by Sophia Nash
He kissed her again and again, playing with her mouth until he urged her lips apart and twined his tongue with her own. He nipped at her lips and played with the edges of her teeth. She thought she might swoon from the intimacy of it. His iron-like arms pulled her deeper into his embrace and she felt her legs parted by one of his own as she gave up every effort to remain balanced on her toes. The soft rustling of her gown mingled with their hot breath as he crushed her to him. Her breasts ached and sparks ignited along every inch of her that touched him.
A suddenly deep desire flooded her, spiraling downward to her core, where one day her child would be nurtured—in her womb.
The intense, white-hot craving flowed ever lower to settle between her legs, where his thigh was wedged. Every nerve pulsed to the beat of her heart.
So this was passion . . .
She was lost in the moment, lost in his unyielding arms, and giving herself to him in the maelstrom of emotions coursing through her like the wind rushing through the acres and acres of woods, then swirling down to chafe the lake’s surface before eddying in the cattails and giving wing to the heavens before settling at the home of her heart.
She could feel tears forming in her eyes and tried desperately to regain control. She breathed raggedly as he eased away from her. His dark silent eyes studied her. She swallowed awkwardly against a ball of emotion lodged deep in the back of her throat.
She knew without a single doubt that she was hanging onto her last shred of a nerve and it was wavering.
For what she saw reflected in his stark expression was not passion. It was certainly not love.
It was something that could not be forgiven.
It was regret.
Chapter 6
Amelia Primrose stood in the shadows at the farthest edge of the Allens’ terrace. A good abigail knew how to be unobserved. She had secretly watched Isabelle tour the garden with the rear admiral. She did so to make certain no one else witnessed the encounter. She knew how to intercept disaster.
She finally relaxed her guard when she saw the Duke of Candover go after the duchess. As soon as he did, she retreated to the remote place on the other side of the terrace. She did not want to be seen or found by anyone. Especially not him.
She took care not to lean against the rough stone of the building for it would snag her dark blue gown—the only gown she had for evening affairs. It was long in practicality and short in elegance. But she had never sought elegance. She never wanted to attract discomfiting situations involving gentlemen of the nonchivalrous kind. It was the reason she took care to never ease her reserve, to dress her pale blond hair severely, and to dress her person even more severely. The rest she could do nothing about.
In the past she had been lucky. Her previous charges had not liked entertainments such as these. The Fitzroy females had preferred lectures, plays, the theatre, and nature walks. Lots of nature walks. Which had suited Amelia Primrose perfectly.
It had been a quiet life—one she enjoyed immensely. She deeply loved the Fitzroy family. They had saved her, really. She’d had no references (had never worked, in fact) and been in desperate need of employment when her parents suddenly died of lung fever one harsh winter. Amelia had replied to a newspaper request for applicants to fill the post of governess for the Duke of Candover’s sister.
She could not remember what she wrote, but something must have appealed for she was invited to present herself. From the highlands of Scotland, she had taken off on foot, then by dog cart, when a kind vicar offered her passage. The last stage, she had ridden in a milk cart driven by a farmer and his team of oxen. She’d helped the man deliver milk to seven inns before arriving in Derbyshire.
Lost in the reverie of her past, looking at the stars in the clear night sky, she did not see the Duke of Sussex’s approach.
“I searched half of Scotland trying to run you to ground,” he growled softly.
She turned to face him. “Why would you do that?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question for the last six weeks.”
“And what did you determine?”
“I’m an idiot to have wasted half the summer trying to corner a female who is running away from me.”
“It must have been a novelty for you, at least.”
His lips were thin with anger. “To be sure.”
“Then why didn’t you stop looking?”
“Well, one tends to keep going when one is in search of one’s wife.”
She clenched her hands at her sides. “I shall have it annulled.”
“I have only one question,” he pressed.
“Don’t hesitate,” she replied.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Don’t play that game with me. For the love of God, I am your husband. Your master. Answer me. Why did you get the archbishop, corked to the ears along with me, to marry us the night before Candover’s botched wedding? In the dozen years I’ve witnessed you coaxing Verity Fitzroy into something resembling a lady, there was never a hint of your now apparent calculating nature.”
“I assume Verity was the one who informed you,” she said, unable to meet his eyes.
“Of course she told me. She whispered to me that I was married to you, ‘due to special circumstances,’ and then she was packed off to Derbyshire by her dear brother before she could explain the nature of those ‘special’ circumstances. Care to explain, wife?”
“I’m certain,” she said quietly, “it’s neither valid nor recorded. There was no license, special or otherwise, and obviously no banns. I doubt the archbishop even remembers the event. If it has any validity, I assure you it will be annulled. Very, very soon.”
“Really? And how do you plan to go about it?”
“I’ve requested an audience with the archbishop.”
“He won’t see you,” Sussex said acidly. “I shall have to see to it myself.”
She stood straighter. “This was my mistake and I will correct it.”
