“Please,” she whispered, hating that she sounded as though she were begging, hating that she had to suggest it again rather than have him take the initiative. He was a man, and it was a man’s nature to want a woman, and it was a woman’s nature to hold him at bay—until they were legally wed. Then the barriers could come down and the passion could rush in.
She watched his eyes close, his lashes rest along the curve of his cheek, as he lowered his head slightly, bringing his mouth slightly above hers. She felt the whisper of his breath wafting over her lips, warming them, just before he settled his mouth firmly over hers.
It was a cautious kiss, not much different from the one he’d delivered at the church, only this time his mouth was centered over hers, rather than to the side, but it was fraught with…insecurities. As though he feared she’d not welcome his advances.
She wasn’t certain why she knew that. Only that she did. He didn’t come after her with amorous intentions or passion. He seemed to be simply testing the waters of her desire, and she wondered if desire was stirring through him at all.
Last night his Kiss had contained more passion. Was it because he’d delivered it through a veil of darkness? Did the sunlight make him self-conscious—even of a simple meeting of the lips?
As his mouth played lightly over hers, she wanted him to lose control, to want her, to need her….
“Robert,” she began, the word forming the opportunity for him to slip his tongue into her mouth.
At that moment, everything changed. The nature of the kiss deepened, heated. She heard him groan, felt the rumble of his chest against hers, the almost painful tightening of his fingers on her wrist. His tongue swept through her mouth, igniting her passion as easily as a match to kindling.
She heard a whimper, a sigh, surprised to discover they were coming from her. She angled her head slightly to give him easier access—
Then he was gone, pulling away from her, the look in his eyes that of a man horrified by his behavior.
“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely, his breathing coming in short pants.
“What is there to forgive?”
“I will not take you in the coach, like a barbarian”.
She knew she should have felt insulted; instead she was elated. He wanted her. He truly did. Did he think lovemaking required gentlemanly behavior? How boring. At this moment she thought she might prefer a barbarian.
“I wouldn’t mind,” she stated truthfully.
“Wouldn’t mind?” he asked as though he’d forgotten his earlier comment.
“Being taken in a coach. The intimacy—it’s all I’ve been able to think about of late—what it’s truly like between a man and a woman. I know it’s scandalous—but surely you’ve thought of it as well.”
His eyes darkened with intensity, his gaze seemed to turn inward as though he could see those very thoughts. “Every moment since I met you.”
She released a self-conscious laugh. “But you were always so proper. I had no idea. You never even hinted—”
“It’s easier to hold at bay that which has never experienced freedom.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To give voice to my desires would make them more difficult to control. It is the nature of the beast, to be aroused by a scent, a touch”—he skimmed his finger along her cheek—“a promise.”
“I’ve never known you to be so poetic.”
“Perhaps it would be easier if you pretended that you only just met me yesterday.”
She smiled. “But then we’d have no history, no memories of times spent together. I can’t erase twelve months of knowing you as though they didn’t exist. Without them, I might never have found myself beside you at the altar yesterday.”
“Of course.”
Strange, but she thought she heard disappointment in his voice.
“It’s because you mean so much to me that I don’t want to cast those memories aside,” she said, trying to persuade him of her sincerity.
“If not the memories, then you must at least cast me aside. My body grows numb.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”
Without creating further intimacy or being too personal, he tried to extricate himself from the intimate position of having her lying atop him. He lost his precarious balance on the edge of the seat, his arms flailing as he sought to keep himself from falling off the bench while she scrambled to move away from him, so he could move more freely. He succeeded in righting himself and lurching to the opposite side of the coach.
“Damnation!” he bellowed, jerking upright, hitting his head on the coach ceiling. His hand had gone to his backside and he was twisted around, looking back, and she realized with startling clarity that he’d sat on her hat pin.
She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing at the comical expression of confusion on his face. The coach began to slow, and he tumbled back onto the seat. She swallowed back her laughter.
The coach stopped, the door opened, a footman peered inside. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”
“Everything is fine. Do have us stop at the next inn as I’m quite famished.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The footman closed the door. She heard him talking to the driver, then they were once again off.
“Your hat, Duchess.”
She took it from him. He’d not only sat upon a pin, but the feather as well, because it was broken, hanging limply to the side.
“And your pin,” he said gruffly.
She took the bent object from him. A bubble of laughter escaped. “I’m sorry.”
“As well you should be, laughing at another’s misfortune.”
The second bubble of laughter stopped abruptly, because she couldn’t quite identify his tone. It wasn’t anger. It sounded quite a bit like amusement, an attitude more along the lines of what she’d expected.
“I believe you shall have to purchase me a new hat.”
“I would rather you wear your hair unadorned, preferably without pins”.
“Without pins, it would be”—she touched the nape of her neck and realized she must look a fright—“rather untidy.”
