Tristan grinned. “I wasn’t sure. You’ve been disturbingly amiable since meeting Ada—don’t scowl, she gave me leave to use her given name—but wedding days can cause the hardiest of men to falter. I was so afraid Tabby would change her mind that I downed an entire hip flask of brandy prior to our ceremony.”
“I’m a little surprised no one tried to dissuade me from wedding Ada,” he said cautiously. “She is a vicar’s daughter, rather than a peer’s.”
“You are the duke. Marry whom you please. But it’s quite obvious to all and sundry that you are madly in love with each other, and that is what we wanted for you. Happiness.”
Jasper cleared his throat. “Do I look…well?”
“Hmmm. White silk cravat, muslin shirt, black tailed jacket, black knee breeches, stockings, and diamond-buckled shoes. I might think you lacked a sentimental touch, but the brown and gold embroidery on your waistcoat represent Ada’s eyes and hair, do they not?”
“Perhaps.”
His brother chortled and stepped closer to expertly arrange the recalcitrant cravat. “You are indeed in love. But I must urge you to hurry, if only for your bride-to-be’s sake. Mother, Tabby, Miss Lacey, and Miss Kinloch opened another bottle of brandy, and are now all cooing around her like a flock of mad doves. Mr. Blair is giving advice to Mr. Foulkes on the ceremony. We may in fact bear witness to the first drawing room duel between two men of the cloth.”
“Hell and damnation,” said Jasper, smoothing his jacket sleeves. “I’m too old for such theatrics.”
“If you think that is theatrical, wait until society discovers England’s most eligible yet stubbornly unwed duke has returned to London with a village clergyman’s daughter wearing his ring.”
“Don’t remind me. Ada would prefer I not send a notice to the newspapers. She thinks that we should simply stroll into balls and soirees and say lovely to see you, charming decorations, surprise, we’re married.”
Tristan whistled. “I hope you have plenty of hartshorn on hand. That will cause a mass swoon to end all swoons, especially from Prinny. He so admired your string of short and strict contracts.”
“I’m sure he’ll recover,” said Jasper, rolling his eyes. What the foolish, spendthrift Prince of Wales thought of his marriage mattered not one whit. All that mattered was Ada. “Shall we proceed to the drawing room?”
“We shall. Tabby and I are so happy for you. We’ll be even happier when you fill that carved cradle down the hallway with an heir…too soon?”
“Far, far too soon,” he replied. That he’d been coming inside Ada at every opportunity in a quest to grant one of her dearest wishes was not something anyone else needed to know. “By the by, I’m not saying any of you were correct…but there might be a grain of truth in life brightening after meeting the right person.”
Tristan turned, his eyes glistening. “It’s the gospel truth.”
“Gah. You want to hug me, don’t you?”
“I really do.”
Jasper sighed. “Under the circumstances I will permit a brief celebratory embrace for the duration of approximately two seconds—”
His brother enveloped him in a bear hug. And didn’t let go.
“Here, now,” said Jasper as he awkwardly patted his brother’s back. Perhaps hugs weren’t the worst thing in the world. “You’ll undo your effort with my cravat.”
A few minutes later, they made their way downstairs to the drawing room. Mrs. Eden and her team of maids had been busy; they’d moved the furniture to fashion a sort of aisle with chairs either side, there was a plethora of flowers and ribbons, and a smiling Mr. Foulkes waited on a hastily constructed wooden dais, bible in hand.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” said the vicar cheerfully. “Glorious day for a wedding. Lord Tristan, how is your charge faring?”
“Quite satisfactory. One might even say eager,” said Tristan with a wink.
On another occasion he might have politely crushed his brother’s instep, but the sound of excited chatter reached him, and shortly afterward, his mother, Winslow, Miss Lacey, and Miss Kinloch entered the drawing room. The others took their seats, but Miss Lacey moved to the pianoforte and began to play a rather jaunty tune.
Jasper relaxed. This boded well for a bride still willing.
Then Ada walked toward him on Reverend Blair’s arm, looking nothing less than heavenly in a new white silk gown overlaid with cobweb-fine silver lace and tiny hand-stitched crystals. He’d taken her measurements with him when he’d travelled to London for the special license, promising a hefty purse and future patronage if the experienced Mayfair modiste and her apprentices performed an overnight miracle with the utmost discretion. They had eagerly accepted the challenge, and it had been worth every penny. The smile on Ada’s face…
He swallowed hard. Bloody damned misbehaving eyes.
Mr. Blair placed Ada’s hand in his with a frosty look to both him and Mr. Foulkes, obviously still aggrieved his wishes had been ignored. But as Jasper rubbed her knuckles with his thumbs, and looked into her sparkling brown eyes, the world narrowed to her, him, and the vicar about to join them together in holy matrimony.
After greeting the small audience, Mr. Foulkes delivered an uplifting sermon on the blessings of marriage. Then it came time to recite vows from the Book of Common Prayer.
“And you, Jasper Louis Benjamin Muir, Duke of Gilroy,” intoned the vicar, “wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” he said firmly.