“You still have not told me why you did it.”
She would not answer.
He stared at her, furious. He used his finger to emphasize his words. “If you think I won’t get a full explanation of this outrageousness before the ink is dry on an annulment, then you don’t know me, Miss Amelia Primrose—or do you assume that I will call you ‘Your Grace’? And all these years I thought you a lady above reproach. Does Candover know about this?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“It’s a good thing. It’d break his heart, it would. He always said the sun and moon rose by you. What would he say now?”
“I cannot fathom.” Oh, yes, she could. “Promise me you will not say a word to him.”
He looked at her shrewdly. “That will be considerably difficult, considering . . .”
“Considering what?” she asked.
“That I’m living under his roof.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As of this afternoon.”
She waited for his explanation.
“Because of you, my dearest devoted, saintly wife.”
“I cannot imagine why I would be to blame for—”
“I had planned to be hunting grouse with Abshire right now. But as I found it more important to hunt down a certain Scottish madwoman, and your trail led me here, well, here I must stay.”
“What of your town house?”
He appeared vastly annoyed. “The knocker is down.”
She waited for him to continue.
“I’d arranged for improvements, renovations, re-everything from roof to cellar during my absence.” His expression was pained.
“How inconvenient,” she said.
“Precisely.” His eyes bored into hers.
“And so you have been invited by His Grace to stay at Candover House.”
“Well, he had no choice when I went to him after I tracked you down in Hyde Park today. I loathe hotels and he’s the only other member of the en
tourage in Town, and it was his damn fault that all these ripples of disaster occurred.”
She clenched her hands at her sides. “You know very well he was not to blame.” A cold ball of fury formed in her abdomen. “And if you were a gentleman you would not hold another responsible for your own actions.”
“Ah, and now I am to feel chastened?” His tone was frozen with disdain.
She held her ground. “Injustice never bodes well. And people who make excuses are intolerable.” She paused, gathering wind. “I will not listen to you blaspheme His Grace. And I won’t have you say a single word to worry him. I told you I will correct my mistake on my own.”
His eyes narrowed with distrust. “Why are you so concerned about Candover?”
“Because . . . because . . . well, just because.”
“And you expect me to accept that sort of flimsy explanation?”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“And you call yourself a governess.”
“No, I call myself an abigail.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing you will never call yourself.”
“And what is that?”
“My duchess!”
The following morning, James Fitzroy descended from his suite of chambers at Candover House to take his breakfast. Six o’clock was his favorite hour of the day, as no one in his family ever descended before eight, Cook prepared predetermined fare, and Wharton always had the newspaper freshly ironed. It was important to start each day with perfect order and calm.
Especially important when the rest of his damned life was going to ruin.
Had he not learned time and again that losing one’s head—for even just one moment—was destructive, disastrous, completely irresponsible, and sometimes even fatal, if not always life-changing for the worse?
He had but one mission in life, and that was to do his duty to those who depended on him. There was no room for a grand passion, which only made fools of those who thought it could endure a lifetime or bring lasting happiness. Indeed, allowing extreme desire and impetuous love to ruin one’s equilibrium could result in grave consequences. His first fiancée’s death had been a prime example.
And had he not learned that being lax in conduct—always—always—proved disastrous?
Would there not be one Fitzroy who could do right by the family? Fulfill the role model of strict and correct character for England? Was that not the obligation of the premier duke of Christendom?
Obviously, once again last night, he had failed the test.
What the devil had he been thinking? He could not even blame it on spirits, given the bread-and-water spartan life he’d recently imposed on himself. He damn well was losing his grip. He’d allowed himself to be vulnerable—to give in to momentary desire. And that was unacceptable. It only ever led to loss.
Indeed, allowing another person to see even a glimmer of the true essence beyond the persona society demanded he present to the world was showing weakness.
And that was simply not who he was—who he was mistakenly destined to be. The deep, sonorous voice of the man he had most wanted to please—but always failed—his beloved father, rose from the deepest corner of his mind. He would do his duty. He would not give in to temptation.
Yes, he’d be damned if he’d let things slip further. He had no idea what had possessed him in that blasted garden of the Allens. But she had looked up at him from those fathomless golden eyes of hers, her mouth slightly parted, and then she’d had the audacity to put her beautiful, young arms around him. Those lips of hers had made him want to do unspeakable things. His neck was hot and he hardened just thinking about her. And he had no one to hold responsible but himself.
The entire evening had been a disaster of epic proportions. He’d had to endure an entire herd of innocent ladies fresh out of the school room, and their gushing mothers and peacocking fathers, not to mention assorted blushing aunts and grinning grandmothers who, by the looks of all of them, were considering possible names for an heir. His heir. And he’d had to restrain himself from going to the terrace when Isabelle and that bloody rear admiral chose to dine there. And finally he’d had to discreetly remove himself from the ballroom so no one would follow him.
God.
