Mr. Salisbury interrupted her thoughts. Her lowering thoughts. “Let us talk of other things than my family,” he said, that charming very-like-Archie smile on his face. “Have you heard the woman who’ll be singing before?”
Genevieve shook her head. “No, I”—how did one say that this was the first time she had ventured out into Society? “I have just returned to town. Arc—that is, one of my estates needed my attention.”
“Where were you before you inherited?”
Out of the corner of her eye Genevieve saw a petite, dark-haired woman speaking with her host. That had to be the performer, since her gown was just a bit flashier than those of the rest of the ladies in attendance, and she was nodding toward the front of the room as though planning where to stand. Genevieve really would like to be done with this conversation, even though it meant sitting still while the woman sang. But he did sound genuinely interested, and she supposed it was good practice—so to speak—to converse with a gentleman. Who wasn’t that Mr. Salisbury, but this one.
“I lived in the country.” That wasn’t enough of an answer, was it? Because it didn’t specify where. It just made clear it wasn’t here, which he already knew. Almost as though she had said, Before I was a duchess I was not a duchess. Not helpful. What would Archie encourage her to say? She took a deep breath and continued speaking.
“I lived in the country on one of the ducal estates in the west. In Shropshire. It was quite isolated.” Which was one way of saying she had very little experience speaking with anyone besides servants.
Rather like Archie had chosen for himself, actually.
Oh, she wished he was here. It would be so different if she could look over at him as she spoke to people and was on display. She wouldn’t feel as anxious, for one thing. For another thing she would get to look at him, to know that if she said or did anything he would rush in to protect her.
But she couldn’t rely on him. Not just for the very simple reason he wasn’t here at this moment but also because he was not a part of her future. He couldn’t be, because of who she was and the path he had clearly chosen.
“Do you like London?” Mr. Salisbury continued, only thankfully the dark-haired woman went to the front of the room with the countess, a hush falling over the crowd as everyone took their seats.
“Welcome, friends,” the countess said, her smile encompassing the whole room. “I am delighted to welcome Miss Isabella Fortunato all the way from Milan. Miss Fortunato will be appearing at the Royal Theater in a few days, but we have her singing just for us before anyone else can hear her.” The countess’s tone was smug, as it seemed it should be; yet another of the privileges that were an element of being part of this world, even though Genevieve herself didn’t particularly care one way or another about this privilege. Or many of the ones that it seemed she should be grateful for.
She’d have to practice saying thank you for something she wasn’t grateful for. Which just made her sound very ungrateful, another perquisite of her class.
It made her head sore and dizzy.
And then the music began.
Letter
Dear Mr. Salisbury,
I have discovered that not only do I not like going out to parties, I do not like women who sing as though they are being stuck with pins.
I have discovered that I find that I like you most of all. I wish that were not so.
Genevieve
(not sent)
Chapter 23
And of course Archie wasn’t able to take himself off to bed, even though it was late. She wasn’t home, and for some reason, a reason he tried not to examine too closely, he didn’t feel as though he could go to sleep if he didn’t know she was safe.
So he sat in the small office he’d claimed as his own, listening closely for the sound of the door, glancing at the clock, then listening again.
Was she having a good time? It was so very late, and he knew, better than anyone but her, that she wasn’t accustomed to being out.
Although that made her sound like a tired child, and she was anything but. She was a strong, intelligent, kind woman. A woman whose mouth was soft and whose skin felt like the smoothest silk under his fingers. Although—not silk, no, not that. Silk was too refined for what she was. Not that she wasn’t refined, but she wasn’t a rarefied, for-special-occasion thing; she was meant to be touched, to be held, to be more than just admired.
Was he the only one who could see that? He knew Sir William, her other—that is, her only suitor—seemed as though he felt he should treat her delicately when Archie wanted to handle her. Thoroughly.
The thoughts of what he’d like to do were coursing through his brain, causing him to completely lose focus on what he was purportedly doing when he heard the door open.
“Thank God,” he muttered, getting quickly up from the chair. He strode out into the hallway just in time to see the three arrivals returning home, the duchess’s face—since that was all he could look at—paler than usual.
“You are back,” he said.
“Yes, we are,” Miss Evelyn replied, allowing Chandler to take her cloak. Sir William was busy assisting the duchess with her cloak, and Archie felt his eyes narrow as he watched the other man’s attentions. And not just his eyes narrow; he felt his fists clench, and his throat tighten as his whole body seemed to want to go stake his claim on her.
Even though he had no claim to her.
“Mr. Salisbury,” she said, her voice sounding higher than normal, “could you wait a moment? I would speak with you.”
“We met a relative of yours this evening,” Sir William said, sounding smug. Archie’s spine stiffened as he absorbed the words as well as the tone.
“Yes, your brother,” Genevieve interjected. “This way?” she gestured toward the sitting room, the one where she and Clarkson—and now her pesky relatives—took tea in the afternoon.