Something flashed over his face that she couldn’t decipher: desire, anticipation. And she couldn’t help but wonder if he had visions of mussing up her hair while ravishing her with more kisses.
He looked out the window, gazed behind him. “We’re nearing a town. We should be stopping soon.”
“Good,” she said. “I think I need to put myself back to rights.”
He gave her a sly look. “No need to do so on my account.”
She averted her gaze. He seemed more at ease this morning. But then so was she. Marriage required adjustment, and she was beginning to think they were moving along splendidly.
Robert wanted to tiptoe his fingers rapidly up and down her sides, poke her stomach, tickle her, make her laugh. Her short burst of laughter in the coach had left him yearning to hear more. Her laughter was a bright, jovial sound, like sunlight piercing a dark forest, offering hope that something brighter waited just beyond the shadows.
Damnation, he thought he might spend his life willingly dropping on hat pins just to hear her laugh.
As he sat across from his wife at the table in the inn, he wondered how often she’d laughed for John. If she was truly Robert’s, he would seek to make her laugh all the time, to smile, to have her eyes sparkling. He would strive to bring joy to her because so doing would bring joy to him.
He wished he knew how to amuse her now, short of making a fool of himself.
Her appetite seemed to be with her as she finished off the last of the eggs on her plate. She’d left him for a while. He was fairly certain she’d scrubbed her face because her cheeks were pink. And she’d straightened her hair because the few errant strands that had worked their way free during the night were now in place again.
A pity, that.
He hated to see anything deprived its freedom—even a stran
d of hair, but especially hers. He would so like to see all of it free, cascading around her.
“How long is your hair?” he asked.
She looked up from her plate, her brow knitted, and he feared for a heartbeat that it was a question to which he should have known the answer.
“It stops just past my hips,” she finally said quietly. “Perhaps you’d care to brush it sometime.”
He thought of gliding not a brush or a comb through the strands, but his fingers. Over and over until they became entangled in the dark curtain of her hair. It reminded him of polished mahogany, a sheen so rich that just the thought of it cascading around her was enough to stir his desire.
“Would you brush mine?” he asked, meaning to tease.
But the warmth he saw in her eyes only served to ignite his passions further.
“Could I use my fingers?” she asked.
His voice became lost to him, and he could do no more than nod.
Her lips parted, her tongue slipped out slightly, slipped back in. “Then, yes, I should like very much to brush your hair sometime.”
He held her challenging gaze for what seemed a lifetime. Were women no longer the shy creatures he’d known in his youth? Dear Lord, but she was a danger he could ill afford.
Clearing his throat, he came to his feet with less force than he had during their last meal together. “I must check on the preparations for our departure. Excuse me.”
If it were at all possible, he needed the driver to deliver them to Hawthorne House before nightfall, before he once again had the opportunity to hold her within his arms, because he wasn’t certain he’d be able to restrain himself from doing more.
Torie found the journey today to be more pleasant, a bit more as she’d expected. She regaled him with tidbits from her youth, about which he’d never before expressed an interest. While he relied heavily on her to carry the conversation, he seemed enthralled by anything she told him, as though he was as enamored of her voice as of the details of her stories.
Originally she’d wanted to pass the time with a word game, but he’d merely shaken his head.
“What is your earliest memory?” he’d asked. “Begin there and travel forward. Tell me everything.”
It will take me all day.”.
He’d given her a smile. “We have all day.”
“Will you return the favor?”
“Perhaps, but let’s begin with you.”
So she’d begun with her earliest memory—sitting atop her father’s shoulders watching a parade. She told him of all the pursuits her mother had insisted she follow: riding which she loved, piano which she tolerated, embroidery which she abhorred, painting which her mother had labeled atrocious.
When she would ask a question of him, he would merely shake his head and say, “We’re not finished with you yet.”
She’d never been with anyone who was so interested in every aspect of her life. The men she’d flirted with on occasion were more interested in talking about themselves than asking about her. Even Robert, before they were married, had seldom inquired into her history. She was rather flattered that he was suddenly taking an interest.
“You and Diana are close,” he murmured at one point.
“Very much so. She is more than my sister. She is my friend, but she is such a tease. She drives Mother to distraction. She was teasing me yesterday as well, telling me she’d kissed a Frenchman.”
Which Torie realized now she must have done to know that kisses involved tongues.
“Whyever would she do that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Especially when there are plenty of Englishmen to kiss.”
He chuckled low. “And you should know as you have kissed so many.”
She turned up her nose. “I have kissed one, the only one who matters.”
He favored her with a smile, seemingly pleased by her assessment.
But as they neared their destination, he began to grow introspective, all curiosity and interest cast aside, his gaze turning inward as she’d seen it do countless times, and she’d eventually stopped talking because she’d realized he was no longer listening.
