The Duke's Unexpected Bride

by Lara Temple

  ‘You will? I mean...good.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide with anxiety and curiosity, and he realised that nothing would ever be the same again. He watched her expressive face mirror his own tangled emotions. It was done. It could not have taken very long but he felt as he had after a long march during the war, exhausted and relieved to arrive, but already impatient to explore the new location. Her question was so naïve as to be almost absurd. He knew he should answer her purely on a formal level because there was indeed a great deal to do now.

  ‘We seal our bargain,’ he said instead as his baser self elbowed its way to the front of the stage. They could get to the details later.

  ‘How do we do that?’ she asked seriously and he laughed, more at himself than at her, swamped by relief that it was done, that she had agreed, and that he could now, finally, do what he had been waiting to do since that day in the gardens. Right now marriage seemed a reasonable price to pay to get this woman in his bed and sate this aggravating desire.

  ‘Like this,’ he said, raising her chin and bending to brush his lips across hers, very lightly, trying to find the right balance between feeding his hunger and not scaring her, especially after what Wivenhoe had put her through. But the slide of her mouth under his, soft and smooth and warm, wouldn’t release him and he carefully placed his hand on her waist as he might in a dance, feeling the soft heat under his palm, the friction of the muslin cloth, just pressing his fingers into the curve of her skin.

  He was standing at the very edge of a cliff, carefully balanced and fighting his need to just cast himself off, let gravity and nature take over. Suddenly she gave a small shiver and leaned forward, not breaking contact with his mouth, just angling her head, her lips catching against his, clearly demanding more than he had intended to allow himself.

  ‘Sophie...’

  She answered with an impatient, shaky breath, her hands settling tentatively on his coat, then tensing into fists as he slid his tongue gently over the parting of her lips. He stroked her gently, almost idly, his mouth and tongue exploring hers, his hands moving over her back, building a deceptively soothing rhythm. It was agony to hold that leisurely pace and not sink in to her, drag her against him, bare her. He wanted her with him, lulled, pliant, but she was chipping away at his control, her hands shifting against his chest with unconscious impatience, her mouth searching, revealing the passionate nature he both yearned for and feared. He slid his hand over the silky hair at her nape and she pressed her head back against his hand, like an arching feline, her breath a soft sigh against his mouth and he gave up, pulling her to him so he could kiss her thoroughly, the way he had been wanting to for the whole of this hellish, endless week, giving silent thanks that she clearly wanted this, that the passion he had suspected in her was there and open to him.

  Her mouth was as warm and generous as she was, opening under the pressure of the kiss, meeting him and sliding against him in a search for something he knew he couldn’t give her yet, but that he wanted so much it was scalding him. He held himself at the edge, playing with her lips, tasting the full damp curve he had watched so often lengthen into her amazing smile. He almost begged her to smile so he could feel it, like wanting to touch the sun on a wave. He nipped at her lips, pulling them between his lips and teeth, tasting the hot inner curve, following that moist promise inwards and she half-rose towards him, her thigh against his and her hands rising to twine into his hair, pressing on his nape.

  Her need, so raw and unashamed, was demolishing his restraints. It was agony not to follow instinct, to feel the shakiness of her breath against his mouth and tongue and the pressure of her hands and body as she pressed against him. He struggled against the drugging pull of the lust she was unleashing, aware that he was as close to losing himself to passion as he had just lost himself to violence.

  That thought, foreign in flavour and intensity, dragged back his awareness of where he was, and with whom, and he grasped her arms and pulled them down as gently as he could, fighting the resistant tension in his body. Her eyes half-opened, warm and languid, almost turquoise, and as much a caress as the friction of her body against his, and the desire sharpened unbearably. It seemed much more sinful to be walking away from that promise than succumbing to it. But he knew that however desperate he was to explore just how far he could take her obvious passion, her unstinting response placed all the burden of prudence on him. He held her there, waiting for the strength to move away.

  ‘That just goes to show you how wrong one can be,’ she said dreamily, her voice low and almost humming, and he struggled to make sense of her words.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About kissing. I always thought it was rather tedious. I never imagined it could be so nice.’

  This observation, delivered in the same faraway voice, managed to penetrate his own painfully pleasant fog.

  ‘You always thought? How many times have you kissed someone before?’

  Her eyes opened further, clearly surprised, and she finally sat back.

  ‘How many? I suppose...five times, if you count Timothy, though that was hardly a kiss...well, I mean, I am twenty-four. And I was almost engaged once,’ she informed him confidingly.

  Max wavered between annoyance and amusement at her practical view of the matter, but decided not to ruin the moment by talking propriety and focused on her final statement.

  ‘Why almost?’

  ‘Because of this. I didn’t like the way he kissed. The thought of a whole lifetime of having to...well, I couldn’t do it even though Mama and Papa liked him. And John said women weren’t meant to enjoy it anyway, which seemed absurd and quite unfair. I could tell even Augusta and Mary didn’t mind kissing their husbands and they are as proper as they come. And now I know I was right about women enjoying this. But I dare say you have had a great deal more experience than John.’

