He broke the kiss, holding her close, his forehead to hers, his heart a strong steady beat against her ribs, his every breath a statement of male lust under rigid control. She longed to see him let go and become as undone as she was herself.
His warm palm cupped her jaw. Raised her head. Gazed down at her. ‘Julia.’
Assurance. The man wanted to know if she was all right.
‘I want you,’ she said softly.
His eyelids lowered, his expression so sensual she could hardly breathe.
‘It is your turn to undress,’ she gasped.
Heat flared in his eyes. A slow sensual smile curved his lips. He lifted her up on to the bed and she scooted backwards, up against the pillows. She licked her lips and his gaze fixed on her mouth.
Slowly, he unbuttoned his falls.
* * *
The jolt of pleasure that had zipped up his spine at her boldness had almost brought him to his knees.
In tamping down his desire for this woman, Alistair had also buried his memories of how passionate this wife of his truly was, how lusciously she responded to him when kissed and touched. He prided himself on his ability to arouse desire in a woman to such a fever pitch she would forget her own name. Now he was undone by the need to make Julia respond that way again, over and over.
Given his current view of long silken thighs, and a hint of her femininity through her shift, not much of his mind was capable of thought, but feral instinct remembered her deep sighs at the sight of him naked.
In moments, he stripped down to his bare skin and despite the urgency of his roaring lust, he waited beside the bed while her gaze roamed his body. Her moistened lips parted. The way her eyes stroked along the length of his shaft made blood the temperature of molten metal race through his veins. His heart pounded against his ribs and echoed in his ears.
‘Mmm...’ she said.
He grinned at the moan of pure pleasure. ‘I hope you’ve seen enough, because I am going to bite and lick and savour every inch of you until you beg for mercy.’
She opened her arms. ‘Now there is a pleasing promise.’
He climbed on to the bed, crouching over her, straddling her hips. She leaned forward to kiss his mouth.
Gently he pressed her back against the pillows. ‘Now it is my turn to play.’ He glanced down her length, practically salivating at the sight of her nipples standing out beneath the filmy fabric of her shift. ‘Here, I think.’ He licked at first one, then the other.
She shuddered and reached for him.
‘Not yet, little one,’ he murmured.
He backed down the length of her until his face was level with the apex to her parted thighs. He gave her a wicked glance from beneath his lashes. ‘Like to tease, do you?’
She raised up on her elbows, her expression sensual and her eyes slumberous. ‘As much as you do.’
‘Hmm. Too bad we forgot to bring your mask.’
She sucked in a breath, as if the reminder of that night was not one she welcomed. A glance at her face showed a flash of embarrassment before she got it under control and her expression calmed to the point of reserve.
‘I was sure it had a couple of feathers left,’ he continued as if he had not noticed her discomfort, though he filed the reaction away for future consideration, when he was capable of thought. For future discussion, too, because the game they had played with the feather had been one of the most sensual experiences of a life filled with hedonistic games.
The playful words seemed to ease her tension and he leaned forward on his knees and took one rosy peak in an open-mouthed kiss. She arched her hips upwards in an attempt to increase the pressure of his erection against her, showing him with her body what she wanted while clutching at his shoulders to hold him in place.
He easily slipped from her grasp, ducking down to blow a hot breath into the valley between her thighs.
She gasped. ‘Alistair. Please.’
A tingle ran up his spine. Hades, he was too close... He drew in a deep breath and rode out the pulses of pleasure until like ripples caused by a stone dropped in a pond they diminished at the edges of his consciousness.
Sitting back on his heels, aware of her greedy gaze touching that male part of him, yet distancing himself by willpower alone from the urgency she incited, he pushed her shift upwards, baring her fully. She lifted her hips to help in the process, drew the whole thing up over her head and tossed it away.
He did not see where it went, he was too focused on the lovely shape of her, curvaceous calves encased in stockings to just above the knee, pale thighs, softly rounded yet long and elegant, chestnut curls, the flare of her hips, the dip of her waist, the flatness of her belly, the fragile ribcage supporting her deliciously full breasts topped by tightly furled dark rose tips.
No artist could capture the warmth, the subtle scents of her perfume and the musky scent of arousal that spun him into her orbit as if he were no more than a falling star.
Twining her arms about his neck, she brought her mouth and lips and tongue down to dance with his. Tendrils of desire curled around him, drawing him in, her sensuality surrounding him until reason slipped from his grasp. Her kisses were heavenly. Seductive as hell.
He wanted to be inside her, to drive himself deep, to claim her in the most fundamental way. And bind them together on some deeper level. A rush of something tender and fragile swamped him. Tenderness. Hope.
He froze. He would not let emotion take control. That way led to disaster, weakness. This was all about pleasure. Nothing else.
As if sensing a change in him, she drew back, her gaze puzzled.
‘Alistair. Please,’ she moaned and wrapped her legs around his waist in a primal invitation.
This, this, he understood.
He bent his head to lick first one breast, then the other, while his fingers danced over her, teasing and stroking until he could sense she was close to her climax. At last, he entered her, finding her natural rhythm, listening to her sighs and sensing what pleased her most. And still without warning, her inner muscles tightened and pulsed around his shaft. A glorious heart-stopping climax that shook him to the core.
