The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)

by Stephanie Feagan

  She shouldn’t look. It was too erotic, too stimulating. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, to not look again, she managed to whisper, “I dislike you more and more.” To her dismay, it came out as though she said, I’m mad about you, deeply in love with you, can never live without you.

  Evidently unconcerned that she disliked him more and more, he smiled slowly and continued to stroke her, his gaze moving between them, along with his warm fingers, drawing her eyes to follow. This time, she couldn’t look away, was mesmerized and fascinated enough to temporarily forget that she disliked him, that she was furious with him, that she didn’t want to speak to him.

  “Ah, love, I’ve come to know your body, to know when you are close . . . so close. This is a gift you give me, each and every time. I’m in awe, truly.”

  “If I could stop . . . I would.” She was panting, trying hard to hold back, to not give in, to not give him anything, most especially a gift.

  His smile never faltered, and neither did his body, or his fingers. “But you can’t stop, can you, love? You were born with a passionate, hungry soul, and starving it would be cruel. Surely you wouldn’t deny your very soul?”

  It didn’t make sense on any rational, logical level that the sight of his thick, hard cock sliding into her curls could be this intensely exciting, but it was. Amazingly so. He was beautiful, from the top of his silky, dark haired head, to his handsome, strong face, to his broad, masculine chest, to his flat belly, to the long length of his member, which could bring her such tremendous gratification. It was unfair. She could so much more easily despise him if he were stooped, corpulent, and ugly, with a wart upon his nose and a failing penis, unable to rise to the occasion. Instead, he was masculine beauty and raw power and smoldering sexuality, irresistible to her.

  He was also dead on the money about her. Despite her pathetic attempt to hold out, to get up from the bed without giving him what he wanted, she stepped close to the edge of reason and leapt, her body soaring with undeniable, indescribable bliss.

  His expression became almost fierce as his smile suddenly and swiftly disappeared. He rose to his knees, lifted her legs to rest against his shoulders, and his slow, languid strokes became hard, violent thrusts. She was falling from her peak, gasping for breath as though she’d run a great distance, but the look on his face, possessive and concentrated with desire, coupled with the movement of his body in hers and the sound of their skin coming together, again and again and again, brought her back to the edge. She knew, with but a bit of strong stimulation, she would go off again, and she wanted to, oh how she wanted to. A second time, just after the first, would be incredible, wouldn’t it? She had to know, demanded he give it to her.

  Without consciously thinking about it, she began to urge him on, to beg, to plead, to insist. “Please, Michael, don’t slow down! I want . . . faster! Yes, hard like that! Harder!” Her body writhed upon the sheets, desperate for release again, out of her control, far away from her will, which she’d left behind many moments ago. She met his eyes and could see he was close. If he went before she did, this would be lost, and she would die of need, surely she would. “No, not yet! Please, please wait for me! Oh, God, make me come . . . now . . . do it now!”

  His fingers curled around her ankles and pushed until her legs bent at the knees. He pressed them against her breasts, until she was curled in upon herself, leaving her bottom and her core completely open and vulnerable. He moved closer, his thighs surrounding her. His thrusts slowed, but she could feel each one that much more intensely, moaned when he touched her womb, he was so very long, stretched and ready. “Now, Jane, it’s almost time, you’re almost there, and I’m waiting. I’m patient and would wait forever, but don’t make me. Come for me, love, gift me again, quickly, for I’m out of my mind with wanting you.”

  She reached for his hands, clutching her ankles, and held tight as every drop of blood within her body caught fire and screamed through her, until she was sweating and shaking uncontrollably. Her head went back, digging into the pillows, her throat stretched taut, making her voice sound foreign and strange to her ears when she shouted in mad, delirious glee. It was glorious. It was like the first, but a thousand times more intense. Exhausting. Incredible.

  Perhaps it was so marvelous because he met her at the top, and for the first time since they married, he expressed a loud cry, almost a shout. His big body went rigid and she felt him, deep inside, pulsing and plentiful.

