The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)

by Stephanie Feagan

  Oh, God, how had she come to such a pass?

  “Your face is a map to your soul, you know.” He reached out and fiddled with her hair, watching it curl about his fingers. His very long fingers, attached to his very great hand. “Mine, I believe, is not, so I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking.” Without meeting her gaze, his eyes fixed to the hair within his fingers, he continued softly, “I’ve taken three wives, and each was a lady of strict decorum and staunchly conservative morals. Carnal thoughts didn’t enter their minds, most likely because they were raised to believe such is not ladylike. Otherwise, my experiences have been with women like Miriam, for whom fulfillment is generally an unexpected benefit. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised the other hand and combed his long fingers through her hair, brushing against her breasts as he did so. “You, Jane, are unlike any other woman I’ve lain with. You are my wife, a gently bred lady, but one of a passionate nature. On the other hand, you’re inexperienced.” Finally, he met her gaze. “What happened in Scotland doesn’t qualify as experience. I find myself perhaps as nervous as you, because I want to erase the memory from your mind, and the only way to do that is to make lying with me infinitely better.”

  “Be assured, it would not take much to be better.”

  His smile was gentle. “Was it so bad then, Jane?”

  The damned tears came, in spite of a valiant effort on her part. Multiple swallows couldn’t hold back the knot in her throat. Rapid blinking did nothing but encourage the escape of the dreadful things. They coursed down her cheeks, mocking her by dripping onto her breasts. “I’m so sorry, Blixford. This is a disaster of epic proportions, is it not?”

  She expected him to embrace her and assure her that it was not, to lie and make her feel better, despite what was surely great disappointment. He’d married a woman who was not so far from his first three wives after all.

  Instead, he turned toward the bed, flung back the tester and underlying sheet, then returned to her. He lifted her shift over her head, threw it aside, and swung her up into his arms before he carried her to the bed and laid her in the center, where she was enveloped by the mattresses. Wide eyed, her tears aborted by surprise, she watched him remove his boots and stockings, then stand and release the fall of his breeches before he hastily unbuttoned them. He shoved them off, along with his drawers and bent a knee to the bed, sliding next to her, pulling the covers over them before she got a very close look at his member. But she’d seen enough. He was, indeed, proportionate. Dear God. He would kill her, surely.

  Then he was pulling her next to him, one arm beneath her, and the other against her waist, kissing her forcefully, plunging his tongue into her mouth, demanding a response. All the while, his free hand wandered. Across her belly to her breasts, kneading each in turn and then running along her ribcage to her waist, and down to the curls between her legs before returning to her breasts. He tasted of the wine he had sampled before Mr. Osgood poured. He smelled very male, of soap, sweat, horse, and musk, mingled with his cologne. He felt hot and hard and powerful, muscles moving beneath his skin as his hand traveled up and down her body.

  Jane couldn’t be certain when she’d begun to kiss him back, but at some point, she did. Of their own volition, her arms reached for him, one curling about his neck, the other circling his middle. He was solid and thick, much larger even than she’d thought. He moved his lips away from hers and kissed her brows, her cheeks and chin before he made his way to her throat, then lower, to her breast. He ran his tongue around her nipple, his big hand kneading the breast beneath, sending sharp pangs of desire though her center.

  He raised up and moved closer still, resting his weight along his forearm, his chest lying against hers as he kissed her again. He found her curls, his fingers dipping lower, parting her, deftly stroking. She willed herself not to clamp her legs together, concentrated fiercely upon it.

  He slowed and returned his hand to her waist. Lifting his head, his face mere inches from hers, he said in his deep voice, “I thought it best never to speak of it again, but perhaps I was wrong. Will you tell me the truth of how it was?”

  “I would prefer not to.”

  “Undoubtedly, but do so anyway. There’s another man in this bed and the only way I may rid us of him is to know him as you do.”

  She wanted to look away. A part of her wanted to get out of the bed, don her habit, fetch Grendel and ride back to London, to her father.