A storm of sensual pleasure raced along his veins. The urge to follow into bliss was nigh overwhelming.
Fighting to hold back the primitive need, he jerked away, collapsing to one side of her before he unravelled. The pain of denial had him clenching his jaw and breathing hard while coherent thought escaped his command, but he sensed her confusion.
He pulled her close, his heart thundering in his chest, his body a jangle of anger and disappointment.
Her hand cupped the side of his face. ‘Alistair?’ The question was little more than a breath of air across his cheek.
He swallowed rawness in his throat. Only once in recent memory had he forgotten himself entirely during intimacy. With her. That time, he had been assured all precautions had been taken and they had not been married. This time the risks were too great, yet he’d almost forgotten, he’d been so overcome.
He blew out the candles and drew the covers up to her chin. ‘Sweet dreams.’
In the dark, he sensed her uncertainty. ‘Alistair, why—’
‘Sleep,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘I have quite worn you out.’ He pushed away from the bed and returned to his chamber. He didn’t have a choice. He did not trust himself not to want her again.
And that was troubling.
Chapter Eight
When Julia arose the next morning, to the annoyance of Robins she hurried her toilette in hopes of meeting Alistair at breakfast. She wanted to see for herself whether what had happened the previous evening augured a new beginning in their marriage. Or whether he’d be back to his cold reserved self.
Doubts pecked at her hopes. Sharp claws tore them to shreds lik
e raptors at a kill. Their lovemaking had been lovely. Extraordinary. And yet... She’d felt as if Alistair, the man, had removed himself from the equation and left her with the dissolute Duke. A man whose emotions were uninvolved and only physical pleasure held sway.
And then he’d walked away as if it had been no more than a handshake.
Was it something she had done? Had she been too bold? Too wanton for a duchess? A chill ran down her spine as she entered the breakfast room.
Empty apart from Grindle.
‘His Grace?’ she asked hating the hesitation in her voice.
‘He left earlier, Your Grace. A meeting with Mr Thackerstone, the land steward. Some issue with a tenant.’
Her heart sank. Could it be he’d left to avoid her? He’d certainly avoided her attempts to talk to him before she fell asleep.
She pushed the fear aside, vowing to face him when he returned. Somewhat disgruntled by her solitary state in the breakfast room, solitary apart from two footmen and Grindle, Julia wondered if she might just as well have taken her breakfast in her chamber.
Grindle poured tea from the pot that Alistair must have drunk from. It was still hot. And it was Oolong. Apparently, she had only missed him by minutes.
She added more sugar than usual. ‘Did His Grace indicate when he might return?’
‘It is a fair distance to the Mollet holding, Your Grace, a good morning’s ride. I doubt we will see him until late this afternoon.’
So what was she to do with herself all day?
There was one duty she had not yet performed. ‘Then I will meet the staff, if you would be so good as to have them assemble in the hall in one hour’s time.’ Allowing them time to finish their morning duties. ‘After that I think a tour of the house would be in order.’
Grindle looked pleased. ‘I will let the housekeeper know, Your Grace.’
* * *
After breakfast, Julia spent the remaining time before meeting with the staff in the library trying to choose a book. She could not keep herself from glancing through the window, wondering if Alistair might return earlier than expected. How could she be missing him already? They had been together last night. A ripple of warmth went through her at the memory.
Yet miss him she did. She missed him and worried. She had the odd feeling something was wrong.
‘The staff are ready, Your Grace,’ Grindle announced. ‘The indoor staff. I think we will leave those employed outside for another day, if that suits you?’
‘I am happy to abide by your advice.’
He led the way to the hall, where some twenty people were gathered in order of importance. She walked down the line meeting everyone from the tweeny, who cleaned the fireplaces before the family were awake, to the jolly cook and the fearsome housekeeper.
Everyone seemed pleased to meet her and she managed a few words with each. The housekeeper then led her on a tour from attics to kitchens where Grindle took over her education and proudly showed off what were the finest wine cellars in the country, according to him.
‘There was a time when things here were not so well run,’ Grindle said lowering his voice. ‘After the old Duke died and this here one was declared dead, the Dowager Duchess nigh on sent the Duchy to the poorhouse.’
Wait! What? ‘His Grace was declared dead?’
Grindle frowned. ‘By his stepmama, he was. Did he not mention it? It is old news now, I suppose. He went off to France during the false peace. He was caught there when war was declared and nothing was heard of him. Sent the old Duke into a decline, it did, and ’tis my belief he died of guilt for sending his heir away in a fit of temper.
‘After that, the Dowager Duchess badgered the House of Lords to have him officially declared dead and Lord Luke made Duke, but Parliament is slow to move when there’s no corpse.’ The old man gave a little shiver of distaste.
Julia knew she should not be gossiping with the servants, but these were things Alistair should have told her and had not. More things he should have told her. ‘If not dead, where on earth was he?’
He gave her a piercing stare. ‘Your Grace, to my knowledge he has never said where he was, but whatever happened, His Grace came back a changed man. Older. Well, he would be. But older than his years. More reserved. But he worked day and night to turn the Duchy around.’ He grimaced. ‘Well, that and other things.’
