It was a challenge to reconcile the odious behavior of the Earl of Elverton against the goodness that was his son. If there was an argument to be made against children born out of wedlock being the carriers of their parents’ immoral behavior, surely Aiden and his father served as the perfect example to exemplify John Locke’s theory that at birth a babe’s mind was a blank slate. Other than the shade of his eyes, his jaw, his brow, Aiden in no way resembled his father. He was all that was good.
Even if he owned a den of iniquity, a den she entered with a great deal of anticipation. After handing her wrap off to the young woman at the front counter, she wandered into the gaming area and spotted Aiden immediately. In spite of there being other gents in the room, he stood out as though he alone occupied the entire space. It wasn’t his height or breadth that gave him an advantage, but his very presence that spoke volumes, reflected a man of both confidence and daring.
He was speaking with a younger man, but as though her appearance carried weight as well, he glanced over, and she could see the slow lift of one corner of his mouth. With a nod, he patted the younger man’s shoulder before beginning to make his way to her, never breaking his stride in spite of acknowledging the ladies here and there, even bending over to whisper something to one of them. Jealousy was a sharp spear, but she deflected it before it could do any damage. She had little doubt he would be whispering a great deal more in her ear later, words far more delicious than what he might have shared with one of his customers.
Then he was before her, threading his fingers through hers, leading her away from the doorway, back into the foyer, and down the darkened, secluded hallway. Not a word spoken. A man on a mission. To claim her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if their coupling would be as perfunctory as what she’d experienced in her marriage. Now that he had thoroughly seduced her, would he see no further need of making her mad with desire?
Up the stairs they went. When they reached the top, however, he pulled her in a direction they’d never before traveled.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to share something with you.”
She almost quipped that he could share it with her right then and there, against the wall, and she’d not find fault with him, but didn’t want their encounters to revolve only around the bedding. “The relaxation room?”
He chuckled low. “Not tonight.”
Another corridor, another set of stairs, then another, narrower with more creaks and moans. He opened a door. “Wait here.”
She stepped into the doorway while he went farther into the room with a solitary window, faint moonlight or streetlamps spilling in to reveal what appeared to be a rather cluttered attic. The hiss of a match strike, the flaring of a flame, the lighting of a lamp, and her suspicions were confirmed, but the clutter, dear God, the clutter was magnificent.
Cautiously she walked to an easel where the canvas revealed the profile of a woman—her but not her—her hair pinned up, her shoulders seemingly bared. Everything about the painting was muted, muted by sorrow, blurred so it was impossible to be certain he had used her as the model and yet it could be no one else. She was surprised no tears rained down the cheek. “The night we went to the cemetery.”
“Yes.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, not certain she’d ever known him to look so tense, as though he were awaiting her judgment and feared her pronouncement would lead him to the gallows. “You did this?”
A single nod.
Her gaze circled the room. “All of these?”
“Yes.”
She wandered over to the wall where a dozen portraits hung and one, the one nearest to the door, snagged her attention. It revealed only eyes and a heart-shaped chin, again all muted. It could have represented anyone and while it was not revealed, she imaged a mask hiding what had not been painted.
Another portrayed a woman with the look of a warrior about her, holding a cue stick, the portrait beginning with the upper swells of her breasts. “I see you don’t bother with clothing.”
“I never had much luck with that. The lines of the human form come more naturally to me.”
She thought of the paintings in the billiards room, on the walls in other rooms. All sensual, all nudes but muddled in a way that never really gave away the identity of the person. “Do you paint everyone you’ve bedded?”
“I paint those who intrigue me.”
She glanced over her shoulder, meeting and holding his gaze. “Have you bedded all these ladies?”
“Only a couple.”
“Did the others pose for you?”
“I paint from memory.”
Moving farther into the confined area she realized he’d lied about clothing being a challenge for him, because there was a portrait of a boy decked out in finery, a beaver hat and walking stick in hand, an arrogant grin on his darling face. “This is Robin, the lad who helped out at the bookshop.”
“He lived with Gillie before moving in with Finn. She won’t admit it, but I think she misses him. I thought to give that to her.”
He had a good heart, a caring heart that caused her own to tighten painfully in her chest. A time would come when he would create portraits of his own children. “You’re quite talented.”
She wandered back over to him, pressed her palm against his cheek. “Will you be hanging me in one of the salons downstairs?”
“No. They’re only for me. But I wanted you to know about them. I don’t know why, but it seemed important somehow. Perhaps because in the past few days you’ve been forced to bare your secrets and soul to me. It seemed only fair that I bare some of my soul to you.”
“How much simpler all this would be if you weren’t so complicated.” Rising up on her toes, she claimed his mouth as though it was her right to do so, although at the moment she readily believed it was. With their bodies, they’d made their vows, sealed their fates when they’d come together the night before.
Was it only last night that she’d decided she wanted him regardless of his decision, that she wanted no conditions, no terms when it came to their relationship? She wouldn’t have gone to another. She wanted him, only Aiden, as long as he’d have her.
