by Cheryl Bolen
They arrived at her door, and the duke followed her into her room.
“When he saw the condition of my clothes and boots, he got all puffed up with self-importance. Now, I think, he feels needed again.”
Radcliff shut the door behind him and walked toward her, desire burning in his eyes.
It was hard for her to try to make conversation with him when she could think of nothing except falling into his arms and feeling his lips on hers and his hands stroking her bare body. “I cannot think but that Evans must resent your marrying.”
“He will get used to it.” Radcliff’s voice sounded raw.
She found herself meeting him, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him hungrily. It no longer mattered to her that the draperies were open or that he could look upon her nakedness. All that mattered was this moment and the exquisite feel of her husband against her. She moaned as his hand slipped into her bodice, and later, when her gown crumpled to the floor, she felt only a sense of pleasure when his eyes lingered over her body.
Her hand cupped the swell in his breeches, and he soon pulled them off. Now it was her turn to gaze as her hand rounded his hardness.
“I told you this could give you pleasure.”
She answered him with a dazed smile. She had not felt anything like this since she had tasted her first champagne.
“Come, my love, for I cannot wait.” He took her hand and crossed the floral carpet to the bed. Their bed.
Again, they did not remove the spread but lay atop it, Radcliff spreading his wife’s legs and positioning himself between them while his gentle hand worked its magic on her.
She called out his name, raising her hips to him, burying her face in the hollow of his neck, sucking in the smell of his Hungary water.
Soon he was plunging into her with a maddening rhythm until they both cried out a frenzied, joyful wail of utter pleasure. Then he collapsed on her, his body—like hers—wet and exhausted.
He stayed within her for a very long time before he pulled away and gazed into her face. Brushing back damp strands of hair from her forehead, he whispered, “Your body is less resistant to me now. I am so very pleased I married you.” He gathered her into his embrace. “You are everything I could ever want in a wife.”
But there was one thing more he desired from her. Her love. Her passion for him had given him a false confidence in her affection. Then, this morning, as he walked back from instructing Cook on Lady Emily’s lunch, his wife’s words—spoken behind her cousin’s closed doors—shattered him.
Lord Dunsford is not only very attractive, but sensitive, too.
Chapter Eight
“Would you prefer to walk or ride to the lake, my love?” Bonny’s husband asked, looking down at her. His voice was gentle and concerned when he added, “Are you less sore?”
She squinted, for the overhead sun struck her eyes, but she did not avert her gaze from his close scrutiny. She knew she should blush over his second question, but talking of their intimacy brought them closer and she couldn’t seem to get close enough to this man she loved so fiercely. Boldly matching his gaze, she answered: “Let’s walk.” She took his hand. “It seems my body has grown quite used to yours now, sir.”
“I am very glad to hear that.” Radcliff walked with her across the park, a wren’s trill crescendoing in the cool air around them.
“Where are the fishing poles?” she asked.
“I had my groom take them to the lake and set them by the water’s edge. He also took the picnic basket.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Does he also hook the worms for you?”
“Do you imply that others do my unpleasant work?”
Her smile widened. “To be sure.”
“You must know about fishing, then. Do you fish?”
“Not since I was a child, since my father died.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked being outdoors and I liked being with my father. The same two reasons I am here today.” This time she did turn her gaze from his.
He brought her hand to his lips and softly kissed it. “I am gratified to know you desire my company outside your bedchamber.”
His words irritated her. Did he think her so lacking in feeling that she gave herself to him only for the joy of physical pleasure? “You sound as if you have more confidence in your lovemaking than in your personal charms.”
He did not answer, and they walked on in silence. After a while, the neatly mowed grass gave way to pasture, and the land began to slope. Some distance off they could see the small lake.
“Steps are being taken to hire villagers to begin the cleaning and painting you spoke of to Mrs. Green.”
“You are most efficient, sir.”
“And you have won Mrs. Green’s wholehearted approval, my dear. She’s already encouraging us to begin the nursery while she’s still alive to enjoy a babe.”
Bonny turned to her husband and drew in her breath. “Should you like that?”
Wind tousled his hair and his eyes narrowed from the sun, but his mouth lifted into his far-too-infrequent half smile. “Very much.”
She squeezed his strong hand. “Me, too.”
As they got closer to what her husband called the “lake,” Bonny could see that a stream actually widened in the valley between the sloping hills. A wooden humpbacked bridge spanned the lake near the mouth of the stream, and woods bordered it on the opposite side.
“Is this your very own private lake?”
“It is, but I have special days for my tenants to enjoy it.”
They found the poles, one large and one small, beside the bridge, where a small rowboat was moored. Radcliff lifted his wife into the boat to keep her skirts dry, then he handed her the poles and buckets before unfastening the boat and climbing in.
“Do I put your worm on for you?” he teased.
“But of course. Ladies don’t soil their hands with worms.”
He set about the task of baiting their hooks while she rowed toward the center of the lake, the oars slapping at the water in a rhythmic pattern.