He was hinting at Alistair’s reputation for debauchery, no doubt.
His brow cleared. ‘For a while I thought he might never marry and provide the next heir, but now it seems all is well on that front, too.’
Pain clutched at her heart. He had said he did not want to rush having children. He’d proved it with his actions the previous evening, but she hadn’t admitted to him the full truth. Her shame of being barren. He might not want children now, but surely he would, eventually.
Even the servants were getting their hopes up. Shame filled her. And guilt. She must tell her husband.
The old man’s eyes twinkled with a pleasure that seemed to make her pain worse. ‘Is there anything else you would like to see, Your Grace?’
She fought back a sudden rush of tears. ‘Thank you, no, you have both been most thorough.’ The housekeeper had also made it clear that everything was so well run, there was no role for Julia, apart from approving the menus for the week.
Grindle escorted her back to the drawing room, where she took out her needlework. She glanced at the clock. It was barely ten. Perhaps she should leave this for later and go for a walk. Visit Bella in the stables.
She went to the window. The day was cloudy, threatening rain, but perhaps it would hold off for a while. A carriage coming up the drive gave her pause. Who on earth would be calling at this hour of the morning?
A few minutes later, Grindle announced the Dowager Duchess of Dunstan.
A strikingly beautiful woman with black hair and an olive cast to her skin swept in. Her eyes tilted upward at the corners, adding to her exotic allure. She looked familiar. Of course, her son, Lord Luke, was the masculine version of this very feminine woman. Alistair was not going to be pleased that his stepmama had come to call when he was out.
Julia rose and curtsied. ‘Your Grace.’
The woman swooped across the room and embraced Julia. ‘My dearest daughter, no need for ceremony between family, surely?’ She turned back to the butler. ‘Grindle, bring the tea tray and some of Cook’s lovely little cakes. I declare I am famished.’
Grindle looked none too pleased, but bowed. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Sit down. Sit down,’ the Dowager Duchess said, waving Julia to a chair and taking the one in which Julia had been seated. She picked up Julia’s embroidery and inspected it. ‘Very nice, my dear. Where is my stepson?’
‘Visiting a tenant, Your Grace.’
‘Call me mama, my dear. A tenant? On his honeymoon? How very odd? But then he was always cold, even as a boy.’ She gave Julia a kindly look. ‘But perhaps he has changed.’
Julia scrambled to catch her breath. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you at last.’
The Dowager’s smile lit her face, making her look even more beautiful. Her gown was of the richest purple silk Julia had ever seen and fit her slender figure to perfection. Her jewels were worth a king’s ransom. ‘How lovely you are to say so. I know my stepson would not agree, since he did not invite me to his wedding.’
Guilt assailed Julia. ‘It was a very small affair. I apologise.’
‘No matter. The deed is done.’
Grindle and a footman entered with the tray. The Dowager Duchess signalled them to set it down on the little table beside her. ‘Now, Julia, how do you take your tea?’
Julia flinched. She had been remiss, first in not ordering the tea for her guest and then in not arranging things properly. Now the poor Dowager was forced to act as hostes
s. ‘With milk and a little sugar, please.’
The Dowager smiled, her dark brown eyes warm and friendly. Julia could not imagine why her husband had taken her in dislike. ‘Perhaps you could move your work, in case I spill.’
Flustered, Julia leaped up. ‘I beg your pardon.’ What on earth was the matter with her? Perhaps it was the Dowager’s forceful personality making her wits go begging. She put the embroidery in its linen bag and tucked it in a drawer before taking her cup from the Dowager.
The Dowager took a sip of tea and gave a small sigh of pleasure. ‘Now, tell me all about yourself.’
Julia sipped her tea. For once the tea tasted as tea should. Perhaps her illness had made things taste strange. ‘My father was an earl. I was widowed three years ago.’ What else could she say that would not have this woman turning up her nose?
‘A widow? And how on earth did you manage to catch the most elusive bachelor in London? You are to be congratulated, my dear.’
Heat flushed all the way to Julia’s hairline at the recollection of how she and Alistair had met. ‘Dunstan and I met at the house of a friend.’ If one could call the owner of a brothel a friend. ‘He offered and I accepted.’
The Dowager’s brow furrowed. Something flashed in her eyes. ‘A love match, then.’
If only it were. She looked down at her hands. Pride did not allow her to reveal the truth and if this telling sounded romantic, perhaps it was better left at that. If more explanations were to be made, those would be left to her husband.
The Dowager raised her cup as if in toast. ‘I must say, I was surprised. All the family were.’
‘It came as a surprise to us, too,’ Julia said, wishing she did not sound quite so defensive.
She winced as the other woman’s eyes narrowed and fell to her waist. She barely prevented herself from clutching her hands across her stomach.
The Dowager lifted her cup in toast. ‘To the happy couple, then.’
Julia took another sip of refreshing tea. ‘Thank you.’ She put her cup down. ‘We met your other son, Lord Luke, when we were out riding yesterday.’
Secrets of the Marriage Bed Page 11