The Widow and Her Duke: The Grand Hotel: Book One

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m aching too. Can you feel me?’ Richard shifted; Serafine felt the rigid outline of his member at the small of her back. ‘Or we could really torture one another.’

  ‘This is already torture.’

  ‘Oh, no, it isn’t. It would be torture if we held ourselves on the very point of ecstasy for as long as we could, pleasuring one another, hungry for one another.’ Richard moved one hand downward, taking hold of her thigh with a firm, passionate grip. ‘I could hold you in place, like this… I could take you, like this.’

  ‘You grow far too ambitious.’

  ‘Without ambition, one can’t remake the world. One can’t have what one desires.’ The confident edge of power in Richard’s voice excited Serafine almost as much as his kisses did. He was so good at playing the part, a cocky rake with the world at his feet–and oh, his hands moved over her as if he was made to touch her. ‘Be kind to me, Serafine. Let me torture you a little. I’ll repay your kindness a thousand times over.’

  The temptation was enormous. All she needed to do was rest against Richard’s chest and accept the pleasure he wanted to give her. To let her body reach that aching, perfect peak that his fingers and tongue had given her the night before… to grow ardent, clumsy, hoydenish, ready to throw herself into sin as completely and shamelessly as he had.

  It was all she wanted. Needed, almost; she was hungry for him, thirsty for him. As if she had been starving for years, wandering a wasteland, and he was a miraculous oasis in the depths of a dry, hopeless desert. Not just for his body, his skill in the carnal arts, but for his humour–his wit, his intelligence, the wisdom that lay beneath his teasing, thrilling lightness. More than anything else, for the way he seemed to want her–the way he played his role to such perfection.

  It was almost as if he truly, authentically desired her. As a woman, not just a conquest. The idea was sweetly, seductively convincing…

  … but she couldn’t succumb. She couldn’t consider losing her heart in such a rapid, foolish fashion to a man who made a sport of it.

  Suppressing a sigh of pure frustration, she moved away from Richard’s hands. Ignoring his confused frown, she began collecting the stray hairpins that had scattered all over the bedsheets and placing them in her hair. ‘Alas, our mutual torture must end.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Loathe as I am to remind you of the facts, your Grace, but–’

  ‘Then don’t remind me of the facts. I beg you, Serafine–don’t remind me of a single fact.’

  ‘One fact must be both remembered and adhered to.’ Serafine moved to the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. Of all the many moving parts that a night of seduction provided, she hadn’t imagined the following morning to be the most difficult part of all of it. ‘One night of sin. One night of pleasure.’

  ‘If we keep the curtains drawn, it’s still night. A night for us to lie together in.’

  ‘Day will come, your Grace. It has to.’

  ‘Richard.’ The duke’s wolfish grin faltered a little, revealing a flash of feeling that Serafine hadn’t been expecting. ‘Call me that, at least.’

  ‘Richard… our time together is over.’ Serafine attempted to keep her tone of froideur, but the sadness that washed over her as she said the words felt unfathomably real. Saying his Christian name, as well–Lord, it was all far too intimate! ‘It has to be.’

  If only he would stop pretending that he wanted more. Rakes were meant to be light-hearted, letting their chosen ladies go without even the slightest hint of jealousy or possession. Richard had kept to the usual script most admirably when it came to seduction, to the fulfilment of pleasure–but now, in the faint morning light and wrapped in her bedclothes, he looked uncomfortably like a serious suitor.

  Why was that uncomfortable? Not because she didn’t want him in her bed, or like the fact of him being in it. No… if anything, it was uncomfortable because of just how much she liked it.

  She could get used to this. Get used to this far too quickly, in fact. Which is why it was imperative that she hold her nerve, and not let this charming, roguish troublemaker upend every careful plan she had made in the preceding months.

  ‘Come now.’ She reached down for her slippers, putting them on as she rose from the bed. ‘Time to leave.’

  ‘I resent being put out as if I’m a troublesome cat.’