“By the way,” he said, not removing his eyes from his task, “I am glad you have only the one cloak, the blue one you’re wearing. I don’t like you in black.”
“When it is just you and I, I will wear what pleases you,” she said.
“When we go to London, I want you to have all the latest fashions in every color imaginable. You must be the best-dressed woman in London.”
“First, I shall need more mourning clothes, sir.”
“Then you’ll have black cloaks and black muslins and black gloves. I hate to think of it,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes raked her from head to toe, then he spoke softly. “You were made to smile and laugh and wear beautiful gowns.”
“There will be time later.”
Radcliff handed her the small pole, and the two of them cast their lines into the placid lake. Sitting in silence in the gently swaying boat, they waited for a fish to bite. Though it was a cool day, there was no wind. So unlike Northumbria, Bonny thought, remembering the ever present whooping of the winds in her land of moors.
From time to time she would steal a glance at her husband, his face so much as it had been the first time she set eyes on him at the rout, his mouth firm in its straight line, tugging down ever so slightly at the corners. Such a rugged face it was, she thought. Tanned from the sun. A cleft in his square chin nearly matched the dimple that would poke into his cheek if his lips ever lifted into something close to a smile. And right now, loose strands of wavy, honey-colored hair dipped onto his forehead.
“I think, sir, you lead a charmed life. Do you always get what you want?”
His chest tightened. If only she knew the doubts clawing their way back into his mind. He kept telling himself Barbara was his. Hadn’t she shown it in every way? But then he would remember what an obedient, loving daughter she’d been. It was just like her to offer herself in marriage to a man she did not love to please her dying mother.
But what of her lovemaking? How could she be so warm and open to him if she indeed loved the Earl of Dunsford? “I am not above altering the playing field to give myself the advantage. Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking about the sun today,” she said, the boat rocking on the gently swelling waters. “I haven’t seen it in a month, and the one day you choose to go fishing, it pokes its head through a sky of clouds.”
“I was quite lucky.” His pole bent and tugged, and he brought in his first catch of the day.
He was to catch three more while Bonny still waited for her first bite.
“I think I could use some lunch now,” he said, lying down his pole and taking up the oars. When they got to the water’s edge, he leapt from the boat, rope in hand, and tied it to the bridge, then lifted Bonny from the boat and carried her to dry land.
The picnic basket yielded boiled eggs, fresh loaves of bread, slabs of cheese, two apples and a bottle of Madeira the duke had thrown in. They ate and drank their fill. When Radcliff offered Bonny a third glass of wine, she refused. “I had best not. I feel giddy.”
Her husband lay back, chewing on a blade of grass and feeling the sun’s warmth, the blended smell of woods and daffodils stirring an erotic mixture of emotions deep within him.
“I shall take off your boots so your feet can dry,” a light-headed Bonny informed him while pulling off first one, then another boot.
“Would you care to take off anything else?” he asked.
She cocked her eyebrows and glared at him. “I think not. Not in broad daylight.”
“But you were most bold in broad daylight in your bedchamber yesterday.” His hand closed over her thin skirts and fastened on her thigh.
“You cannot seduce me out here, sir.”
“Just lie here with me, Barbara. Feel the warmth of the sun.”
She nervously complied, lying on her stomach a forearm’s length from her husband’s side.
He shielded his eyes to gaze into her face, catching his breath at her loveliness, the length of her long black eyelashes sweeping down over those beautiful eyes, the soft mouth beneath her aquiline nose.
“I hope the sun will not spoil your lovely white skin,” he said.
“Pooh. It feels too good to worry about.”
“Being beautiful doesn’t seem important to you.”
“It is a trial.”
“How so?”
“Can you imagine what a dilemma it is to receive flowers from eight different men, all begging you to wear theirs that night to show your affection?”
“What other problems does a beautiful woman encounter?”
“Well, I cannot tell you how many terrible poems have been written in my honor. My eyes have been called faded ink pools, my hair has been likened to lumps of lignite, and I have been told I have the body of Venus—which did not please me at all, since all the Venuses I’ve seen in my father’s books are quite disrobed.”
Radcliff laughed at the images she drew.
She touched the dimple in his leathery cheek with a finger. “I love to see you smile. You seldom do so.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “You do have the body of a goddess, you know,” he said, his voice throaty.
“Then you, sir, have the body of a god.”
He saw desire in her eyes and pulled her to him for a hungry kiss, his hands moving over her back, her hips, pulling down the hood, which still covered her head, then running his fingers through her hair, sucking in the light floral scent of her perfume.
His breathing quickened and his heart beat so loudly it almost covered the sounds of his wife’s soft moaning. He felt himself grow hard. God, but he wanted her even more than ever, so badly it hurt.
Firm arms drew her against his body, and she melted into him. He heard her heart pounding against his own. His hands moved to stroke her skirts and cup her where her thighs joined. Her breath came faster. He began to pull up her skirts until his fingers reached her and she gasped with pleasure.
