The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)

by Stephanie Feagan

  In the corner bedchamber of the Red Lion Inn, he wanted to be selfless, to lead Jane back to where she began, unschooled, but eager. In the process, he discovered certain truths about his own need and was a trifle astounded. As he progressed in his effort to coax her passion to the fore, he found his own desire increased ten-fold. Had he ever wanted a woman this much? He didn’t think so. And yet, he was in no hurry to seek release, finding that he enjoyed what he ordinarily considered something of a chore.

  Far from work, moving his hands across her soft, silky skin, touching her everywhere, returning to her lips again and again for deep, passionate kisses, served to inflame him with a slow burn that was as intriguing as it was gratifying. He shook with it, and when she looked into his eyes, her lids heavy with desire, and whispered, “Now, Michael. I’m ready,” he wondered that he’d ever considered himself learned of women. He was as unschooled as she, it seemed.

  Raising up, he got to his knees and moved on the bed, placing her feet flat upon the mattress, alongside his thighs. Reaching beneath her, he lifted her hips and positioned himself there, just at her curls. Jane was beautiful, everywhere. He drew his gaze up and met her eyes. She was still afraid, but willing to brave it out. “You will tell me to stop if you’re in discomfort.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can do that?”

  His smile was wry. “I can do whatever you wish.” With his eyes remaining on hers, he pushed inside of her with a languid stroke, without hesitation, but also without hurry.

  Her eyes widened further and her pretty lips formed a round ‘O’ of surprise. “I’d not thought it possible.”

  He moved his hand to where they were joined and pressed firm, rhythmic strokes against her soft, wet heat as he slowly withdrew and returned as gently as he began. He shook with need, with the insistent, instinctive urge to plunder her with abandon, but he determinedly shoved it aside and continued to make slow love to her, in and out, easily, unhurriedly, watching her face, fascinated by her constantly changing expressions; surprised, anxious, relieved, surprised again, concentrating, puzzled, and then she looked . . . pleased. Her lips curved into a slow, seductive smile.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured, watching him.

  “Yes.” He was strangely unwilling to finish, to interrupt the moment. He felt as though he knew her thoughts, was inside of her in more ways than one. His fingers remained within her softness, constantly stroking, and he knew she was close to release, could feel her muscles working around his shaft with every slow thrust.

  “I wonder . . . ” She began, blushing before she finished the thought.

  “What do you wonder, Jane?”

  “Am I to . . . wait? It’s becoming difficult to do so, but I’m not sure what you want.”

  The need inside of him increased exponentially and threatened to take him over. Exultant, as pleased for Jane as he was for himself, he moved his hand away and shifted position, stretching above her without withdrawing, resting his weight along his forearms until his body was flush with hers. “Do not wait,” he whispered as he kissed her. “Give over, Jane. Let yourself go.”

  Her legs wrapped around his hips and he allowed the beast to consume him, increasing the speed of his thrusts until she panted short, gasping breaths, her body shook beneath him, and her muscles contracted around him. Scarce moments later, he shuddered and poured into her, ending with a glad sigh.

  He’d barely caught his breath before she was raining sweet kisses across his face. “Thank you . . . oh, thank you! What a remarkable man you are, and how fortunate I am.”

  “Ah, Jane, you’re not nearly so fortunate as I.” He returned her kisses, well aware his weight must be pressing the air from her lungs but not ready to move away. Not yet.

  “Is this something we’ll do again soon?”

  He listened for a strain of fear, for any sign of hesitation or dread. He didn’t hear it. All he heard was curiosity, perhaps tinged with a certain eagerness. He wanted to laugh and shout his satisfaction. Instead, he kissed her again before he rolled off of her, dragging her with him to tuck next to his side, throwing a possessive leg across hers. “I daresay we’ll most definitely do this again, very soon.”