  He wouldn’t have it. “Stay just there, Jane. Look at me and speak.”

  Clearing her throat, she rested her hand against his upper arm and began tentatively. “Castle MacDougal is a lovely place, with many outbuildings, most of them fallen into disuse in modern times. Cousin Elizabeth altered an old fish hatchery, set beside the loch, into a summer pavilion of sorts, a place to rest and view the lake in comfort. I’d gone there to read my letter from home. I was distressed and thought to have a moment alone.”

  “Was your distress due to news within the letter?”

  “I have told you so. You’d taken a third bride.”

  “Did you expect I wouldn’t?”

  “I don’t know what I expected. I only know the news was terribly depressing. MacDougal came up at a bad moment and offered comfort.”

  “A bad moment?”

  She frowned at him. “You have the singular distinction as the only man with the ability to make me weep, even hundreds of miles away and our friendship some three years lost.”

  “My apologies, ma’am. Unintentional, most certainly.” He lifted his hand and brushed her hair away from her temple. “Go on. You were weeping in the pavilion beside the loch and MacDougal offered comfort.”

  “I allowed it, and he kissed me. He proposed, yet again, even went on bended knee, so sincere, so convincing that I would waste my life pining after something that was never meant to be. A gust of wind tossed the letter into the loch and I confess I saw it as a sign. I impulsively said yes and he became quite amorous. I allowed liberties, I suppose because we had just become betrothed. He was my dear cousin, my friend, a man I trusted.” She stopped, remembering, feeling a fool.

  “Go on, Jane. Tell me all of it. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “I didn’t see or comprehend what was happening, not until it was entirely too late. My gown was suddenly above my hips, his breeches were undone and I

  said . . . no.” She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed violently. Please, God, do not allow me to cry. Grant me a shred of dignity.

  God, it appeared, was busy elsewhere. As the memory descended, she felt one hot tear creep from beneath her lid. “Perhaps he didn’t hear, or perhaps he ignored me. I was frightened, and said so. He assured me it was natural to be afraid, that the first time is generally painful, but I should be still and accept it, that the next time would be pleasurable.” More tears followed the first. “I do so hate to weep, Blixford. This is dreadful! And our wedding day! You think me horrid, do you not?”

  “Shh, no, I do not. I want to hear all of it, Jane. Please continue.”

  She opened her eyes again and saw that he was concentrating fiercely, his gaze steady on hers. “It was much worse than merely painful. I thought I might die of it, and I do not exaggerate. He finished with me and stood to adjust his breeches. My most vivid memory is the expression on his face as he stood there, looking down at me. He was displeased and insisted I get up quickly, that I was bleeding on his mama’s divan. Naturally, I did, quite horrified. We walked back to the castle, and he went off for a ride without even a goodbye. I thought surely I’d reached the depths of despair. How could I live my entire life with such a cruel and thoughtless man, but how could I not, having given him what belongs to a husband?”

  Her eyes moved from his and focused on the canopy above. “That night, when his father announced his betrothal to Mary Anna MacGruder, he smiled at me, as if to say he’d had me and I was a fool. He made
a comment about fine Scottish lasses making better brides, for they have strength of character lacking in the English. I realized then he resented me and my family, my father’s position and wealth. Inasmuch as he violated me, he did so to my entire family. We had all been disparaged by an arrogant Scot. I didn’t consider my actions, nor did I think of the consequences. I excused myself from table, fetched my pistol, returned to the dining room and shot him, with all of his family and the MacGruders looking on. Cousin Elizabeth’s husband wanted to call the constable and have me arrested. I informed him, if he did so, my father and brothers would learn of his son’s perfidy and he would be dead, instead of merely wounded. I was gone from Castle MacDougal at first light.”

  He said nothing for a very long while. Instead, his hand continued to pet her hair and he dropped soft kisses against her face. At last, he raised up again and said, “You’ve more courage than any man I know, Jane. You’re a woman of great pride, which I find relatable. I applaud what you did. He deserved much worse, in fact, and in my estimation, you were far kinder than most would be.”

