The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)

by Stephanie Feagan

  She sighed into the dim bedchamber, staring up at the flickering shadows against the ceiling. Why would he not get on with it? She was so tired, after swimming, and then all the high drama and emotion of the remaining afternoon, then sitting through dinner, acting as though everything was well, that she was a blushing, happy bride.

  It had been torture. She’d even resented him his favorite meal, and crossly wished she’d had Cook serve up a hefty portion of smoked trout. She’d not have cared. She wasn’t able to do more than pick at her food anyway.

  He continued talking, his long, warm, hairy leg nestled intimately next to hers, his arms folded behind his head. “I’ve decided we should not begin slowly, Jane.”

  Alarmed, she stiffened further. “Begin? Begin what?”

  “Your reintroduction into society. A soiree or musicale is too tame by half. Let’s begin with a grand ball, and invite absolutely everyone, even wicked Aunt Reid. We’ll have it to honor Lucy and Sherbourne’s marriage.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.” Thank God. He’d only been speaking of a party. She could handle that with one hand tied behind her back.

  The other . . . Well, he was kidding himself if he thought she’d melt into a puddle when he reached for her. Fast, slow, or anywhere in between, she would hate it. She hated that she had to submit to him in any way at all. How long would it take to conceive?

  “I remember a ball from many years ago that had a nautical theme. I believe it would be intriguing to do something similar.” He went off about the idea, talking and talking about what manner of decoration they might employ, what they might serve, how they might dress to reflect the theme of water and sailing.

  After a time, he moved on to William, and what a lovely lad he was, and how proud Bonderant would be of him.

  Eventually, he worked his way into a discourse on Crofton’s crossbreds and the auction coming up in June, and how they would go to Newmarket together, make a trip of it and perhaps buy some cattle for the property in Cornwall, for the population was scarce, and they would go down and visit at summer’s end, and bathe in the sea, for she had never been, and she would like it, and on he went.

  Her eyes drifted closed without her realization and when they opened, it was just dawn, she was wrapped up in him and he was pressing soft, feathery kisses to her forehead. He was warm and solid and delicious. She forgot her usual insistence of rinsing her mouth and returned his kiss with tremendous passion. He was on top of her, sliding into her with a slow, insistent push before she came fully awake and remembered that she disliked him.

  “You promised,” he whispered when she stiffened beneath him. “You may dislike me in a little while, love, but for now, please do not.”

  She closed her eyes and said angrily, “Hurry up, then.”

  He didn’t hurry up. He made love to her body, to her lips, to her face, moving over her with tenderness and gentle but firm hands.

  She would have to literally be made of stone not to respond.

  Her climax only served to make her more angry. As soon as he was spent, she scrambled out from under him and leapt from the bed to rush for the dressing room.

  He followed, but didn’t say anything as rang for his valet. Instead, he smiled at her. Why did he have to be so handsome? Why did a smile change his face to make it even more handsome? Why did even his eyes have to smile at her, look at her as though she was simply wonderful?

  Within an hour, she was dressed and Rose had gone down to ask Clive to call for the carriage. She followed shortly and went into the dining room for coffee and a piece of toast. She’d only just buttered the crusty, warm bread when Blixford strolled in, smiling as he fixed his plate at the side board. She noted he was in dress clothes, not riding breeches, and she was alarmed. Did he intend to attend services with her? How could she tell him he was unwelcome? It was church, and surely no one, even a wife who disliked him, had the right to refuse him worship. She would instantly be sent to Hell, she was certain.

  When she was done with her toast, she rose from the table and walked out of the dining room, despite the fact he was in the midst of a small speech about the remainder of the day, that they should stop at the Red Lion Inn to say hallo to Mr. and Mrs. Osgood, and Lucy and Sherbourne were sure to enjoy that good lady’s victuals.

  She was just stepping into the carriage when he came out of the house and bounded up beside her, smiling still, as though the world pleased him enormously. “We’re in for another lovely day, it appears. It will make for good traveling, will it not?”

