Beauty and the Duke

by Melody Thomas

  A vast sense of anger swamped him. Not because Erik made the choices he had in the past, he was a pragmatist after all, he told himself. Wishing the last ten years stricken from his life would be akin to wishing his daughter had never been born.

  His anger came because someone else had made a decision that profoundly shaped his life. Nor did he want Lady Sophia believing Charles Sommers had manipulated Erik into returning to London now. He had not. Erik truly needed help to deal with the bones washing up on his land from an expert, who—no one but he seemed to understand—was Christine herself.

  Especially since he knew the reason she had wed him. He might need an heir to reassure that all he’d worked to build in his lifetime would remain with his family and his people, but Christine wanted her beast and her glory. Her passion had always been her fossils.

  As he walked to the stove and stared at the flames contained within the iron grate, he said, “She would have turned down my proposal, my lady.”

  Lady Sophia held her silence for a heartbeat. “Of course. Everyone expected you would wed her cousin after all, and, like you, my niece is a pragmatist because circumstances required it of her. You went on with your life and she with hers. Christine is a woman who needs something to believe in, you understand.” Lady Sophia drew in a breath. “But she is more fragile inside than you think, Sedgwick.”

  An hour later, her hair damp from her bath, and clad in a scandalous nightdress possessing the gossamer thinness of Babylonian silk, Christine stood in front of the long cheval glass.

  Upon entering the chamber, she’d discovered the white nightgown and silk robe from her trousseau laid out on the bed. Almost afraid to touch her fingertips to the delicate cloth, she had a moment’s doubt. The French modiste she had found on Bond Street to make her traveling trousseau had told her that a proper bride would never wear such a scandalous garment, but mistresses were constrained by no such barrier. Since Christine was not quite a bride or a mistress—she was both and neither as she was not sure where partner fit between the two—she had more freedom to choose. But as she peered at the unfamiliar woman in the glass, barely recognizable with her tumbledown hair to her waist, the color high in her cheeks, her schoolmarm appearance vanquished behind white gossamer, she wanted only that Erik see her as an equal and viable partner in this contract.

  Especially since walking into the inn that night and realizing she’d never felt less like a duchess than the moment she’d stood next to Erik in front of those people sitting in the common room. She squeezed shut her eyes and opened them again, half expecting to see herself standing at Sommershorn in the dark of her laboratory wondering what madness had inflicted upon her.

  The young girl who had helped with her bath had quietly left earlier. Alone, Christine turned to study the room. Dark paneling covered the walls. The foot of the plush canopy-draped bed opened to the hearth. The comforter had already been turned down revealing crisp white sheets smelling of lavender. A fire warmed the cozy confines of the room. A beautifully set table topped with sterling, crystal, and the finest porcelain glittered in the warm light.

  With a small gasp, she straightened. Erik stood just inside the door leading to the bathing room. Leaning against the door frame, one hand holding the neck of a whiskey bottle, the other a glass, he raised the tumbler to his lips, and peered at her from over the rim. He had not undressed, and she did not know why.

  “Madam,” he said, the lazy grace of his stance conflicting with the heat she felt from his eyes.

  She smoothed the fabric of her nightgown. “I didn’t hear you enter.” She panned her arm across the room. “The proprietress has gone beyond expectations. The room is beautiful.”

  She had the vague impression that he was watching everything about her closely. “I am glad everything meets with your approval,” he said quietly.

  She wished now that she had put on her robe. “Have you checked on Aunt Sophie and Mrs. Samuels to make sure they are saf—?”

  “No one at this inn will harm them, Christine.”

  She believed him. Of the people she’d seen thus far tonight, she could not imagine a one who’d rather not jump off a cliff and dash themselves on the rocks below than dare draw the wrath of the duke of Sedgwick.

  Yet, she had never been afraid of him. In fact, fear was the last thing on her mind as she stilled her racing heartbeat and pondered why he seemed hesitant when there had been nothing fastidious about him in London.

  Taking a deep breath, but short of announcing that she was ready to do her duty by their contract, she focused her attention on the glass of whiskey in his hand and might have asked if he had another glass if she thought she could stomach the assault.

  Then he was suddenly standing in front of her and her gaze rose in deference to more than his height. He slid her glasses higher on her nose. “When did you begin wearing spectacles?” he murmured.

  She ruefully smiled. “When I woke up in a blur one day and realized it wasn’t the effect of too much drink.”

  His hand moved to her chin and tilted her face. “As I recall, drinking was never your forte.”

  Her rebellious streak surfaced. But he was right. She rarely drank except for wine and an occasional glass of champagne, and doing so now would prove only that she was foolish. She wondered what else he remembered about her.

  “You like stargazing,” he said in response to her unspoken thoughts. “You are the only person with whom I have ever climbed a tree simply to get closer to the moon.”

  Christine had forgotten that silly night where she had tippled in wine, stripped off her petticoats, and climbed a tree. He’d followed and, sharing a stout branch above the leaves, she’d pointed out the Big Dipper and Pegasus. The whole universe had been staring down at her that night.

