The Wallflower Duchess

by Liz Tyner

  ‘You’re not planning to make that possible,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  His forehead touched hers and their lips were so close. ‘See how well we know each other already,’ he said.

  The kiss wasn’t about taste, but sustenance. She needed him to keep her breaths moving in and out of her body.

  His fingers tangled in her hair and loosened enough to skim her cheek. The lighter he touched her, the more she could feel each sensation.

  Edgeworth spoke against her skin. ‘You’re not making it possible for me to change my mind.’

  Her fingers rested at the side seams of his waistcoat, not pulling him close, and having layers of fabric between her palms and his skin. The fabric teased her. The soft silk of the back and the corded nap of a rougher fabric and then the friction of movement behind the cloth travelling through the threads to her fingertips. A shell covering the life underneath, but conveyed to her by the sensations of each flex of muscle beneath.

  ‘Inside,’ he whispered.

  This time, she clasped his hand and he led her to the bedroom, the single lamp again burning at his bedside, but the wick had been turned down so it glowed hardly brighter than a candle.

  He slid his coat off and she realised his cravat was already missing. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and tossed it aside. After untying the ties of his shirt, he pulled her near.

  She’d worn a spencer to keep from freezing in the night air, but not fastened it. He put his hands at the sides of her neck, sliding his grasp down, his touch between her dress and the outer garment creating a friction that tingled inside. The spencer dropped to the floor.

  Stepping closer, he pulled the shirt over his head with one arm and caught her against him with the other.

  Her fingers traced the muscles of his arms, roving over the contours and absorbing the strength beneath the skin. Each dip and rise of him tempted and satisfied and did the same again.

  He was more than the beauty she’d seen in sculpture and in art.

  She brushed her face against his skin, taking in the scent of soap and his maleness. Opening her eyes, she saw his own stare, eyes darkened, lashes darker and lips parted on her name. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses against her. Her lips brushed his shoulder and her teeth grazed him and her mouth lingered with the taste of him.

  Her fingertips could not take in all that she wanted. Her touch floated over him, absorbing all she could.

  He undressed her with slow precision, putting a kiss at her shoulders when he pushed her dress to the floor, a hug against her back with his arms around her waist after the corset fell away, and when he grasped the chemise to pull it over her head his hands slid upwards, never letting his touch leave her body as he slipped the garment up and over her arms.

  He kept her near, putting her on the bed and joining seconds after, returning to her again, the sensation of his hands over her bringing her alive and taking away everything in the world but her need to be touching him.

  When their legs tangled together the roughness of his skin tingling hers surprised her, but she remembered the burns and knew the scars remained. Her heart created its own inferno, blasting relief throughout her limbs. If he’d not survived, she’d have died without ever knowing what his touch was like.

  His kiss took her lips and cosseted her, and he rose above her and covered her with his strength, sharing it. His elbows braced on the bed and he hugged her, lifting her closer to his chest, holding her in a cocoon of his masculinity.

  * * *

  She slid from the bed, unsure of the room. Wondering how much time had passed and when it would be light. She must dash out before dawn. The lamp had gone out and the darkness hid her, even from herself.

  A little inward rumble of breaths reminded her that someone else was in the room—a deep-breathing someone else—asleep. Totally unconcerned and unaware of her presence.

  She stared at the sleeping form, unable to see more than the shadows that indicated the bed. She would have liked to have been able to look at him, to study him—more than she could in the cave-like darkness of the room—but she preferred just to feel what was going on inside herself. To sort out the moment.

  Her hair still was upswept, but only barely. She could tell because when she turned her head, it slid around. Reaching up, she took out the pins, letting the strands tumble. It didn’t matter if anyone saw her with her hair down when she went back to her house because if she was caught returning home in the dawn—nothing else would really matter. She could be dressed with every last thread exactly as it should be and still the results would be the same. Nevertheless, with the pins pressed between her lips, she twisted her hair back into place and arranged the bun.

  Somehow that made her feel a little more like herself.

  Her bare foot rested on something soft and she leaned down, sorting out her chemise and pulling it over her head.

  She had to touch him, but she didn’t know exactly where her hand would land. Her fingers rested on his wrist, the little bone at the side, and his breathing changed—stopped being the softness of lethargy and became quicker puffs of awareness.

  Her fingers traced his wrist in an ever-wider rotation, feeling hair, skin, bones and maybe even veins underneath. ‘I need to leave,’ she said.

  Then his hand turned and caught hers. ‘Stay,’ he said.

  Only he pulled her closer, back on to the bed beside him, and instead of using his fingertips to trace, he pulled her wrist to his face and used his cheeks and mouth to learn the feel of her arm.

  ‘I really must leave.’

  ‘I know. I’ll help you dress,’ he said.

  The bed creaked, poking the littlest stab of guilt into her, like when she put her head down on a new pillow and found herself poked by the tiniest feather. It didn’t hurt, but she felt it all the same.