  Max laughed, caught in a tangle of confused emotions at these artless disclosures.

  ‘It’s not just experience. There has to be an attraction, or not all the experience in the world can compensate to make it anything more than tolerable.’

  Her eyes, curious and unusually anxious, rose to his.

  ‘And is there? I mean...are you attracted to me at all?’

  He could hardly believe that question needed to be asked after the embrace they had shared and the way he felt right now, with the heat swirling inside him, like a furious genie trapped in a bottle, demanding release and threatening havoc. But he just nodded and answered in the same direct coin she employed.

  ‘Yes. Very much. And you?’

  ‘Yes...’ she breathed, heat staining her cheeks again. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? If we are to be married?’

  ‘Yes. Very good.’

  He took her hands again; the need to touch her was so strong it felt almost foreign, as if there was some element of possession here. And there was something pleasantly detached about her great-aunt’s outdated mausoleum, a universe set apart from his own world with its rules and norms. He knew this thought was deceptive and that just a few feet from them the real world was waiting, but right now he didn’t care.

  ‘Engaged or not, we shouldn’t be doing this,’ he felt compelled to warn her, even as he slid his hands up her arms, focusing on the soft texture of her skin under his fingers, especially the warm pliant skin of her inner arms. He could feel her pulse there and on impulse he gently raised her arm and pressed his lips to that pulse and she breathed in sharply, her arm quivering in his grasp.

  ‘I won’t tell,’ she murmured, her eyes dreamy again. ‘Besides, I don’t understand what is so very wrong about this...if we are engaged.’

  At the moment neither could he. He had to marry her anyway, what difference did it make if he derived some pleasure meanwhile? He would obviously not go too far. It was like spirits—one had to know
one’s limits. Except that he had a suspicion that he had already passed his. That he was in that pleasant and dangerous territory of thinking himself both rational and omnipotent. Hetty would clearly disagree that he was still acting responsibly. Any sane person would. The fact that Sophie didn’t was just a sign of her naiveté.

  He closed his eyes briefly and let go her arm, shifting back.

  ‘No.’

  Her hand reached out and touched his coat and he caught it firmly.

  ‘No. This is all very good, but we have to be sensible. There will be plenty of time for this later.’

  ‘Plenty?’ she prompted and the amused mischief in her eyes danced through his body. She moved back on the chaise longue as well and he breathed in, between relief and regret at her acceptance of the boundaries he was trying to set.

  ‘Plenty,’ he promised and stood up. ‘Now I must go speak to your aunt. Unfortunately there is some business I have to attend to for a few days in Southampton that can’t be put off, but once I’m back I’ll put the announcement in the papers. So I suggest you write to your family by the afternoon post. I presume someone in your community reads the London papers?’

  Sophie grimaced. ‘The squire’s wife reads every scrap of town gossip and she particularly loves the bits about weddings and obituaries. She won’t miss it.’

  ‘Well, then you had best make sure they’re prepared for the announcement. Tell them I will write to apply formally—’

  ‘But that’s silly, you don’t have to,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘After all, I’m of age. I make my own decisions.’

  ‘It may be a courtesy, but this is how it is done.’

  ‘I beg pardon,’ she apologised meekly and Max sighed at the very unapologetic laughter in her eyes.

  ‘And then we need to decide when we will go to Harcourt Hall so you can meet my family and when we will go to meet yours.’

  ‘Oh, dear. If it didn’t defeat the whole purpose of saving face, I would suggest eloping.’

  ‘And if I didn’t know there is very little likelihood of it, I would suggest you take this seriously.’ Max said with an edge of exasperation and it was Sophie’s turn to sigh.

  ‘You’re right. I think it’s just that I’m so nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  ‘It is not as if I have boundless experience of it either,’ he pointed out, but the words grated slightly and he wondered if he should tell her about Serena. Eventually he would tell her, but now didn’t seem the right moment for ancient history.

  ‘But you’ve thought it all out. Like a campaign. It’s very impressive,’ she said, and though the humour was still evident there was also a clear, assessing look which brought back his exasperation.

  ‘Once the announcement is in papers it will resemble a siege more than a campaign, believe me. And now I should go and deal with the details.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do other than writing to my parents? It seems completely unfair that you have to deal with everything. After all, this is more my fault than yours.’

  Max hesitated, touched by her innate accountability. For a moment he tried to imagine what this interview might have been like if he had been facing Lady Melissa instead of this unusual and unsettling young woman. It was so dramatically different a scenario that as mad as it might be, he gave thanks that he had at least not gone down that path. Lady Melissa would no doubt perform perfectly to her cues and there would be no humour. Or passion. He might not know what he was getting into with Sophie, but somehow that seemed slightly better than the very clear future he had mapped out with Lady Melissa. At least in this instance he preferred the murkier outlook.

  ‘There will be plenty for you to do soon enough, more than you will want, believe me. For the moment you are for better or for worse in the position of the reserves. Hetty will come by later and the two of you can work out all the...female details. She’s a veteran of all my sisters’ weddings so she knows what needs to be done. All right?’

