by Diana Quincy
“No.” He rose to his feet. Willa caught his hand with both of hers from where she sat and laid her forehead against it. Hart stilled, standing before her, his hand on fire from the satin feel of her cool porcelain skin.
“Ask me.”
A suffocating feeling engulfed him. He shook his head. “No.”
“You speak of love. Offer it fully then.” Releasing his hand, she rose and moved behind the chair she’d been sitting in. His eyes fastened on the delicate femininity of her hand resting atop the high back of the chair. “Ask me for the truth so we can both be free of it.”
She was resplendent in her sky-colored ball gown, which complimented her dark eyes, tumbling curls, and glowing complexion. He’d never laid eyes upon a more exquisite woman, inside and out.
Ask me.
He had a million questions. And none. Lord help him, he wanted her, loved her without reservation. He should spare her the indignity of his questions. But he had an overwhelming, unquenchable urge to know. “I will ask you once and then we shall never speak of it again.”
She nodded, waiting with quiet dignity for him to continue.
His breath scraped across his lungs. “Did he force you?”
“Force me?” Willa’s face betrayed her confusion.
“The inn.”
Anxiety and shame showed in the comprehending look that washed over her face. She had a death grip on the chair, her knuckles white with the exertion.
“I don’t sit in judgment.” He tried to reassure her. “I have not lived the life of a saint.”
“That is most generous.” A faint smile appeared on her pale face. “But standards of decorum are considerably more lax for gentlemen than for ladies and well you know it.”
He brushed the soft velvet of her cheek with the back of his hand. “I just seek reassurance that you were not forced.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek into his hand. Then she opened her eyes and looked directly into his. “No, there was no force. I went to the inn of my own silly, youthful volition. Nothing was forced upon me.”
He dropped his hand. Black jealousy snaked through him. She had been willing. Willa let Bellingham touch her, bed her. Hart could hear the chambermaid’s words. She entered an innocent, but that is not how she left. She left her proof of her maidenhead on the sheets. He spun away from her, stumbling towards the window, trying to calm the storm raging in his head.
She came to stand beside him, gazing out at the day’s last remnants of light. “Augustus convinced me that once I’d been compromised, our parents would allow us to marry. But the old earl was looking for a much bigger dowry to help meet his debts.” She laughed without mirth. “A girl’s silly romantic notions result in her downfall. It is an old and unoriginal story.”
The images crashed through Hart’s mind: Bellingham grunting over Willa, driving himself into her softness, his greedy mouth tasting her lush lips, hands roaming over the expanse of her curves. And she had been willing. Perhaps even craved it.
Utterly and completely compromised.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to blast the lurid images from his mind, attempting to calm himself by reasoning out his reaction. After all, he’d learned nothing new. Hart exhaled in a deliberate manner and forced the tension from his shoulders, restoring some semblance of calm. Clarity seeped back into him. He still wanted her. Despite everything. He’d told Bellingham the truth. He would take Willa any way he could get her. Even if she were no longer untouched.
He turned to Willa and took her hands into his. It dismayed him to feel her skin had again lost its warmth. “Thank you for your frankness. We shall never speak of it again.”
Two tiny lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Surely you can’t mean to continue with this betrothal.”
“I find myself growing quite attached to the idea of having you at my side in my dotage.” Hart turned her hands over, brushing a tender kiss on the inside of each blue-veined wrist. “I won’t allow you to cry off that easily.”
“I will tell Cam everything.” She blinked, tears shining in her eyes. “He’s well aware I’ve little honor left to save. You deserve a duchess worthy of your admiration and affection.”
“Such a lady is before my eyes.” He couldn’t bear to see her exquisite face ravaged by anguish. “Cease this nonsense and kiss me.”
He brought his lips to hers, loving her gently as though she were a mortally wounded bird he could breathe back to life. She slipped her arms around his neck, the unbearable sweetness of her trust in him making his chest swell with emotion.
He surrendered to it all—his love for her, their future together, and the inescapable truth that he could no more part from this woman than he could stop the sun from rising in the eastern sky or the tide from coming in with the moon.
…
“You are truly a beautiful bride,” Mother proclaimed with a maternal satisfaction. She looked at her daughter’s reflection in the mirror. Adela and Matilda stood behind her, murmuring her approval.
Willa had Hart to thank for the exquisite wedding dress. He’d had the fabric for it delivered not long after they’d all returned to Town. The dress turned out more beautifully than she could have hoped. It had a high waist with a simple under dress made of a light white organza. The layer of delicate white silk lace that topped it took Willa’s breath away. The intricate netting had a touch of silver in it, casting a luminescent sheen when it caught the light. Willa’s abundant chestnut curls were put up, with delicate strands of silver interwoven into them. Looking at herself today, on her wedding day, Willa actually did feel beautiful.
The month since the announcement of their betrothal had passed in an astonishing whirlwind. Once they returned to London, Willa’s mother had set the modiste immediately to work on a trousseau for the bride to be. Willa had not seen much of Hart. He’d called most afternoons, but they’d rarely been alone.
“It is time,” Mother said, cutting into her thoughts. “The carriage has arrived.”
