Celia did not believe it impossible. Her conversations with the duke made her convinced. She’d seen other men speak of their mistresses with more fondness than they spoke of their own wives. She could not believe there were not women who were fond of these men. She knew there were men who took pride in selecting luxurious attire and even better apartments for their mistresses.
She shook her head.
She didn’t want that for herself, and she didn’t want that for him.
He deserved to find a wife he adored.
She couldn’t abide the thought of him sneaking away from the woman he married, the children he had, to visit her. Celia didn’t want to be the mistress in some apartment of impropriety, no matter how pleasant the view or tasteful the furnishings.
No.
It would be far better to continue to work as a maid than that. Better than to see him pull away from her, better than to watch him admit that he shouldn’t have taken a chance on her.
Better than to see him neglect his duties at home for her.
But the horrible thing was—
She wanted him.
He was right beside her, claiming her, and—
Lord knew, she should say no.
It was what every vicar at every service she’d ever attended would say.
But Frederick was it for her.
He was the man she loved.
The only one she’d ever loved.
Perhaps they’d only known each other for a week, but she’d lived more in Yorkshire than she had in the last five years put together.
She wanted to feel him. To touch him. To...make love to him.
She craved him.
And heaven help her, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life wondering what it would feel like for his skin to be pressed beside hers, his lips to seek areas of her body always clothed, and for him to enter her.
So she acquiesced.
He could sweep her away.
Ravish her.
Consume her.
And she would be happy.
THEODOSIA WAS BEAUTIFUL.
Creamy skin glowed against her gown. It seemed impossible for there to be a lovelier sight in the world, but when he glided his gaze to the exquisite features of her face, the glossy dark locks of her hair, and the perfectly proportioned curves of her body, he knew he was wrong.
Lord, he craved her.
Blood coursed through his body, and he longed to delve into her, thrust into her, lose himself inside her to the rhythm of nature.
She should have looked indecent, wanton like those women in Paris and Madrid whom some of his comrades delighted in visiting during the war, but she remained perfection itself.
Should he wait?
No.
They didn’t require some halting, stammering fourth son of a peer, who’d found a place in the church out of practicality rather than faith, to approve their love.
Nothing could be more sacred than what they were about to do.
He wanted to kiss the corner of her hazel eyes.
He wanted to kiss her cheeks.
And her neck.
And her bosom.
And the space behind her ear.
And her earlobe.
He moved from delicious spot to delicious spot, all while heat pulsed through him.
He devoured her.
Consumed her.
Her skin tasted delicious. Salty from the sheen of sweat that covered her like crystals, despite the cold weather.
He wrapped her in his arms, blissfully conscious of her rounded curves. Her soft bosom pressed against his chest.
He needed to see it.
He needed to see all of her.
His fingers tore at her gown, and he cursed the fashion designers who placed small buttons on women’s dresses.
Not even arms manufacturers had been that cruel.
He was so stiff. He felt too tight, constrained in his pantaloons.
Every second was agony, torture even Bonaparte could not have thought of.
He scrambled up.
She was an innocent.
And he’d been acting far too familiar.
It didn’t matter how tight his breeches were. He wasn’t going to do anything she was uncomfortable with. “We shouldn’t—”
“Let’s have tonight,” she said.
His heartbeat soared, as if it had mistaken itself for a drum, as if he were experiencing the thrill before a battle.
Soon he’d be inside her.
He moved his fingers to her collar bone, tracing its curve.
She gazed at him.
She appeared so innocent.
And yet desire seemed to sparkle through her gaze.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her always exquisitely prepared hair had tumbled from its pins.
Curly locks lay splayed over the red sofa, and he brushed his fingers through them.
How in the world could anything feel so silky? So splendid?
Lord.
He yanked down her dress.
Perfect bosoms lay before him.
He wanted to spend all day lingering on their shape and form. Her skin was milky, magnificent, and when he moved his gaze to the tawny roses which adorned her bosom—
His throat dried, and he ached further.
He needed her. Required her.
Frederick swept his hand over her bosom. The flesh was softer than the finest silks from the orient.
It seemed absurd any painter might waste time creating portraits of other people, that any poet might devote needless time to creating verse about plants or pottery when a woman like this existed. Each lock of her dark hair could inspire a ballad. He yearned to trace his lips over her entire body, to mark her, to claim her, as his own.
She was wearing too much.
Whichever force of nature had invented winter had been mad.
Her shift was far too thick, and he tore at the fabric.
He’d been so content to be without a woman, content to muse over his scientific experiments, but now every second that separated them seemed to stretch interminably long.
He caught her mouth in his again, moaning as her lips, her tongue moved with his.
Pleasure shot through him, and he tightened his grip around her, inhaling her scent. Vanilla and citrus played on her skin.
She arched against him. “Please.”
And then he pushed against her.
The next moment was bliss.
Warm, dewy, tight bliss.
