At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  Joy and relief flooded her, tempered by an edge of pique. “This isn’t just between you and Frank, you know. What about me? Do I have no say in the matter? I love you, Christian.” The blaze in his dark eyes turned her knees to water, but his face otherwise remained carved in stone. She had more work to do before the much-anticipated reward of kisses and embraces.

  “Nothing you or Frank can do will change that fact,” she said. “I didn’t intend to fall in love any more than you did, but it happened. To both of us.”

  With trembling fingers she touched the gash on his cheek, made livid by his pallor. She shook off his restraining hand. “I love your scar because it is part of you. It makes you even more beautiful to my eyes. You wouldn’t let me touch your face in the grotto, but now I want to feel it.” She ran her fingertips along the ridge of skin, down his cheek and neck. “Will you kiss me again, as you did that day?”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I guessed.”

  “Of all the things I have ever done, that was the most dishonorable.” His hands, tanned against the white sheets, clenched in his lap.

  “If our happiness is dependent on the dictates of honor, let me ask you this: Which is more important to you, Christian? Your honor or mine? I am alone with you in your bedchamber. I am wearing my nightdress and you, as far as I can tell, nothing at all. If anyone finds out, I shall be ruined. Will you save my honor?”

  “You don’t play fair.”

  “I am not an officer and a gentleman. However, if you wish, now that I have said what I came to say, I shall leave and hope no one sees me.”

  For endless seconds the outcome hung in the balance. Finally, with a groan that might have been misery but Rosanne preferred to interpret as joy to match her own, he seized her by the waist, drew her down with him so she lay across his chest and—at long last—brought her mouth to his.

  Her lips opened to his on a sigh and heat spread through her body, unfurled by his kiss.

  “Rosanne,” he murmured, the word a mere puff of warm breath. Her heart was fit to burst with happiness. She had won and he was hers.

  They kissed until she was dizzy and feverish. His bare skin burned through her linen, her breasts yearned for his touch, and lower down she ached and ached. His hands tangled in her hair, caressed her scalp. Neck, shoulders, and every other inch of her throbbed in vain, but he made no further move. She’d come here wanting and expecting to be kissed, and it wasn’t enough.

  Instead he lifted her head away and turned his own aside.

  o0o

  It killed him to stop. In the space of a quarter of an hour, dull despair had turned to shattering happiness such as he’d never hoped to experience. That Rosanne loved him was more than he could logically take in. At any moment he expected to wake up and find he’d imagined the whole incredible encounter. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when he looked again, she was still there.

  “I should let you go,” he said.

  She scrambled onto her knees but otherwise made no move to leave him. Straddling his thighs, she regarded him with a tenderness that send his heart crashing and sucked the air from his lungs. He couldn’t resist unwinding her hair from the imperfect restraints of a loose plait hanging over her breast, combing the locks smooth with his fingers, and arranging it over her shoulder.

  “You are a goddess. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” His throat felt thick.

  Her answering smile held a riveting blend of innocence and passion. Then she took his hand and held it against her breast. Blood roared into his cock. Through her nightgown her flesh was warm and lush beneath his fingers. Not for the first time he pictured the magnificence he’d never dared hope to see and touch in the flesh. Soon. Tomorrow he would ask for her father’s permission to address her. Reluctantly he removed his hand.

  “You are beautiful too,” she said. “Never believe otherwise.”

  “If you mean that, I can only rejoice in your blindness and my good fortune.”

  When she again traced the line of his scar with a satin finger tip he almost stopped breathing. The touch of her lips on the spot where the red line narrowed to a point above his breast slew him. He stroked her hair and prayed for strength.

  “You skin is warm,” she said, “and a little bit salty.”

  He groaned. She smiled.

  “Do you know what will happen if you do not leave this room immediately?”

  “Yes. I want it. I want you.”

  When it came down to it, there was only so much his sense of honor could resist.

  Laying her down on the mattress, he set about ensuring that she wouldn’t regret the gift she offered in entrusting herself to him. Accustomed as he was to pleasing women to make up for his ugliness, he determined to do even better with the one who didn’t find him a monster. With some misgivings, he left the candles alight, but seeing Rosanne without her nightgown, all rosy and cream, drove away his inhibitions.

  He explored her body in a way that would give her as much pleasure as she gave him by the very fact of her existence. With complete focus, he noticed every minute reaction, each heightened breath, each gasp, each happy movement, as his lips and mouth worshipped the silken skin of neck and shoulders, the firm softness of her gorgeous breasts.

  “Oh yes! Don’t stop,” she whispered, as he applied his mouth to a tight nipple, and arched her back when he sucked it hard.

  So he didn’t stop but let his hands descend over the gentle hill of her belly and into her core.

  “Oh, Lord! What are you doing?”

  “Hush, darling. You will like this.”

  And she did. He took it slowly, letting her arousal mount until she was bucking with delight and frustration.

  “Relax,” he coaxed. “Let me see to you.”