It was well into night when they arrived at Hawthorne House, and yet Torie could see her husband’s face clearly. Torches lined the drive, lined the steps leading up to the massive manor that had seemed to rise up from the earth as they’d traveled nearer. Looking at it made her feel small, insignificant, but then looking at her husband usually did as well, because he was tall and well formed and held himself with such authority.
He stood beside the coach, staring at the manor house with a sort of unnerving awe, as though he’d not seen it in ages. When he finally did walk forward, he got only as far as one of the huge stone lions that guarded the stone steps that led to the entrance. He ran his hand up one of the carved legs. “When I was a child, I would sit on this massive beast and pretend I was exploring the jungles of Africa.”
His voice held a wistfulness as though the long-ago memory was as painful as it was comforting. He started up the steps, and she quickly followed. His behavior seemed rather odd in light of the fact that she knew he’d visited his ancestral home within the last month.
An elderly man came rushing out of the manor.
“Your Grace, we’ve been expecting you.” The man stopped, bowed slightly.
“Whitney, it’s good to see you again.”
The duke’s almost strangled greeting held a measure of doubt mingled with relief that Torie couldn’t understand.
“Is this lovely lady the new duchess you informed us would be returning with you?” Whitney asked.
Robert turned, looking somewhat surprised to find her standing beside him, as if only just remembering that he’d brought her along.
“Duchess, allow me to present Whitney. He has overseen this household for as long as I can remember.”
“Whitney,” she said softly.
He bowed. “Your Grace, welcome to Hawthorne House.”
“How long have you been here, Whitney?” she asked.
“Thirty-eight years if one were counting, which I assure you I’m not. I shall see to it that your belongings are moved immediately into the family wing—”
“No.”
Both she and Whitney turned their attention to the duke, who had spoken the single word with unbending resolution and conviction, as though the butler had suggested something unheard of. Her husband appeared extremely uncomfortable, his gaze darting between the two of them as though he wasn’t certain where he should place it.
“I need a bit of time alone,” he said quietly. “My darling, if you don’t mind, I think you’ll find the accommodations in the east wing quite satisfactory for the present time.”
Not mind? Not mind being banished to the other side of the manor? Not mind being banished for all the household to know? Not mind? Was he mad? Of course she minded. Whatever was wrong with him? Why was he treating her with such blatant disregard after all the interest he’d shown her today?
Before she could get over her shock enough to form a coherent reply, he’d returned his attention to Whitney. “See to the duchess’s needs. I’m going to the family wing, and I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Whitney said solemnly.
The duke marched up the steps like a soldier going into battle, leaving his wife and servants behind him. With no more than a flick of his hand, Whitney began issuing orders to the various footmen who had quietly appeared shortly after the coach arrived.
Whitney then turned to her, sympathy in his green, kind eyes. “It is the duke’s habit to seek solitude shortly after arriving.”
“Is it truly?”
“Yes, Your Grace. After his brother left for America and he lost his parents to influenza, he’s never been quite the same.”
“In what way?”
Whitney shook his head. “It is not my place to explain the duke or his actions, but I simply wanted to reassure you that it is not unusual for him to w
ant time alone.”
Normally she would agree, but immediately following his wedding? When his new bride stood at the threshold?
“How often has he brought a wife home?” she asked testily. “And left her on the steps like so much discarded baggage?”
“He is a complex man, Your Grace.”
“He is likely to find his wife is equally complex.”
“May I show you to your quarters?” Whitney asked.
She took a deep breath. She had no business turning her anger on Whitney when she wanted to lash out at her husband. It made no sense for him to abandon her.
She couldn’t help but believe that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Robert sat in a plush, ornate burgundy chair facing the bed where his mother had once slept. Just as he had disappointingly discovered in the town house in London, he could find little evidence of her here now: her scent no longer lingered, her laughter no longer echoed, the soft lullabies she’d once sung to him were silent. No clothes remained for him to touch. It was as though she’d never been, yet memories of her had sustained him during his years of isolation.
He had well and truly belonged more to her than to his father. She’d been the one who guided him, counseled him, advised him. His father’s influence had been there as well, but it was his mother he had always strived to please. His mother who had smiled at the wildflowers he’d picked and given her—smiled as though they’d come from the most elaborate of gardens. It was his mother for whom he’d drawn pictures. His mother whose approval he had always sought and found.
How could he now move another woman into this room? How could he himself take up residence in his father’s bedchamber? To do so would truly acknowledge that they were no longer alive.
For eight years he’d prayed he was but living in a nightmare, that he would escape from it and discover his parents were still living. But the nightmare merely continued beyond the walls of Pentonville.
He had little doubt that John had already made their father’s bedchamber his own. Perhaps Robert would find comfort and strength by sleeping in the bed where his father and grandfather and great-grandfather and all who had come before him had once slept. There was tradition there. Good, strong men who had served king, queen, and country. Men of destiny. Men of duty. Men of loyalty.
A Matter of temptation- The Lost Lords Trilogy 02 Page 9