  ‘Don’t force me to make unflattering comparisons to cats.’ Serafine picked up her discarded dress, the faint scent of yesterday’s perfume lingering on the air as she held the garment to her body. ‘I require breakfast, tea and a restorative period of newspaper reading, all done alone.’

  ‘I could feed you breakfast, bring you tea and read newspapers to you.’

  ‘And for the last time, you shall not.’

  ‘Am I ever to have the chance of doing so?’

  ‘I… no.’ Any thoughts of a clever, spirited reply left Serafine quite abruptly. ‘No, I don’t think you are.’

  The silence that followed was strangely, darkly painful. She dressed as hurriedly as she could, half-hoping to feel Richard’s gaze upon her, but he avoided looking at her. His mouth set in a grim, faintly cynical line, he dressed as quickly as she did. Serafine tried not to look at his body, at the form that had brought her such startling pleasure a matter of minutes ago.

  ‘Well then.’ She stood by the door, suddenly breathless as she approached. ‘This is goodbye.’

  Richard’s low, polite bow was perfectly elegant, his face wearing its usual expression. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  ‘And–and thank you.’

  ‘It is I who should be thanking you.’

  ‘Not at all. I was in need of your experience, your skill, your…’

  ‘… Yes.’ Richard opened the door. ‘All of that. But not my sentiment.’

  ‘Please don’t joke about sentiment.’ Serafine folded her arms, the weariness of a near sleepless night beginning to weigh upon her. ‘I have already told you innumerable times.’

  ‘And I have told you, my lady, that—nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing?’

  ‘Precisely that. Nothing. I had begun to—to enchant myself this morning, based on the spellbinding events of last night, but must put myself to rights.’ Richard shook his head, careless laughter trailing at the end of his words. ‘You are correct. I will cease to—to joke of it.’

  ‘Please do.’ Serafine stared at him. ‘Because I… I can’t abide jokes about sentiment.’

  ‘I will make no jokes. I will leave.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They were still standing in front of one another. As much as Serafine knew she should turn away and close the door, her body felt completely incapable of doing so. And Richard, despite his newly calm demeanour, his pretty words… he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Oh, Lord. I don’t want you to go.

  ‘Well then.’ Richard stood up a little straighter. ‘Good day to you.’

  ‘Good day to you.’ Serafine performed the most ceremonial curtsey she could. ‘And if you—if you realize you need to retrieve something from these rooms, there is no need to send your—‘

  She stopped as she looked up. Richard had turned his back to her, and was already walking away.

  Oysters. A large surfeit of oysters on ice, with a little lemon and vinegar on the side. Or a new coat—an expensive one, perhaps with a lambskin lining. Richard determinedly kept his mind trained on pleasant, inconsequential things as he walked back to his rooms, waiting for the sting of Serafine’s goodbye to pass. He had been thrown out of any number of rooms before, occasionally by irate husbands; it was normal to have the feathers of one’s pride ruffled on occasion. Quite why it hurt so acutely this time, with Serafine’s absence clutching at him, was something that he was determined to avoid thinking about.

  His room seemed colder than before as he entered. Much colder. Richard drifted from the door, to his desk and then to the window,
looking down at the groups of chattering pleasure-seekers wandering down the sunlit street.

  Didn’t the period after an encounter normally feel… good? It certainly felt better than this. He usually felt sated, like a lion that had taken its fill of a feast–but to his deep annoyance, he felt hungrier than ever.

  Not just physically. He’d happily have Serafine again, no question–just thinking about the pleasure they’d given one another made him ready to begin all over again. It had matched–no, surpassed–every single one of his expectations in that department. But other wants had flowered, even as his most potent lust had been satisfied.

  He wanted her conversation. Wanted her laughter. Wanted to–to stroke her hair, to murmur scandalous things in her ear as they walked down a street together.

  He even wanted to see her in her darker moments. Wanted to see her when she felt sick, tired, bored with the world. Wanted to comfort her, caress her… console her.

  ‘Christ.’ Richard muttered to himself as he stared out of the window. ‘I’m getting a brain fever.’