  She stared out the window and didn’t reply. What the devil was he about? Did he think he could wile his way back into her good graces, merely by being cheerful? If so, he had another think coming.

  He sang loudly during services and she was astonished. He’d not sung at all when they attended previously, but now, he sang as though he thought to call Abraham down from Heaven. That his rich baritone was truly lovely only served to increase her anger. She didn’t want to admire anything about him. He was a cad, a bounder, a terrible betrayer. A selfish autocrat.

  As the day progressed and they traveled back to London, he didn’t change his demeanor. She and Lucy rode in Lucy’s traveling coach while Blix and Sherbourne rode alongside, her husband astride Pendragon and her father riding the brown bay gelding, Morpheous, with William perched just in front of him. His own and Blixford’s traveling coaches came behind, carrying her and Lucy’s maids, Blix and Sherbourne’s valets, and William’s nurse, along with their trunks and bags. And young Harry, who’d decided to go up to London and begin his instruction in carpentry, under the tutelage of one of the best known cabinetmakers in all England. Blixford was to pay his way.

  How could he be so kind and generous, so warm and wonderful, yet be a bounder? It was grossly unfair, that’s what it was.

  The Osgoods remembered them well, and hovered about them as they dined right in front, in the public room because Blixford insisted it was such a lovely place, and he liked rubbing shoulders with the common man. Sure enough, he struck up a sheep conversation with a man seated at their long table, and before long, at least six men had gravitated into the lively discussion. Sherbourne was in the thick of it, as well, and by the time they were done with luncheon, he’d exacted a promise from one of the men to travel to Hornsby Grange and demonstrate his sheep shear invention. Blixford insisted he be allowed to observe and said he’d back the man if his claims proved true. Sherbourne declared they would be partners. Then Blix did something most unusual. He turned and indicated her, his wife. “You’d best be diligent in your demonstration, sir, for the duchess is difficult to impress. Quite the expert when it comes to sheep.”

  The man grinned at her and bobbed his head. “Reckon you’ll be impressed enough, Yer Grace. Ain’t nobody wot can shear ‘em sheep quick as ol’ Bob, and that’s a fact.”

  He was clearly very proud. She smiled and said easily, “I’ll look forward to it, sir. Your invention sounds most intriguing.”

  He beamed his pleasure and she’d swear he blushed.

  Then they were on their way again. While William napped in the seat opposite them, she and Lucy discussed the wedding, although it was to be a very small affair, as hers had been. They gossiped a bit and Jane caught up on the comings and goings of old friends in London for the Season. She asked about Lucy and Sherbourne’s wedding trip and was not terribly surprised when Lucy said they would wait until summer to take one. She didn’t want to leave William just yet, not until he was more comfortable in his new surroundings.

  They talked of many things, but they didn’t talk about Blixford, or the disaster that was their marriage. Jane thought Lucy wanted to talk about it, but wouldn’t be so rude to inquire. She waited for a cue, which Jane was careful not to give. What was done was done, and continuing to talk of it or wish it were different was pointless. Besides, why depress the dear woman on the eve of her own wedding?

  They arrived in London late in the afternoon and Sherbourne went off imm
ediately to obtain a special license before it was too late in the day. Lucy declared herself exhausted and cried off of dinner, asking if they’d mind terribly if she dined in her room and made an early night of it?

  Of course they did not, and within minutes of arriving at the house in Cavendish Square, she and Blixford were alone.

  He was still smiling. He had done so all day. She had the low desire to slap him and demand he stop being so bloody cheerful. Their marriage, for all intents and purposes, was over. How dare he go about smiling as though all was right with his world?

  She was introduced to the household staff, a veritable army, all under the direction of a very proper butler called Peatrie. Finally, she was able to go to her bedchamber and freshen up, wash her face, answer nature’s call, and change into a clean gown. Afterward, she met with the housekeeper, Mrs. Humphries, and discussed what they would serve for Lucy’s wedding breakfast. She asked that smoked trout be the highlighted offering.

