by Brenda Joyce
Rage engulfed him.
For all of these years, she had denied him his son. Isobel was the only woman he had ever loved. He had not understood her notion of duty and loyalty, he had not understood how she could really love him and leave him to go back to her husband, although, God knew, he had tried his best to comprehend her. Yet his love for her had never wavered. Not in nearly thirty years, despite the anguish, despite the heartbreak. Until now.
She had denied him his son. She was not the woman he had thought her to be for all these years. She was self-serving and dishonest. She had deceived him. Purposefully, she had kept the fact of his son’s existence from him. She had denied him his son. It was the bottom line. He could not get past it. Rage burned in his heart where once there had been love. He would never forget, and he would never forgive.
The moment the Duke read his wife’s short, blunt letter—the moment he comprehended her request for a divorce—all of his carefully exerted control vanished. With a roar he tore the note to shreds and shouted for his horse.
He was well aware of the fury consuming him, well aware that this was not how he should be reacting, but it was too late. All the control which he had exercised since she had left him was gone. Anger pumped through his veins until he felt nothing else, and he welcomed it.
He chose to ride Ruffian, the fastest mount in his stables. He rode with one burning ambition, and that was to reach Cobley House before the next dawn. Yet after the first crazed moments as he galloped away from Clayborough he slowed, regaining his sanity. Although adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he was astute enough to know that to kill his mount in a madcap ride would not only be an action he would later regret, it would not get him to Sussex any faster.
To hell with his pride, he thought savagely. She was his wife, and he would never, ever give her a divorce. Nor would he allow her to continue this nonsensical game. If he had to drag her back to Clayborough unwillingly, so be it. If she wanted to sulk and resort to feminine vapors, so be it. But she could sulk and pout at Clayborough—where she belonged.
Because he was not giving her up.
He had had enough.
When Hadrian arrived at Cobley House, it was several hours past first light. Both he and his stallion were covered in mud and soaked to the bone from sweat and rain. He was traveling alone, with no fanfare, and when the butler opened the Serles’ front door he was not recognized. The man did not invite him in, but barred his path.
Hadrian wiped his face again with a muddy handkerchief. Ignoring the butler, he stepped around him and into the foyer, dripping mud and rain upon the gleaming parquet floor.
“See here, now,” the butler protested. “You cannot be barging in—”
“Where is my wife?” Hadrian ground out.
The butler froze.
The sanity which had returned to him the day before in the course of the long, exhausting ride was gone. Cold, hard anger was in its place, and with it, glittering resolve. “My wife,” Hadrian repeated. “The Duchess of Clayborough.”
The butler paled. “Your Grace, forgive me! I did not know—I mean…” He grew even whiter under Hadrian’s unrelenting, increasingly hostile stare. “She is in the guest room upstairs on the second floor. Her door is the first one on the right!”
Hadrian whirled, his greatcoat floating around him like a big black winged creature, and he bounded up the stairs. He did not pause before her door. Without missing a stride, he kicked it in off of its hinges and entered the room.
Nicole screamed. She was dressed only in a silvery blue nightgown and wrapper, and she had been sipping hot chocolate in bed. The chocolate spilled across the pristine white sheets, the cup tumbling to the floor. She sat up in sheer fright, then grew very white as comprehension of the very real presence of her husband filled her.
“I have come to take you home.”
Nicole gripped the bedcovers. She was momentarily speechless.
Hadrian smiled, not nicely. He flung open a door to the armoire, revealing her neatly hung clothes. He tore a dress off of one hanger and threw it at her. It fell across her legs. “Get dressed.”
Nicole came to her senses. “How dare you! Get out! Get out now!”
“I did not come here to argue with you, Madam Wife,” he gritted. “You do not have to dress at all. The choice is yours.”
Nicole kicked the dress to the floor, kicking aside the bedcovers in the process. “I am not going with you. Get out now. You cannot force me.”
Hadrian laughed. “You underestimate me, Madam.” An instant later he was reaching for her.