  There was no point in mooning over her now. All he’d ever wanted from her was pleasure, after all–and he’d certainly succeeded in that department. Now was the moment to relish the memories, consign Serafine to the past and choose a new conquest.

  Except he didn’t want to. Every atom of his being violently rebelled against looking at any other woman. Richard gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead to the cold glass of the window.

  As for that display before she threw him out… goodness, she had been right to do it. He had been behaving in a thoroughly useless fashion—like a swain with his first ever woman, rather than someone who could have his pick of any of them.

  Even if he didn’t even want to look at another woman, it was probably important to do precisely that. Better to get back on the horse immediately after a fall—it worked for hunting, and it would work for coarser pleasures.

  He had never been the type to sit around and dream. Losing oneself in misery was for lesser men. Turning away from the window with a grimace, Richard rang the bell for his valet and threw himself into an armchair with a sigh.

  After a few long minutes, Wilson appeared. ‘You rang, your Grace?’

  ‘Is that a crumb of pastry at the corner of your mouth?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Wilson wiped away the offending crumb, rolling his eyes. ‘The cook here’s French.’

  ‘Of course he is. I do hope you’re not getting used to this level of cuisine–the chef at Morningford will remain English, alas.’

  ‘I’ll suffer through it. Is there something you need, your Grace?’

  ‘Yes.’ Richard paused, suddenly realising that he didn’t need anything that could be openly said to his valet. One couldn’t very well say to one’s servant that one was in need of company or consolation. ‘I—I need diversion.’

  ‘Diversion?’ Wilson raised an eyebrow. ‘Of what kind?’

  ‘Anything. Wine, women, song. Something that will force my brain into a different line of thought.’

  ‘I can provide all three, your Grace, but–’

  ‘–But what?’

  ‘But I will need to know your mind’s current line of thought in order to provide something different.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be obtuse. You know who I’m thinking about.’

  ‘Ah.’ Wilson paused. ‘Is this why–’

  ‘Why I didn’t sleep here last night. Yes.’

  ‘Goodness. I won’t enquire further.’

  ‘Oh, enquire. Enquire away. Lord knows I’m doing nothing but considering it. Considering her.’

  ‘Then this is the beginning of a courtship?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Don’t say that as if you’ve understood. You haven’t.’ Richard sighed. ‘She was the one to refuse a—a more formal arrangement.’

  Wilson’s eyes grew very wide. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. I was surprised by her refusal as well.’

  ‘I’m not that surprised by her refusal.’ Wilson frowned. ‘If I may be so bold, your Grace—’

  ‘I’d hate you to be anything else.’

  ‘Her refusal of a courtship doesn’t seem all that out of the ordinary. It’s your offer of one that runs outside of the normal course of things.’ Wilson folded his arms. ‘Regardless of your sentiments concerning the lady, it’s unusual for you to make an open declaration of them.’

  ‘It was hardly an open declaration. It was merely a question—a nudge, at best. And as for my sentiments concerning the lady, you have no idea about the details of those. I barely do myself.’

  ‘... Yes, your Grace.’ Wilson’s tone grew a shade more delicate. ‘Although, if I may continue in my boldness—’

  ‘I’m beginning to regret my charitable opinion of your honesty.’

  ‘You made a slip of the tongue concerning Mrs. Winters. When you were discussing her suitability as a conquest.’

  ‘I did?’ An unusual feeling of panic gripped Richard’s chest. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Before I tell you, I want assurances as to the security of my position.’

  ‘Bloody hellfire. That bad?’

  ‘Will I remain as your valet if I tell you exactly what you said?’

  ‘I think you’ll have to. Or you’ll tell everyone else whatever dreadfully embarrassing thing I inadvertently said.’

  ‘It wasn’t dreadfully embarrassing. If anything, it was rather… tender. Sweet.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Even worse.’ Please let him not have revealed something ridiculously sentimental to a man in his service. ‘Come on. Out with it.’

  ‘You said… you said the lady would make a very fine wife.’

