by Tessa Dare
Crispin blazed a trail of kisses over the column of her neck to her jaw.
Elizabeth tipped her head sideways, allowing him complete access to her, opening herself to him in ways he didn’t deserve, but he was too much of a bastard to ever deny himself.
“So many damned buttons,” he gasped. He’d believed it wholly impossible to so despise an inanimate object such as a button.
“M-Mrs. Belden believes the button preserves a lady’s—” Riiiip. The tiny buttons rained down about them. “Virtue,” Elizabeth finished. Through the thick haze of passion swelling between them, they shared a brief smile. Crispin collected the hem of her night shift.
Then all humor faded away as he exposed inch by inch of her satiny, soft flesh.
All the air stuck in his chest, lodged there painfully. And he allowed himself that which he’d yearned to do—he caressed her with his gaze, touching his eyes upon every enticing freckle and delicate curve. Through his search, Elizabeth knelt there, proud as Athena.
As the seconds tripped by, she brought her arms up almost protectively about her breasts.
Crispin caught her arms in a delicate but firm grip, staying those attempts.
Indecision raged behind her smudged spectacles.
How could she not know her own beauty?
“There is no one more magnificent than you, Elizabeth. In mind, spirit, and beauty.”
Her lips parted, and she exhaled a soft, shuddery sigh.
She held her arms open for him. “Make love to me.”
It was a command, belonging to a woman who knew what she desired. Blood pumped to his shaft, and that organ sprang harder from his need for her.
Crispin guided her down so that the lush, emerald patch of earth served as their mattress.
And in this, she’d been correct. There was something only right that this moment should come here, like this… in this make-believe Eden.
Crispin sat up, and Elizabeth lifted her heavy lashes, watching him, a question in her eyes.
Not taking his gaze from her, he pulled his shirt from his trousers and over his head and tossed it aside. Next, he pulled off his riding boots, throwing them onto the forgotten pile of garments.
Elizabeth pushed herself up onto her elbows, and with wide eyes brimming with desire, she took in his every movement.
Crispin shoved down his breeches and kicked them aside, and then he stood naked before her.
Unabashedly, she worked her passion-heavy gaze over him, leaving no swath of his skin untouched. There was an infinitesimal pause as she fixed on his abdomen, and then she proved as fearless and beautifully unashamed as she’d always been.
Her eyes fell to the organ that stood proudly erect, the crown pressed to his abdomen.
“You are magnificent,” she whispered in an echo of his very own thoughts about her. She stretched her arms up in a siren’s invitation, and he was as lost as those sailors at sea.
Groaning, Crispin came over her. Propping himself up on his elbows, he took her mouth in another kiss, and as she wrapped her arms about him, she met every lash and stroke of his tongue.
Crispin reached between them and found the downy patch of curls shielding her femininity.
A hiss exploded from her lips, lost to his mouth.
He palmed her, pressing the heel of his hand against her sensitive flesh.
“Please,” she whimpered, bucking into his touch. She let her legs splay in an invitation, and he slid an answering finger inside her wet channel.
An incoherent sound—neither moan nor groan, but rather, both rolled into one—soared to the glass ceiling.
“I want… I didn’t know…”
“Neither did I,” he managed to squeeze out, his voice hoarse as every nerve and fiber of him strained under the overwhelming need to lay himself between her legs and plunge deep. He teased her nub, explored the plump folds that shielded it. Crispin reveled in the feel and heat of her.
Sweat beaded on his brow, and a lone drop wound a path down his forehead.
Elizabeth stretched a trembling hand up and caught that moisture. She brushed his hair back behind his ears in a tender lover’s touch.
Crispin continued to tease and touch her, until Elizabeth’s hands fell away and wrapped about him once more, until she was scraping her nails down his back, gripping him tightly, pleading for him.
He settled himself between her thighs, nestling his shaft against her moist curls. An agonized groan ripped from him, and he waged a battle for control.
“Please,” she begged, testing his every last shred of strength and resolve.
Dropping his brow to hers, Crispin slid slowly inside, filling her tight core inch by inch. He stopped. It was too much. “Oh, God.” He squeezed his eyes so tightly shut that pinpricks of light danced behind them.
“Marmoream relinquo, quam latericiam accepi. Nil ego contulerim iucundo sanus amico. O mihi praeteritos referat si Iuppiter ann—”
“Are you quoting Latin?” she asked on a breathy laugh.
“No.”
She arched her hips, urging him.
“Yes,” he rasped, the one-syllable utterance dissolving into a groan.
Elizabeth smiled wickedly up at him.
“You minx.”
Her smile froze in place as he found that delicate nub once more. “Mmmmm.” And with words lost for both of them, Elizabeth wrapped her legs about him and rotated her hips.
“Forgive me,” he whispered and then plunged the remaining inch inside, filling her.
Elizabeth’s cry rang about the room before Crispin covered her mouth with his and swallowed the remainder of that shattered yell.
His heart thundered in his ears, beating hard against hers. They remained motionless, neither moving for different reasons. One suspended by want, the other pain. And it was that pain that allowed Crispin mastery over his desire.
