“Then why were you beseeching him to stop?”
“Because…” She groped for an answer. “Because I remembered that we are in Miss Kirkland’s room and she might arrive any minute. If we were to…proceed any further, obviously we must stop and engage in a change of location.”
Christian looked from her to Mr. Kingston and back again, blushing visibly. “So…my intrusion was unwelcome.”
“Hardly,” said Mr. Kingston with great dignity—cheer, even, considering that he had just been interrupted in his lovemaking and given a cut on the cheek. “I’m quite delighted that Her Grace has such a fierce champion.”
Christian inclined his head. “If I do not hear from you twenty minutes before dinner, Stepmama, I will take your place as host. And I’m sure I can come up with an acceptable reason for Mr. Kingston’s absence.”
As soon as he had left, Clarissa rushed to Mr. Kingston and peered at him. “Are you all right?”
He looked at her the way she had always wanted him to look at her—and even smiled a little. “Yes, I’m fine.”
She flushed, remembering what they had been doing. She walked to the pitcher by the washstand, dipped her handkerchief in the cool water, and wrung it out. But it was a few seconds before she could turn around and go back to him.
He hissed slightly as she dabbed the handkerchief on his cheek. “This is probably as good a time as any to tell you that Miss Kirkland won’t be arriving to interrupt anything.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
He exhaled slowly. “You were married, you were lonely, and you were proud. I thought…I thought perhaps I could be a friend to you, even if I could be nothing else. So I invented Miss Kirkland.”
She stumbled back a step. She had never noticed it before, but that first letter from Miss Kirkland had arrived the day after his departure from Algernon House. And Miss Kirkland’s initials, J.M.K., could just as easily stand for James Maitland Kingston.
All these years, all those letters…it had been his words—and warmth and camaraderie—that she had cherished. Her head spun a little, unable to take it all in. “You never said anything.”
She could understand why he had chosen not to reveal himself while her husband yet lived, but the latter had been dead for two years.
He looked down briefly. “I was afraid to lose your friendship. It is difficult, as such, for me to speak to others. When it’s you, it becomes…almost insurmountable. I thought you would find me a terrible substitute for Miss Kirkland.”
“Then why now?” But even as she asked the question, the answer came to her: He believed her blithe declaration that she was going to make one of the gentlemen in attendance her next husband. “Ah, I see.”
“I wanted to tell you the truth when I asked to see you, but I turned into a coward. So I decided that this time I must not fail.”
She remembered how coolly she had conducted herself during their meeting. He must have thought that she did not care for him—when that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Her hand raised of its own accord. Her thumb grazed along his bottom lip—yes, it was wonderfully soft. “The path to success, of course, was via kisses.”
He took her hand and kissed her on the center of her palm, sending a jolt of heat into her arm. “Easier to kiss than to speak.”
She had stopped his kisses because she had believed there to be something missing in their interactions: that lovely approach of two souls toward a point of communion. But it wasn’t lacking at all. He was already her stalwart companion and trusted confidant; he had already known her in every season and every mood.
She was, all at once, very close to tears.
He held both of her hands in his. “Please believe me when I say there was never any malice or mischief on my part. I only wished to do something for you—and be closer to you. Because…because I love you. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you.”
Of course she believed him. Of course she believed her best friend in the entire world. She kissed him, her heart full of wonder and gratitude.
“You are sure you are not angry with me?” he said between kisses.
“Angry? You were my lifeline.” She ran her fingers through his hair, loving that he was no mirage, but a true oasis. “I only wish you had told me sooner, so I didn’t have to spend so many nights, long after I became a widow, wondering what your lips felt like.”
His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Now you know.”
She traced his lips again. They were delectable to the touch—everything she had ever dreamed of and more. “Not well enough—never well enough.”
Chapter Four
CLARISSA DANCED. It was three o’clock in the morning, but she was still bursting with energy and euphoria. Thanks to Christian’s promise to look after her guests in her stead, she and her wonderful James had been able to spend eight solid hours together, making love, talking, making love some more, and talking some more. And once her lover stopped thinking of her as the Duchess of Lexington, but only as his dearest friend and correspondent, he didn’t even have that much trouble speaking.
Now she had to wait until morning to see him again—morning could not come soon enough.
She was twirling past the fireplace for the third time when a light knock came, followed by an envelope from under the door.
When she opened the unsealed envelope, she was greeted by a most familiar and beloved hand.
My dear Duchess,
I know I have said it in your presence, but permit me to also set it down in writing: This has been the most marvelous day of my life. I am filled with such a sense of well-being and invincibility that I just might attempt giving a speech in public. Perhaps I’d even commandeer the nearest piano, pound its keys, and sing at the top of my lungs.
I am drunk without having touched a drop of spirits.
Will you make me permanently intoxicated with life and all its beauty by consenting to become my wife? I am already the happiest man alive. But as your husband, I would also be the proudest.