Isabelle . . . just the thought of her. Damn it all. Replaying the night in his mind a thousand times and trying to forget it a thousand times more had only left him more wretched.
There was no escaping it. He would have to own up to his abominable actions toward her and apologize. Promise it would never, ever occur again. And after, he would restore order to his mind, and attempt to forget the primal, near blinding pleasure that fired his veins and turned his spirit inside out while kissing his friend’s daughter, a lady who in all likelihood was younger than any other female present.
The footman opened the door to the dining hall and he stopped dead in his tracks as it silently closed behind him. Obscured by the open pages of his newspaper, Edward Godwin, the Duke of Sussex, sat in his chair. The other duke lowered The Morning Post to reveal three plates bearing a mountainous portion of eggs, toast, herrings, and something that looked like mashed kidneys.
“Shall I have Wharton send in a roast suckling pig and pheasant?” His tone was so dry that a fire could have been started with it.
Sussex ignored him and returned his gaze to the paper. “No, no need, thank you. Two more rashers of bacon should do it. Although it’s too bad you don’t have liver on the morning menu.”
“Ever hear of gout?”
“Pfft,” Sussex replied before delicately shoveling an enormous forkful of eggs on toast into his mouth and then elegantly using his napkin. “Jams and jellies always manage to round things out.”
“Ever hear of rules and house guests?”
Sussex shrugged. “I’m not a guest. I’m more like a brother, right?”
James’s heart stuttered before he regained his composure. He should never have agreed to host Sussex. The sideboard beckoned, and he turned to cross to it. The usual fare lay decimated like the French at Waterloo. Except for an apple. He snatched it, turned, and stared at Sussex sitting at the head of the table.
He had the most absurd desire to take aim at the other’s head.
Instead, James sat down to Sussex’s left.
“Shouldn’t you sit on my right?” Sussex tore off a section from the paper and resumed reading and eating.
With one lightning fast swipe, James snatched The Morning Post from Sussex’s hands. “And why should I do that?”
Sussex chuckled that way of his—warm and good humored. He was the opposite of James in every way. “Because in the order of precedence the most important female always sits to the right.”
“Precisely,” James returned, coolly. “That’s why you’re on my right.”
Sussex grinned and leaned forward to thump him on the back. “Do you ever smile, man?”
“Are you ever serious?”
It had always been this way between them. They had known each other longer than any of the other dukes. Since infancy, really. They might not have spent much time in each other’s company during childhood, but their years together at Eton made up for it. And James had always been careful to keep a hedgerow of casual indifference between them. It was the only way he could tolerate their friendship. There was so much more at stake than the other knew.
Wharton, red-faced, entered the dining hall carrying a large silver platter of eggs, toast, and four rashers of bacon. A footman followed him with more fare. “May I prepare your plate, Your Grace?”
Both gentlemen replied yes at the same moment.
“Sorry,” Sussex said, “force of habit.”
“How long can we expect the pleasure of your habits?” James took a bite from the apple as he waited to be served.
“Just a few weeks, actually. The architect said the upper chambers will be finished in about six weeks.”
So would he if he had to endure this that long. Wharto
n placed James’s usual fare in front of him as the other footman plunked down half a side of bacon in front of Sussex.
“His Grace and I require a bit of privacy, Wharton,” Sussex said.
What on earth? Now he was to be usurped?
Wharton’s face blanched and he turned to James, who nodded his assent.
“By the by,” Sussex said, “I saw your beloved abigail nattering with Isabelle in the park and at the ball last night. I understand she’s no longer living under your roof.”
“Miss Amelia Primrose gave me her notice. She entered Isabelle’s employ.”
“Hmmm. How odd. Thought you might have sacked her.” Sussex stopped eating and was glancing at him with false ease.
Something was off. “Why would I sack her? She’s the best abigail in the country.”
“I did not know that you condoned females drinking absinthe is all.”
James wanted to throttle him. “And why would you suggest the females in Carleton House that night were drinking that damned frog poison?” He might know the truth, but he didn’t want anyone else to know.
For a mere second something flashed in Sussex’s face. He turned around to make certain the servants had departed. “Well, of course they were. You don’t think they were embroidering, do you? And haven’t you wondered why they didn’t wake you up at the very least?”
“I’d prefer not to say.”
“So you know why?”
James slowly raised his quizzing glass to his eye.
“Did you know that makes your eye look twice as big as the other?”
“Sussex?”
“Yes?”
“You have a bit of lard on your chin.” James pushed back the legs of the chair and stood up.
“No need to go. You haven’t touched your toast, man.”
“No appetite.”
“Are we not feeling well?” Sussex used that detestable nursemaid voice he did quite well.
“We are feeling perfectly fine.”
“May I have your plate, then?”
“Be my guest.”
“Such generosity of spirit.”
James resisted the urge to yank him out of his chair by his neck cloth. “Just looking out for you. You’ll need it.”