He patted her hand. “He’ll be just fine, Lucy. The key is to relax, to not hover, to allow him to grow up. He’s young yet, probably still likes to climb up in your lap, if no one’s looking, and have you read to him of a night before he goes to sleep. But every day older, he’ll pull away a bit more, and you can’t hold him back.”
Her gaze was curious. “Did your children climb in your lap? Did you read to them at bedtime?”
“Every last one of them did. Bram was the most affectionate, and to this day, he’s the most demonstrative. At five and twenty, he still kisses my cheek to say goodbye. Tells me he has no mum to kiss, so he has to settle for his papa.”
William had discovered the joy of sailing twigs downstream. No sooner had he realized he could set them afloat and watch them meander away, he had the brilliant notion of spearing a large leaf with the twig, fashioning a sailboat. They slowed to a stop and stepped off the path to watch him.
“Perhaps a toy boat would be in order?” she asked.
“Hmm, maybe, but it would not be nearly so much fun as crafting his own, now would it? I recommend a good, sharp knife. He can whittle canoes from twigs.”
“A knife, Sherbourne? A sharp knife?”
“Absolutely. Let’s finish our stroll and go for an ice at Gunther’s, and just afterward, we’ll take him to pick out his very own knife.”
“Good heavens, I may never survive seeing William wielding a knife.”
“Fear not, for it will be a small one, just the size for his small hand. He’ll immediately cut himself, of course, and try not to cry, and you’ll bandage him up and scold him and he’ll be infinitely more careful in future. Buck up now, Lucy.” He grinned down at her, enjoying himself immensely.
She gave him a hesitant smile and nodded. “I shall do my best.”
What a beautiful woman she was, and how dedicated she was to her son, as well as the memory of her long dead husband. If her carnal need was not so strong, he suspected she might remain celibate the rest of her life, to remain faithful to his memory.
But the thought was ludicrous. Lucy was a woman of serious, deep passion and strong, dark desires that would never remain repressed, regardless of how hard she tried to contain them. He’d encountered very few women in his life who came close to Lucy’s needful nature. Come to think of it, not since Connie had he lain with a woman who could climax with absolutely no stimulation other than the thrust of his cock. He’d suspected Lucy would go off just after she climbed atop him and impaled herself.
He was enchanted. He was sexually charged and eager to take her again, soon. He was ridiculous.
But he’d promised her a fortnight, and silently, he’d promised himself, as well. They would spend the next two weeks exploring one another, perhaps engaging in some risky lovemaking and interesting positions, and then it would be over. She would tire of him, naturally, and eventually see him for what he was –an aging peer who’d someday be unable to keep up with her lusty appetites. She’d return to Margrave Park, perhaps more enthusiastic to seek out another husband, one who would fulfill her desire. As for himself, he’d remain in London until the end of the Season, then return to Hornsby Grange for summer. If she conceived, he’d marry her immediately, ridiculous, or no. If not, well, she would be a fond memory he would never forget.
It struck him as particularly odd that their age difference didn’t seem to matter, wasn’t noticeable to him. She was, indeed mature for her age, her soulful, dark eyes filled with a certain knowing, an understanding of the world many never achieved, regardless of how many years they lived. He supposed he didn’t actually think of himself as old. He enjoyed life, could see no reason for a gloomy outlook. He’d had his share of misfortune and heartbreak, but what was the point dwelling on it? Best to move on and see what life held in store.
For instance, how could he have imagined the day would turn out this way when he awoke this morning? He’d been anxious and grievously concerned about allowing Jane to marry Blixford, wondering if, yet again, he was doing the wrong thing by letting her have her way. It had always been so damned easy to spoil her. How he adored her, and how he had missed her while she sojourned in Scotland.
He thought of what had transpired, and although he knew no details, he knew she had come to harm, and it fair broke his heart. It also made him deadly angry. If Blixford didn’t exact proper satisfaction, by God, he would. He’d kill the blackguard.