Yours devotedly,
J.M.K.
She pressed the note against her heart, but only for a moment, as she rushed to open the door and pull him inside. Before he could speak, she placed a finger over his lips and led him to her sitting room, and with him leaning over her shoulder, penned her reply.
My dear Mr. Kingston,
Why, yes, of course I will marry you. I did say that I would choose a gentleman from among those at my house party for my future spouse, did I not? I am a woman of my word.
If it is agreeable to you, let us marry as soon as we can obtain a special license. Where should we go for our honeymoon? We need not return until the Eton and Harrow game in July.
Yours impatiently,
Clarissa
Her dear James solemnly read the note after she handed it to him, even though he already knew exactly what it said. He then kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“When your party disperses, will you come with me to my house and see my hydrangea garden?” he asked.
In other words, would she like to come and see his heart held out before him and the hope that had sustained him all these years?
She rose and wrapped her arms around him. “Yes, I will, darling. There is nothing I’d like to see more—except you, every day of my life.”
About Sherry
Thank you for reading Claiming the Duchess. Claiming the Duchess is followed by Beguiling the Beauty, which tells Christian’s story. For your copy of Beguiling the Beauty, click here.
Want to know when the next Sherry Thomas novel will be released? Sign up for her newsletter at www.sherrythomas.com. You can also follow her on twitter at @sherrythomas and like her Facebook page at http://facebook.com/authorsherrythomas.
Other Books by Sherry
The Heart of Blade Series
The Hidden Blade
My Beautiful Enemy
The London Trilogy
The Luckiest Lady in London
Private Arrangements
His at Night
The Fitzhugh Series
Claiming the Duchess
Beguiling the Beauty
Ravishing the Heiress
A Dance in Moonlight
Tempting the Bride
The Bride of Larkspear
The Marsden Brothers Series
Delicious
Not Quite a Husband
The Elemental Trilogy (Young Adult Fantasy)
The Burning Sky
The Perilous Sea
The Immortal Heights — 2015
Not in any series
The One in My Heart — spring 2015 (Contemporary Romance)
Chapter One
Nottinghamshire, 1821
HE WAS SIMPLY a boot at first. A scuffed boot propped on her newly upholstered ottoman. Catherine Meredith Carthwick Raybourne, the Marchioness of Forster, paused on her way down the hall. Quiet settled as quiet does on a tame Wednesday afternoon. The butler had not announced any guests, and her brother was not to return to Nottinghamshire for five days yet. The boot gave way to a long leg. Cat leaned forward and peered around the corner of the library door.
And nearly fell over.
She’d never expected to find her missing husband in the library.
Forster sat in a puddle of sunlight beneath the near windows, all dark hair and tanned skin. He’d removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and propped his dusty boot on her Chinese silk.
Her husband was home.
Cat had awaited his return for five years. Five long years of moldering in the country with nary a letter from him. Nary an inquiry or a simple message directed through an impartial third party.
Only once, in all that time, had she queried her errant spouse’s whereabouts. The family solicitor was “not at liberty to share such information.” But he did confirm, “The marquess is of sound health and mind.”
Catherine had received the news with a proud spine and undiminished composure. Inside, she’d been gravely disappointed.
Forster, it seemed, was not stranded on an exotic island with a strange disease. Or trapped by the ice in the cold north. Or eaten by a bear in the Americas. More’s the pity.
Beneath her disappointment, where dark emotions lurked like wriggly things in a deep well, she’d seethed with fury.
He could very well be cohabitating with another woman, starting another family while she awaited him till death did they part.
Now, she did not know what to think. She shook her head, but the apparition did not disappear.
Her husband was in the library.
Time, which was supposed to have stood still, or slowed, or demonstrated any other gentle kindness to make the moment easier to bear, instead raced forward and backward like a dog searching out a scent and not knowing where to begin. Her turbulent heartbeat scrambled along, a pulse behind, unable to catch up.
She took a deep breath. Then another. “So, you are home.”
Sunlight glinted off Forster’s dark hair as he lifted his head from the book in his hands.
He glanced across the room and met her eyes. His face was thinner than she recalled, sculpted into sharp lines and hollows. But his eyes were the same sky blue. Set against his tanned skin, they appeared only more brilliant.
Uncoiling his long limbs, he pressed to standing. He seemed taller, or perhaps that was the thickness of his shoulders. “Lady Forster.”
His voice was deep velvet. Somehow, her husband had become a man. The boy she’d known since childhood had lived an entire chapter of his life without her.
Sorrow, or something like it, knocked at the heavy door of her heart. Cat refused to let it in. She straightened her spine and closed half the space between them.
Faint lines fanned out from his blue eyes. A tiny scar, one she had never seen before, marked his right cheekbone. Another scar, the shape of a small star, sat high on his forehead. She knew that one. She’d put it there herself.