  She yawned and settled against him, mumbling something about waking her when he was ready before she drifted off to sleep. He recalled she’d said she had a fairly sleepless night, fretting about whether to tell him her secret. How much it must have taken for her to meet him this morning and reveal something that clearly caused her great grief and consternation.

  Not for a moment had he considered withdrawing. He was set on marrying her, and by God, it was done. She was his wife now, as she should have been four years ago.

  Lying there, holding her soft body close to his, listening to her deep, rhythmic breaths, he was well aware the danger of falling in love with her was as great, if not perhaps greater, than it had been four years ago. All the reasons he’d had then for resisting her were alive and well.

  He would resist. He would not contemplate otherwise. He didn’t doubt he would grieve if she died, but he would soldier on. Without love, he could bury her and retain his peace of mind.

  Without love, he could calmly, rationally bear witness to the attentions of other men, which was inevitable because where there was a woman of Jane’s beauty and vitality, there were men who paid homage. He would not allow himself to feel threatened. She pledged to be faithful and he had no reason to disbelieve her.

  He gathered her closer. She stirred and tightened her arm about his middle. “So drowsy . . . so sorry. Perhaps you might catch a wink yourself?”

  He recalled he hadn’t had a particularly restful night either. His valet had awoken him while it was still dark to deliver Jane’s urgent note to meet her in Rotten Row at first light. Odd to think it was only that morning. It seemed days past.

  The scent of lemons and sex curled about his nostrils. Lovely. He sighed, relaxed and closed his eyes, unaware when he faded into slumber.

  Chapter 9

  Not far from the Red Lion Inn, they had turned off of the Dover road and onto a country lane that wound its way through fields of newly sprouted barley and wheat just beginning to thrive in the warmth of spring. Occasional copses of trees along the way provided welcome shade as they passed beneath. Jane took notice of everything, finding delight in the journey, in the day, in all that had transpired.

  She also found herself prone to shyness, a discovery she faced with astonishment. Each time she recalled the afternoon, she blushed anew and paid particular notice to what lay to her right, keeping her face averted from him, trying to hide her immature bashfulness. He would surely admonish her, and why not? Good heavens, it was preposterous, this funny feeling of shyness after all they had done.

  But fully clothed, in the bright light of outdoors, it was easy to forget the intimacy they shared and not focus on her shocking behavior. She had awakened to find him asleep, his face in repose very peaceful and handsome. Such a feeling of affection and attraction had bubbled up within, she shamelessly moved atop his slumbering body to caress and kiss him boldly, until he awoke and made love to her all over again. It had been the same, yet very different. He’d been more aggressive, more powerful, moving her body with authoritative control, bringing her to the peak of passion until she was limp with exertion.

  It was incredible.

  He was incredible, her path to redemption in the eyes of society, but also, unexpectedly, the way to healing the hurt she’d carried with her since that afternoon in Cousin Elizabeth’s pavilion. What a grand gesture it was of him to insist she tell him all, to listen and comprehend the abject misery she endured. He did, she was certain, and sought to alleviate her fear through gentle wooing and a patient hand.

  Her instincts had been right. The Duke of Blixford was a man of vast complication, deep emotion, and strong character. He was not at all a stick.

  How easy it would be to fall wildly in love with him. She suspected she would, despite the rationale behind not a
llowing it and her best intentions. It would take a very long time, if ever, to bring him round to love her. He would resist vehemently, according to Lucy, who knew him as no other. The years and his experiences appeared to have mellowed him considerably and lessened his strict demand for proper, ladylike behavior. He had raced her in Rotten Row, something he’d never have done four years ago. But he remained guarded in his affection and she didn’t doubt that loving him would bring her much pain.

  Much better to hold him in high regard, enjoy his company, and his bed, and live her life earnestly and helpfully. What did it matter if he loved her to distraction? Or if she lived and died by his love? Love was a fickle emotion, even at best. Theirs would be a marriage of mutual respect and friendship, bound by law and what transpired in their bed.