Willa floated through the rest of the day in a dreamlike state. She saw Hart waiting for her at the altar as she entered the church. He wore black superfine with a soft gray waistcoat that complimented the silver threads in Willa’s dress. His dark eyes flashed as she approached, the chiseled lines of his face sharpening. His magnetic presence commanded her toward him, his usual teasing demeanor now serious and unsmiling.
It was a small morning service and later Willa would barely remember saying the words that made her Hart’s wife. The modestly attended wedding breakfast took place at Hartwell’s Mayfair townhouse, her new home. Later, Willa would recollect the laughter and sense of general goodwill that permeated the air, the sounds of clinking glasses and people’s chatter wafting throughout the main rooms and out into the small garden. There was Cam lifting his glass, leading a congratulatory toast, the pride and joy in her mother’s face, and the barely concealed astonishment in the faces of others.
When the time came for goodbyes, Hart led Willa out to the post chaise. They were to make their wedding trip to Fairview Manor, Hart’s ancestral estate. The eyes of the more curious guests followed them, taking in their every gesture, trying to discern any words the duke exchanged with his new duchess. Hart handed Willa into the carriage, his hand giving hers a warm, gentle squeeze.
He settled into the carriage across from her and rapped on the roof, signaling the coachman to move on. Willa watched him, her heart moving faster. As always, his hair was immaculately tied back at the nape of his neck, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face. He settled back against the squabs and looked at her, and she thought she saw glimpses of joy in those midnight blue depths, although she couldn’t be sure.
Her husband cleared his throat. “If we continue straight on without stopping, we should reach Fairview well after nightfall.” He paused, studying her. “Of course, there is an inn I often use which is quite comfortable if you’d prefer to overnight along the way.” He was politely giving Willa the choic
e of where she would prefer to spend her wedding night.
When she didn’t answer immediately, he spoke again. “Unless you would find staying at an inn disagreeable.”
Discomfort twitched in her belly. Perhaps he thought consummating their marriage at an inn would resurrect old memories. Of another inn. With another man. Willa’s ears burned at the thought. “Whatever you prefer.”
“The rational course would be to stop at an inn.” He smiled and she saw the heat in his eyes. “But I am not always given to rational thoughts when it comes to my new wife.”
“As you please.”
“Very well, then.” Hart settled back in his seat. “We’ll stop for rest and refreshment and to change horses, but I’ve instructed the coachman to complete our journey this evening.”
Fingering the pendant of her necklace, she stared out the window. Of course, Hart would have difficulty putting her history with Augustus aside. But to have Augustus’s presence felt here in the coach between her and her husband on their wedding day caused a pang of regret deep inside her.
She could feel Hart watching her. “You never looked more beautiful than today in your wedding dress.”
“A bride could not help but look her best in a gown made of such exquisite materials. Where did you find it?”
“I did a little bartering with another shipper. The lure of sugar made him willing to part with some of his finest fabric.”
“That was most fortunate for me.”
“I didn’t think you could look more beautiful but once I saw you in that dress I realized I was mistaken.”
She winced at being called beautiful when she knew she was not.
Hart leaned forward. “What is it?”
Shaking her head to indicate it was nothing, she returned to the view outside her window.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Hart moved beside her and reached for her hand, and his clean robust scent stole over her. “You are not going to retreat into that icy shell. Tell me why a mention of your obvious beauty prompts this withdrawal.”
Willa watched his hands play with her fingers, moving over the inside of her palm. Sensation jolted up her arm. “I am your wife now and, if nothing else, we have learned to deal honestly with each other.”
He brushed a kiss on her temple, his hand still caressing hers. “Is it that I insult you by only referring to your physical beauty?” He fingered a tendril by her face. “Perhaps you would prefer that I compliment your beautiful mind instead.”
Delicious warmth flowed through her limbs in response to Hart’s light touches. “That would be more honest.”
“How so?” he said.
“I shall warm your bed this evening and any other night of your choosing from now until death parts us. There is no need for you to invent untruths to turn me up sweet.”
His face twisted in confusion. “What untruths are we talking about?”
“Really, Hart, it is not gentleman-like to make me utter the words aloud.” She sighed. “We both know I am no great beauty. There is no need to pretend otherwise.”
His caresses faltered. “I would think you are being coy, but I know that is not your nature.”
“I would prefer for us to be honest in our dealings with one another,” she said, her ears burning.
“My dear, the truth is that your physical superiority is obvious to everyone but you. How is it possible you do not know how lovely you are?” He looked at her with open appreciation and desire. “Your beauty leaves me breathless. I have to stop myself from saying it aloud every day so as not to appear the lovesick fool.”
Beautiful? She knew it wasn’t so. “I assure you yours is a unique perspective.”
“Nonsense, there is not a man who sees you who doesn’t want you, who isn’t struck by how stunning you are. It amazes that you aren’t cognizant of it. Women far less beautiful than you are extraordinarily aware of their looks.” His fingers skimmed the inside of her hand. “Every part of you is beyond compare. No one has lovelier fingers.” Hart brought her hand to his lips and surprised her by taking a finger into his mouth. His tongue flicked over it and then suckled it.