But that was something to fret about another day. For now, he was enraptured by the lovely surprise that was Lucy, and additionally, her captivating son. He anticipated the next fortnight with great enthusiasm. Not only would he have the pleasure of a child’s company, something he missed now that his own brood were grown and gone, he would undoubtedly find enormous gratification in Lucy’s sweet, beautiful body. She was, indeed, luscious. The very earth.
“Come along, Wills,” he called to the boy, “and I shall buy you an ice.”
Well behaved, not prone to ill temper, the child turned obediently and walked to Sherbourne’s side, gazing up at him with round eyes. “Sir, what is an ice?”
“It is a treat all boys love a great deal, including this one.”
“Do girls like it, as well?”
“Oh, indeed. I daresay your mother will enjoy one along with us, will you not, Lady Bonderant?”
“I may enjoy two of them, my lord.”
They continued along the path beside the river and he was aware of the curiosity of friends and acquaintances who drove or rode past on the park drive nearby. Tomorrow, he would accompany Lucy as she made calls to announce that she was in town, and open to invitations. She’d no doubt receive one for Twykham’s ball, to be held tomorrow night in honor of his first anniversary of marriage to Miss Moring. Sherbourne wondered if the fellow would stay awake long enough to entertain his guests.
He would escort Lucy and dance with her and assist her as she took a look about at the eligible gentlemen in attendance. Perhaps Wrotham? No, he was a bit stiff. And not in a good way. He considered Holtzbrink and dismissed him out of turn. The man had a predilection for lightskirts. Lucy’s husband couldn’t expire himself anywhere but in her bed. It would be grossly unfair to her. Dillingham? Hmm, now there was a possibility. But he sometimes had an annoying demeanor, and his speech was atrocious, for he was wont to spray those he conversed with. Too wet by half.
Sherbourne considered his own sons and set the thought aside almost immediately. He couldn’t sit at table with Lucy in future, knowing one of his sons was intimate with her. It would drive him mad, and perhaps drive a wedge between him and one of his sons. No, he’d ruined the chance for a match between Lucy and any of his boys the instant he led her up the stairs and down the hall to his chamber.
He couldn’t be sorry. He’d found her desirable from the moment he laid eyes on her this morning. Had she not insisted he kiss her, and then boldly propositioned him, he’d have taken her home and continued to admire her and lust after her in his own mind and nothing more. But it still would have bothered him if one of his sons courted her.
His thoughts turned to Blixford. It would be noted that Sherbourne was squiring Lady Bonderant about town, and someone was sure to alert her brother. He hoped there wouldn’t be any altercation over it, but he suspected there well might be. It was odd, almost humorous, how they each seemed predisposed to needle the other, via their female relatives.
He thought of Jane and smiled. He so hoped she’d be happy, that she’d find what she was looking for in Blixford. He’d concluded the man ran with very deep, still waters indeed. Jane would enjoy discovering the depth of him, he was certain. She’d always loved a challenge, and Blixford would ever be that.
They were close to his carriage, which awaited them close to the park gates, when William asked, “Sir, do you ride?”
“All the time. And you, Wills? Do you ride?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’ve a pony named Biscuit and he’s a grand champion.”
“Is he? Then I hope
you ride him well, for surely a grand champion would be dishonored by a lackadaisical rider.”
The boy was quiet for a while, then asked, “Sir, what does lackadaisical mean?”
Lucy chuckled and tapped his ribs with her elbow, her gaze merry, daring him to explain.
If she only knew how many things he’d explained over the years. This was child’s play. “Well, it’s not a good thing, that’s what. If you’re lackadaisical, you’re sloppy, your seat improper and your legs misplaced. Biscuit can only do as you tell him, and if you’re lackadaisical, you may unwittingly tell him to do something you never intended. Why, he might run about in circles, making you dizzy, or take off at a gallop and toss you into the lake. He might bolt into the house and eat your mama’s flowers.”
Ah, at last, the boy smiled. Grinned, actually. “That’s silly! He couldn’t open the door!”
Was ever there a sweeter sound than the voice of a child? Sherbourne was a bit overcome, remembering. He ruffled William’s hair and nodded ahead to the carriage before he pulled a lump of sugar from his pocket. “Go and give Portia a treat, and perhaps she’ll get us to Gunther’s that much quicker.”