Nicole screamed again when he grabbed her. Her screams became even louder—enough to wake the dead—when she realized what he was doing. She writhed like a banshee as Hadrian slung her upside down over his shoulder with no more care than he would have given a sack of feed.
“Let me go! Let me down! This instant!” She howled furiously.
“I have had enough,” he warned, and he smacked her hard across her thinly clad buttocks.
Nicole went silent in shock. Hadrian strode into the hall. He came face to face with his wife’s hosts. Martha was white, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide. However, the Viscount was trying not to smile.
“Hello, Serle. Forgive me for disturbing you,” the Duke said evenly.
“Think nothing of it, Your Grace,” Robert Serle replied politely.
“I would greatly appreciate the use of one of your carriages.”
“My pleasure” Serle said, turning and calling downstairs to his butler to order round the coach.
“Traitor!” Nicole cried, coming to her senses. “Help me, please! Martha—”
Hadrian smacked her across her buttocks again. Nicole was dumbfounded into silence. “And my stallion needs tending, if you please.”
“Do not worry, he shall be fed and groomed immediately.”
“Put me down.”
“Why?” the Duke asked calmly. “You choose to misbehave like a child, so you shall be treated like a child. Errant wives get what they deserve.” He began walking down the stairs.
“Oooh!” Nicole was momentarily incoherent with rage.
“Test my patience one more time,” he said too conversationally as she began to twist frantically, “and I shall put you over my knee as if you were six.”
She stopped struggling.
They paused in the foyer. The butler nonchalantly pretended not to see them. Martha came hurrying downstairs. Nicole tried to catch her eye desperately, but Martha was careful not to look at her. “You will need this,” she said to Hadrian. She gave the butler two heavy blankets and a full-length fur coat.
“You too!” Nicole cried, almost sobbing now.
“The coach is here, Your Grace,” the butler said. He could not quite keep the relief from his voice.
“Thank you, Lady Serle. Again, forgive the intrusion,” the Duke said, following the butler outside and to the coach. Fortunately it had stopped drizzling. When the servant opened the door, Hadrian unceremoniously tossed Nicole onto one of the seats. He heaved himself in after her, reaching past her to lock the opposite door before she could even move to leap out that side of the carriage. He pocketed the key.
“Wait!” Martha cried, running from the house with a bottle in her hand. “You will need this too!” She shoved a bottle of brandy at him. The butler slammed that door shut.
Hadrian nodded his thanks and knocked on the ceiling sharply. The coach moved off. Then he stretched out his long legs and turned to look at his wife.
“I hate you!” she cried, heavy tears sparkling on her lashes.
“I am sure that you do,” he said calmly. He threw the fur coat at her. “After all, if you loved me you would not have asked me for a divorce, would you?”
Nicole’s nostrils flared. Tears slipped from her lashes, tracking down her cheeks. She stared at him as if incapable of responding.
“Just to set the record straight,” the Duke said quite conversationally, “a d
ivorce is out of the question.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not wish it.”
“And my wishes do not interest you in the least!”
“That is correct.”
Nicole stiffened, then covered her face with her hands. She was not going to cry. She was not going to unleash all the grief and anguish which she had so carefully and deeply buried. She was not.
But she could feel it boiling up in her like a volcano about to spew forth its hot, molten contents.
She grappled with herself and finally, she won. She parted her hands to see the Duke regarding her impassively. “I will make your life unbearable.”
“It already is,” he said calmly.
Nicole blinked.
His smile was tight, cold. “I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he informed her. “But I may as well get something out of this marriage, such as an heir.”
She did not understand, and did not care to, not when he was stating his intentions so badly. “Is that what I am to you? A brood mare? Damn you! I will not bear you a son!”
He leaned towards her abruptly. There was no longer anything casual about his posture or his expression—hot rage glittered in his eyes. “You may make your position as my wife as elaborate—or as mundane—as you choose. And you will do your duty. You will bear me my son.”