  Dinner was long and boring, with her at one end of the table and Blixford at the other, a mile away, it seemed. All the better, she thought. She’d scarcely risen and left him to his port before he was in the drawing room with her, cozying up beside her upon the sofa to read a sheaf of papers he said was a manuscript Mr. Pipkin wanted him to peruse. She attempted to read an already published book, but he constantly interrupted, laughing and reading passages from the manuscript. She finally gave up on her own story and set it aside to listen as he continued to read aloud.

  Peatrie eventually brought the tea cart and she poured while Blix read. She absolutely couldn’t help smiling at some of the passages. It appeared Mr. Pipkin had indeed found a new prodigy authoress. She was a young lady from Yorkshire whose story was an honest, slightly painful look at the sometimes ridiculous strictures of the ton, of the elaborate rituals of the upper crust of English society.

  She dropped her spoon and when she bent to retrieve it, spied something purple beneath the sofa. Reaching for it, she withdrew a long ostrich plume, dyed a most awful shade of purple. Her memory flashed a story Robert had relayed to her in a letter, of one of Sherbourne’s practical jokes that had to do with Wrotham being a stick and Sherbourne dressing as a matron in full purple regalia. He gave no details, so she suspected it had to do with lightskirts, probably that Wrotham was involved with one, or some such. She’d wished she had seen Sherbourne, and had laughed merely at the thought of him dressed as a matron.

  “What have you got there?” her husband asked curiously.

  She waved it about. “I believe this belongs to Mrs. Sherry’s turban.” Briefly, she told him the story, then watched as realization dawned on his face. He quickly resumed reading, but when Peatrie returned to inquire if they needed anything, he asked, “Did Mrs. Sherry pay a visit to my sister while I was gone?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, she did.” His brows lifted slightly. “She’s quite a large lady, with bad knees. I believe Lady Bonderant was happy to receive her, however, and they spent a good amount of time in her bedchamber, having a nice coze. Mrs. Sherry was delighted to take home some dress patterns for her daughter, Imogene.”

  Blix shot her a glance before nodding thoughtfully toward the butler. “Very good, Peatrie. Thank you. We’ve discovered a part of Mrs. Sherry’s headpiece here beneath the sofa. I wonder if you’d be so good as to have it delivered to her, with my compliments for attending my sister in my absence? I believe she’s staying in Grosvenor Square with the Earl of Sherbourne.”

  “I’ll do so immediately, Your Grace.” Peatrie made his way toward Jane and took the plume before bowing himself out.

  When the drawing room door closed, Jane blinked at her husband. “I’d not have thought it of you, Blixford. A practical joke?”

  He shrugged as he looked back to the manuscript, but not before she caught the distinct twinkle of devilment in his eyes. “Shall I continue?”

  “I suppose,” she said, trying not to sound too interested, even though she was dying to know how Miss Engstrom would manage to get Mr. Donovan to come up to scratch, or how her sister, Lucinda, would fare during her first country dance, or, in fact, how Mr. Tenwhistle might manage to convince his uncle, the marquess, to fund his exploratory trip to the continent of Africa.

  The hour grew late by the time he was finished. He looked up and asked, “What say you? Shall we publish Miss G.’s manuscript?”

  “Of course. It’s delightful.” She rose from the sofa and almost, almost thanked him for reading it to her.

  But she did not.

  She went upstairs and made ready for bed, then climbed in and awaited him. He wasn’t long opening the door from her dressing room, which connected to his, and his bedchamber beyond. He strode in, completely naked, his shaft already partially erect.

  Good. He would do the deed and be gone quickly.

  He was still smiling. Surely his face would crack if he kept it up much longer.

  Moving next to the bed, he hauled her to a sit and quickly discarded her night rail, despite her protests. “I want you naked,” he said simply as he slid in beside her and drew her near to hold her close and kiss her, apparently unconcerned with her total lack of response and the absence of any limberness in her body. She was as a plank of wood. It took a great amount of concentration to remain so. He was determined not to be fair at all, not to honor her request that he be done with his conjugal duties as swiftly as possible.