  “You’re very thoughtful, Jane.”

  “Yes, I was wondering what crops you grow at Beckinsale House, and if you might take me about to see the fields. I do so love to look at them. It’s terribly elemental, growing things that will clothe and sustain people.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “It’s also quite nice to earn money from them, but I shouldn’t say so and point out my more mercenary character. You’ll think me avaricious.”

  “I don’t find the prospect of earning money to be avaricious. In fact, I’m rather keen on the pursuit of income, from all sources.”

  “Tell me about your investments.”

  He did so, though not in great detail. There were several captains whose shipping ventures he supported, along with a conglomerate of other gentlemen. He was also invested in a woolen mill in York, a steel smelt in Manchester, and a coal mine in Wales. Perhaps most interesting, he dabbled a bit in the literary world, funding a small publisher in London. “Mr. Pipkin is slowly gaining some notoriety, though earnings are still not close to balanced with expenses. It’s more of a hobby or an interest than a real investment. I suspect it will never earn anything, but continue to be a black pit of lost funds.”

  “How noble of you to support the literati, Blixford. Are you something of a bibliophile, then?”

  He looked at her and raised one brow. “Something of the sort. You’d be interested to know that you perused one of the first books we published.”

  “Oh?” She should have known by the gleam in his eye, but she did not.

  “Mr. Paisley’s discourse about Australian aboriginal tribes is a Chase East publication. In fact, I’ve met Mr. Paisley and discussed his travels at length. I was asked my opinion as to which etchings should be included in the volume. Tell me, do you concur with my selections?”

  She stared at him a moment, attempting to determine if he was in jest. He was not. Jerking her head round, she looked straight ahead and bit her lip.

  “What? No opinion, Jane? And I’d thought you held such a fascination with the subject.”

  “Incorrigible! You should be ashamed, leading me on like that.”

  “I’m not at all ashamed, ma’am. I’m still awaiting an answer, by the way.”

  Determined not to laugh, for surely he would be wounded by it, she managed to say in an even voice, “Excellent choices, Blixford, though perhaps redundant. I believe several of the etchings were much like the others. Perhaps a bit of variety might have been called for?”

  “Interesting observation, one I’d not considered.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because each etching represents varying elements of daily life amongst the aborigines. Hunting, building shelters, preparing food, cultivating crops.” He appeared to be pondering her comment with serious consideration. “The particular tribe Mr. Paisley lived among for almost a year is somewhat unique in that they rarely don garments of any kind. He considered adding some manner of loincloth, but I assured him he should remain true to the reality of their world, for surely no reader would solely focus on the nudity, but would, instead, study the etchings for their visual description of daily life amongst the tribe.”

  Jane cast him a chilling look. “Oh, do cut line, Blixford. Come right out and accuse me of being a naughty brat for ogling etchings of naked men, failing to distinguish the actual portrayal and merely seeing what I wished to see. I’ll simply plead curiosity and you’ll have a good chuckle at my expense. Let us skip through all of that and move on to the chuckle, shall we?”

  He didn’t chuckle. He laughed right out loud.

  “Are you quite finished?”

  “Not . . . quite.” He laughed again.

  “Horrible man.” His laugh was deep, rolling and marvelous.

  He nudged Pendragon close and leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “If I live to be very old, I’ll never forget just how you looked when you turned away from that bookshelf and saw me there. If you were the type who swoons, you’d have crumpled into a heap upon the floor.”

  “I tried to make an escape, which you didn’t allow.”

  “True. I was compelled to keep you there, to see how you might bluster your way out of such a mortifying situation.”

  “It was most unsporting of you to approach me with the sketch of the nude man. By the by, who do you suppose drew him?”

  He remained close until Grendel turned her head and nipped at Pendragon, who danced away from her teeth. Blixford allowed it, casting a look at the mare. “She’s not fond of him, is she?”