“No!” Nicole cried, frantic. She lunged past him for the door. It was locked, as she had known it was, but she shook it wildly anyway. Immediately he pulled her away, from behind. With a wild cry that was half a sob she twisted to claw at him viciously. He caught and restrained her hands instantly, forcing her body into an intimate embrace with his and pushing her backwards against the seat cushions. Nicole writhed and writhed hopelessly while he held her pinned there, panting and bucking, tears of rage and frustration and despair streaking her cheeks. Finally she had no strength left and she went limp against the seats in defeat.
He did not move. He made no attempt to free her, even though they both knew she was exhausted—and that she had lost. As Nicole’s breathing slowed, as the mad rage which had blinded her diminished, she grew more aware of the feel of his chest against hers, his hip against hers. His arms were around her, his hands grasping her wrists, pinned behind her back. A day’s growth of beard was rough against her cheek. His steady breathing was warm against her skin.
Panic flared.
It flared the instant all of her senses kicked into total awareness of his strength, his power, his heat, his maleness. And their intimacy.
“I will not try to escape,” Nicole whispered, turning her head slightly. To her horror, her lips brushed his chin as she spoke. “Let me up.” Her voice quavered.
He did not move, nor did he answer. The silence lengthened. Her heart was beating madly now. Although he still gripped her wrists, it was loosely now, and she became aware that she was actually in his arms. She was afraid to lift her gaze, afraid to look into his eyes.
She knew what she would see there.
She looked up. Their glances met. His was burning, but not with anger. “Please don’t,” she begged.
He shifted slightly and his heartbeat came into contact with hers. Her breasts were crushed fully by his chest. His coat was open, his shirt soaking wet. Nicole’s nipples tightened instantly in response to the sensation of hot male skin covered only by the thinnest layer of silk; her own silk bodice was now equally wet and equally disturbing. Dismayed, she knew he could feel her body’s exuberant response.
“Please,” she begged again, her voice catching breathlessly.
He shifted. Nicole thought he was moving away from her, and she wanted to weep with relief. But he only moved to release her hands so he could slide his palms up to her breasts. “This is where we suit,” he said roughly. “Rather, this is how we suit. You won’t deny me now, Nicole, will you?”
She wanted to deny him, she did. But he crushed her breasts gently in his hands, his fingertips grazing her nipples, his gaze never leaving hers. And instead of protesting, Nicole gasped in pleasure.
He locked his arms beneath her back and lifted her abruptly in an arch to his mouth. He took one silk-clad nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Nicole grasped his head, not to push him away, but to hold him to her.
He released her. He gripped her knees and pulled her down onto the seat. As he loomed up over her their gazes met again. Puffs of vapor formed with each rapid, hard breath he took. Nicole looked at his exquisitely handsome face, strained with a passion as dark and consuming as her own, and her heart lurched. His eyes were golden flames, burning intensely. Promising intensely. But promising her what? A moment’s paradise? She wanted eternity.
She realized what he was doing. His hands fumbled with the clasp of his trousers. She watched him reveal his phallus, engorged and fully erect. Abruptly he flipped the silk skirts of her nightgown up over her waist and out of his way. Nicole closed her eyes, unmoving, waiting.
He came down over her and slid into her in one fast, fluid motion. Nicole instantly rose to embrace him. Her arms coiled around his shoulders, her legs around his hips. He filled her completely, instantly, hotly. For one moment he was still and she was still. Again their gazes locked. Again she glimpsed the promise she did not understand. Then he took her mouth with his, just as completely as he had taken her body with his.
He moved. He moved fast, deep. Nicole strained with him. There was no gentle introduction, no playful prologue, just hard, rough thrusting. Nicole slid back on the seats, thrusting up her own hips to meet him in a series of violent dead-on collisions. Harder. Faster. Their bodies met with fury, punishing one another. Nicole gripped him fiercely as a tidal wave of intense, mindshattering pleasure swept over her. She shouted her release.
