My Fair Duchess

by Megan Frampton

  The music started and Genevieve was delighted to hear they were dancing to a waltz—a less complicated dance, and one where they wouldn’t have to separate.

  He didn’t say anything, just gazed down at her. Her chest felt tight, as though her bosom was suddenly too large for her gown. But it didn’t feel wrong or unpleasant; it felt as though she wished she could squirm out of her clothing and into him, which was probably wrong on the face of it, but didn’t feel that way to her.

  Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips. His eyes dropped down to her mouth, and it felt as though he’d touched her there, his stare was so intense. So visceral.

  “Are you—are you enjoying the assembly?” she said in what she absolutely had to describe as a squeak.

  “Immensely,” he replied, his gaze not leaving her mouth.

  “I am as well.”

  His eyes met hers, and he smiled. A real smile, one that reached his eyes. And she felt warm all over, as though he’d enfolded her entirely in his arms, holding that large body against hers.

  She wasn’t just alone in this feeling, was she? Not that she could ask, especially not when they were in public and dancing together. But she wished she could, if only to know she wasn’t alone. In this, and in so many other things.

  The thought struck her, again, that eventually he would leave, he would return to his life at Aunt Sophia’s, and she would have to do this all on her own.

  “What is wrong?” he said, the smile leaving his face.

  Oh, and he was so very perceptive.

  She sighed and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  His lips tightened, as though he wanted to argue with her, but he didn’t, just twirled her around the dance floor, she resolutely putting everything besides the present moment out of her mind.

  There was something bothering her, he could tell, but he also knew it wouldn’t do to pursue it here. She wore her heart on her sleeve, but most times it felt as though only he could see it.

  He tightened his hold on her hand unconsciously, then released it as she gazed up at him with a questioning look in her eyes. He shook his head, now angry at himself for denying what he was feeling, just as he was—was it angry as well?—angry at her for not expressing herself.

  Even though he had just told her that was exactly what she had to do in order to maintain her position. He should have been delighted she danced with Sir William, a presumably not horrible relative who would offer her more respectability and credence than he could.

  Should have, but most definitely was not.

  The music ended, and he withdrew from her, bowing low, which only put him in the unfortunate position of being close to her breasts, which were as revealed as he had ever seen them. He wished he could just lean forward and lick one of those exposed curves, but that would be far more scandalous than her being exuberant.

  He felt his mouth twist up into a rueful smile at the thought.

  “Thank you for the dance.” She sounded breathless. The dance itself hadn’t been that lively—it was a waltz, after all—and he had to wonder if she was feeling a fraction of what he was. If she was thinking about that one kiss, the one that burned in his mind, especially late at night. If she was wondering what would happen if they were all alone, were dancing, were touching.

  He felt his cock twitch in his trousers, and he clamped his lips together, willing himself to stop thinking. About her.

  Easier said than done, of course.

  “I am getting tired,” she said. He snapped out of his useless images of sexual abandon with her and peered down at her face. She did look weary, a tightness around her mouth, her eyes not as sparkling as when they had been dancing, when they had looked brighter than the stars on a cold, clear night.

  “I will let Sir William and Miss Evelyn know you wish to depart,” he said, only to pause when she put her hand on his sleeve. His arm tensed where she touched it.

  “No, I don’t want to ruin their enjoyment of the night simply because I am tired. The carriage can take me home, then return to pick you and them up.”

  “I am not sending you home alone.”

  Her lips tilted up into a half smile, one that felt as though it reached into his chest and tugged. “I thought you might say that. But I do not wish to have anyone else there.” A moment as she bit her lip. “Is that wrong of me? It is just that I am not accustomed to being around so many people all at once. I always thought I wanted this, but it is just so much, all of a sudden. Too much.” And she glanced up at him with a look of near panic. He wished he could just hoist her up into his arms and run all the way back to the estate.

  “If you will wait here for a moment, I will let your guests know of the plan.” He left before she could object some more—he knew she was likely berating herself for being so selfish, even though she was merely being self-preserving.

  Sir William voiced his objections, naturally, but Archie squashed him in a few brief sentences, too intent on returning to Genevieve to adhere to strict politeness.

  “Tell the duchess we will see her in the morning,” Miss Evelyn said, a concerned expression on her face. He did like her, despite his antipathy toward her brother.

  “Thank you Miss Evelyn, Sir William,” Archie said as he bowed. He strode off in search of Genevieve, wishing there was a way he could protect her from all this. From relatives, to small assemblies, to being overwhelmed in her position.

  But there wasn’t. And he knew she would conquer it, he had faith in her, but still he hurt for her. In a way he had never hurt for anyone before.

  “How do you feel?”

  They were in the carriage, and with the exception of the wheels churning over the road, it was blessedly quiet. And dark. She could barely make out his face opposite; she could just see an enormous black shape, as she had when he had first arrived in her London house.

  “Fine, I suppose.” She took a deep breath. “It is fine. I am fine. I feel foolish, because I don’t feel ill, just—overwhelmed.”