The rest of the ceremony seemed to pass in a blur, although he distinctly recalled Ada’s wicked little smirk during the “with my body I thee worship” part as he slid a heavy gold band onto her third finger. Nor would he ever forget a cheer that nearly raised the roof when he turned back down the aisle, one beloved duchess on his arm.
Jasper and Ada, side by side as they would always be.
Now and forever.
The End.
Love hot dukes + hot sex + happily ever after, but craving a full length story?
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Also by Nicola Davidson
Wickedly Wed series
Duke in Darkness (#1)
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The London Lords series
To Love a Hellion (#1)
Rake to Riches (#2)
Tempting the Marquess (#3)
* * *
Fallen trilogy
Surrender to Sin (#1)
The Devil's Submission (#2)
The Seduction of Viscount Vice (#3)
* * *
Surrey SFS quintet
My Lady's Lover (#1)
To Tame a Wicked Widow (#2)
My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman (#3)
At His Lady's Command (#4)
A Very Surrey SFS Christmas (#5)
Surrey SFS - The Complete Series boxset
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Regency Standalones
Her Virgin Duke
Duke for Hire (in the anthology Duke I’d Like to F…)
Mistletoe Mistress
Joy to the Earl
Once Upon a Promise
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Medieval Highland Menage series
Scandalous Passions (FFM)
Wicked Passions (MMF)
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Tudor
His Forbidden Lady
One Forbidden Knight
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Contemporary
Ladies First (erotic short stories)
About the Author
NICOLA DAVIDSON worked for many years in communications and marketing as well as television and print journalism, but hasn’t looked back since she decided writing erotic historical romance was infinitely more fun. When not chained to a computer she can be found ambling along one of New Zealand�
�s beautiful beaches, cheering on the All Blacks rugby team, history geeking on the internet, or daydreaming. If this includes dessert—even better!
Keep up with Nicola’s news on social media or her website www.nicola-davidson.com.
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An Education in Pleasure
Eva Leigh
Chapter One
Buckinghamshire, England, 1817
The stranger had the most magnificent arse—and his cock was even better.
It was wrong to spy on the unknown man swimming in the pond, yet for all of Cecilia Holme’s stern admonishments to herself, she couldn’t stop watching him from the bordering shrubbery. He possessed a rangy, muscular body, and sunlight gleamed in droplets that clung to his olive skin. Dark hair curled on his head, on his chest, and in a nest between his legs—surrounding that selfsame magnificent cock. At rest, his penis was already impressively thick and long. She could only fantasize what it might look like hard and eager.
She squeezed her thighs together in a vain attempt to stop the sudden ache within her. Five years. It had been a full five years since she’d had a lover, and the only pleasure she’d received had been from her own hand. As a governess to a ducal family, she had to be sure to keep her character spotless, which meant no dalliances, and though she had missed intimacy, no one had truly tempted her to forsake her reputation—until now.
Who was this man? No one she recognized from any of the scores of servants who attended the Duke of Tarrington and his family here at Tarrington House, and he wasn’t from the nearby village. He had the hard, muscular build of a working man, so perhaps he was an itinerant laborer who had snuck onto the estate to make use of its pond.
This place had always been Cecilia’s favorite spot to be alone, but she didn’t mind just now sharing it with him.
A mad impulse seized her—remove her own clothing and slip into the water, join the stranger in its depths, press her body to his in a wordless urging. She would be like a mermaid or an undine, twining her limbs with his and discovering the feel of his skin, the taste of his mouth. And he would fall under her spell, yielding to her demands. They would fuck feverishly on the pond’s bank, nothing but bodies and pleasure and wordless passion.
The man strode from the pond, carving trenches in the water with his taut calves as he climbed up the bank. Cecilia curled her hands at her sides, her fingers aching with the desire to glide over his sleek muscles, including his ridged abdomen and the sharp lines angling along his hips.
For all their devotion to the aesthetics of the classical world, none of her past lovers had ever looked like living statues. Not like this stranger.
She really should go. It wasn’t kind to spy on someone, even though he was technically trespassing. Yet her feet staunchly refused to move, as if they knew she’d never again have the opportunity to see another man as beautiful as this, and wanted her to paint a thousand mental portraits to keep her company over the solitary years ahead.
He turned in her direction. Sunlight fell across him just as he pushed his wet hair from his face, revealing him more clearly.
Her stomach clenched.
She knew him.
Had, in fact, known him for five years.
The beautiful stranger in the pond was Owen, the ducal heir. No, he was no longer the heir. Now he was the duke. His father had passed away suddenly two weeks ago in a riding accident, and Owen had left his studies at Oxford to attend the burial in London. Cecilia had learned that the late duke had been interred with great ceremony at Westminster Abbey, as was fitting for so august a personage, but given the youth of her students, she had stayed with the girls here at Tarrington House.
Owen was due back at Tarrington House sometime this week. She’d no idea he would arrive today. The last time she’d seen him had been six months ago, and he’d been dressed, ensuring that his magnificent body wouldn’t be a distraction. Ever since he’d come of age, she had been careful to give him a wide berth for her own protection. Not because she feared anything untoward from him. No, it was herself she didn’t trust.