“Yes, of course,” Archie muttered. He bowed to both Lady Evelyn and Sir William and followed Genevieve into the room, not so distracted by thoughts of his brother—it had to be George; his brother Charles was off being virtuous—that he couldn’t admire how she looked in her evening gown.
She turned as he closed the door behind them. Her eyes went past him to the door, and she nodded, as though deciding something.
“I presume you want privacy for our conversation,” he said, knowing he was justifying his actions to both of them.
“Yes.”
She sounded shaky.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his concern for her outweighing whatever thoughts he had about her meeting George. That could wait. She couldn’t.
She shook her head and looked down, worrying her lip with her teeth. “I am. I got through the evening perfectly well; I can’t imagine anybody could find fault with me.” She sounded surprised.
He wasn’t.
“But there was a moment there where I wasn’t certain that I wouldn’t fall apart.” She held her hands in front of her and he could see how she clenched them together, her knuckles white.
“You knew you could do this. I am sorry you doubted yourself. What happened?”
“Nothing.” She looked up at him then, her eyes wide. “Nothing. It was fine, it was just—there was a moment there, when the woman was singing,”
“What wo—never mind, continue.”
“She was a soprano who was the entertainment this evening, and I thought it would be fine. It was fine, only then there was a moment when I felt—I felt as though all my breath was being squeezed out of me, and the only thing I wanted to do was run out of there shrieking.” She paused, and let out a soft laugh. “I didn’t, of course.”
Now he found he’d moved closer to her, so close that if he just lowered his head and she raised hers they would be—
And then they were.
Kissing. Again.
It felt so right. The perfect end to an imperfect evening. Genevieve reached up to touch his jaw, rubbing the palm of her hand against his skin. Rough with st
ubble, so incredibly different from her own skin. He grabbed her hand and held it, squeezing her fingers, then brought both their hands down, resting them on his chest.
She slid her hand out from under his and splayed her palm against his chest. Oh, this felt marvelous. His chest, as she’d expected, was firm, and she pushed up against him as she moved her hand—or hands, since the other had joined the first—to the small of his back. Still kissing him, his hands on her elbows now, holding her in place. As though she’d want to go anywhere else when she could be kissing him here. And now.
His tongue was in her mouth, not at all tentative, but fierce, and she welcomed the onslaught, his lips moving on hers, his hands now at her waist, his thumbs kneading her hips. She felt herself get more and more lost in his kiss, but—paradoxically—find herself as well. Because this was who she was, the type of woman who would be kissed—and would kiss—someone like him. Who would, of all things, be sliding her hand down his back to his arse which was just as firm as the rest of him. Stroking it as she raised up on her tiptoes to get complete access to his mouth.
He broke the kiss, his breath shuddering. “I should not have,” he began, only to stop when she shook her head in a vehement motion.
“Don’t say that,” she said. “Don’t even think it.” She rubbed her palm again over his chest, feeling how his hardness pressed into her belly, loving just what she was able to do to him. Not to mention what he was able to do to her. “It isn’t just you,” she continued, sliding her mouth over his jaw, planting small, openmouthed kisses on the stubbled line, “it’s me. This is me,” she whispered, and then moved to his neck, licking the skin above his cravat just below his jaw. Wishing she could undo all of him, unwrap him like the best gift ever, and kiss him everywhere.
Now that was an intoxicating thought.
She drew back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were heavy-lidded, a sensuous haze gleaming from their dark blue depths. Her breath caught at the frank desire she saw there, but knew her eyes had the same look in them. They had to, even though she didn’t have as much—which was to say any—experience.
“I want to take this off,” she said, gesturing to his cravat.
His answer was to raise his chin, giving an implicit yes.
Her fingers went to the fabric, undoing the knot, wrapping the folds around her fingers before drawing the entire thing away from his neck.
Oh, and then. And then. All that bared skin that positively begged her to bite it. To kiss it, to run her tongue over all those intriguing crevices.
Yes, he had been kissing her for—for what? Comfort? Sanctuary? But now she felt as though something had changed between them. Something darker, and more equal, and entirely provocative.
Something she wanted more of. Preferably now.
“And now what?” he asked, his voice strained. The cords of his neck stood out, as though he were experiencing tension. You’re not alone, she wanted to assure him, even though she was fairly certain the tension between them could be alleviated. But was also a delicious tension, one she wanted to prolong.
“Now,” she began, only to realize she didn’t know what. She didn’t know, because of who she was, and what she was. “Fine,” she continued, biting her lip, “now what?” Might as well ask him what to do next since she had no idea.
It seemed that was the best response, since he smiled, but not in a thank-you-for-passing-the-sugar kind of way. Or even a good-morning-it’s-been-nearly-ten-hours-since-last-we-saw-each-other kind of way.
This was—this was an I-am-so-glad-you-asked-since-I-have-many-ideas-and-I-plan-to-put-them-into-action kind of way. The kind of way that made her heart flip and her stomach tighten and other parts of her—well, other parts of her get all squirmy in a way she had never experienced before.
“Go onto the sofa,” he commanded, and she felt a thrill run through her own self—yes, those other parts as well—as she stepped away from him to go do as he’d ordered.