Soon, the two of them lay on the grass, facing each other, clothed at the back, but joined in the front only as two lovers whose hearts pumped to the same beat.
During the fevered frenzy of their union, Radcliff lost all sense of time and place, knowing only that what he shared with Barbara was bliss beyond measure.
He loved her so totally he would love her if she lay in his bed like a fireplace poker. Never would he have imagined that beneath her cool beauty she was possessed by such passion. He held her close, savoring the feel of being within her. In a thousand years, he could never find another like his Barbara. His wife.
Her mind fogged with pleasure, Bonny could scarcely believe one week ago she had never seen a man’s naked body and now she craved one. She craved the very sight of Richard. The commanding sound of his deep voice. The feel of him. His touch had the power to unleash her soul. Lying there on the sloping meadow with skirts hiked up and a man’s sex plunging deep inside her was something a lightskirt might do, not a lady, not the Duchess of Radcliff, but it was the Duchess of Radcliff who lost all sense of propriety when she was with her very virile husband. She knew a hunger greater than any shame.
What happened between her and her husband was not shameful. There was too much affection in his voice, too much satisfaction in his eyes when he looked upon her after their lovemaking.
She knew men kept mistresses. Her chest constricted at the thought of him lying with another. She held him close, intoxicated by the feel of him, by his male scent, and determined to bring him such pleasure he would never seek a mistress.
He withdrew from her, gently smoothed her skirts back down, tucked himself in his breeches, then lightly kissed the tip of her nose. “You drive me mad, wench.”
Was that all he could say? If only he could tell her the words she hungered for.
Chapter Nine
The country life suited her husband very well, Bonny reflected as he strolled into the dining room dressed simply in country clothes and smelling of fresh shaving soap. That first night she had seen him she had not thought him particularly handsome outfitted in pants and coat of blue superfine with flounced lace shirt cuffs and an elaborate cravat with diamond pin. But in country clothes that matched the shades of brown in his hair, buff cloth breeches and Hessians, he looked ruggedly handsome.
Radcliff looked her over approvingly before lifting the coffee cup extended him by a footman, whom he immediately dismissed. “Marie does admirably with your hair.”
Bonny lowered her lashes and smiled. “I am quite pleased with her.”
Taking a seat across from her, Radcliff shot Bonny a contented gaze. “I am happy to see no dark circles under your eyes, my love. I know I kept you from sleep the greater part of the night.”
She thought of how she had thrown off all covers, how his lips and hands moved over her body, how she hungrily stroked him and lashed about wildly beneath him. Her breath grew short at the memory. And she could not meet his gaze in the morning’s bright sunlight. “Pray, sir, I cannot discuss that in the breakfast room.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. “You passionate baggage. If I wanted to, I believe I could have you writhing with pleasure beneath me in this very room in a very short span of time.”
She took a sip of the now cooling coffee and diverted her gaze. “I daresay you could. You do seem to have that effect on me.”
The lopsided grin appeared on his face as he broke open a scone and spread a thick layer of marmalade on it. “But, alas, I must spend the day with my steward.”
“You are so very much at home in the country, I wonder why you spent so much of the year in London.”
“Before you, the company was awfully thin here.” He bit into his scone.
“None of your friends live in the area?”
He shook his head. “I met my closest friends at Oxford, including old Twigs. He’s quite my best friend. You haven’t met him, have you? James Edward Twickingham?”
“No.
I suppose he is a bachelor.”
Her husband chuckled again. “I cannot even fathom Twigs noticing a woman, unless she were mounted on an exquisite bay. He cares for nothing except the sporting pleasures.”
“Does he not even know bits o’ muslin?”
Her husband cocked a single brow. “My sweet wife knows about those? Have you not been told that ladies do not discuss such things?”
“Pooh. It is different with you. You are my husband. And you have told me any number of times that nothing between us should ever be embarrassing.” She dabbed a chunk of the warm scone in clotted cream, eyeing Radcliff. “When you were at Oxford, surely you and your chums learned from buxom serving wenches, right along with Homer and Aristotle.”
His eyes twinkled mischievously. “In my case she wasn’t a serving wench, but the upstairs maid of a country squire. There was a little ditty we sang of her.” Lifting his voice to a merry tenor, he sang.
“She’ll show you her breast,
She’ll lift her skirts,
That’s our fair Denise.
And when you are through,
She’ll yell like a shrew,
Next gentleman, please!”
Bonny attempted to scowl, but a faint smile played at her lips. “I shall pretend I did not hear that outrageous verse and return to the subject we were discussing. You have no good friends in the area?”
“No male companions. Our family has always been close with Squire Carlisle.”
“Has he no sons?”
“None that lived past infancy, poor man. Perhaps that’s why he frequently solicited my company when hunting and fishing. I really must call on him. Perhaps this afternoon I could present you to the Carlisles.”
The idea of meeting her husband’s friends appealed to her. More than that, though, she welcomed the opportunity to spend time with Radcliff. “I should like that. While you are with your steward this morning, I had planned to call upon the vicar. What is his name?”