  When it was over –and it seemed to take a very long time for it to be over, each of them panting and perspiring and staring at the other with looks that didn’t speak of a ruined marriage –and as they drifted back to earth, he said in a raw, shaking voice, “You’re mine, Jane, will always be mine, and no force of your will, or your anger, or your dislike of me will keep me away from you. I’d not cause you distress within yourself, always fighting to resist this, so I’m telling you, straight out, you can give up and feel safe in the knowledge that it is I who makes you succumb, not a weak will. To speak plainly, you have no choice. I’ll not love a board, and will always do whatever I must to coax your desire from where you would hide it.”

  She wetted her lips, as they were incredibly dry. “Why?”

  He stayed there, on his knees, still inside of her, still partially hard, and said roughly, “Because I want you. I need you. I desire you and no other. I will not take a mistress, will not lay with another woman. Even if you become pregnant, Jane, I will ask this of you –nay demand it. Even if you give me ten sons, and feel your duty has been done, I will not be able to leave you alone. Ever.”

  Staring up at him, she could think of no argument, no way to persuade him. It appeared she would not have a loving husband, but she would have a lusty one.

  For the first time since she’d overheard his words to her father and realized how horribly he’d betrayed her, she wished he would apologize. She’d not thought it would do any good, but of a sudden, she wanted him to say he was sorry, to admit he was wrong, to ask forgiveness. She looked up at his determined expression and sighed, knowing he never would. He was too caught up in his own pride, his need to be right. A true aristocratic autocrat. He would never be sorry because he could never allow himself to be wrong.

  Chapter 14

  Several hours later, Michael stood with Jane on the front steps of the London house and waved goodbye to Lucy and Sherbourne and young William as their carriage drove away, headed for Sherbourne’s house in Grosvenor Square. Jane’s brothers had recently taken their leave as well. Michael had not asked the newlyweds’ plans for the day, but William volunteered that they were to go to the park, where he would practice his archery, and afterward, they would go for an ice at Gunther’s. Michael thought it sounded grand, and decided he and Jane would take their son to the park to practice archery, and take him for an ice at Gunther’s afterward.

  Just as soon as they had a son.

  His father-in-law had pressed a note into his hand as he left and Michael glanced down at it, curious. Turning back to the house, he stepped inside and as Peatrie closed the door, he broke the seal and read Sherbourne’s strong, elegant script. The note indicated poor Mrs. Sherry had expired the moment she heard he was to marry Lucy, that the dear lady felt her existence was no longer required. He would not mourn, he said, because he wasn’t overly fond of her, but sweet Lucy had taken quite a liking to her, said she would always remember their lovely coze. He went on to suggest that Michael take a cue from dear Mrs. Sherry, for she well knew, surprise and spontaneous delights were easily accomplished, and irresistible to women. The ending of the note was of a serious nature. He expressed gratitude for his blessing of Lucy’s marriage, his friendship, and his patience with Jane. Then he reminded him of haylofts and harridans and nasty, mean goats, and urged him to be sincere, that the taste of a wife’s love and esteem was far more pleasing than a dish of pride. He’d given it up years ago, and didn’t miss it in the least.

  He tucked the note into his coat pocket and went in
search of his wife, who’d taken off to parts unknown as soon as they came back inside. He found her in the kitchen, conferring with Cook about dinner. He excused her, drew her aside and said in a low voice, “I’ve an errand to run, but will be back for luncheon. Afterward, I believe we should make our calls, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calmly. “If you continue to address me in that manner, I’ll insist you practice at the pianoforte two hours, each day.”

  “Yes, Your . . . Blixford.”

  Turning to leave, he spied the leftover smoked trout and turned back around. “By the by, the cat was most pleased with your selections for the wedding breakfast. Regrettably, we will soon be overrun with rodents, as he is now too fat and lazy to catch them. Might I suggest we not serve smoked trout again anytime soon?”