The boy took the sugar and dashed off, waving it about as he ran, calling out to the horse. Sherbourne watched as John Coachman smiled indulgently at the lad. The man had been in Sherbourne’s employ for years upon years, had watched out for his brood on thousands of occasions. Sherbourne thought the older man looked pleased to have a lad about again, feeding a treat to his carriage horse.
“Lucy, he’s a delight, he really is. You’ve done marvelously with him.”
“Besides turning him into a girl?” she asked with a laugh.
“Nonsense. You might dress a boy in a silk gown and teach him to stitch, but the boy will always out. Same for girls, you know. Only look at my Jane. Taught her to ride and shoot, took her about the sheep farms, but no part of her could be considered masculine. ‘Cept maybe her voice. She’s got her mother’s odd, low voice. That aside, however, she’s all girl, so her masculine accomplishments are not to her detriment.”
Lucy nodded, still smiling. “To my mind, they are what make her most charming, and what will drive my poor, wound up brother to distraction.” She looked up and met his gaze. “Is it wrong that I secretly laugh at what I’m sure she’ll put him through?”
“Undoubtedly, but do go ahead. In fact, we’ll discuss it at length a bit later.”
“Later?”
He winked at her. “Don’t be alarmed if there’s a scratch at your chamber door when you least expect it. And don’t assume it’s your maid and tell her to go away.”
“Oh, Sherbourne, how lovely! Will you really sneak about like a spy, to gain entrance to my bed?”
His grin faded and he became quite serious. “I’d climb the deuced ivy to your window, or slide down the chimney, and if all else failed, I’d walk through the front door, come upstairs in plain sight, and threaten to kill anyone who spread tales. But I don’t believe such drastic action will be necessary. I’m merely alerting you to keep your eyes open and be ready to take a cue.”
“Yes, my lord, I will, I’m sure, be very ready.”
***
Jane ate a great deal and had two glasses of wine, appearing to find comfort and ease in his presence, despite her lack of any clothing beyond her shift and him in his shirtsleeves.
For his part, Michael was bedeviled with desire, smoldering hotly as he watched her, his gaze unable to draw away from her long, curling hair, the manner in which it moved with her body, teasing him with glimpses of her breasts, her rosy nipples outlined clearly beneath the thin lawn of her shift.
He felt sorry for her, well aware she would despise his pity. But he couldn’t help it. She’d been at the mercy of a cad, a bounder, an evil scoundrel who deserved death. Remembering her at eighteen, filled with inquisitive, uninhibited passion, he wanted to shout his anger. He wanted to find MacDougal and crush him beneath the heel of his boot, pummel him into oblivion, visit a terrible fate upon him for destroying her innocence, her natural curiosity, the essence of her.
Eventually, he would do so. He’d demand his own satisfaction and he would have it. Until that time, he was determined to bring back the woman he’d ravished in his sister’s library. She was still there, he was certain. He had but to coax her out of hiding.
They talked of Beckinsale House and some of the things he had planned for their stay. She revealed she enjoyed swimming and he promised, if the weather was warm, he would take her to the lake within the park and they would bathe there. Sated and drowsy, she leaned back in her chair and watched him from eyes the color of the sky at dusk. “Had you enough to eat?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Are you disappointed there was no steak and kidney pie?”
“A bit, but I expect I can convince Cook to prepare one during our stay.”
She cast a look toward the screen in the corner behind him. “I’d like to freshen up a bit.”
Feeling the need of a privy himself, he nodded and rose to his feet. Dressing quickly, no doubt sloppily, he went to the door. “I’ll be back directly, Jane.”
“I look forward to it.” She was already headed for the screen.
Downstairs, he found what he needed, then spent a while visiting with Mr. Osgood, asking about local personages and the state of the year’s crops. He was a kindly man, with a twinkle in his eye and a ready laugh. He was pleased with Michael’s praise of his wife’s cooking, clearly proud of her efforts. “’Twas Mrs. Osgood’s idear to buy the inn, Your Grace. Took a bit of work to polish ‘er up, but we’ve been pleased.”