“Good afternoon, Jamie.” His name slipped from her lips. He’d once traced his name on her mouth, claiming when she said “Jamie” it appeared she said, “Kiss me.” Where was that boy who had brought her wildflowers and embraced her in the thick woods?
The man standing before her tilted his head to the side. “Good afternoon, Cat.”
It poured through her, the sound of her name. His deep voice. Poured through her like church bells ringing into the hills, awakening those who would forget their longing, their anger, their terrible regret.
She fingered the riding crop in her hand. “Whatever are you doing in the library?”
He arched a dark brow at her tone. “You sound surprised to see me. One might have expected my return after Sutton’s passing.”
“I wasn’t aware you knew of Sutton’s illness.” One does not expect things of a husband after five years’ absence. “My condolences on the death of your cousin.”
“Thank you.” Still, he did not approach but remained before the rosewood armchair he’d always favored. In a fit of pique, she’d had it reupholstered in pink and green damask with matching tasseled pillows.
The pillows were now on the floor.
Cat noticed it then, the tea tray waiting beside his chair. A plate of crumbs and jam.
He’d called for tea without even informing her he was home.
How dare he. The current of her blood burned beneath her skin, left her nearly breathless. She wished she could recall any of the set-downs she had practiced over the years. Any of the gracious welcomes that were to show her equanimity in the face of his absence. Instead, she blurted the only thing that came to mind. “I was in my dressing room.”
He dropped his gaze, slid it over her in a quick lick of heat that ended with her toes curling in her riding boots. When he met her eyes again, the left side of his mouth quirked in the half smile she remembered so well.
She ignored the quick flip of her heart. “What I mean to say is I have been home all day, should someone have thought to inform me of your return.”
Forster didn’t apologize for his lapse. He didn’t shrug his shoulders or shift his feet. He didn’t do anything.
Infernal man. “Did you not even inquire if I were home?”
“It is not so big an estate. I assumed our paths would cross.” He swept his hand toward her. And here you are.
Her husband was either a hopeless idiot, a selfish arse, or still punishing her. Most likely all three.
“That is it, then? Five years and I get a”—she waved her hand in a motion that mimicked his—“crossing of our paths?”
He had the intelligence to look wary. “What would you like me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about ‘How are you, Catherine?’ or ‘I’ve been in India and the goats ate all my correspondence.’”
His blue gaze was intent upon her. Once, this expression had made her feel like the center of his world. “It is good to see you, Cat.”
“Good to see me?” Her throat burned with the urge to yell at him. She tried to take a calming breath. Composure. Graciousness. Indifference. Those were the qualities she needed to strive for.
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation later,” he said.
“Later?”
Jamie scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Though this homecoming is truly heartwarming, I am exhausted from my journey.”
“You’ve had five years to avoid arguing with me, Forster.”
“Then what’s an afternoon more?”
“What’s an afternoon more?” she repeated. Loudly.
“I do not mean to interrupt your day.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, he was definitely thicker there, in his shoulders.
“What do you know of my day? You’ve not even inquired into my affairs.”
“Yes, a husband should know all about his wife’s affairs, should he not?” Ice cold. The man still wanted his revenge, then.
“You know very well
I did not have an affair.”
“Funny, then, how I was deemed a cuckold only a fortnight after my wedding.”
“I…you…” Cat snapped her mouth shut. Finally, the argument she’d been waiting years to have, and she could think of no sharp retort.
JAMIE STARED AT HIS WIFE. Anger glinted off her like sparks beneath a hammer.
She was glorious.
It took everything he had within him not to breach the space between them. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to touch her, taste her. Goddamn smell her. She, the woman who had betrayed him worse than any other.
He was a bloody fool.
A fool who was in no mood for an argument. The last he had seen Cat, they’d had a row to end all rows. Between them, they had smashed two matching Rouen vases, torn down a curtain from the window, and disemboweled a throw pillow.
His pride had fared no better.
“It is lovely to have you home, my lord.” Cat crossed her arms, mimicking his posture. The tasseled riding crop in her hand stuck out at a funny angle. Only Cat would have a silk crop specially designed to match her riding habit. “The villagers will be delighted that the lord of the manor has finally returned to Forster Abbey.”
She sounded anything but delighted.
“I am happy to be home.” Dread heavy in his belly, he widened his stance. His favorite chair waited behind him, now covered in some appalling fabric. But it didn’t seem he’d be sitting down any time soon. He’d been at sea often enough to recognize the signs. This storm was gathering strength, not abating.
Foolishly, he’d thought a surprise reunion might work in his favor. A warning of his return would afford his wife time to amass her anger against him. Apparently she didn’t require time or warning to gather her fury. Her blond curls trembled with emotion beneath her riding hat.
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