  Then he kissed her again, mimicking the rhythm of his fingers with his tongue, swallowing her joyful moans, feeling her accelerated breathing against his own racing heart. The only thing better than sensing her sex grow wet and hot and clench around his fingers would be to see it for himself and taste her. His own urgency, he ignored. His only wish was for her pleasure and when, after a long climb, she exploded in quivers of joy, he had never known anything more beautiful. He watched her head tilt back and heard her low keen. He hoped that would always be the sound of her fulfillment. He would have years to find out and that incredible fact made his heart swell to the point of explosion.

  Whispering every endearment he knew, he held her close as the waves of passion abated and continued to caress her body, to keep her arousal simmering while his own strained against her stomach.

  She smiled at him with huge and dreamy eyes. “Amazing. But I know there is more.”

  “There is,” he agreed. “I’m afraid this bit will be more enjoyable for me than for you.”

  She stroked his hair and cheek. “That seems only fair since what just happened was more enjoyable for me.”

  “You are wrong. Seeing you in ecstasy was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  A wriggle of her hips elicited a groan. He was now beyond conversation, needing all his energy to take her on the next step of the journey with due care and deliberation. Propped up on his arms, he flexed his hips and slid his rigid cock along the crease of her sex.

  “Oh!” she said. “That’s wonderful.”

  After maintaining the movement as long as he could, he reached down to confirm that she was as wet and slippery as he thought. Sliding into her with all the patience he could muster, he halted when her happy murmurs ceased with a sharp intake of breath. “All right, sweetheart?”

  Her response was a gallant smile and a thrust of her own that took him all the way into heaven. Raining kisses on her face, he let her adjust to his size before he began to move with long, steady strokes, adoring her, adoring shared congress with the one he loved. With astonished joy, he sensed her renewed response and all coherent thought ceased. Joined in a swirling eddy of heat and sweat, of soft moans and ea
ger breaths, they drowned in pure sensation until he felt her climax and, for the second time, heard her particular cry of bliss. Only then did he let himself go, tense every muscle and toss back his head in a silent shout of triumph before shuddering into his own orgasm and collapsing, utterly spent, into her welcoming arms.

  o0o

  She had expected it to be good, but the whole experience defied her moderately informed expectations and most hyperbolic imaginings. And now she felt wonderfully, perfectly splendid, with no further ambition than to pass the rest of her life in Christian’s company, doing it again as often as possible. Every inch of her skin, every ounce of her flesh, every drop of her blood, and every thought in her head was focused on how much she loved him.

  She stroked the damp black hair resting on her breast. She had just done the one thing she knew a lady should never, ever do outside of marriage. She wasn’t worried. He hadn’t mentioned the word, but she trusted Christian completely for his sense of honor and the fundamental decency of his character.

  Once his heaving breaths slowed to normal, he rolled onto his back, eyes still closed, wearing an expression of supreme satisfaction that became him well. Leaning on her elbow, she drank in his beloved face and waited. When at last he raised his lids, they gazed at each foolishly with matching idiotic grins.

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” he said, turning serious. “We should have waited until after the wedding.”

  “Oh! Is there to be a wedding?” She could barely suppress giggles of glee.

  “There had better be.”

  She turned over and sat up, folding her knees back, and tried to look prim, rather difficult when she was naked on a mattress with an equally naked man stretched gorgeously before her. “I do not believe I heard a proposal. Though I grant I may have missed it, being distracted by other things.”

  He grinned again, a younger and joyful Christian she’d never seen before. Her heart turned over and all she wanted was to hurl herself onto him again. But first things first. Her mother would insist on it. Her lips twitched.

  “Miss Lacy. Will you marry me? If you consent to be my wife, I will be the happiest of men.” The formal words seemed odd delivered from a reclining position but nonetheless beautiful.

  “On one condition.” He raised his brows, the action no longer sardonic, but happily amused. “That you kiss me again, immediately.”

  “I believe that could be arranged. Anything else?”

  His heated look raised a blush she could feel from forehead to ... lower down. “We already did that,” she whispered.

  “We can do it again.” Good Lord! His male ... part was expanding before her fascinated gaze. “But first you have to say yes.”

  “Yes.” The syllable was barely uttered before he pulled her down to join him, enveloping her in his strength and taking her lips in another kiss, soft and lingering without the explosive hunger of their first joining. She fancied it the kiss of two people in love, exploring each other physically as they would in other ways over the years, and recognized the expansive fluttering in her chest as pure joy. Instead of deepening his embrace, he held back, not letting their fever rise. Finally, with a sigh, he released her mouth, settling her loosely in arms.

  “Why not?” She didn’t mind. Lying with Christian like this was a delightful aspect of a shared bed. She tucked her head into the angle of his neck, reveling in the intimacy of their nakedness, both relaxed and marvelously alive.

  “You are new to this and once is enough. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She did feel a little sore. “I love your body,” she said, stroking his chest and running her thumb along the ridge of his collarbone.

  He returned the favor, idly plucking at her nipples with his finger tips. “Not as much as I love yours.”

  “Even though I suspect this is an argument neither of us can lose, I can’t be bothered now.” She took a deep breath. “I am too happy all over. I wish I could define the feeling.”

  “It’s why I read poetry. At its best, it puts our deepest emotions into words.”