  “It’s not surprising,” he said in that low, rich voice that flowed over her and seemed to seep into her bones. “You are doing so many things that you’re not familiar with, and having to do them under intense scrutiny.”

  “Yes.” That was true, only—“Only I should have been familiar with these things. If my father had held any kind of loyalty to the position, he would have at least thought to teach me so I wouldn’t be absolutely lost here.”

  “You’re angry with him.” He didn’t say it as a question, but as a statement.

  “I suppose I am,” she said after a few moments. “I didn’t know him well enough to be truly angry with him, not as a person. But as someone who knew just what he was doing when he didn’t do anything to set me right on this course? Yes. I’m angry. I’m furious.” She was startled to discover she was, so furious she was shaking with it.

  “You should be.”

  They sat in silence, Genevieve’s hands holding on to the seat on either side of her legs, gripping the leather so tightly she knew there was likely to be a mark on the palm of her hand. “Is this the anger you were trying to get me to exhibit before? When you were teaching me how to be . . . me?”

  That might make her even madder, to think he had manipulated her into this moment so she would make a better duchess. So his responsibility to her would be over quicker, so she would be on her own again.

  “No,” he said, laughter in his voice. “That would have been clever of me, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh.”

  “I like working here with you. I have said that before.” His voice was still amused, and she felt herself softening, unbending, feeling not so . . . stifled as she had at the assembly.

  She could hear the movement as he leaned forward, uncurling her hand from the leather of the carriage seat. His fingers were strong and firm around hers. “I wish you weren’t the duchess, either,” he said, and now it sounded as though his voice had dropped into an entirely different register, one only she could
hear. “If you weren’t, I . . .” and then he paused.

  Genevieve’s mouth went dry, and she licked her lips. “If I wasn’t, you . . . ?” she prompted, but she didn’t wait for his reply; she drew herself up and over to his side of the carriage, both of them facing backward. “You would what?” she said, bringing her hand up to his cheek. Feeling him still in the darkness.

  “Imagine you were just Archie, and I was just Genevieve.” His stubble prickled her skin. She could just barely see the gleam of his eyes. He reached up and grabbed her hand, turning his head to kiss her palm. “If I was just Archie,” he said, then drew her into his arms and placed his mouth on hers.

  Oh. For just a moment it felt that there was nothing but them in the world. And the world was dark, warm because of his lips, perfect because nothing else existed.

  She slid her hand around to cup the nape of his neck, her fingers reaching into his hair. It was thick, and she found herself tugging on it to draw him closer.

  His mouth was so warm. Her breasts felt heavy, too full constricting against her gown and the cloak she had on over it. She pulled her hand out of his hair and went to the strings on her cloak, undoing the tie with one graceless pull.

  His hands slid up to her shoulders and pushed the cloak down, and he accompanied the movement with a groan that made parts of Genevieve feel ablaze. Not just warm, but on fire. She opened her mouth and licked his lips and he opened to her, their tongues tangling together. All she heard was their rapid breathing, felt how their noses bumped as they devoured each other.

  My God. This was—this was everything. How had she gone so long without having it again? This warm, moist licking and sucking, the feel of his bare hand on her shoulder, the slide of his work-roughened fingers on her skin.

  She wished she could just have him touch her everywhere. Yes, there, too, where she could feel herself getting wetter. There where it felt it burned the most, where she felt a sense of urgency about something.

  She wasn’t so naïve she didn’t know what that something was, either. But if she had to think about it—and she couldn’t now, not with what his mouth was doing, and how he was holding her tightly up against his lovely, massive chest—she would have to say, on balance, that she would prefer not having her first time in a moving carriage. That seemed as though it had a degree of difficulty even Archie couldn’t surmount. So to speak.

  But she could keep kissing him, and she brought her hand back up to his neck, sliding her fingers down his back, raising up his jacket so she could flatten her palm against his back. His strong back that shifted and flexed under her touch.

  She couldn’t miss how he was moving, as well. As though he wished to press himself up entirely against her, his hands frantically moving on her skin, caressing her, until he was trailing his fingers against the neck of her bodice, her whole self wanting to just have him touch her breasts to make the ache go away. Or intensify.

  She didn’t wait for him, instead she reached down and placed his palm right on her breast, pushing into his palm almost—actually never mind almost, certainly—wanton, but she didn’t care.

  Because for now it was just them. Genevieve and Archie. Not the duchess and her steward, or anything like that. Not just friends, either, but not yet lovers. Stuck in a kind of purgatory between the two, filled with sighs and aching, and want, and more kisses until she didn’t even remember her own name.

  But she did know his. “Archie,” she moaned against his mouth, pressing into him. His fingers had found her nipple, and were rubbing it through the fabric of her gown.

  “That feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Me touching your gorgeous breasts. If I could, I would lean down and run my tongue over your stiff nipple. Suck it into my mouth and kiss it as I caress your curves.”

  Oh. Well. She hadn’t known those words in that order existed, much less what it would do to her to hear him say them.

  She squirmed even closer, her hands at his narrow waist, her face lifted to his, his mouth taking hers with a fierce, savage possession that rendered her breathless.