  He swore her eyes were laughing, but her voice was sober when she repeated, “Yes, Your . . . Blixford.”

  He left then and went about his errand as quickly as possible, but it took much more time than he anticipated, and by the time he returned home, she’d already had lunch and was cooling her heels in the drawing room, pacing about, clearly anxious and nervous about the calls. He realized she was afraid of her reception, that perhaps people wouldn’t receive her, despite her marriage to him. Deciding not to reassure her, because it would necessarily point out that he was aware of her anxiety and she would hate that, he instead asked if she would ring for tea, and have some mince pie brought up along with it. He was very hungry, having not eaten much breakfast, and missing luncheon. He was feeling a bit out of sorts, but after a cup of tea and the pie, he was in a better frame of mind, ready to go out.

  She looked very fetching in a walking gown the color of peaches, with long sleeves and a trim of dark orange about the waist. Her bonnet was simple, but elegant, and she carried a matching reticule, into which she placed the cards he’d ordered for her before they left London. He’d had an odd, very sentimental moment when he went round to the print shop to collect the cards. Seeing her name there, coupled with his, made it all seem much more permanent, and it pleased him.

  As they left the house in the curricle, he considered his course of action and toyed with a number of ideas, but he couldn’t determine which would ensure the desired result.

  He’d thought of Sherbourne and Lucy’s advice, many times, for lengthy periods, but it didn’t fit, wouldn’t work. His and Jane’s marriage wasn’t ordinary, and to bow at her feet, admit he was wrong, humbly apologize, and declare undying love for her, no matter how sincere he might be, would not make the lasting impression he needed. Within a month, some other dilemma was bound to crawl from the wainscot, and they would be at loggerheads, yet again. He was tired of drama, of worry and anxiety and unhappiness. He was not intended to be gloomy, surely. There was a time when he rather looked forward to things, anticipated the day when he rose of a morning.

  Not until Jane came to live with him did he remember those days, and long for them. Perhaps because waking up beside her filled him with hope and eager anticipation of what the day might bring. Even now, with her wishing him to the devil, he loved reaching for her warm, soft body in the chill of early dawn, dozing with her wrapped around him, slowly waking with quiet desire.

  Soon, very soon, she wouldn’t wish him to the devil. She would look at him as she did before, as though she expected the sun to rise and set in him. He’d become accustomed to it in a very short time, and now that it was gone, he missed it dreadfully. That he loved her had not been such a startling revelation, but the realization that he could, that he might want to die if he lost her, but would not go mad after all, was certainly amazing.

  It changed everything. He was simply unsure how to go about telling her, how to set things back to rights. He continued to think about it, confident he would come up with something.

  They decided to call on the Marchioness of Bloomsbury first. As she was undoubtedly the staunchest, most persnickety of all society matrons, a stalwart guard of the respectability of the ton, passing muster with the old battle-axe would be a clear indication of their reception in other homes.

  Jane was brave and held herself as a duchess, the slight tremor of her hand upon his arm as they climbed the steps of the Bloomsbury house the only indication of her anxiety. He patted her hand and smiled down at her before he lifted the knocker. “You are very beautiful. Is this a new gown?”

  “Actually, no, it’s from several years ago.”

  “We will go to the modiste and order some new frocks if you like.”

  For the moment, while she was afraid and nervous, she forgot to dislike him. Her smile was tremulous, her blue eyes wide, her fingers tightening against his arm. “Yes, Blix, that would be lovely, thank you. I really should update, I suppose, especially if we are to attend any social engagements. Oh! Here is the butler . . . oh, my.” She grew an inch, straightening her back as they were waved into the front hall.

  He presented his card and said in his best aristocratic, imperious tone, “The Duke and Duchess of Blixford, to call upon Lady Bloomsbury.”

  They were shown into a small parlor to the east side of the hall, and asked to wait while the butler went to see if the marchioness was in.

  Jane remained on his arm while he glanced at his watch. Even if they were received, it might be accounted for as a mere courtesy to him. The true test was a matter of time. The longer they were made to wait before being escorted to the drawing room, the less they were deemed acceptable.