  “She’s still humiliated by this morning’s loss and won’t forgive him until she’s able to best him.” It was a silly notion, of course, but she didn’t like to admit Grendel had less than a sweet nature. The mare sometimes had a nasty disposition.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “Tomorrow, for certain.” She looked ahead again. “You were going to tell me the name of Mr. Charcoal’s creator.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m certain it was Lucy. She’s an artist, though she doesn’t display her work.”

  “Because her subjects are nude men?”

  “Her oils are usually pastoral scenes, devoid of humans, nude or otherwise. I briefly considered why she might have drawn the charcoal man, though truthfully, owing to her situation as my sister, the consideration was very brief.” He looked askance at her. “It’s a distinction of male relatives to harbor the fantasy of their female relatives’ enduring innocence.”

  “This despite your sister’s marriage and subsequent son?”

  “As I say, it’s a fantasy, not subject to the strictures of reality. To imagine the end of one’s sister’s innocence is unsettling.”

  Jane found it amusing, but didn’t say so. He appeared to be in earnest. “Then I suppose, even were I to present you with an entire brood, my brothers would continue to believe me virginal.”

  “I didn’t pretend the notion held a whit of logic, Jane. It’s not so much the concept of a sister or daughter retaining her virginity as the avoidance of imagining her in the throes of passion with a man.”

  “How very curious. Why would one imagine such a thing?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “It’s surely not done with forethought. I daresay all men have a tendency to vivid imaginations where women are concerned. It’s only when the image is their female relative, a woman obviously to be cherished and loved in the purest sense, that the imagination shies away.”

  She gazed ahead, her curiosity awakened. “Do you have a vivid imagination, Blixford?”

  “I would answer truthfully, except I know the logical question to follow, and I’ve no desire to answer it.”

  “Why-ever not? Are you embarrassed?”

  “No.” He moved Pendragon close, once again. “I suspect, were you to learn the truth, you’d find great sport in attempting to read my mind. Not to mention, I’d prefer you retain an impression of me as a serious man of responsibility, respectability, and consequence.”

  Turning to meet his gaze full on, she saw that he was not in jest, but very solemn. “No one is all of one thing or the other, though we are each of us prone to certain characteristics which dominate. I assure you, I’ll never find
you anything but what you are, which is a man of honor and integrity who sometimes ferociously guards himself from those who would come too close.” She watched his face, noting his expression didn’t change. “So you see, answering my question is not likely to result in my attempting to read your thoughts, or to reconsider my impression of you.”

  His voice lowered to a deep timbre, almost husky and gruff. “Very well then, wife, I will tell you, I do indeed have a tremendous imagination, my mental pictures generated in great detail.”

  “As you predicted, I really must ask the nature of your imaginings.”

  His gaze remained on hers. “You may be disappointed to know they aren’t what you would consider romantic. I imagine neither conversation nor convention. It is, after all, the nature of our imaginations to run free and unhindered from censure. All things which are improbable in reality are entirely possible in one’s imagination.”

  “Am I to assume your imaginings are of a sexual nature?”

  “Not entirely, of course, but I’d guess ‘tis true with far greater frequency than yours might be.”

  She looked ahead. “How very arrogant of you to assume you know what my imagination might hold.”

  “Perhaps. Tell me, Jane, what did you imagine at Lucy’s house party?”

  Turning, she gave him a steady look, then focused on his mouth. “I imagined what it would feel like were you to kiss me.” Her gaze moved to his hand, loosely grasping Pendragon’s reins. “I was intrigued with your hands, because they are so large and well formed, and I imagined how they might hold me about the waist while you kissed me.” She looked to his eyes again, noticing they were darker, and he appeared intensely alert. “I confess, after the incident in the library, my imagination was much enhanced by experience, and I embellished the memory with alternate conclusions as the years passed.” She turned to face forward once again. “After MacDougal, despite his brutality and hostility, I suppose I had a better understanding of things and I weaved all manner of imaginings around how it might have been with you.”