He pressed a kiss against her temple. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly, his breath stirring a loose curl.
Elizabeth opened her eyes, her spectacles askew, her smudged lenses reflecting his hungering for this woman. “Make love to me,” she urged.
He groaned and then began to move inside her. Slowly at first and then faster. His hips bucked frantically. And with every thrust, the thin thread of control he had strained under the weight of his own desire. Elizabeth matched his movements, holding him close. Whispering his name. Pleading with him.
Oh, God. Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem…
Elizabeth’s hips took on a frantic, undulating rhythm. Her breath came fast.
I cannot wait… “Come for me,” he pleaded. He battled with himself. Wanting her pleasure to come before his. Before all else. “Nostri coniugii memor vive, ac vale.”
Elizabeth’s entire body stiffened. And with a glorious scream, she came.
With a groan, Crispin let himself surrender, pouring himself inside her, coming so fast and hard that light flashed behind his eyes, and all he saw, breathed, or felt… was Elizabeth.
He collapsed, catching his weight on his elbows to keep from crushing her.
One night would never be enough. He wanted forever with her.
Elizabeth.
Chapter 14
The following evening, Elizabeth stood before a floor-length bevel mirror as maids bustled about her chambers and helped prepare her for the ball.
Half of her curls had been upswept, held in place by gleaming butterfly combs, while the other strands had been left loose about her shoulders.
She cocked her head, hardly recognizing herself.
For in this instance, she could almost believe she was beautiful.
“There is no one more magnificent than you, Elizabeth. In mind, spirit, and beauty.”
Her body warmed in remembrance of the words he’d rasped against her, a flush stealing over her pale skin.
Crispin’s embrace had shown her that she was beautiful. That he desired her.
Three servants came rushing over, a satin sapphire gown
held out between them, pulling her back from her wicked thoughts.
“Here we are, Your Grace,” Calista, the cheerful young girl who’d been assigned the role of lady’s maid, announced.
Elizabeth lifted her arms up, and they drew the article into place, knocking her glasses forward on her nose. The satin settled about her ankles in a noisy whir and a remarkable fit.
As the other maids rushed off, Calista hummed the haunting melody of Scarborough Fair and made quick work of the pearl buttons down the back of the gown.
Elizabeth pushed her spectacles back into place.
And then froze.
“Oh, my,” she whispered, her voice breathless.
Butterflies made of diamonds adorned each softly puffed sleeve of her gown. The crystalline creatures had been intermittently affixed along the pleated skirts of the satin masterpiece. The delicate creations glimmered in the candle’s glow, casting a prism of rainbow light off the satin wallpaper.
With reverent fingers, Elizabeth grazed the lone butterfly along the deep, lace-trimmed bodice.
“Beautiful, is it not?” Calista remarked. Her eyes twinkling, she leaned forward, holding Elizabeth’s gaze in the mirror. “His Grace had it commissioned himself. He brought in only the best modiste and instructed her on how the gown must be designed. Insisted on butterflies.”
Emotion wadded in her throat. “It is beautiful,” she agreed, a sheen of tears glossing her eyes. All these years, she’d believed she hadn’t mattered to Crispin. That he hadn’t remembered the memories they’d shared and had instead replaced them with newer ones, with newer women. And he’d remembered… everything.
“There has only ever been you.”
A lone tear wound a trail down her cheek. All the gossip, all the stories, had been just that, nothing more than stories.
Calista’s smile slipped, and she paused in midbuttoning. “Here, Your Grace. None of that,” she chided. “Can’t have you marring the kohl under your eyes.” Humming a more cheerful tune, she resumed buttoning the back of Elizabeth’s gown. “There,” Calista announced and backed away, beaming like a proud mama. “You are ready.”
There were never less-true words spoken than those three. A village merchant’s daughter-turned-finishing school instructor, she was more suited to serve trays to the assembled guests than welcome them as their hostess.
Elizabeth eyed herself in the crystal mirror, angling her head sideways as she considered her reflection.
And yet… with the Ferguson diamonds heavy about her neck and the ethereal masterpiece Crispin had designed, she might as well have been any other debutante who’d left Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School groomed for the role of duchess.
It was something that, as a girl of seven and ten, she’d never fully considered the implications of.
But with Crispin at your side, and you both happy, filling each other’s lives with love, your future can be anything you wish it to be.
“I swear I’m going to marry you one day, Elizabeth Brightly.”
Laughing, Elizabeth didn’t pick her gaze up from the lone ant carrying a crumb larger than his own size. “You’re silly, Crispin Ferguson,” she murmured, pressing her face closer to the earth. “You cannot marry me.”
“And why not?” he demanded, the affront in his four-and-ten-year-old voice bringing her gaze up. “I can marry whomever I wish.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “No, you cannot. Your mother wouldn’t let you. You have to marry a fancy lady like Lady Dorinda, who curtsies real nicely and doesn’t track mud through your halls.”
“We shall see, Elizabeth Brightly.”