Glancing about the common room, beginning to thin of its crowd, the hour for luncheon having just passed, Michael nodded. “Very polished, indeed, sir. You’re to be commended for your hard work.”
“Oh, but, Your Grace, credit is due to Mrs. Osgood as much as myself. The Lord was good to me, sending her into my wee shop in London, twelve years ago. Struck it well, right off, and after we married, she happened upon the notion of an inn and here we are. Not many will admit owing their good fortune to their wife, but I’m not too proud to say so. Reckon I’d still be squinting at watchworks, scraping by, but for the missus.”
That sterling woman made her entrance just then. Michael might have stared if he were not a gentleman. She was so similar in appearance to Mr. Osgood, it was uncanny. Her face was flushed, undoubtedly from the heat of the kitchen, her nose ended with a slight bulb, and her gray eyes sparkled with good cheer. The Osgoods were like bookends. She curtsied before him. “Your Grace, ‘tis an honor to have you visit with us, and your beautiful bride. Is there aught we might do to make Her Grace more comfortable?”
“I think not, thank you, Mrs. Osgood. She’s quite replete after sampling your fine cooking.”
The woman looked happy enough to begin clapping her hands. “Your Grace is too kind. I’m so pleased your duchess enjoyed my simple fare.”
“Oft times, simple is what’s wanted and needed, ma’am, and we much enjoyed it.”
“Oh, thank you! And please, express to Her Grace my felicitations on her marriage to such a fine gentleman.”
“I will do that, Mrs. Osgood.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Perhaps I’d best return and see to her.”
They exchanged a glance and beamed at him. “You’ve only to ring should you need anything at all, Your Grace.”
He decided they knew exactly what was to transpire in the room in the corner. He returned their smile and nodded his head before he turned for the stairs. Shouldn’t he feel some measure of discomfiture? Oddly, he did not. Even Mrs. Osgood’s giggle, quickly shushed by her husband, didn’t irk him in the slightest. On the contrary, he was grinning as he made his way down the hallway. He rapped once and opened the door when he heard her call out.
She was in bed. Naked. Looking at him boldly.
His grin remained.
“Your Grace is happy?”
“His Grace is supremel
y happy.” He strode to the bed, discarding his clothing as he went. “And I suspect His Grace is about to be even happier.”
“You mustn’t overset yourself.”
“Never fear, madam wife.” He bent his knee to the bed and stretched out beside her, reaching for her in the same movement, pulling her on top of him, plunging his hands into her hair to hold her head whilst he kissed her deeply. “You will not be afraid. You will touch me as I touch you. You will enjoy this.”
“Ducal edicts?”
“Leave the duke out of it. This is your husband speaking.”
She ducked her head and rolled away to the opposite side of the bed.
“Where are you going?”
“Just over here to see if you will follow.”
He turned until he was flush against her, snaking his arms around her to haul her close. “I will always follow, Jane.” Ah, she was light and life in his arms, and looking that much more at ease. His hope grew and he held her to his breast most tenderly. Her hair was soft and clean, her face freshly washed, her scent in the air. Lemons and female, with a dash of horse. A heady combination, and one he wouldn’t forget. He kissed her then, gently, carefully. Her lips were supple and soft beneath his. He stifled a groan when she slipped her tongue against his mouth, seeking entrance.
In what remained of rational thought, it occurred to him he’d never spent a terribly long time merely kissing a woman. He did so now, finding a great deal of satisfaction in the process of wooing her with naught but his lips and a gentle hand upon her back. Her full, soft breasts pressed against his chest, but he made no move to touch them, all of his concentration remaining on her mouth, intrigued by the sheer eroticism of her feel and taste.
She sighed and he felt her relax more completely, her body molding to his with intimate trust. Michael was a bit overwhelmed, his determination to please her somehow melding with his desire for her, neither overriding the other, despite their seemingly disparate objectives. His was a nature of all-consuming passion, taking a woman with his ultimate satisfaction uppermost in his mind. Her fulfillment was important, but he suspected it was merely for his own gratification, to enhance the experience of lovemaking.
The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series) Page 16