  Wife. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Richard couldn’t breathe.

  Of all the words to say—Christ, of all the stupid, vulnerable things to say. And he had conjured the word out of nowhere; out of the nameless, formless feeling deep within him that he’d always scorned, ignored, trampled upon in favour of easier, more scandalous marks.

  And yet, it had surfaced. He had said the word wife in relation to Serafine Winters. And after the initial shock of hearing it… well, it wasn’t as if his body was rejecting the idea.

  If anything, he felt excited. Powerfully excited. And if Wilson wasn’t looking at him as if he had begun gibbering incomprehensible nonsense, he would probably have given into his desire to cut a caper about the room.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you.’ Wilson sighed. ‘I was afraid you’d behave like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘As if you’d taken a blow to the head.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair.’

  ‘You stared into space for a worryingly long while.’

  ‘I wasn’t staring into space. I was staring into the future.’ Richard leapt from his seat, new fire coursing through his nerves. ‘Staring into a new and spectacular destiny.’

  ‘She did refuse you, your Grace.’

  ‘Yes–and she was right to do it. Any woman of good sense would refuse a handsome, charming rake who’s never made a serious offer in his life. But if I convince her of my seriousness–if I tell her in no uncertain terms that this is no joke, no cutting falsehood at her expense?’

  ‘She could very well still refuse you.’

  ‘And if she does I will wear sackcloth and ashes, and reluctantly take up my life of carousing and bodily pleasure after a year or so of reflection.’ Richard began pacing the room, astonished at the energy that filled him at the mere prospect of speaking to Serafine again. Of pressing his suit–of actually speaking to her from the heart, rather than letting his true self slip through only during unguarded moments. ‘But I must have hope, Wilson. I must have it— and frankly, I feel it. More than I’ve felt in a good long while.’

  ‘And now, your Grace, with your permission, I’ll reach the very limits of my boldness. The hope you have now will not translate into effective action. You must wait until the time is right.’

  �
��Perhaps you’ve crossed the line from boldness into brazenness. I don’t see what’s to be gained by waiting—the very idea repels me.’

  ‘And yet you must. You must bid a proper goodbye to your former life, if you truly are set upon this particular course of action.’

  ‘More set on anything than I’ve been in my life.’ Richard frowned. ‘And perhaps your idea isn’t completely without sense.’

  ‘I pride myself on occasionally having sense, your Grace.’

  ‘A goodbye. A farewell. But I can’t use the usual methods of bidding goodbye to debauchery—I don’t even want to look at another woman.’

  ‘I imagine you’ll want to look at a glass of brandy and a deck of cards after a hot bath. Or perhaps a cup of coffee across the street.’

  ‘The coffee-house. Not a bad idea, all told–a sort of scandal without any real sin, if that makes sense.’

  ‘Just barely, sir. And you’ll need a wash before stepping foot outside of this door.’

  ‘I can’t look that bad, Wilson. You’re making me sound like a feral bear.’

  ‘I’ve never met any domesticated bears, your Grace. And winning a lady’s heart, in my limited experience, is much easier with a level of basic cleanliness.’

  As loftily as she had spoken of a morning spent reading newspapers in blessed solitude, Serafine laid in bed for a long, long time after Richard’s departure. Only after a period of talking very sternly to herself, trying to conjure up the staid routine she followed in the countryside, did she manage to rise and dress herself in something approaching decent, if dishevelled, attire.

  Beckoning a footman to her door rather than ringing for Martha, she quickly found herself in possession of a copy of the Mayfair Herald and a piping hot cup of coffee. Sitting at her desk, attempting to drink and read with her usual morning energy, Serafine found her gaze being irresistibly drawn towards the bed.

  She felt utterly incapable of forming words, let alone anything as taxing as reading a newspaper. If she were perfectly honest with herself–and she was getting a taste for such honesty, given the rewards it brought with it–she wanted to throw herself into bed, close her eyes with a passionate sigh, and dream of everything that had happened between Richard Oaks and herself until dawn came.