His arms closing securely around her, followed by his low groan, heightened her own pleasure, and she moaned in response.
He walked her backward, reached out, and slammed the door shut. Suddenly she found herself pressed against the pine, his hands gathering up her skirts while her fingers made their way to the fall of his trousers.
Then he was inside her, pumping away, growling with the intensity of his thrusts. His hand skimmed along her thigh and he brought her leg up until it circled his waist, and he plunged deeper still.
“I love the way you feel,” he rasped, dragging his mouth along her throat. “So hot, so tight, so wet.”
“I love the way you fill me, so large, so thick, so heavy.”
His rough laughter only added to the spiraling sensations building within her, propelling her toward the pinnacle of release. When she reached it and screamed his name in a manner that rather sounded like a benediction, she imagined all the ladies in the paintings looking on blushed or perhaps turned red with envy. He undid her in ways she’d never imagined a person could be undone.
And she knew in her heart that no one else would ever touch her as he did, no one would ever follow him into her heart.
“You’ve spoiled me.”
Although he’d spoken the words low, almost muffled by his mouth being pressed to the nape of her neck, they still disturbed the silence that had settled in around them after they’d had another rousing coming together—this time in his bed.
He hadn’t planned to take her in the attic like a savage unable to control his urges, but then she’d looked at him with wonder and something he couldn’t quite identify. It was the way Gillie looked at Thornley, Aslyn at Mick, Lavinia at Finn. He might have labeled it love, but it was not what she wanted of him, not what he wanted of her. Love would be bad f
or business, curtail his ability to flirt with the ladies, to make each one feel special.
He’d already begun getting a few icy glares, a few speculative looks. While the ladies came here to lavish themselves in vices, they also enjoyed his attentions, teasing though they were. He couldn’t risk upsetting those who were putting coins in his coffers.
“In what way?” she asked lethargically, as though his taking of her—rough, fast, and hard—had left her too spent to even form words.
He didn’t know why he’d said what he had. She spoiled him in ways he didn’t want to admit. Their bodies fit together like the perfect interlocking pieces of a puzzle. They communicated without words, knowing what the other needed, wanted, desired. He’d never spoken as honestly with any other woman—save his mother and sisters—as he spoke with her. He could tell her anything, wanted to tell her everything. It was the reason he’d shared his paintings. He only displayed a few; no one except his family knew they were his. Some were far too personal, had come from the depths of his soul. Sharing them made him feel vulnerable—but he hadn’t had that feeling with her. How could he when she’d had him at his most vulnerable: tied to a bed? He’d trusted her then, even if it had been poor timing on his part. He trusted her now. Still, he couldn’t confess all that, couldn’t allow her to know what an important part of his life she’d become. Because a time could come when she wouldn’t be a part of it at all, when she would grow weary of doing so much in public alone and would be in want of a man who could be seen by her side. “I shall resent wearing a sheath when I’m with other ladies in the future.”
Within his arms, with her back to his chest, she went completely still. He wasn’t even certain she drew breath. “I will never be with another man.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. Her response was not what he expected. He tightened his hold on her, wanted to encourage her to find someone else, another duke, because he couldn’t bear the thought of her living out her years in loneliness. “You’re too young to never again marry.”
“Lushing said the same thing as he grew weaker. He encouraged me to find someone else, to remarry. But if I become someone else’s wife, I’ll no longer be able to come to you.”
He couldn’t imagine her being content to spend the next half century sharing only stolen moments with him. Eventually the world would again open up to her once she was out of mourning. She would be flirted with and courted. Marriage proposals would come her way. How long before one appealed to her? Another man would then have influence over his child. He didn’t want to consider that. Turning her over, he offered a self-deprecating smile. “Perhaps we should avoid speculating about our futures.”
Her eyes were limpid pools as she nodded. “We should concentrate on the present. Make the most of it.”
Pulling her onto him until she was straddling his hips, he intended to do just that, make the most of every minute, hour, day that she was with him. As she took him within her, he fought not to think of the future because it would be a lonely abyss without her.
It was nearly dawn before she prepared to take her leave. Their short time at Sheffield Hall had spoiled her, and she’d wanted a few hours of sleeping within the circle of his arms, inhaling his purely masculine smell laced with the scent of their lovemaking. And she loved watching him donning his clothes to begin the day almost as much as she enjoyed watching him take them off.
He didn’t bother to take a razor to his face, perhaps because of the early hour, so thick dark whiskers shadowed his jaw. “I like the beard.”
He rubbed the stubble, and she heard the rasp of the bristles against his palms, knew the sensation they caused, having felt them against the soft skin at her throat and breasts when he’d tucked her beneath him upon first awakening and made love to her.
That was how she thought of it, what he did to her. It was as though he gave more to her than just his seed, that he gifted her with portions of himself, parts she was arrogant enough to believe he’d given to no other. Being with him was more profound, more fulfilling, more satisfying than she’d ever dreamed it would be. It was more than the way he made her body thrum with pleasure. It was the manner in which he made her soul glow.
