His dark eyes became darker. Turning his face without his gaze leaving hers, he pursed his lips and blew out the candle in her hand. “Drop it,” he commanded.
Her fingers loosened and the moment the candlestick clattered to the floor, he enveloped her in his arms, crushing her against the hard length of him, from her knees to her thighs, her belly and breasts, all the way to her lips, which he kissed with barely leashed passion. He speared her with his tongue and she didn’t follow his advice. She opened her lips and drew him in, twisting her tongue with his, shaking with desire, her body yearning.
Hands twice as large as her own moved along her back, one falling to cup her buttocks and draw her closer, making her very aware that Blixford was at least as well adorned as the charcoal man. Perhaps he was merely making another point, driving home another lesson.
Jane didn’t care. If he would teach, she would learn. Never could she allow another man to do this to her, but he was not another man. He was Blixford, whom she loved madly.
One hand moved from her back to her front, deliberately untying the neck of her nightgown and drawing it down, sliding beneath her dressing gown to close over her naked breast. The core of her swelled and demanded she assuage the need.
“So full, so beautiful,” he whispered, dragging his lips away from hers, running them down her throat before closing them around her puckered nipple.
Diving her fingers into his silky hair, she clutched his head and moaned, deep in her throat. Good God, but this was delicious. He raised up and kissed her again, both arms about her, holding her so close, she could feel the beat of his heart against her breast.
Then he did a very odd thing. He dropped one hand and began to gather up the skirt of her dressing gown, bringing the gown along with it, exposing her legs. This he did while still kissing her, and she was barely aware, drowning in sensation. The feel of his breeches against her thighs brought home her nakedness, but she made no move to remove his hand and cover herself.
His fingers tangled in the curls between her thighs and she willed him to continue, to touch her there, where she was hot and needful.
He did.
Oh blessed heaven, how much better than anything her untried mind might have imagined.
“You’re ready for me,” he murmured, sounding surprised.
“I’ve been ready for quite some time,” she replied, inhaling his scent, aware that her own mingled in the air.
“Sweet innocent, you’ve no idea how precarious your situation.”
“You’ve no notion how very much I want you.”
“Is it so important to be a duchess?”
“It is only important I be your duchess. Oh!” She started in his arms. “Your Grace, what are you doing?”
“Ravishing you.” He kissed her again, his hand between her legs, his finger slipping within her, making her quiver and shake. “Now I shall have to marry you.”
“Because you’ve ravished me?”
“Precisely.” His kiss became harder, more insistent. His fingers worked magic, building her desire, even as he whispered fiercely, “Damn you, Jane. Damn your infernal curiosity, your misplaced affection, those yearning eyes.”
Deliriously happy, caught up in him, it took a moment for his words to sink in. Drawing back from his mouth, she looked into the dark shadow of his face, scarcely visible in the dim glow of the smoldering coals in the grate. “You would damn me, sir, in the midst of ravishing me?”
“You’re the very last woman I’d choose. Do you hear me? The very last.” His finger plunged deeper. His thumb ran circles against the most tender of spots. “Give over, Jane. Close your eyes and let yourself go.”
She did as he said, closing her eyes, concentrating on his hand, on her center, on the dizzying kiss he gave her. Her body took on a will of its own, shaking uncontrollably, warmth and powerful contractions radiating from the middle of her. Never in her life had she felt thus, and nothing in life had ever been so enjoyable. Nothing. Ever. When she stopped shaking, when she could breathe normally, she opened her eyes and stared at him. “Your Grace, that was . . . spectacular. Is it always like that?”
“No. It’s not.” He removed his hand and the hem of her dressing gown fell to the floor, once again. Grasping her hand, he laid it across the front of his breeches. He was rock hard, his member impressively large, straining against the black cloth. “It’s something typically only enjoyed by men. Hardly surprising you’d find fulfillment your first time out. You do, I believe, enjoy many pastimes ordinarily dominated by men.”
Frowning, she pulled her hand away and stepped back, until she was once again against the library door. “That was an insult, I’m certain.”
He was angry, but she could not fathom for what reason.
“Of course it’s an insult. You’re halfway to a hoyden, riding faster and harder than most men, taking up pistols for God’s sake, and harboring a very unfeminine interest in farming. You’re too loud, too bold. You even sound like a man on occasion.” He crowded her against the door, his hands in her hair, holding her head while he rained incongruous kisses across her cheeks, her chin, her nose. “Is it any wonder you would climax with scarcely a few minutes of stimulation? You are far too passionate, everything I do not want, but now must have because I couldn’t resist those eyes.”
The full import of his words finally settled into her mind, quickly clearing the haze of desire. Jerking away from him, she moved toward the fireplace, suddenly chilled to the bone.
“If I’m repulsive to you, I wonder why you’d insist on marrying me?”He stalked toward the fireplace and faced her, his scowling face reflecting his anger. “Because I’ve just assaulted you. Can you know so little of propriety, you don’t realize you’ve been completely compromised? Ruined? I will speak to Sherbourne first thing in the morning.”