  Minutes crawled by and with every one, his wife’s eyes widened a bit further.

  After ten minutes, she was pale and shaky. “Please,” she whispered, “can we go?”

  “Not until we’ve been told she’s not in.” She was mortified. He was livid with rage. What went on here? He’d not actually expected to receive a cut of any kind. She was a duchess. The daughter of an earl. Her past indiscretion of jilting the man who ruined her was not beyond the pale, was completely reconciled by their marriage. Something was very wrong. They stood in the center of the parlor and waited another ten minutes before the butler returned and asked them to accompany him up the stairs.

  They were announced in the drawing room and all within immediately became silent.

  As they crossed the room toward the marchioness, who rose from her seat and watched their progress, he noted friends and acquaintances seated about the room, none of them looking in his and Jane’s direction. It was a cut from all sides. It was a disaster.

  Jane apparently held a well of hidden courage and he admired her tremendously when she swept into a beautiful curtsy and smiled perfectly –not too friendly, not too coldly –at the marchioness. The older woman didn’t return the smile, and didn’t greet her. She didn’t, in fact, look at Jane at all, but rather focused on him. “Good afternoon, Duke.”

  He sketched a bow that was close to an insult, it was so slight. He was hard pressed not to strangle the old biddy and demand to know by what right she would give Jane the cut direct. “Good afternoon, Lady Bloomsbury.” He stepped back, offered his arm to Jane, they turned and left.

  Back on the sidewalk, he handed her up into the curricle, tossed a coin to the groom and they were off. She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She was a statue.

  He took her home and pressed a kiss to her palm before watching her ascend the stairs. Somehow, he’d known not to say anything, or try to reassure her. Truthfully, he had no reassurances. It was clear her marriage to him had changed nothing. She was still a pariah, shunned by society.

  It made no sense, and he was determined to discover what went on. He left again and went to his club, acting as though all was well as he took a brandy and walked about, greeting friends, smiling affably. He was offered congratulations upon Lucy’s marriage to Sherbourne, but no one mentioned his marriage to Jane.

  At last, he decided to step outside propriety in order to discover what the devil was going on. He cornered Wrotham and after a
few polite congenials, said smoothly, “The duchess and I paid a call to Lady Bloomsbury this afternoon.”

  Wrotham, his shirt points so tall and stiff it was surely difficult to turn his head, sniffed meaningfully. “How did you find that lady?”

  “I reckon cozying up to an iceberg would provide more warmth. After waiting twenty minutes to be shown into the drawing room, Jane was handed the cut direct and we were not invited to sit.” He lowered his voice. “It would be most helpful if you might shed some light on this matter, Wrotham. I’d certainly thought marriage to me would bring Jane back into the fold.”

  The man was clearly very uncomfortable, his face flaming with color as he drained his glass and waved to the steward for another. When at last he met Michael’s gaze, he sighed as if in defeat. “I’d ask you not kill the messenger, Blixford.”

  “On the contrary, I’d be humbly grateful for information from the messenger and not in the least inclined to inflict harm upon him.”

  “You may change your mind.” He handed his empty to the steward and accepted another brandy before he said, almost in a whisper, “Just after your marriage, after you’d gone from London, a rumor began to circulate, and as with all rumors, it caught like wildfire. Seems a gentleman returned from business in Edinburgh, a transaction involving some crossbreds offered by a Brian MacDougal, recently become the Earl of Haversham, after his father’s death. Haversham indicated to this gentleman that he’d heard Lady Jane was returned to England then jested about her attempt to regain her respectability. He insinuated he had been . . .” he paused and swallowed a large gulp of brandy before he finished, “intimate with her, that she was in fact his mistress, all the years she was in Scotland. He hoped the gentleman would convey to London society the nature of her pilgrimage to Scotland, that an unwary suitor might avoid being caught in marriage with a . . .” he took another great gulp, “harlot.”