“Maybe I’ll keep it.” He opened a drawer of a small wooden box that rested atop his bureau. He held out a key to her. “For you.”
She took it, closing her fingers around something that seemed significant. “Why?”
“So we can be a little more discreet and my customers don’t get the notion that I’ve taken a lover. When you arrive, just come on up. I’ll have Angie send one of the footmen to let me know you’re here, and I’ll join you when I can.”
He’d told her that he’d never brought another woman here, so instinctually she knew she was the first to whom he’d given unfettered access to his lodgings. Closing her fingers tightly around the brass, she was reluctant to part with it, to put it safely in her reticule. She wanted to place it on a chain and keep it nestled between her breasts, close to her heart. Quite suddenly she wished she had a gift for him, something of equal value. “Thank you for striving to protect my reputation.”
A corner of his mouth hitched up. “It’s better for business if I’m seen as unfettered.”
“Oh? Have I fettered you, then?” She made her voice light and airy when in fact she was profoundly touched by his dedication to her.
“You know you have.” Snaking his arm around her, he pulled her up against him and blanketed her mouth with his, kissing her deeply and thoroughly, as though needing to prove that she was equally fettered to him.
Only she feared she was more so. That she and her heart would remain bound to him until the end of time.
Chapter 21
Too many days later to count, Selena languidly stretched in her bed. Glancing over, she imagined how glorious it would be to be greeted by the sight of Aiden each morning, to see him unshaven, unkempt, his hair sticking out in all directions, his slow smile just before he reached for her and tucked her beneath his powerful body. She doubted very much that he would adhere to the nobility’s practice of the husband and wife sleeping in separate bedchambers. No, he would hold her as she slept, his body warming her, his hand cradling her breast, just as he’d done at Sheffield Hall.
That night seemed so long ago now because so many nights had followed, nights when she’d gone to him. She’d thought of asking him to come to her, but it would not do at all for her sisters to discover him visiting, which they no doubt would because she and Aiden lost in the throes of passion was not a quiet thing. She kept expecting their joining to shift into a staid and boring routine. But beneath his hands she turned to kindling, beneath his body she became enflamed.
When the knock sounded, she pushed herself upright and settled back against the pillows. Early in her marriage, she’d gotten into the habit of taking her breakfast in bed because that was the manner in which a proper duchess began her day. Although at present, she was anything except a proper duchess. Still, as Bailey walked in carrying a tray laden with dishes, Selena fought to give the appearance of one.
Bailey set the tray over Selena’s lap, went about fluffing up the pillows behind her, then wandered over to the windows and threw open the draperies with a dramatic flourish, as she liked nothing more than letting in the day.
Selena lifted a lid to reveal buttered eggs, their aroma causing her stomach to grow a bit queasy. Deciding she wasn’t in the mood for them, she covered them back up. Toast and jam appealed.
“Let Wiggins know that I’ll need the carriage at half one. My sisters and I will be going out this afternoon for a charitable endeavor.” Fancy’s shop would be opening this evening with a grand party. They couldn’t attend that, naturally, but Fancy had invited them to a private celebration with her family before the main event. It was unlikely they’d be seen by anyone they knew—other than Trewlove family members, of course.
With her brow furrowed and her hands clasped in front of her, her maid came to stand at the foot of the be
d. “I don’t know that they’ll be up to it, Your Grace. The girls are having their monthly unwellness.”
Selena went still, so still, it was a wonder she continued to draw in breath. As incredible as it seemed, she and her sisters had always been on the same schedule when it came to the curse. They were like well-tuned clockwork, a vicious headache coming upon them before the painful cramps arrived. They always spent the first day or so abed, bemoaning God’s punishment upon them. “When did their menses begin?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“All three of them?”
“Yes, ma’am. As always. I prepared some rags for you, though mayhap you won’t be needin’ them?”
The last two words were spoken in a high pitch as though her maid feared that even a hint of her possibly carrying the heir would prevent it from being true. Although her servant knew when her last menses had ended, still the innocent woman held out hope that even though his health had been failing, the duke had managed to rise to the challenge and do his duty one last time. It was that absurd belief that Selena had planned to exploit if she managed to get herself with child.
The possibility now loomed and yet—
She could think of a hundred reasons why her sisters were presently suffering and she wasn’t. The stress of becoming a widow, of mourning, had blocked her flow. She wasn’t spending as much time with her sisters, and so they’d fallen out of their rhythm. She was so occupied, fairly obsessed with her time with Aiden, that she’d somehow conveyed to her body that it should do nothing to prevent her from seeing him every night—and that included any hint of a monthly bleeding.
Or she could be with child.
His child. Aiden’s.
She closed her eyes, fought back tears for everything it would mean. The joy that his babe might be growing inside her. Dark-haired, dark-eyed. Strong-jawed. Tiny hands and feet that would grow into larger ones.
The Duchess in His Bed Page 26