  Erik moved past her. He set down the bottle and glass on the nightstand, retrieved her robe from the bed, and laid it across her shoulders. “We are about to be delivered our supper,” he said.

  As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door. His hands tightened on the fabric and closed it over her nightdress. “For my eyes only, leannanan.”

  He turned and walked to the door, leaving her to stare after him as he opened the door. She now realized why he remained dressed. The harried innkeeper and one of her daughters stood outside. The elder wheeled in a trundle cart topped with silver chafing dishes while the younger lit the candles and poured wine.

  Erik helped Christine into her chair, his hands brushing her shoulders, then he moved to sit across from her. Christine watched as the innkeeper proudly displayed each dish, pleased pink each time Erik nodded his head in approval. Roast grouse and stovies on the side. “Yer grace,” she said, presenting the final dish.

  She deftly removed the lid and revealed a plate piled high with neatly arranged oysters on the half shell and shaved ice. Enough to feed a Scottish rebellion. Christine smothered a laugh as she raised her eyes over her serviette.

  “That will be all, Bessie,” Erik said bluntly.

  The poor woman’s expression fell as if the moon had dropped out of the sky. Clearly, she had not meant him any displeasure. “Yes, yer grace.”

  Christine watched the woman leave and shut the door. “We’ve hurt her feelings, Erik.”

  “You do not think thirty oysters somewhat excessive?”

  The mere thought of consuming any slimy creature made her grimace. “Thirty-four,” she corrected, inclining her head toward the plate. “Obviously, one for each of your advanced years.”

  She reached for the green leaves in a dish next to his plate and dropped them in his cup—“I believe a sprig of jasmine in your tea is supposed to accomplish the same thing. So I have heard.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  She suddenly laughed. As did he.

  When they had both settled down again, his eyes found hers. Her smile faded. The desire blossoming inside her had been dormant for years and now that she had unlocked the cage again, she found she might not be able to rein the b
east back inside. But her instincts, ever diligent in protecting her, rose to her defense.

  “Do you still play chess?” she asked.

  “No. There has been a dearth of worthy adversaries in my life of late.”

  His finger circled the rim of his wineglass and she followed the movement, wondering if, now that she was his wife, he regretted the contract between them. Except for the moment he’d set her robe on her shoulders, he seemed distant. Unlike he had been in London. She was uncertain if she had done something wrong. “I have been thinking about the fossils,” she said by way of attempting conversation as she lifted the grouse from the trundle cart and spooned some into her plate, attempting to do her duty by Bessie and at least eat. “Aunt Sophie is one of the finest anthropologists in the world. I want to invite her into this investigation—”

  “I prefer to keep that part of our understanding between us, Christine.”

  Christine set down the dish. “She won’t judge you.”

  “I think when it comes to you, her opinions may be biased.”

  His words, as much as the tone in his voice, struck her. Though she’d never had a murder accusation tossed at her, she’d confronted enough prejudice to understand the isolation. “I cannot imagine what you must endure, Erik. People can be cruel.”

  His mouth quirked as if he found her concern an odd thing to contemplate and he drank from his wineglass. “I have long ceased caring what people think of me, Christine.”

  “Why?”

  “It is neither important nor relevant to my life. The people who are essential to Sedgwick’s survival are well paid enough not to have an opinion. As long as I can give them what they need, they will pretend they believe me innocent.”

  “Everyone wants something—is that it? Give and take. No complications?”

  A small smile lurking on his handsome lips, he considered her. “You are not satisfied with the terms of your contract then?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No one should ever doubt your generosity, Erik.”

  He laughed. “I believe you are one of the few who does not. I am not known in many circles for being either generous or nice.”

  Obviously, ruthlessness was not a trait he shunned. Nor was he bothered possessing it.

  When she’d met him years ago, he was already infamous, having gained repute over his legendary war with his stepfather for control of the Sedgwick duchy. Erik had not only fought the powerful establishment at a young age and won, but he had also gained custody of his infant sister some years afterward. Truly, he was passionate in his fight to protect that which he loved, passion he worked hard to conceal in himself.

  “And yet…you are both nice and generous,” she accused him.

  Leaning toward her, he braced his elbow on the table. “The business between us requires…shall I say, a certain degree of gentle persuasion on my part, a tactic I don’t usually employ in my other business dealings.”

  Clearly, she had given him the false impression that he had a right to the platitude that purchasing her allowed him a certain degree of ducal ennui in her presence. But she would not allow him to convince her he had handled her ruthlessly. In addition, she was beginning to suspect that the only person sitting at this table displaying timidity about their contract sat directly across from her.

  She, too, leaned forward. “We can both agree your gentle persuasion may not have been as swaying had you not dangled that tooth in my face and threatened to give the find to Mr. Darlington. But consider this.” She peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “I didn’t have to marry you to come to Scotland. I would have come with or without your consent.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is I who has wed you for selfish purposes, not the other way around. As you have said, ours is a partnership based on mutual interests.”

  “Don’t misinterpret my generosity for kindness. It would be a mistake.”

  “And don’t mistake mine for cowardice, Erik.”

  Their mutual awareness sent a rush of heat through her veins, and, from the lazy-lidded look in his eyes, he, too, felt it. And seemed pleased.