Knowing that whatever he wanted would benefit her as well.
She sat as she’d practiced sitting as a proper duchess—knees together, back straight, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. Watching as he stalked toward her, her eyes wide.
Instead of sitting beside her, however, he dropped to his knees in front of her, sitting back on his heels and looking down at the floor. No, looking at her feet.
Why was he looking at her feet? Was this another one of the things she didn’t know that she hoped she was about to find out?
And then his eyes went up, his dark blue gaze making her gasp. Aloud.
He smiled again, that same feral smile that made her knees—still pressed together—want to buckle so she fell onto the carpet with him.
“Did you dance this evening?” he asked, his words coming out so low and rumbly she didn’t entirely comprehend the words at first.
“Dance?” she repeated, feeling stupid. She shook her head. “No, no dancing. Just listening.” To the Italian soprano, to your brother, to the countess, to Sir William.
“So your feet aren’t tired,” he said, sounding disappointed. Why?
“I did stand quite a bit,” she replied, wriggling her ankles.
He chuckled, then placed his strong, large hands on the tops of her feet. Beginning to undo the ties and buttons and laces and whatever else held her shoes onto her body.
Each yank and undoing of a button made her gasp, her throat tighten, even though she didn’t know why. Perhaps—almost certainly, in fact—because he had his hands on her, his clever fingers removing her shoes, leaving her in her stockings, letting him place his hands—
“Ahhh,” she moaned as he rubbed his thumb into her instep.
“Your feet were sore,” he murmured, bending his head to the task.
“Yes,” she said again, hearing her words come out in a squeak. Again. But not in an I’m-the-duchess? squeak, but something else. Something more . . . intriguing.
Something that caused him to look up, his eyes narrowing. But not as though he were angry. As though there was some other emotion roiling inside him.
Likely the same one currently flooding her senses.
His hands rubbed her feet, hard, a few more times, then they moved to her ankles, his fingers encircling her. The skin of his palm touching her through the thin silk stockings she wore.
Could she—how could she? And then she just decided to say it, since she couldn’t seem to push it out of her mind.
“Can I take my stockings off?” she asked in that same voice.
He froze, then shook his head slowly. And she tried not to show how disappointed she was.
“No, because I am going to take them off.”
Oh. Well that was another thing entirely. If he took them off, that would mean that—“Oh!” she exclaimed as his palms slid up her legs, over her calves, to her knees, spreading them, then up farther, the skirts of her gown flowing over his arms so she couldn’t even see where he was touching.
But she could certainly feel it.
And it felt wonderful. Everywhere he touched it felt as though he left a trail of sparks behind, sparks that lit her from the inside out.
His fingers reached the tops of her stockings and he hooked a finger, one on each side, between her skin and the stocking. The contact made her inhale sharply, and then she couldn’t help but hold her breath as he began to roll each stocking down. Painstakingly slow, carefully, each inch an agonizingly exquisite moment.
She heard how he was breathing, too—labored, intense, each exhalation sounding as though it came from deep within his soul.
Fanciful, but true nonetheless.
And then he reached her ankle and slid the stockings over her feet, tossing them onto the ground beside him as he raised up on his knees again, those strong, warm hands on her calves. On her knees.
On her thighs.
He leaned forward, her knees widening to accommodate his size. He captured her mouth, his hands pushing her skirts up, his tongue demanding entrance, which she
was only too happy to give.
Her hands were on his shoulders, shoving his jacket off, pushing them off his arms. He let go of her legs only long enough to let the jacket fall onto the floor, then his hands were back, stroking the soft skin of her thighs, a low growl coming from his throat as he kissed her.
And then her fingers were somehow at the buttons of his shirt, undoing each one until they were all undone and she could slide her palm onto his chest directly.
Oh goodness. He was warm and hard and soft all at the same time. His chest had a sprinkling of hair that was soft, so soft against the firm planes of his muscular chest. She moved her palm to where his heart beat, strong and solid.
Just like him.
He was still kneeling on the floor, leaning forward so he was pressed against her, her leaning forward to touch him as well.
His hands now at the apex of her legs, very close to where she burned.
He drew back from the kiss, his eyes gleaming with a low, banked desire that made her ache.
“Can I touch you, Genevieve?” he asked, his fingers moving on her thigh.
She didn’t know much, certainly, but she knew to what he was referring.
“Yes, please,” she replied, withdrawing her hand from his chest. “If I can touch you.” One corner of his mouth edged up in a smile, and she took that as assent, moving her hand down his chest to the waistband of his trousers. Stopping there as his fingers began to move.
And then she couldn’t do anything but let him touch her, his fingers caressing that place, moving lower to where she burned.
She gasped aloud when he rubbed a particular spot, and then moaned as he—as he slid his finger inside her? My goodness. Who knew that could cause such a strong sensation?
Well, he did, obviously.
“How does it feel?” he asked, a knowing grin on his face. Knowing because he could clearly tell how it felt, judging by how she was wriggling on the couch and making inarticulate noises.
My Fair Duchess Page 19