  “I could learn to like verse myself if it does that. I cannot describe the sensations that seem to spread from my heart, but now I know how love feels.”

  “You put it very well,” he said, his voice deep and thick.

  They lay in silence for a minute or two, and her questing finger found his scar. “Christian,” she said, “won’t you tell me how you got it? Everyone has been speculating on what heroics you must have performed.”

  “Idiots,” he said, without rancor.

  “A duel is the most popular theory, but I doubt you called anyone out at the age of ten.”

  “There were no heroics. I fell off a horse.”

  “Most of us have, at some time. How did you come to suffer such a terrible injury?”

  His muscles tensed beneath her hand and for a moment she thought, despite everything, that he wouldn’t confide in her. But he answered readily enough.

  “I was showing off for my father and tried to jump a brute of a hedge, too wide and too tall for my mount. The pony refused at the last second and I went head first into the obstacle, catching a stiff branch that sliced me open. Only by a miracle did I keep my eyesight.”

  Rosanne closed her eyes to squeeze out the vision of the child’s tender flesh being cruelly ripped. “Why didn’t your father stop you doing something so rash?”

  His voice hardened. “I doubt he noticed what I was doing. It was and still is a rare occasion that we are under the same roof. We’d never ridden together before, and I wanted to impress him. What a wasted effort.”

  “I don’t understand. How could he not care about his son? His only child?”

  Only a tightening of his arms belied the studied flatness of his tone. “I am his son and, more to the point, his heir. But I am not his only child. I had no idea why he cared so little for me. Only later did I learn that my father had a mistress and children before he wed my mother. Theirs was a purely dynastic arrangement. He was upset by my accident only because, had I been killed, he would have to return to his wife’s bed to get another heir. His true family lives comfortably in Kensington, and that’s where he spends most of his time.”

  “I’m so sorry, my love. I see why you understood my distress over little Mary.”

  “You father may have strayed, but at least he loves you, and your sister. I have watched you together and I know.”

  Now that she knew the truth about his own family life, she felt almost ashamed of believing ill of her father, who had never spared his daughters either affection or attention.

  “He does love me,” she said, “and you were right when you doubted he was that kind of man.” She told him what she’d learned from her mother. “So you see, my confidence was unnecessary. I cannot be sorry, however, for I might not have guessed that you wrote Frank’s letters, or only discovered it too late.”

  “I am not looking forward to breaking the news to Frank that I have stolen his beloved.”

  He mustn’t be allowed to let guilt shade their happiness. “I wasn’t Frank’s to steal,” she said firmly. “He never proposed to me and I never accepted.”

  “I promised I’d give him the chance to change your mind.”

  “Nothing he could do would have succeeded. I knew I did not love him, even before I knew I loved you. Even before I discovered that the letters that meant so much to me were yours. He was disappointing in person.”

  “Frank’s person has never disappointed anyone.”

  “Are you fishing for another compliment?” She ogled him outrageously from his elegant feet, the length of his muscular legs, past his powerful member, and all the way to the scar that added such character to his face. “Here’s one. You are a much better kisser. You must have felt unbearably smug when I told you about my feelings after the grotto.”

  “Unbearably stupid, rather. Hoist with my own petard.”

  “I could have a few choice words to say about that particular episod
e, but I’ve decided to put it all behind me and think only of the future, which will, I am confident, be quite delightful.”

  “I love you, Rosanne,” he said, “ but I fear I do not deserve you. I am not a sweet-tempered man.”

  “Good. I’m not a sweet-tempered woman. I’ve always been told that a lady doesn’t show anger, doesn’t feel anger. Since I am to wed a curmudgeon, I take it as permission to indulge my annoyances and voice my displeasure.”

  “You need never dissemble your feelings with me.”

  “Nor you. I shall see your bouts of melancholy as a challenge to dispel.” She extended her exploration of his body below the chest, discovering the muscles over his ribs, the firm, flat belly and the masculine hip bones. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Quite sweet-tempered.”

  Her hand moved lower. “And now?”

  A firm grasp on her wrist stayed further descent. “Unfortunately, we need to stop. You must return to your room before the party disperses. And before Frank comes back.”

  “You share this room with Frank?” She chuckled, and clearly Christian was feeling far from curmudgeonly, for he joined her in mirth. “Thank heavens I had no idea or I would never have come here, and that would have been a great shame.”

  Chapter Eight

  Christian trusted that Rosanne had reached her room without being seen, at least in the bachelors’ wing. Letting her go had been a wrench. The muscles of his face ached with unwonted smiling as he contemplated a time when he could keep her in his bed all night. Only the thought of his cousin cast a shadow over a joy that was more delightful for being utterly foreign.

  They had decided that Rosanne would tell Frank she would not marry him, firmly denying any chance of a reconciliation. Their own engagement would remain a secret until after the duke’s wedding. Then Christian would break the news to Frank that he wished to court Rosanne himself and follow her to her own home after the house party dispersed.

  He didn’t like lying to Frank. Even more, he hated that he couldn’t publicly claim Rosanne as his own, announce his triumph to the world, and spend every second of every day at her side, basking in her smiles and her conversation, and finding ways to get her alone. ...