Jane considered reaching for one of the glowing embers and dropping it into his breeches. If she wouldn’t burn her fingers, she would. And enjoy his pain. Drawing herself up, she forgot she was in a dressing gown, that it was past two in the morning, that his hand had only just been in her most private place, that he’d offered what she wanted above all things. All she could think of were his cutting, hurtful words. He would marry her because he had to. Not because he wanted to. “Rest assured, I won’t hold you to any such terrible fate, nor will I thrust my passionate personage upon you in the future. Don’t touch me again, or you’ll become a man with one hand. Don’t speak to my father, or you’ll become ridiculous. You’ve taken me to the height of passion, then disparaged me cruelly. My love for you is indeed misplaced, a mistake I’ll not make again.”
“You’re but a child, Jane. What would you know of love?”
It appeared he was not done insulting her. “Evidently, nothing at all. I always thought myself of above average intelligence, but I’ll have to reconsider after tonight. I’m clearly no cleverer than a bleating ewe, following the herd, regardless of peril. I misjudged you entirely and I’m perplexed by my lack of insight.” She allowed her gaze to travel the length of him, uncaring of her insolence. “What a pity such masculine beauty is wasted on one so cold, cruel, and self-righteous. Perhaps I’m a child –a mannish child –but I’m quite capable of giving and receiving affection. You sir, are not, and for that, I’m sorry for you.” She stopped her perusal at his eyes, noting he looked angry, and maybe a little astonished she would speak so rudely to him, a duke. “You’ve all the warmth of a block of granite and I pity any woman who must call you husband. Good night, Your Grace.”
She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her. In the dark, she found her way upstairs and reached the quiet solitude of her room.
She didn’t cry, she packed. And grew up, having left the last vestige of childhood and fairy tales in the Bonderant library.
The devil with Blixford. She would return to London in spring and make the most of her second Season. There was a gentleman out there who would not disapprove of her, who would appreciate her unconv
entional talents, who would not disparage her passion. There must be, and she would find him, marry him and give him children.
Blixford could rot in Hell for all she cared. He was, indeed, a dreadful stick. Robert was correct. The look she’d seen on Blixford’s face after Annabel’s burial was simple aggravation that she’d had the audacity to die and take the heir he coveted with her.
But even as she thought it, she didn’t really believe it. At that moment, he had truly looked bereft, lost, completely vulnerable.
It did not, could not matter. He would never allow whatever softness lay within his soul to rise to the surface, but instead remain a hard, cold, imperious man, incapable of expressing affection and quite capable of cruelty.
Mannish, indeed. How she despised what he’d said, and it naturally followed, she despised him for saying it.
***
Thinking of her brother, Blix, and his determination to marry a woman he could never love, Lucy lay in her bed and listened to the clock in the hall downstairs as it chimed the hour, yet again. Three o’clock, and still she couldn’t sleep.
Deciding to give up, she threw back the covers and reached for her dressing gown. She went to the fireplace, retrieved the coal spade, and tossed a few lumps upon the embers, stirring them about until a small fire blazed. She lit two candles and sat at the secretary positioned before one of the windows in her chamber. Pulling her latest drawing from a narrow, hidden compartment, she gazed at it critically. It wasn’t right. It was disproportionate, the man’s legs too large for his torso. Her last attempt had the man’s legs too thin, not nearly muscled enough. The etchings in Mr. Paisley’s discourse had not been much help to her, his aborigines rather on the diminutive side. She desired her drawing to reflect a man of tremendous masculinity, his physique impressive. It was necessary for proportion, in order for his cock to be large enough for her purposes.
Lucy sighed and withdrew another drawing, taking heart as she gazed at this one. She’d managed to master capturing a feminine figure, and she thought her charcoal woman was lovely; full figured, with long, shapely legs, a definite dip to her waist, and round, plump breasts topped with perfectly sized nipples.
Her gaze returned to the man and she frowned. “You are not worthy of her, sir. I vow, your legs would crush the poor thing.” She chuckled at the thought then sobered as something occurred to her. Perhaps she was going about this all wrong, trying to perfect each of them individually. If she drew them together, would not the proportion work itself out naturally?
Anxious to see if the theory was correct, she retrieved a fresh sheet of drawing paper and her charcoal and began to sketch, concentrating carefully, memory her only guide –and even that couldn’t be very dependable. She’d never actually seen a man and a woman coupling. It wasn’t as though she’d ever had the ability to see herself while engaged in the act. It was entirely up to her imagination to determine how she and Matthew had fit together.
As the drawing took shape, her memories threatened to overwhelm her. Despite more than a year gone since last he’d held her in his arms and made his body a part of hers, she remembered with aching detail how it had been, and how much she had loved him.
Her core flooded with desire, hot and needful. She continued to draw, first their heads, lips meeting in a passionate kiss, downward to their necks and torsos. Here, she stopped. Face to face, body to body, what was there to see? Hmm.
She started again, this time drawing the woman’s head and body turned forward and the man’s face just behind, peering over her shoulder, eyes cast downward. Yes, that was good, for he would surely be fascinated with her round, perfect breasts. His hands would be caressing them . . . no, only one hand, caressing one breast. The other would be just there, at the apex of her thighs, touching her as his very impressive cock slid between her legs, up and into her.