Here she was, ogling a man nine years her junior. Not only that, he was now her employer, which meant that staring lustfully at him was entirely wrong, entirely forbidden. Abiding by the boundaries between employer and employed had to be respected. Yet she couldn’t stop herself.
A dog’s bark snapped her to attention. Goblin, the family’s black retriever, was extremely sweet and, unfortunately, quite attached to her, and her worst fears were realized when he came bounding up to her. The dog was allowed to roam freely around the grounds, and as he trotted toward her, he wagged his tail and panted with excitement before letting out another happy yelp.
“Shh, shh,” she whispered, frantically petting Goblin in an attempt to quiet him.
Her stomach sank when she glanced at Owen and saw him looking right at her—or hopefully where the shrubbery hid her.
“Goblin,” he called. “Here.”
The dog bolted from the cover of the bushes, heading straight toward Owen. Perhaps he might think that Goblin was alone, and she could sneak away with no one the wiser.
“Hello?” Owen demanded. “Who’s there?”
Damn. No help for it.
She crept out from her hiding place, careful not to look in his direction. “Hello,” she said with an attempt at bright cheer. “I didn’t see anything. Just heard someone bathing in the pond. Nothing more.”
“I don’t doubt you,” he said, though he sounded surprised.
“Perhaps I saw a little,” she admitted, still keeping her gaze averted. Then she realized that her comment might have another meaning, and she hastily added, “Nothing little, mind you. Everything was singularly . . . impressive.”
For God’s sake, she was thirty years old, decidedly not virginal, and here she was stammering like a girl straight from the nursery.
Owen made a little choked sound, and there was the sound of rustling. A moment later he said, “I’ve put my breeches on.”
She exhaled and looked at him. He was wearing breeches now, but they hung low on his hips. He hadn’t yet donned a shirt, so he was still appallingly gorgeous and damp as he stood on the grassy bank. How was it possible for anyone to have shoulders that wide?
Uninterested in the human drama unfolding, Goblin trotted off to the pond, nosing around the banks.
“Everything’s been made ready for you,” she said in the strained quiet. “The kitchen’s been busy since yesterday, preparing all your favorite dishes, and your room was given a thorough airing out. The house is in need of a happy distraction.”
He grimaced, which barely altered the perfection of his face. He’d inherited his Mediterranean looks from his Neapolitan mother, and resembled a Renaissance prince, with a generous nose and full mouth. His drying hair was as thick and dark as secrets. She’d become aware of his masculine beauty soon after he’d first come home from Oxford for the winter. Until that point, he’d been a gangly limbed yet good-looking boy, and she’d given him little consideration beyond the fact that he was the older brother of her two pupils. But over the course of his time at university, he’d become an impossibly handsome man.
It had been a relief when, at the conclusion of the holiday, he’d returned to university and she no longer had to ignore her base impulses. With him gone, she could return to her usual routine, untroubled by carnal thoughts of her employer’s son.
He had been eighteen when she’d first noticed him as a man. That had been three years ago. Now he was twenty-one, yet that didn’t do much to smother her shame. A woman of her age shouldn’t lust for a man so much younger than herself. That didn’t stop her from wanting, though.
“Suppose I ought to have gone straight in,” he said with remorse. “I imagine they’ve been waiting for me. It’s only…” He exhaled. “I wasn’t quite ready to cross that threshold.”
He reached for his shirt and, to her relief and dismay,
pulled it over his head to cover his chest.
“I used to swim here all the time,” he went on. “When I was a boy. A place to get away and pretend I wasn’t the heir. It was only me and the water.” His gaze slid away as though he were overcome with shyness. “Miss Holme.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “My condolences on the loss of your father,” she said solemnly. “He was a kind man, always taking your sisters on learning excursions and bringing them books. And he spoke highly of his son. He was quite proud of you, Your Grace.”
Owen’s gaze lowered, his lashes forming dark fans against his cheeks. “Difficult to believe he won’t be there behind his desk, waiting to ask me about my studies. Giving me stones he collected from his travels. He thought it amusing that a duke’s heir loved geology.”
“‘Some noblemen’s sons love drink or chasing petticoats,’” she murmured, affecting the late duke’s deep voice. “‘My son loves rocks.’”
She and Owen shared a chuckle, but there was a catch in his throat.
“Damn, but I miss him,” he said, his voice a rasp.
“Your Grace!” someone said in the distance. It sounded like Mr. Fernham, the estate manager. “Are you here, Your Grace?”
“I should let him know where I am.” But instead of alerting the estate manager to his presence, he gathered the remainder of his clothing and ducked behind a hedge. Before he disappeared, he tipped his head to one side, indicating with a questioning look that she was free to accompany him into the shrubbery if she so desired.
“Mr. Fernham could use a bit of exercise, sitting behind a desk all day.” Cecilia followed him into the protective shelter of the greenery.
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