  He pulled something into his hands and stepped from the bed, the soft footfalls bringing him closer, and he stopped, a statue of a man. His shoulders stretched in front of her. Naked shoulders, all unclothed and unconcerned.

  She let out a breath. His clothes had hid a lot.

  ‘Here,’ he said and she heard the bit of smile in his voice.

  She moved quickly, trying to cover that moment of her stillness. She reached out to touch what he held. Corset ties tangled in her fingers.

  He’d known right where it was. Or maybe he’d felt the garment with his foot when he stepped out of bed.

  ‘Where’s my dress?’ she asked.

  ‘Your dress?’ Gruff tones reached her and maybe some humour. ‘It might still be in the gardens.’

  Relief put a smile on her face. He’d not been paying any more attention to their clothes than she had.

  He reached out, finding her waist and giving her a nudge to turn. ‘I’ll get you laced up.’

  He pulled at the strings, constricting her, not because of the tightness, but because he was adept.

  ‘You’ve done this before.’

  Movement stilled, then continued. ‘Not in my home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She waited a beat. ‘Any children?’

  ‘No.’

  She heard the sound of her own breath being pulled in, but it wasn’t from the corset. She hoped he thought so. She’d just forgotten to breathe. He finished.

  ‘We’ll marry if there’s a child. Or, I hope, even if there isn’t.’

  ‘Have you proposed before?’

  His body stilled. ‘Only to you.’

  She thought again of his mention of courting her. The words didn’t sound quite so shattering now, but like delicious starbursts inside.

  His arms slipped around her and his hands clasped in front of her. And his cheek rested alongside of hers and the hint of shaving soap she could have happily bathed
in.

  He held her. Not really hugging, or touching her except with the clasp, and at her shoulders and where his cheek pressed hers.

  She thought if she didn’t move he would hold her for ever.

  She touched a finger to the back of his hand. ‘My dress.’

  He took a step away, reached down and tugged, and she felt the pull of the fabric from underneath her foot. She stepped aside. She’d not realised she stood on the clothing.

  He lifted it over her head, letting it settle around her, and then he did the hooks. A lightning and thunder and windstorm exploded just inside her heart and she didn’t move. She had to contain it quickly and quietly.

  ‘I’d best be going,’ she said, just like a nice governess would mention a lesson needing one last glance.

  ‘I’ll find my trousers,’ he said.

  It seemed too personal for her to watch him move about the room—after all, she was not some mistress.

  Was she?

  No, she wasn’t. Mistresses didn’t get courted or have discussions of marriage that they didn’t start. Her mother’s friendships had definitely made that clear.

  The sound of wool sliding over muscles jarred her from her reverie. In the darkness, the sounds reverberated louder than any church bell.

  She found her stockings and draped them over her arm, and pushed her feet into the cold leather of her slippers.

  And then he reached for her arm. His shirt wasn’t fastened and he didn’t wear a coat.

  ‘If we court in darkness,’ he whispered, pulling her close, ‘then we should also court in light.’

  ‘But marriage. Everyone will expect it to lead to marriage.’

  ‘Including me,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t have to. It’s not a betrothal. It’s a chance to know more about each other.’

  He put a hand along her cheek, holding it. ‘I expect you to like me, of course.’

  ‘Does anyone dislike you?’ she asked.

  ‘They don’t mention it if they do.’

  ‘Well, no one dislikes me either,’ she said.

  She suspected the darkness was a truly wonderful thing because if she could have looked at him, seen the skin she’d felt against her, leaving would have been impossible.

  * * *

  Edge woke, thoughts of walking Lily home in the darkness bringing a peacefulness to him. He tossed the covers aside and looked at the swirling skin on his leg.

  He felt whole again.

  He’d been in so much pain after the accident.

  Then the laudanum had nearly finished the job, and he’d not known about that until his mother told him later. Three times, he realized. He’d almost died three times, not just two.

  After the burn, he’d taken some of the medicine at the tenant’s home, but not nearly enough to stop the pain. And he’d been in so much agony when they’d finally managed to get him to his room and he’d been senseless. Gaunt hadn’t known Edge had been given any laudanum and Edge couldn’t think past the pain, then the tenant had arrived with the physician and the tenant had knocked the spoon from Gaunt’s hand. A man who’d normally never be invited inside Edge’s house had saved him.

  He’d heard praying, lots of it, and he’d been certain he was in hell because the flames had been so intense and he’d wanted to tell them he’d not had time to do anything bad enough to deserve that because he’d been working just as he should and doing just as he should. Yes, there’d been slips, but he’d been human, after all.

  Surviving had taken all his willpower, but now he had Lily, a woman who’d managed to grow up innocent and guileless in a world that would have engulfed her into its worst given half a chance.

  He reached to ring for Gaunt, aware the man had been in the room earlier to open the curtains and awaken him. Edge had sent the valet away because he’d wanted to savour sleep and dreams of Lily.

  Now Edge looked across the room. A blue garment lay draped over the arm of Edge’s chair. A woman’s coat that only went to her waist: a spencer. Edge hadn’t placed it so neatly when he’d taken it off Lily the night before. It had surely been on the floor between the door and the window.