Legs. They had no legs. She eyed the drawing carefully, determined to get it right. Where would her legs be, if she were in front? Perhaps he was sitting, and she in his lap? Inspired, she hurriedly sketched their legs, and the legs of a chair, beneath them.
She spent another hour filling in details, concentrating carefully on her task, getting up to poke the fire when it burned down and her light dimmed.
She heard the clock strike five just as she finished. Holding the drawing up, she gazed at it with a critical eye. She still needed to work on his legs, but they were much better proportioned than her earlier attempts. Perhaps she could get the hang of this, eventually. She had no notion what she might do with her erotic drawings, would likely keep them locked away, only to be brought out and viewed for her own enjoyment. She was never quite sure where her imagination might lead her and had no notion how or why her mind insisted on such startling mental images, but she felt a need to draw what she imagined, to give her carnal thoughts shape and form, a reality of charcoal on paper, because reality in truth would never come to pass.
Sighing, she locked away her night’s work and returned to her bed, slipping out of her dressing gown, pulling her night rail over her head, sliding naked beneath the covers. In the darkest hour of night, just before dawn, she closed her eyes, caressed her breasts with one hand and reached between her thighs with the other. Swollen and slick, begging for a deep, filling thrust, her core, the center of her, sometimes her only source of pleasure, was once again resigned to naught but her fingers.
Afterward, she rolled to her side and wept. God, how she missed him.
***
Jane had not attempted sleep, certain she was far too agitated. Instead, she spent the remaining hours of the night packing and making out a list of manly attributes she would search for in a prospective spouse. When she was done, she looked it over and determined Blixford had none of them, with the sole exception of his looks. He was a fine figure of a man. Pity his body housed such a despicable person.
The sky was pearl gray with the beginning of dawn when she let herself out the garden door and strode toward the stable. She would ride and vent some of her anger, then change into a morning gown and await Sherbourne in the dining room. As soon as he appeared, she would plead some female malady and ask him to accompany her home, back to Hornsby Grange in Oxfordshire. He would do so, without question.
A sleepy groom was already up and about and made little comment when she requested he saddle the mare she’d ridden since arriving at Lady Bonderant’s house party. Clattering out of the stable yard, she turned toward the lane that crossed the hayfields, speaking to her mount in quiet tones.
The lane stretched enticingly before her and after a short canter to warm up the mare she urged her into a full out run. Her thoughts were a tangle, far from the lane, the hayfields, or the run itself. Lack of concentration, coupled with the pounding of the mare’s hooves was the only explanation of how she failed to notice another rider approaching from behind.
Not until he surpassed her and moved ahead did she see that Blixford was also enjoying an early dawn run. In truth, he did not appear to be enjoying it. He looked his usual expressionless self. Did he never smile?
He didn’t so much as glance at her as he passed, but overtook her and forged ahead.
The instinct to increase speed and beat him to the end of the lane tugged at her, but she resisted. To do so would naturally result in the necessity of speaking to him, and she’d really rather eat a clod of dirt.
She slowed the mare to a walk, turned her about, and set her to canter back toward the house, severely aggravated he had ruined her run. Scarcely a minute later, the duke pulled up next to her and called out for her to slow down, that he wished to speak with her.
Manners overrode anger and she did so, biting out a greeting. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Lady Jane, I wish to impress upon you the significance of what transpired in the library. I ask that you accept my hand and allow me to make reparations for my thoughtless actions.” His face reflected such strong distaste, he looked as though he’d sucked a lemon. Was this the same man who
so passionately ravished her against the library door?
“The only significance to me is the realization that I have been a fool for two long years, and entirely wasted my first Season and an impressive number of suitors, waiting for you to come out of mourning.” She glared at him. “In point of fact, I should probably thank you for a harsh dose of reality.” She looked ahead, away from his cold stare. “You are forgiven, and there’s an end to it. I do not wish to marry you, can think of no greater travesty, and I suggest we put the matter behind us and forget about it.”
“It’s not a matter of forgiveness, nor avoidance. You are ruined, and I will make reparations.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Blixford, I’m not ruined. My precious maidenhead is still intact, and will be until I take a husband, who will never know I was previously ravished by a blackguard of a duke.” She wouldn’t look at him again. She was half afraid she would be tempted to plant him a facer.
“Nevertheless, I intend to speak to your father this morning, as soon as possible.”
“Will you tell him what transpired in the library?” She almost hoped he would. Sherbourne would definitely plant him a facer.
“I see no reason to upset the man needlessly. It’s no secret I’m currently searching for a wife, and I have chosen you. I will ask your father for your hand.”
“Ask if you like, but you’ll look a fool when I refuse you. You may not have my hand,” she said coldly, “nor any other appendage. I beg you ask Lady Letitia for hers, as I’m certain she would cut it off and feed it to the hounds if you directed her to do so and made her a duchess at the same time. She’s a perfect lady, Blixford, and perfect for you. Not mannish at all. I daresay she would not have allowed you to ravish her in the library, and it’s debatable whether she will allow it after you’re married, but you clearly have a preference for passionless ladies who paint divinely and play the pianoforte with elegant mastery. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series) Page 3