In the end, the child she’d been had also seen the impossibility of what he’d ventured. But why had it been impossible? She stood stock-still, unbreathing, unmoving, as she confronted her own cowardice. For she had allowed the duchess to dictate their future. Elizabeth had been told her worth was nothing, and Crispin’s future and happiness had been hung upon her shoulders. But ultimately, Elizabeth had left. Ultimately, she’d made a decision, for them both, that had affected both their futures. Oh, all these years, she’d assumed the role of the wounded party because of what she’d overheard… and the threat made by the then duchess.
But that did not take away from the truth—she had run.
All the air left her on a dizzying whoosh, and she briefly closed her eyes and fought for her bearing.
Crispin had been correct. They had been husband and wife and friends. And as such, she should have communicated to him what she’d heard so they could decide on their future—together.
In this moment, she acknowledged the truth she’d long denied herself—she’d been afraid. Afraid of what decision he would make, and so leaving had been as much for her as for him.
In her leaving, she’d robbed him of a decision and spared herself the possibility of hearing his rejection.
“Your Grace?” Calista’s hesitant whisper slashed across her musings, bringing Elizabeth’s eyes snapping open. “The duke is ready belowstairs.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth acknowledged, her tongue thick.
She drew in several steadying breaths. The past could not be undone. Only their future remained now, and what came of it was what they would now decide as husband and wife—just as it should have been decided in the past.
After pinching her pale cheeks in a bid to bring color back to them, she smoothed her palms along her skirts. It was time.
A short while later, Elizabeth found her way through the Huntington halls and belowstairs to where Crispin waited.
One hand resting on the stair post, Crispin reclined against it with a regal languidness, his other hand cradling his timepiece.
She paused, and all the earlier pain and frustration eased from her chest.
And how very good it was to again smile without fear of recrimination or scolding for having a smile that was anything but the carefully measured polite one insisted upon by Mrs. Belden.
Crispin looked up. The chain slipped from his fingers and sent the watch fob twisting back and forth, forgotten. “Elizabeth,” he whispered.
Nervously clasping the rail, she glided down the steps, her skin heating several shades as he watched her descend.
How singularly odd to share the most intimate parts of oneself and to lay bare before another, only to find oneself wholly uncertain in the light of a new day. “Crispin,” she greeted when she reached him.
“You are…” His gaze worked a path over her like an intimate touch. “Breathtaking.”
He extended his elbow, and Elizabeth slipped her arm through his, joining them and allowing him to lead her to the ballroom. The crystal chandeliers, all lit with long, tapered candles, illuminated the white Italian marble floors and Doric columns. As they walked, all the fear left her, replaced with a feeling of absolute rightness in being with him.
“My mother is not attending,” he announced in somber tones.
Of course, reality invariably intruded.
Elizabeth stiffened.
“I am sorry,” she said softly as they took their place at the top of the sweeping double staircase that overlooked the ballroom.
“I’m not,” he said simply, drawing her knuckles to his lips, and they tingled under his fleeting caress. “If she cannot accept you as my wife, she has no place here.”
Warmth swept her at that devotion, along with a stinging regret. For she’d never wanted to come between him and his family or his dreams. But she’d also always proven selfish where Crispin was concerned—she loved him and wanted him in her life.
Nearly three hours later, the last of a long line of guests had been received and announced until the once cavernous space was filled to overflowing with satin-clad ladies and elegantly attired gentlemen.
Around the ballroom, wistful ladies covetously eyed Crispin, women of all ages but born to Crispin’s station who’d gladly trade her for the role of duchess.
None had given her the cut direct.
At best, she’d
been received warmly by some guests.
At worst, bald curiosity had been her other greeting.
For all intents and purposes, the evening should be… nay, could be considered a success.
And yet…
A frisson rolled along her spine. The unshakable unease had dogged her the moment she’d descended the stairs to find Crispin waiting, replaced only by a brief calm.
Her fingers tightened reflexively upon the crystal flute, and she took a sip of the warm brew.
“You never asked how I found you,” Crispin murmured at her side.
The melodic baritone rose above the din of the orchestra’s lively reel. Blinking slowly, Elizabeth glanced up.
“I figured if you’d truly wished to find me, a runner could have easily managed the task.”
He chuckled. “Is that what you think?” Crispin teased a finger down her jaw. “You underestimate your ability to hide and my ability to find you, madam.”
They held each other’s eyes over her glass.
“I hired runners and private detectives. You were gone without a trace, Elizabeth Ferguson.” His expression darkened. “And you would have remained so had it not been for a chance meeting between myself and a young woman.” Crispin glanced to the front of the ballroom.
Puzzling her brow, Elizabeth followed his stare to the striking couple who wound their way down the stairs and through a throng of guests. Peers and servants melted aside in an indication of the couple’s wealth and power.
Elizabeth squinted, focusing not on the tall, powerful gentleman in full command of the ballroom, but rather, the woman at his side. There was something so very familiar. Something…
She gasped, dimly registering Crispin’s rescue of her champagne flute as the late-to-arrive guests stopped before them.
“Elizabeth, may I present Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Hampstead.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth, and with a loss of proper salutations and deference for the distinguished guest that would have given Mrs. Belden a fit of the vapors, Elizabeth fixed on the woman at his side.