An astonishing surge of longing jolted through her. Hart’s clean masculine smell prickled her senses, heightening her awareness of the sharp turn of his cheekbones, the chiseled lips that toyed with her finger. She instinctively tried to pull her hand away but he held firm, watching her reaction as he tasted her, twirling his tongue around her finger. He took it deep into his mouth and then eased it back out, his mouth tight around her finger, the stroking back-and-forth motions leaving her breathless.
Hart’s dark eyes gleamed while he watched, as the pressure built inside of her, in her chest and belly. And lower. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, a soft moan escaping her mouth.
Then Hart stopped and she felt his firm hands at her waist. Willa’s eyes flew open as he swept her from beside him to place her atop him. She straddled one of his taut thighs, the skirt of her dress pushed up, straining against her parted legs. Her breasts were at Hart’s eye level.
He nuzzled the full swells above her neckline. “And these are the most beautiful bits of temptation.” He slipped her bodice down, freeing them to his touch. His large hands cupped each breast. Hart’s eyes darkened when the ripe pink nubs at their centers hardened under his gaze. “What could be more beautiful than that?” He bent his head to flick his tongue across each sensitive, aching tip. Willa gripped Hart’s shoulders and cried out at the shooting sensation that made her body throb.
“No other woman compares to such perfection.” He slipped his mouth over her breast, sucking on the point, drawing it out. Hart’s hands moved under Willa’s bottom, pulling her against his hardened male flesh.
Heat and want pulsing through her, she pushed her body against the evidence of Hart’s desire for her, trying to answer the insistent throbbing between her legs. On instinct, she started moving in a rhythm up against his hardened body.
“Willa.” He called out her name, surprise in his voice. She stilled, afraid she had done something wrong.
“No, don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.” he said, pushing her dress up to her hips giving her more freedom of movement. His hands gripping her bottom, Hart helped her move. He put his head back against the squabs, growling with satisfaction.
They moved in tandem, ravenous and urgent. Hart’s eyes fastened on Willa’s face when she reached her peak, watching as her body seized and then shuddered.
Lost in the waves of shocking pleasure, Willa heard Hart cry out before burying his head in her breasts. Afterwards they were perfectly still. Willa kept her arms wrapped around Hart’s neck. From her position still astride him, she laid her cheek on the top of his head, taking in the soapy smell of his hair. Hart embraced her, tilting to look up into her face.
“If you could but see yourself now, you would never doubt your appeal.” Willa knew she must look a fright with her burning cheeks and tousled hair. Her parted lips felt swollen.
Hart brushed a kiss on her bare breast and Willa thought she heard him murmur, “Just beautiful.” But it was hard to hear over the pounding of her heart.
…
Despite the lateness of the hour, the household staff lined up to greet their new mistress when Hart and Willa arrived. They stood in a row, according to rank, in the massive entry hall where a crackling fire blazed in an immense white marble hearth. Hart introduced Willa to Mrs. Pearson, the housekeeper, and Digby, the butler. They in turn made the introductions of the household staff. Mrs. Pearson presented the maids while Digby introduced the footmen. The maids and footmen stood upright in a formal manner, sneaking curious looks at their new mistress. Willa smiled and repeated each name during the introductions, murmuring words to each person who stepped forward. Hart felt a surge of pride watching Willa glide down the line, elegant and self-assured, already every inch the duchess.
His mind went back to how she had moved atop him not so long ago, cheeks flushed against the p
ale perfection of her skin, her lips lush and swollen. His own body had reacted like an untried school boy. Despite not making love to her in the traditional way, he’d felt surprisingly sated after their encounter. He could not wait to bed her now, to finally make her his in every way.
He stepped forward. “Her Grace is fatigued. We shall retire.” Willa’s brows shot up at his interruption and then her cheeks flushed. He pulled her toward the stairs, anxious to show Willa to her chamber, the one that adjoined his.
“Really, Hart, what must the staff think?” she said once they were out of earshot.
“They will think I am anxious to bed my wife.” Hart put one arm under Willa’s knees, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms, carrying her up the stairs. “And they would be correct.”
…
The duchess’s rooms were enormous, making Willa’s comfortable accommodations at Camryn Park seem modest in comparison. The bedchamber was swathed in pink velvet and silk. An opulent four-poster bed with thick carved posts standing sentry around it dominated the space. Willa’s new dressing room was also generous in size and well appointed. Next to it was a door that Willa presumed connected to Hart’s chambers.
“I’ll expect you’ll want to refurbish these rooms to your liking,” Hart said, watching her.
Willa’s gaze took in the details of her new rooms. “It’s huge.”
Hart laughed and kissed her cheek. “You are my wife now, sweetheart. Only the finest will do for the Duchess of Hartwell. Mrs. Pearson will send your maid up to help you change,” he said, disappearing through the door that adjoined his rooms to hers.
It was too late for a bath to be made ready so Willa washed with a basin of warm water Clara prepared for her. Afterwards, she put on a new thin muslin nightgown and dressing gown from her trousseau. She pulled a nightcap over her unruly curls. Once Clara left, Willa could hear Hart moving around in his rooms. Muffled voices suggested his valet was still in with him.