  Both her flush and the humour in her eyes deepened as he spoke, but she just nodded. He should leave it at that, but behind the laughing sprite she looked wistful again and his body, tight with the memory of their kiss, heated, demanding another taste. A quick one, he assured himself and strode back to her, cupping her chin to raise her mouth to his. Her hand brushed against his cheek and neck, brief but as searing as a brand and he stepped back. Her eyes opened and she smiled tentatively.

  ‘Siege rations already?’

  He could tell she was trying for lightness, but her voice was husky and inviting and he shook his head, more at himself than at her, and headed back to the door.

  ‘I am sorry you find it such poor fare,’ he said as he turned back to her, his hand on the doorknob, and the soft laughter disappeared from her face immediately, replaced by concern.

  ‘Oh, no! That isn’t what I meant at all! I was just being... I say things I ought not when I am embarrassed...’ She stopped suddenly, her eyes searching his. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘That would be quite uncivil of me, wouldn’t it?’

  She relaxed visibly. ‘And unchivalrous.’

  ‘Very. Now wish me luck with your aunt.’

  ‘Just be careful you don’t sit on one of the pugs by mistake and you will be fine,’ she said reassuringly and he shook his head again and headed out to find Mad Minnie.

  * * *

  Sophie pressed her hands to her cheeks as the door clicked shut behind him. They felt hot, or perhaps it was her hands that were cold. A snort made her look down and she realised Marmaduke had slept through the whole scene and for a moment she wondered if it were possible that she had imagined the whole afternoon.

  Surely this was madness. She could not possibly be engaged to Max. But she could not in her wildest dreams have imagined that kiss and the way it shook her to the core, made her do things she had never dreamed of doing... Or the way he had touched his mouth to her inner arm; she had not realised such a brief touch, to her arm, of all places, could feel so...explosive. She felt shaky and urgent inside, fearful and bubbling and...and also terribly guilty. It was surely absurd to expect him to make such a sacrifice merely for the sin of not being able to prevent her from getting into trouble?

  But Hetty had warned her that Max played by the rules. The mistakes might mostly be hers, but he would take his own seriously. Far too seriously, obviously. To pay such a price... She could still feel her shock when he had told Wivenhoe they were betrothed. It had been overshadowed by the general shock of that sudden conflagration between Max and Wivenhoe that she instinctively knew had its roots in something well outside Wivenhoe’s pursuit of her. It almost seemed he and Wivenhoe stood in some separate space, away from them all, and she wondered what had happened between them in the past.

  And behind all these roiling emotions, like a bank of creamy clouds piled high on the horizon, was a joyful warmth that was more terrifying than anything because she wanted to be with Max more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. And she was certain she would ruin it. Her whole life she had struggled in vain trying to live up to expectations and had mostly failed. She must be mad to willingly try to assume a role where she was bound to disappoint. And such a role! She was nothing like Max’s ideal—someone stately, demure, fashionable, content to assume the roles expected of his Duchess. There was no licence for individuality in that role. It wasn’t as if he had any love for her that might bridge the gaps between them. She was not fool enough to imagine there was any parallel between the emotions he evoked in her and the attraction he admitted to feeling for her. She would have to come to terms with the gaps between them. Somehow.

  But even though it was folly and she might come to regret it with as much force as the passion that urged her forward, she wanted this...she wanted him with an intensity she had not known was possible. To walk away wo
uld be an even greater madness than to proceed, almost a crime against herself. Something that burned inside her, that set her apart from her family with their rural, predictable lives, was finding an echo in this great unrelenting city and this inexplicable man whose fate had become tangled with hers against his will. She pressed her hands to her cheeks again, torn between anxiety and bubbling excitement as the realisation was beginning to sink in that everything would be different now. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Ten

  Max walked into the upstairs drawing room and tossed his gloves on a table. Hetty looked up from the book she was reading.

  ‘I thought you were going to Jackson’s?’

  ‘I was, but we came across Miss Trevelyan in the gardens. Wivenhoe was there. He was waiting for her.’

  She straightened, her eyes searching his face.

  ‘Wivenhoe! Waiting for her? What on earth is he doing?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am engaged.’

  ‘Engaged! To whom?’

  Max walked over to the window. The gardens were full now as nannies took advantage of the warm weather to air their charges. It was incomprehensible that they had managed to play out that completely melodramatic scene in such a prosaic setting. Now that he had left the Huntley madhouse the remnants of the desire she dragged out of him were as much a taunt as a pleasure and he felt frustrated and contemptible that he had lost control on more levels that afternoon than he had in almost a decade. And as a result he had changed the course of his life on the strength of a whim. That was what this whole thing amounted to. What did he really know about Sophie? About her family? He turned away from the vista of trees and shrubberies and faced his sister.

  ‘To So...to Miss Trevelyan.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Max! Are you serious? That’s wonderful!’

  Max frowned at her unbridled enthusiasm.

  ‘Is it? I would have thought you would be offended I didn’t choose someone from your list.’