  Edge cursed himself. Gaunt wouldn’t speak of it, but he knew. It didn’t matter at all to Edge, except he’d wanted to keep Lily’s life private—for her. He wanted it to be a secret between them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lily tried not to feel like the only splash of red in a painting when Edge arrived. Her father had summoned her and now she was officially courting.

  Her father kept talking about the deposits in the bank, return on investment, and risk and reward.

  Lily knew that her father was reminding Edgeworth that she was a wonderful investment, very little risk, and would be a rewarding wife. Words of high praise from him.

  Edge nodded.

  Lily relaxed while Edge and her father compared financial successes. She’d heard of her father’s account ledgers many times. Even during dinner when she and Abigail were the only ones there.

  Lily didn’t even need to be in the room for courting, apparently.

  Abigail appeared in the doorway. ‘Has anyone seen my hair comb with the garnets on it?’ Abigail asked, moving in to make herself comfortable.

  ‘It’s my hair comb and it’s in my jewellery box,’ Lily said quietly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Abigail gushed, sitting. ‘I knew you’d find it for me. You’re so organised.’

  Now her father’s conversation focused on the sturdiness of Lily’s female ancestors who lived through droughts, plagues, famines and could manage a household of any size and could birth ten-pound babies without missing an embroidery stitch. And every moment or so Abigail would remind her father of the particular piece of jewellery that particular ancestor had passed down to Lily.

  Finally, her father stood, straightened his coat, looked at Abigail and said, ‘I’m ready for an ice at Gunter’s. Abigail, why don’t you go with me?’

  He’d never ever before had an ice that Lily knew of.

  ‘Oh, ices...’ Abigail said. Her favourite. ‘But who will chaperon?’

  ‘I’ll send the housekeeper to chaperon.’ Then he shepherded Abigail from the room and Lily doubted he would speak with the housekeeper. She could hear him chatting with Abigail as they walked down the stairs. He’d spoken more words in the last hour than she’d heard from him in a year.

  Her father, the banker. Twice he’d suggested matches Lily should consider, both of them wealthy and elderly. But he’d always had the Duke picked out for Abigail. Everyone had but Edgeworth, apparently.

  She glanced at him and Edge shrugged, in a way to ask what else could she expect?

  Lily reached to the pull and she rang for the maid to bring the tea she’d requested earlier.

  Edge’s eyes must have been rimmed by two rows of lashes. She’d never noticed it before because she’d not been able to get past the blue.

  Her attention stayed on his face. No one’s eyes had ever captured her as Edge’s did.

  ‘Lily?’ Edge asked. ‘Tonight, I’ll have the little coat you left behind.’

  ‘The spencer!’ She recovered. ‘Yes. Tonight. I can’t believe I forgot it.’

  ‘I can.’ His eyes reflected a smile hidden deep. ‘It was dark. You had something else on your mind.’

  ‘True. It was dark.’

  The maid walked in with the tray.

  ‘Surprisingly warm for this time of year,’ Edge continued. ‘I don’t think we’ve received enough rain though. I expect we’ll catch up.’

  ‘It makes the flowers look so pretty.’ Was this what other people talked about while courting? If so, Lily could do without it. Flowers—pretty. Rain—wet. Sun—warm.

  The maid left and he lifted an orange biscuit from the platter. Th
e blue blazed right through her, spiralling a warm trail to the tips of her toes.

  ‘My favourite,’ he said.

  She picked up a biscuit. Courting. It wasn’t all about the weather. ‘Mine, too.’

  Only a few words here and there kept the conversation going because sitting with him answered a question inside her, letting her know they could have quiet moments together.

  When it became time for him to leave, he kissed her softly and told her goodbye.

  So soon after he left that the delivery had to have been waiting, a maid walked inside the sitting room, carrying a vase of lilies so abundant that the flowers obscured the woman’s face.

  Lily ran a finger along the flower. She’d been wrong. She loved lilies.

  * * *

  At two a.m. she arrived in the garden, her shoes quickly growing damp from the earlier shower that had left the grass wet. She could see her breath in the moonlight. He stood, holding the spencer open so she could tuck her arms into the sleeves, but he didn’t release it and closed it around her. Holding her.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ she asked. He sheltered her. The air had to be freezing. The collar of his woollen coat brushed against her neck. She shivered, but not from the cold.

  ‘No. Only since the rain stopped.’

  The weather. What was it about the weather?

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

  Just that simply. Maybe the weather meant something she didn’t quite understand. A euphemism. But, no, she would have learned it from her mother. Her mother believed that Lily should be told all about the intimacies and agonies of life so she would be prepared. She’d meant well, Lily realised, trying to protect her daughter from mistakes that would hurt.

  It hadn’t prepared Lily. It had terrified her. The stories about the shredded hearts and unconcern of the men, and about how once you started with the passions you couldn’t ever contain them. They controlled you.