He laughed. He laughed as he rode her in a final thrust that was deeper, more complete, harder. His powerful buttocks tensed as he drove her up against the opposite side of the carriage. Nicole held on tightly, her nails penetrating his skin as another wave of savage spasms attacked her as he swelled and swelled and finally burst inside her.
They lay limp, drained. The carriage rocked them back and forth. Nicole grew aware of his full weight crushing her, of his wet shirt and trousers abrading her bare breasts and bare legs. Her nightgown was tangled up hopelessly around her waist. Yet she wasn’t cold. His body steamed with heat, warming her own flesh.
Realization of what they had just done and her own active, eager participation, brought despair swiftly into her heart. Nicole turned her face away from him, closing her eyes. The moment she did so she became aware of his regard upon her.
She would not meet it. She would not. For if she opened her eyes she would cry. He was already the victor, and he did not deserve another victory.
She still loved him. Despite all that had happened, she did. And she hadn’t forgotten why she had run away, or how he had abducted her from Cobley House. And now, now she was reminded of just how hopeless her resistance to him was—in any way or any form.
“Nicole,” he said.
She refused to answer.
“I know you are not sleeping.”
She screwed her eyes tightly shut. She wished he would get up so that she need not be reminded of how warm and hard his body was, but he merely shifted to one side. The anguish was there again. She choked it down. He had forced her to return to him, she could not escape him, just as she could not escape her love for him. And his only interest in her was sexual—just as was his interest in Holland Dubois and God only knew how many other women. It was hopeless, so hopeless. To love such a man was hopeless. She was not going to cry, for if she did, she would never stop.
He touched her face. Nicole refused to respond. But his fingers were light and gentle, and despite her distress, his touch seemed tender, which she knew was an overwrought illusion on her part. His thumb stroked her mouth.
“Please don’t.”
“Then look at me.”
She did, and tears welled up in her eyes. She didn’t
know what she had expected to see in his gaze, but it wasn’t the softness that was there. It was her undoing, and she choked back a sob.
“Perhaps if you cry you will feel better.”
“No.”
“I doubt you will feel worse.” He smiled slightly.
She could not smile back. Suddenly she wanted to be in his arms, when that was the last place she should ever think of looking for comfort. Quickly she closed her eyes and turned her face away again, praying in one breath that he would put some distance between them, and in the next, that he would reach for her and hold her.
“Is it truly that bad?”
His tone was gentle. He still loomed over her. He was too close. Nicole knew she must say something inflammatory, she must. Instead, she opened her eyes and again met his gaze.
The softness was still there. His expression seemed caring, but she knew he did not care, not for her, not really, not any more than he did for his mistress. Her hands found his chest and she tried to shove him away, panic choking her. “Please!”
He sat up and pulled her into his arms.
“God, no!” She cried, flailing at him blindly and missing by a wide margin.
He cradled her against his chest. “Cry.”
“Please don’t do this,” she said, but she was already crying. He didn’t answer, but he ran one large hand up and down her back repeatedly. “Damn you,” Nicole wept. “Damn you,” she sobbed. Her fists balled and struck his chest, the blows pitiful, overwhelmed as she was by her tears. “I hate you,” she sobbed, flailing at him. “I hate you.”
He tensed, but he did not let her go and he continued to stroke her. She continued to weep, giving vent to such a storm of tears that he was shocked at the depth of her grief. He could not understand why she cried, but he could identify with this kind of pent-up, bone-deep hurt. His arms tightened upon her. He rocked her as if she were a child. And holding her, he was sad.
He was sad for her—for whatever was causing her such anguish, and he guessed it was him. He was also sad for himself. Because now that he had recognized his love for her, and how much he needed her, he could no longer deny his feelings, and they were not about to go away. Apparently his love would remain unrequited. His heart seemed to bleed. And as she wept in his arms like a child, he suddenly felt like a small boy again, and he, too, felt like crying. Tears came to his eyes.