He was not completely inside her, but he halted his progression. “Tell me if I should stop.”
“Continue.” She gave a smile he suspected was more brave than genuine.
Didn’t she know this moment was about her?
This was her first time, and he was determined to make it special.
He kissed her again. She relaxed into his arms, and he moved further until he was all the way inside.
He thrust slowly, steadily, until she met him.
Her cheeks were flushed, warm now after the outside snow. Her skin gleamed, and he glided a finger through her locks.
“Darling,” he said.
He kissed her more, and the steadiness that made him good at making exact chemical formulas seemed to dissipate, like the floor underneath his feet.
He tensed and pulled out abruptly.
His seed spilled on her stomach. She must think it odd, but she smiled at him.
He returned her smile and then trailed kisses over her body. He moved his fingers inside her until she arched against his hand.
The next moments were filled with kisses and absolute bliss.
Chapter Fourteen
Carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, and Frederick moved reluctantly from Theodosia.
“We should go downstairs,” he said. “The guests are arriving.”
“I think they’ve been doing that for some time.” Mirth sounded in Theodosia’s voice.
“Perhaps.” He rose from the bed and pulled her into h
is arms. Her skin was warm, flushed from their recent exertion.
He glanced in the mirror. His hair was tousled, though likely not in a manner deemed stylish. “My valet will be upset with me.”
“Let me help you.” Theodosia wrapped a sheet around her, as if she were a Grecian goddess come to life.
This ball was going to be most bothersome.
One could hardly go around kissing a woman, no matter if one intended to marry her.
She grabbed a comb and arranged his hair. Then she smoothed his attire. Heat coursed through him at her touch. Linen was no proper barrier.
“All set,” she said brightly. “Join the guests.”
“But you’re not ready.”
“I will be soon. And I doubt it is appropriate to enter at the same time.”
“Do not worry about your reputation,” he said more soberly. “I—”
He almost told her he loved her.
But he would tell her later in the ballroom with the musicians playing and the smell of the yule log filling the air.
That would be more romantic.
He wanted to give her the best memories, because he wanted her to spend the rest of her life thinking of them.
He kissed her cheek instead and left the room.
His steps felt light despite the uncomfortable evening attire, and he strode downstairs and into the ballroom.
Partygoers danced to the music, and more than one matchmaking mama and promoting papa directed their gaze in his direction. He smiled at them, surveying the crowd until he spotted his mother. She flitted about the ballroom.
Frederick joined her. “Where is Lady Fitzroy?”
“Let me introduce you,” his mother said. “She just arrived with Lady Amberly.”
He strode through the ballroom, weaving through the throng of men and women.
“Your Grace!” various people murmured.
He smiled, noticing some people seemed surprised. Had he really been regarded as so aloof? He hadn’t meant to be. He’d simply focused on his work. Perhaps he’d rejected more invitations than desirable in his quest to create new materials.
Finally his mother halted before two women. “Lady Amberly, Lady Fitzroy. May I present my son?”
“The Duke of Salisbury.” One of the women stretched out her hand in a European manner. He kissed it, surprised.
“This is Lady Fitzroy,” his mother said. “Lady Theodosia’s mother.”
“Oh.” He beamed. He searched her face to see signs of Lady Theodosia, but he did not find any. Her gaze was harder, almost calculating. Her hair was blonde, where Theodosia’s was dark, her bone structure was all chiselled angles where Theodosia’s was rounded, and her gaze was harsh where Theodosia’s was warm.
He sighed and reminded himself that this was Theodosia’s mother. Likely he was simply nervous in her presence. He’d never asked for someone’s hand in marriage before.
“It is a delight to meet you,” he said. “You have a very wonderful daughter.”
For a moment her eyes seemed to widen, and then she smiled. “Naturally, Your Grace.”
Frederick assessed her. She was not quite what he’d expected
She was pretty, if he couldn’t quite see Theodosia’s bone featuring and coloring in her. The woman had doused herself liberally with powder. Perhaps her resemblance to Theodosia was disguised from poor judgment that thankfully Theodosia did not seem prone to possessing.
Her attire was bolder than Lady Theodosia’s. She’d worn a scarlet dress that stood out from the sea of ivories and pale pastels the other women wore. She clutched an oriental fan, though he wondered if she held much interest in China. Ruffles lined the hem of her dress, giving her a doll-like appearance that did not coincide with her age.
Lady Fitzroy seemed far more silly and immature than her daughter.
No matter.
He loved Lady Theodosia, and he would grow to love her mother as well.
Anyone who was Lady Theodosia’s family was special in his view.
“Your daughter is the most beautiful woman in the world,” Frederick announced.
Lady Theodosia’s mother blinked. And then she smiled. “I like you, Your Grace.”
“And I like you.” He smiled. “And your daughter is also the kindest, sweetest, gentlest woman in the world.”
“Gentlest.” She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, indeed. How correct.”