  He withdrew from the kiss, breathing raggedly, his fingers still dancing on her skin, reaching down into her gown to stroke over her nipple, sliding across her shoulder to cup her neck, to hold her in what Genevieve wished was a moment that could last forever.

  Even though it couldn’t. Even though now it seemed as though she could feel the slowing of the carriage, the wheels less noisy than they had been before.

  Their breathing still as labored.

  He gave her one last kiss, as though he couldn’t help himself, and drew away, his eyes seeming to spark in the darkness.

  “Genevieve and Archie,” he said at last. “Just us.”

  Her mouth felt bruised. Her heart did, too. She wished she could just tell the coachman to keep driving, to take them away together so they could forget who they were, and who they were supposed to be.

  But she had duties. And so did he. And neither one of them would be allowed to be just them for much longer.

  Letter

  Dear Genevieve,

  I want you. I want you so much it burns. I don’t know what is worse—having kissed you and knowing what your mouth tastes like, knowing I can never be able to savor the rest of you, or having kissed you and imagining what it would be like if I could taste you. Everywhere.

  Archie

  (not sent)

  Chapter 18

  “Ye need nothing else then?” Mr. Wickes said, glancing between them. Sir William and Miss Evelyn’s servants were waiting in the kitchen for their master and mistress, while Archie and Genevieve stood in the hallway, Wickes having taken her cloak.

  Thank goodness the man was not only remarkably unobservant, but also that it was relatively dark; Archie could feel how his breathing, still, was labored, his chest going up and down as he tried to calm himself.

  Tried to keep himself from going to her and pleasuring her until she screamed his name.

  “We are fine, thank you, Mr. Wickes.” Her voice trembled. Did Wickes hear it?

  “Good night then,” Wickes replied, handing the candle in its holder to Archie. “Mind that third step, it’s been creaking. I’ll be taking a look at it tomorrow.”

  “You take such excellent care of the estate,” she said, her tone approving.

  Even in the dark, Archie could see how Wickes’s cheeks started to turn red. “It’s worth it, Your Grace, when there is something like you to take care of.” He turned and walked to the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  Leaving them here alone.

  “Well,” she said, her voice higher than usual, “we should be getting to bed.” And then she emitted—was it a squeak?—as she realized what she’d said. “I mean,” she began, sounding breathless and excited and anxious all at once.

  They’d had this exact conversation before, he wanted to remind her. He didn’t, but he did take her hand in his. “I know what you mean.” He drew her arm into his. “Let me guide you up to your bedroom. I will see you safely there where Clarkson is no doubt waiting to hear all about the assembly.”

  “Yes,” she replied, sounding grateful and disappointed. It was remarkable how nuanced one person’s voice could be.

  Or perhaps that was just because he was attuned to her as he had never been attuned to anyone before.

  They made their way up the stairs, Archie acutely conscious of her beside him, how her skin glowed in the flickering of the candlelight, how she kept pace with him as they walked.

  He led her to her door—mercifully, a few doors down the hall from his, too far away for him to risk discovery, but close enough that he could imagine what might happen if he did—and stopped just outside, gazing down into her face. Her mouth was full and red, and he felt a fierce, triumphant joy that he had done that. He had branded her with his kiss, he had made her eyes get half lidded with a sensual gaze, he had said those words to her, words that had made her breathe faster, and grow more excited under his touch.

&nbs
p; “Thank you,” she said, a glimmer of humor in her voice.

  “For what?” he said in a whisper. “For kissing you? For touching your skin?” He leaned in to speak right into her ear. “For reaching down into your gown and finding your nipple, stroking your breast with my fingers, wishing it was my tongue?”

  She clutched his arm and turned her face up to his, her eyes gleaming bright as stars. “Yes,” she said in a fierce tone. “For all of that. Because”—and he saw her expression falter—“because I might not ever feel anything like that again.”

  He tried not to show how her words impacted him, even though they were words he’d told himself. Never again. That moment was only because they had been in a carriage by themselves, on the way home from an event where she’d gotten overwhelmed. Where their mutual attraction had overwhelmed both of them, to the point where they’d done something so foolish, so risky. Something that, if it were to happen again, would put everything she was working so hard to accomplish at stake.

  “I might never feel anything like that again, either,” he admitted at last, his hand dropping away from her, turning to walk back down the hallway to his room.

  Feeling her standing there staring after him.

  Genevieve waited until she heard the door close behind him, then turned to enter her own room. The firelight cast a warm, golden glow over the room, and Clarkson rose, placing a book on the table beside her.

  “You’re home early,” Clarkson said, glancing at the clock in the corner. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  Pleasant was one way to describe it. The best and the most disappointing evening she’d ever had—or likely ever would have—was another way.

  “Yes, thank you.” Genevieve turned her back to Clarkson, who began to undo the buttons on the back of her gown. “I came home early, I don’t think I was prepared for such an enormity of people all under one roof.”

  Miss Clarkson made some sort of clucking sound, her fingers working diligently. “I would imagine so, that kind of thing is intimidating if one isn’t used to it. And I don’t think you would be, from what you’ve said of how you were raised.”