  “Thank you, Blixford, but surely you understand, I have no shame for what I did to him? Had I all of it to do over, I would still shoot to unman him. I gained satisfaction for myself and my family. Unfortunately, no amount of satisfaction can take away the memory of how horribly painful it was. No amount of courage will allow me not to fear you.”

  She expected him to get up, get dressed and take her back to London, to demand an annulment.

  He didn’t do anything of the sort.

  He gathered her up and rolled to his back, nestling her against his side, arms enveloping her. “You’re sensible and bright. Only consider how many men and women have engaged in sexual congress throughout the ages. Do you suppose, if it were always horribly painful for the female, they would continue to allow it? Think of those with multiple children. What woman would continue to submit to something dreadful? Think back to our interlude in Lucy’s library. You enjoyed it, did you not?”

  “Rather a lot. The memory has sustained me for a very long time, and is, in fact, one of the reasons I returned to my pursuit of you. I thought surely you must know something others do not.”

  “I know a woman needs time to become ready, for her body to accept a man’s.” He reached for her hand and moved it to the apex of her thighs. “Touch yourself, Jane. You’re slick and swollen.”

  She blushed. “Indeed.”

  “I suspect MacDougal didn’t allow you any time to become ready. Other than a kiss, which was undoubtedly not overly passionate, he afforded you nothing in the way of building your desire. This would make it painful for any woman, but for one untried, still virginal, I don’t wonder it was terribly painful for you.”

  “Forgive me for prying and feel free to deny an answer, but how did you manage with your previous brides?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Eventually, he said evenly, “There are creams available. I daresay half or more of polite society utilize them for purposes of procreation.”

  “And the other half?”

  “Are fortunate enough to be married to women who have no need of creams.” He tightened his hold. “Before you ask, the answer is no, I don’t have any and don’t anticipate a need to purchase any. We’ll work through this, Jane, and you’ll find pleasure with me, I swear it.”

  She sighed and nestled her head in the nook of his neck, her arm circling his middle. They lay quietly for some time, the distant sound of voices from the yard drifting around the building and through the open window. Birds twittered happily in the trees beyond the inn. “You’re a remarkable man, Blixford. What have you gotten into with me?”

  “I believe it is a bed, ma’am.”

  Chuckling, she traced circles across his chest, playing in the soft, springy hair. “Have you lost the moment?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Why don’t we eat a bite and try again in a little while?”

  “Hmm, the idea has merit. I’m fair starved after feeding most of my breakfast to the cat.” He raised his head and looked into her face. “Perhaps some wine would serve to relax you a bit more. Already, you seem less anxious.”

  “You’re wise. I didn’t believe speaking of it would serve any purpose, but I do feel somewhat better.”

  “Always best to face demons straight on, Jane. Deal with them and put them in their proper place.” He drew away and reached for his breeches, standing to pull them on, giving her a fair view of his backside.

  Such a lovely, masculine man.

  Her stomach growled and he jerked his head around, eyes wide. “Ye gods, woman, would you devour me before I can get you to table?”

  Jane laughed and caught her shift when he tossed it toward her. “You didn’t notice, Blixford, but the cat abandoned your chair for mine.”

  “Do you mean to say you disposed of your trout in the same manner?”

  “I did. Like you, I detest smoked trout. I was also beset with anxiety, so didn’t eat much else.” Her gaze moved to the table. “I vow, Mrs. Osgood’s victuals do look tempting.”

  ***

  Lucy’s son was beautiful, with great dark, soulful eyes, just like his mother’s. Sherbourne fell in love with him on sight. Damned if the child didn’t remind him of Henry at the same age. He’d been such a serious little one, the boy who hung back, who carefully weighed every situation, who sometimes didn’t join his brothers in whatever mischief they’d got up, claiming it was a bad idea, or that the consequences of getting caught –and they generally always got caught –were too dire. On his own, Henry got into much more serious scrapes than his brothers ever did, simply due to his quiet, pensive determination to conquer the world.

