, returned his attention to Seraphina.
Mistake.
His wife’s gaze was narrow and knowing. “Where are the girls?” It was her tone that brooked no refusal in the end, however, all duchess, ironically.
“They arrive in three days.” The house was prepared, every bed made, every meal planned.
She nodded, and he could see the question in her eyes, the one she held back. Why are we alone?
He wondered for a moment what she might say if he responded honestly. If he told her the truth that they all seemed to suspect already. If he said, Because I wanted you alone. Because I wanted to undo it all.
It seemed a ridiculous plan now.
And so, instead, he found his reply in the moment, a fabrication that, once spoken aloud, thankfully seemed legitimate. “Our agreement was that you would play hostess and matchmaker, no? With that in mind, should you not be here in advance? To do whatever it is hostesses and matchmakers do?”
Malcolm was proud of the dismissive tone he somehow mustered, a tone that seemed to grate upon his sisters-in-law even as his wife remained unmoved.
“This is madness, Haven, you understand that, do you not?” Sesily said.
“Having her here will only set the other girls on edge,” the Marchioness of Eversley spoke.
“No one has ever been comfortable around the Talbot sisters—and that is before one of us is married to their potential suitor.” This, from Mark Landry’s wife. Or maybe the Countess of Clare. He could never tell them apart.
“Good Lord. Even saying that aloud sounds like insanity,” said the other. He’d forgotten what chattering magpies his sisters-in-law could be. But whichever one said that last bit wasn’t wrong. The entire plan was mad.
He did not look to the assembled women, instead focusing completely on his wife, who watched him for a long moment before saying, “Well then. I imagine there is a great deal to do.”
Seraphina lifted her skirts in one hand and, clutching the cat basket in the other with all the grace she might have if she were carrying a scepter, climbed the steps of the home to which she was mistress. He remained on the drive, watching her, transfixed by her smooth, fluid movements, even as she stilled on the threshold, turning to look down to him. “Why is your mother not playing this role?”
He did not hesitate. “The dowager is dead.”
Seraphina revealed no emotion. “I am sorry.”
“Are you?” He couldn’t help himself.
“Not really, no.”
Her sisters let out a little collection of surprised breath at the frank reply and, for the first time since he’d seen the carriage turn up the drive, Malcolm understood that even they were unsettled by this new, strong Seraphina.
But he, too, had changed. He was no longer afraid of the truth. He nodded once. “No, neither am I.”
He didn’t know what he expected her to say. He didn’t know what he expected from her at all—actions, words, both, neither. She did not speak. Instead, she took what seemed to be a long, full breath, and turned her back on him, entering the house.
And Malcolm realized that she might never do what he expected ever again.
She should have chosen a different bedchamber.
In the moment, with her sisters chattering like magpies, it had been the most natural thing in the world to climb Highley’s wide center staircase and turn left into the massive family wing, assigning them each one of the manor house’s most luxurious chambers, as richly appointed as she remembered.
It was only once she was finished with the task that she realized that the only room left in the cradle of her sisters’ security was the chamber that she had been assigned years earlier, when she was duchess.
When she was duchess. Sera always thought of the title in the past, as she did everything to do with Haven. After all, it had been two years, seven months since they’d last seen each other, and more than three since they had actually shared civil conversation, and so the past seemed the best place for them.
Even now. As she stood in the window of the rooms reserved for the Duchess of Haven, watching the sun creep up over the eastern edge of the estate, chasing black sky to grey that might have been lavender, if someone wished to call it that.
Seraphina preferred the safety of grey.
And the room was grey, after all, with memories, m
uted and aged, as though decades had passed instead of years, and with them, promise.
It had been a mistake to choose this bedchamber, because it had once been hers. And she was no longer that woman. In fact, in mere weeks, she would be free of that woman, and this room would belong to another.
The room. The house. The husband. The bed.
But three nights of fitful sleep in that bed had done little to dissuade her from the fact that she should have chosen another room.
“You are awake.”
Sera started, whirling toward the words, spoken from the connecting doorway to the ducal bedchamber, where Haven stood as though she’d summoned him with her thoughts, perfectly turned out, looking like it was mid-morning instead of dawn. Looking like color in the grey. She narrowed her gaze on him. “That door was closed, Duke. You are not invited to use it.”
He raised a brow and made an elaborate show of straightening his shirtsleeve. “I was not aware I required an invitation, as it is my door.”
“As it is the door to my chamber, I prefer you think of it as belonging to me.”
One side of his mouth kicked up, and she hated the way he looked. Handsome and young and entirely too dangerous. “What say you we share it?”
Something shot through her at the teasing in the words. Something like memory. The echo of what seemed like an eternity past, when he was a man and she was a woman and that was all that seemed to matter.
What was his game?
She straightened her shoulders. “I say you are out of your mind if you think I am interested in sharing anything with you. Particularly close quarters.”
“You chose the room, Angel,” he said, his voice low and still tinged with the disuse of sleep. “Did you forget that it had the door?”
Her lips flattened into a thin line as the words threaded through her with an emotion unwelcome and long out of use. “Do not call me that.”
“There was a time when you liked it.”
A lifetime ago. “I never liked it. It’s a silly name.”
“The seraphim are the highest order of angels,” he reminded her. “You’re named for them.”
The Day of the Duchess Page 11