Lady Fitzroy moved a gloved hand to Frederick’s elbow with the confidence of a woman who was much admired and knew her presence was always welcome. They strode around the edge of the ballroom.
Frederick moved his gaze toward the door.
Lady Theodosia had not yet entered the ballroom.
He reminded himself this was good. He could hardly ask for Lady Fitzroy’s permission before Theodosia.
The ballroom was crowded. Many people were curious to meet him.
“Such horrid clothes,” Lady Fitzroy said. “You should come to London. It is far better.” She sniffed. “One almost thinks they just sewed ribbons on old dresses.”
Frederick suspected some of the women hadn’t even bothered to sew on new ribbons on their dresses. An ample supply of items from haberdashery shops was not a priority for most people.
“I have a question I would like to ask you,” he said.
“I do hope it’s that you would like my permission to marry my daughter.”
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
For a moment she seemed unnerved, as if she’d said them in jest, but she gave him a regal smile. “Naturally I am happy to bestow you with my permission.”
“Splendid.” He looked around, but he didn’t see Theodosia inside. “Let us walk more. I would love to learn about your darling daughter. What was she like as a child?”
“Truly, I did not see her often as a child.”
“Indeed?”
“Darling, they are so little when they’re younger. And so prone to tottering about with sticky fingers. One would think their whole purpose in life until the age of five is to paint the furniture red with strawberry jam stained hands.”
Frederick smiled. The thought of his quite mature Theodosia doing anything like that seemed incredible.
“And of course, when they’re older, they hardly improve. They can be so frightfully silly.”
“Oh?”
“They must be taught the importance of attire. They hardly know how to select their own outfits. Really, quite disgraceful.”
Frederick offered her a polite smile.
“We had a lovely governess for a while—she was quite competent in the ways of the ton, but a scandal happened, and well, we were forced to dismiss her.
“How unfortunate.”
“Appearances are the most important thing.”
“Was she able to find another position?”
“I really do not know. Obviously I could not give her a reference. But she had been making money on the side. Clearly we could not support her. And I believe some people were upset about her for some reason or other. Really, it was most tiresome.”
“I see,” Frederick said, even though he was certain he did not.
“Yes, after one’s found one governess, one hardly desires to devote time to finding another.”
“Lady Theodosia never mentioned that incident,” Frederick admitted.
“How odd.” She gave him a quizzical look, but then shrugged. “Well, Theodosia has never really much cared for anybody except herself.” She beamed. “In that she does take after me.”
“That is a skill to which to aspire?”
“Why naturally! Who else can do it as well as oneself?”
“I intend to look after her,” Frederick vowed solemnly. “She needn’t worry about that anymore.”
“Why how brilliant. Some gentlemen might dismiss her as spoiled.”
Frederick laughed. “Of all the words in the world to describe her, that must have been furthest from my mind.”
“That is because you a
re not her mother.”
“Perhaps not,” Frederick said.
Lady Fitzroy stopped abruptly. “That’s her. The woman who destroyed my governess’s career after she ventured to criticize her.”
“Who?”
But Frederick’s stomach toppled. It was clear to whom she referred.
Lady Worthing.
His friend’s wife had Barbadian blood, and some in the ton were unhappy at her presence at events. It didn’t matter that some of those same ton members adored her books. It didn’t even matter that she was a baroness. Some people, thankfully fewer than in the former colonies, were too rigid in their worldview, practiced in their prejudices, to be anything except outraged.
It was something Frederick despised.
And it seemed Lady Fitzroy, mother of the woman he adored and hoped to marry, belonged to that category.
“Lady Worthing is the wife of a dear friend,” Frederick said stiffly. “She is most welcome in this house. She would be even if she were not highly accomplished.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Fitzroy fluttered her fan. “I see you are one of those people.” She sniffed and looked around the ballroom, as if seeking any excuse to not speak with him. “Ah, Lord Thornton. I have not seen you since Brighton. How do you do?” Lady Fitzroy was soon in a conversation with someone else, and Frederick was alone.
He shifted his legs. For some reason he’d imagined he would form the same instant connection with Lady Fitzroy as he had with Theodosia. Perhaps there was a reason his betrothed-to-be had not liked to speak about her family.
Besides, now that he’d received her mother’s permission, Frederick was eager to speak to Theodosia, and he went in search of her.
Chapter Fifteen
The entire ton seemed to have taken a desire to visit Yorkshire. Perhaps the prospect of attending a ball hosted by a duke under the age of thirty-five had compelled them to brave the slippery slopes. The servants had hung strands of greenery over the ceiling, and Celia inhaled the scent of pine. Footmen in crisp ebony suits and snowy-white stockings floated through the vibrantly attired throng of party-goers, carrying silver platters piled with delicacies.
Guests glanced approvingly at her gold gown, perhaps appreciating the puffed sleeves and generous compilation of glossy ribbons. She shivered. People never noticed what maids wore.
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