  Even at five, William, Viscount Bonderant had all the makings of a man who would always take the high road, the difficult journey, the path to greatness, if not glory.

  Lucy had explained to him that Blixford spent as much time as possible with the boy, but as he didn’t live with them, his interaction was necessarily limited. She worried the lack of any steady male influence was detrimental to William. Sherbourne tended to agree and actually felt sorry for the wee mite, living all alone as he did at Margrave Park, with his mother as his only companion. He would go to school in a few more years and be far behind the other boys, who were bound to be cruel to him for his lack of experience and knowledge.

  He should be catching toads and leaving them in his nurse’s bed, sneaking sugar into the salt cellars, fencing with long, dangerous sticks, climbing the tallest tree in the estate park, despite his terror, all on a dare. “Does he ride?” he asked Lucy as they strolled in Hyde Park and watched William run along the banks of the river, collecting stones.

  “Oh, yes, he has his own pony and is as accomplished as might be expected for a boy of five. He’s also learning the pianoforte, and I’ve employed a watercolor instructor for him. She comes on Tuesdays, and William usually goes missing on Tuesdays. I once found him a half mile away, in the upper reaches of the folly, hiding.”

  He thought for a moment, then asked, “Although it’s not my place to offer comment, advice, or criticism, would you permit me to do so anyway?”

  She looked up at him earnestly. “Please do.”

  “Lucy, the boy needs to be active, to get rid of all that energy. Forcing him to sit or stand still and paint with watercolors is cruel and undignified for him. Watercolors are a feminine endeavor, suited to young misses.”

  “But William doesn’t know this. He can’t have an aversion to it because he thinks it’s only for girls.”

  “You should understand, every boy has an innate sense of masculinity, of what he’s capable of, and he will constantly stretch the limits, to test himself and see if he’s strong enough, if he’s worthy. I’m not at all surprised he runs off on Tuesdays. If it were me, I’d run three miles away and hide in the village bell tower to avoid anything so distasteful as watercolors. How does he take to music lessons?”

  “Better, but he d
oes complain a lot.” She was thoughtful before she asked, “What manner of lessons should I be providing?”

  “Archery would be good. I will purchase a bow and quiver of arrows for him and teach him the fundamentals, straightaway. It’s a good precursor to pistols. Teaches aim.”

  Her eyes were wide and worried. “Arrows, Sherbourne? He might poke out his eye.”

  “Yes, and he will adore you for allowing him the risk. Truthfully, it’s not dangerous at all, if you consider he’ll always be lobbing the arrow away from his person.” He grinned at her. “It’s the poor chap in the line of fire who must be careful. You’ll need to stand well behind him when he practices.”

  She appeared to accept the notion. “What else do you recommend?”

  “Are there no other children living nearby?”

  “None other than the tenants’. I’ve not allowed him to interact with them, simply because they run wild, and get into scrapes.”

  “William should run wild and get into scrapes. He’ll learn much more from his mistakes than he’ll ever learn from your patient lectures. If he’s allowed some freedom to roam about and play with other children, he’ll learn independence. He’ll feel proud of himself that he can wander off, tempt death in the form of tall trees to climb and dangerous fish to catch and great, awful beetles to toss at girls, but still make it back home to his nursery and his cot.”

  She sighed and squeezed his arm as they strolled. “Thank you, Sherbourne. I see the wisdom to what you say. I confess, Blix and I are not adept at this, no doubt because our own upbringing was so dismal. I went to live with Aunt Reid when I was but four, and didn’t get away until my father died, ten years later, when Blix came from Cambridge to collect me and take me back to Eastchase Hall.” Her gaze as she looked at her son was wistful. “I often rail against fate for taking Matthew so soon after I had William. There was no possibility of other children, natural born playmates. How fortunate your children were, and still are, to have one another.”