  “I can see I have erred in my attempts to play the gentleman,” he said.

  Before she knew what he was about, his hand snaked out and captured her wrist. Her heart skipped in her throat. He drew her around the table, pulling her across his lap, nearly upsetting the table and poor Bessie’s dinner all over the floor. “What are you doing? Erik…”

  He threaded his fingers in her hair. His other hand traced the curvature of her cheek and throat and laid claim to her breast. Her robe, a meager cover at best, fell open. “I intend to make love to you, leannanan.”

  And, in one gentle motion of his mouth, he extinguished her voice with a kiss. An unhurried easiness and contentment that warmed even as it calmed. That excited even as it cautioned. A flutter of anticipation heated her veins. She became acutely aware of his body, aware of the thickness of him against her bottom, the heat of his arms. She tasted wine on his lips and in her mouth.

  He opened his palm and her breast filled his hand. Her body, already hungry for more than the tactile caress of his palm against her flesh, shifted in his arms. The freedom to simply enjoy his touch infused her with heat. And longing.

  And her own hunger.

  The linen shirt clinging to Erik’s muscled frame yielded to her desire to touch him. He raised his head and looked down at her in his arms, his wild dark hair muted by firelight, and then he smiled wickedly, as if to tell her there was not an inch of her he would not touch in the next few hours.

  He splayed his palm against her navel, then lower. She watched his gaze follow the slow path of his roaming hand, parting her robe for further exploration as he found the damp triangle between her legs. His blood quickened in his veins. Surged. He knew about arousing a woman’s body, where to look, how to touch, just when to stop and allow her to feel. He knew all these things, when she knew so much less about him.

  But whatever it was they’d once shared, whatever passion had been theirs, no matter the bargain they had struck, no matter the years separating them, they both knew fire still burned hot between them.

  He kissed her deeply, first her lips, then the hollow beneath her ear. Then he removed her glasses and set them on the table.

  “Tha sin a’ còrdadh rium,” he murmured ever so enticingly against her lips. The Gaelic endearment foreign to her ears, and yet, she understood the words as if she’d spent her entire life wandering Scottish fields of heather.

  “I like this, too,” she answered.

  He slowly pulled back, his warm breath caressing her lips, as sensual as the heat reflected in her eyes. She smiled. “Tha sin a’ córdadh rium,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he rasped. “Our arrangement will more than suffice, my lady wife.”

  He stood with her in his arms. He kicked off his shoes. Then they were on the bed. His hands sank into the mattress on either side of her shoulders. Her hair splayed across the white satin of the comforter. Her eyes lifted to his.

  Her legs parted beneath the pressure of his hips. Only his trousers prevented full contact, flesh against flesh. His mouth closed on her breast, sensually laving her. With a deep groan he caught her lips, and lust coiled low in her abdomen. He gathered her filmy nightgown into his fist and drew it over her head, tossing it to the floor.

  She had never been naked before any man except him. That he might not find her pleasing was indicative of the way he made her feel around him.

  “Look at me, Christine.”

  She heard his voice through the thunderous rush in her ears. Her lashes fluttered open. The dark centers of his eyes made them nearly black in the shadows pressing against him.

  All she could think about was seeing him naked too.

  He sat back on his calves, stripped off his shirt, and flung it to the floor. Dark hair arrowed up his abdomen and sprinkled his chest. His stomach was firm, his chest and shoulders toned with an athlete’s grace.
His hair hung in his eyes as he yanked the buttons on his trousers. She sat up and watched the play of his muscles that moved with his arms. His penis jutted from between his thighs, rigid and hard. With one hand, he extinguished the lamp on the nightstand, leaving only the light from the hearth fire flickering on the walls.

  Even June in Scotland was no proof against the chill of a thunderstorm. Erik dragged the eiderdown over them both, encapsulating them in the humid darkness beneath the covers, and braced his weight on his elbows. She couldn’t see him in the darkness beneath the covers, but she could feel his body and taste the scent of him on her lips. He parted her with his fingers and eased into her. “I do not need oysters for this.” One large hand enclosed her bottom and, with each move, he drove deeper inside her. “Or jasmine tea.”

  He sank hilt-deep inside her. She cried out, a soft keening sound, her hands clutching his muscled back. His mouth dipped to hers, taking the sound, openmouthed and hungry as she. Then she was kissing him, wanting this always, the feel of him inside her, years of celibacy that had not been completely assuaged when Erik had taken her against the door made her think only of this. Her arms wrapped around his neck. She rocked with him. Savored him. In time, they found their blend of rhythm and melody.

  The intensity of her orgasm was never more finite than the instant before it burst. She arched into the hard length of him, taking him deeper, shuddering around him, heedless of her panting, vulnerable to more than her passions as she let Erik rock her to sweet oblivion.

  His back arched and his eyes half closed, he rose on his palms and spilled himself inside her. And when the throbbing ebbed, Erik remained braced on his hands, his face half hidden in the humid shadow beneath the canopy of the bed, but she could feel his eyes on her. Still buried within the wet heat of her body, he lowered himself to his elbows. When he did, a gleam of firelight touched his face.