  No, instead he moved his mouth across her skin, very slowly, lingering at her breasts before he moved on to the apex of her thighs. He spread them apart and kissed her there, before he opened his mouth and licked her. She closed her eyes and thought about sheep. She thought of the book she’d been reading.

  He began to suck her essence, the sounds he made reverberating about the room, making her even more aware of what he was doing. She almost moaned when he slid a finger inside of her. She bit her lip and concentrated on moving her thoughts far away. Tomorrow, she would go over the household with Mrs. Humphries, make a list of linens and dishes and . . . oh, dear God, now he was loving her with his tongue, mimicking his finger, which had reemployed itself by rubbing firm circles around her nipple, coaxing it into a hard peak.

  “Do get on with it, Your Grace.” She’d intended to sound cold and imperious. Instead, she sounded deliriously breathless and needy. She may as well have said, Please, for the love of God, come into me, right this instant, because I can’t wait another moment! He might be a cad, but he was very smart, for he wisely made no comment as he moved back up her body. He paid particular attention to her breasts, making her shiver, before he crouched above her and slowly, deliberately pushed inside of her.

  She waited for him to move.

  He did not.

  She waited a while longer.

  He remained still, poised above her, resting most of the weight of his upper body along his forearms, his belly against hers, his thighs against the mattress, nestled within hers. He stared down at her, mere inches between their faces. Then she felt it. He jumped within her. He did it again. It was intensely erotic, both of them so still, it was impossible not to focus on where they were joined, at the length and heat of him buried within her body, jumping. How did he do that? Why did she enjoy it so much? Bloody hell.

  At long last, he began to move, slowly at first, increasing his rhythm as he went along, then suddenly, with no warning at all, he withdrew and moved to the bed beside her, turned her to face away from him and slid up into her from behind, spooning her body against his, one arm around her, his hand massaging her breasts, the other hand holding her leg up that he could have access to her center as he pounded into her.

  Against her will, she climaxed. It was like a slap to her pride that she didn’t simply reach orgasm –she fairly came off the bed, and let out a short, tight scream of surprise and euphoric pleasure.

  Again, he didn’t say a word, but kept her there, next to him, while he stroked again and again, until at last, he completed with a deep, happy groan.

>   She immediately tried to move away from him, but his arm was a vice lock about her, holding her still. “Stay, Jane, just a while, just until I am not hard any longer.”

  Relaxing against him, his shaft still buried in her body, she waited and waited, and didn’t realize when her eyes drifted shut.

  When they opened, it was dawn, she was wrapped up in his arms, their legs tangled together, and he was there, as he’d been the previous morning, pressing soft kisses to her forehead. Unlike before, she was aware of the circumstances, remembered that she disliked him. But she was also aware he wouldn’t let her get up until he’d had his way, until he’d found an ease for the throbbing erection she felt against her belly. He wouldn’t allow her to lie still and stiff and unresponsive, and she hated that she had not enough discipline to resist him. Once again, he moved over her and brought her to climax, and afterward, instead of scurrying from the bed, she rolled away, dejected that this was not going as she’d planned, not at all, and promptly went back to sleep.

  Incredibly, when she awoke, he was there, yet again, his groin against her bottom, his cock slipping between her thighs, still slick with his seed from before. He knew she was awake, and his lips moved close to her ear to whisper, “There is nothing in all the world so beautiful as you when you come for me, Jane.” He moved against her, his member there, between her legs, sliding back and forth along the slickness he’d left behind an hour ago. “I’m all over you, as you’re all over me, and just the scent of us, together, is enough to make me want you again.” He moved away and rolled her over, to her back, then stacked all of the bed pillows beneath her head and shoulders. Rising to his knees, he moved between her legs and sat on his heels before reaching for her feet and placing them flat upon the mattress, just next to his thickly muscled thighs. He lifted her hips and moved beneath her, positioned himself, watched her face as he filled her. She was not sitting up, but the pillows had raised her enough that she could see them, could watch what he did to her.