Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  He explored them gently. He nuzzled the underside of one while palming the other with his large, warm hand. Katherine dimly thought she should be mortified—she knew gentlemen liked large breasts on a woman, and hers were so small Howe had merely sighed in pity over them—but goodness, what Gerard was doing felt wonderful. His tongue traced delicate loops and whorls across her ribs, his thumb mirroring those actions on the opposite side. When he scraped his teeth lightly across one nipple, she gasped, and when he sucked it into his mouth, she shook like a leaf in a breeze. Her flesh seemed to burn under the touch of his mouth and his fingers until she was sure her skin was glowing. Both her arms were over her head now, clutching at the pillows to keep her body from floating off the mattress in sheer bliss.

  When he touched her lower, his palm cupping over the nest of curls between her legs, she arched off the bed—not in fright, as he evidently thought from the way he soothed her again, but from shock at the sensation. Howe had touched her there, but it never felt like this. Gerard’s fingers were gentle but insistent; he didn’t poke them inside her at once, but danced around, stroking, circling, working his way through the folds of flesh until he reached one spot so sensitive, she made a strangled noise of alarm. It wasn’t right—she’d felt that to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet.

  “Shh,” he whispered even as he made the torment worse. “Trust me, Kate.”

  Hadn’t she already? Trusted that he was honorable enough to marry, bound herself to him, handed over her fortune to him, left London with him, and now surrendered her body to him? He could have anything he wanted of her if he only asked. She wanted to please him in bed. With a big breath, she nodded, and let him do as he wished.

  Sometime later he moved, the hair on his legs tickling her inner thighs, and he adjusted himself against her. Katherine told herself to stay relaxed and let him, but it had been a long time since a man had made love to her. She tensed, which only made his entry harder. Gerard had teased her into a quivering tangle of sensation, and now he seemed so large, so thick, her nerves screamed as he pressed into her body. He was a much bigger man than Howe had been, in all ways. It didn’t hurt and pinch as it often had before, but she felt invaded and stretched. She spread her legs wider apart, hoping to make it easier.

  Gerard paused, sucking in a deep breath as she moved. “God, Kate,” he growled. “My God. Like that, yes.” He caught her knee and hooked it over his hip, sliding deeper in the process. She arched her back, truthfully trying to wiggle away from him for a moment, but he took hold of her other knee and urged it around him, too. He pushed until she thought she would faint at the fullness inside her.

  Finally he stopped. Katherine realized she was trembling again and breathing just as hard as her husband, who seemed to be trying to master himself. One hand was braced beside her, and he smoothed back her hair with the other. His fingers shook a little. “Katherine,” he said thickly, “put your arms around my waist. I’ll do better next time, I swear it.”

  He never called her Katherine. Uncertainly she did as he said. The muscles of his back were like iron. At her touch he ducked his head and kissed her, a deep, ravishing kiss that left her head spinning.

  She felt the flex and strain of his muscles as he began to move in long, hard thrusts. She felt every inch of penetration as if it were the first time when his hips drove forward, although the discomfort faded quickly. He pushed himself up and took hold of the headboard; dimly she could hear it creak. The motion forced her hands down his back, until she was nearly cupping his bottom in her hands. He gripped her hip, holding her in place. Every surge of his body into hers rocked her whole form, curled as she was around him. It was overwhelming. The sensation was too much. She squeezed her eyes shut and clung to him, feeling as if she would burst from the pressure, the unbearable heat in her belly that grew harder and hotter with every stroke of his hips.

  It broke like a shower of sparks against her skin, like nothing she had ever felt before. She clutched at him, her cry muffled against his chest. He thrust hard into her, then stayed there as she shook and convulsed around him. Dimly she heard him groan. Her head fell to the pillow, her neck too weak to hold it up. All her muscles felt soft and shaky, in fact.

  “Kate.” Her name was a ragged breath against her temple as he kissed her. As her mind cleared, she realized she was clinging to him tightly, keeping him deep inside her. She would have to let go of him . . . in just a moment. That had been blissful. Wonderful. Everything she’d ever dreamed it might be, between a man and woman. She scrunched her eyes closed and listened to the pounding of his heart against her cheek.

  “That’s what it should be like, my dear,” he said softly.

  Chapter 12

  Gerard woke in a fine mood. The sun was rising, light streaming through the gaps in the drapes when he slipped from the bed. Kate still slept, her hair a wild tangle across her bare shoulders and breasts, her face soft and young in sleep. He contemplated his bride for a moment. Howe must have been an idiot. Kate wasn’t a beauty, and her figure wasn’t lush, but she was exquisitely responsive, and her body . . . His blood surged at the memory of how tightly and wetly she sheathed him. And how pliantly she opened herself to him. His intention to be slow and gentle vanished, blown away by the single soft moan that slipped from her lips as he entered her, then he’d been lost to the driving need to bury himself in her again and again. And despite his lack of finesse, she still reached climax. His Kate was a more sensual being than expected. Yes, he was going to like being married.

  Which only freed him up even more to pursue that bloody blackmailer. By day he could set himself on the hunt for his father’s tormenter, and by night he could lose himself in the pleasures of seducing his wife.

  Bragg, already accustomed to Gerard’s army hours, had coffee waiting when he stepped into the dressing room. “What shall I do today, sir?”

  “See that Lady Gerard is settled. Show her the house, and . . . anything else she wants.” He honestly had no idea what his wife would want to do. What did ladies do all day? “Find out where the library is. If she wants to attend the theater, take a box. A good one this time, Bragg.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And see to a carriage, or a chair.” Gerard slathered shaving soap over his chin. “She’ll want to go shopping and visiting, no doubt.”

  When he was ready to go out, he peeked into the bedroom. Kate was still in bed, but awake, staring at the ceiling and twisting a lock of hair around her fingers. She looked so pensive, he paused. Had he been too rough last night? He opened the door. “Good morning, my dear.”

  She lurched upright at his voice, then turned bright red as she jerked the covers up to her chin. Gerard, who rather appreciated the glimpse of her pale, pert breasts, grinned. “No need to hide.” He came to sit on the side of the bed. “I trust you’re well this morning.”

  Her eyes were deep pools of blue in the morning light. “Yes, Captain,” she whispered. “Gerard.”

  “You never said anything last night.” He traced his finger over her arm, feeling how her muscles tensed as she clutched the bedclothes to her like a shield. “Was it . . . uncomfortable?”

  “It didn’t hurt,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  “Well, that is high praise,” he said dryly. “I shall do better. I want you to enjoy it when I make love to you.”

  She looked nervous. “I will try.” Gerard cocked his head, wondering why she said it that way. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked, glancing sideways at him like a skittish horse. “Was I . . . pleasing?”

  “Yes,” he reassured her, and some of the tension went out of her arms. “Don’t be afraid of me, Kate.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I’m not afraid of you. We aren’t very well acquainted, though, and I do wish to be a good wife.”

  “Men are simple creatures, darling,” he said with a laugh. “We want to be well fed, amused, and loved. A good meal, a quality horse race, and a woman
waiting in his bed are all it takes to make a man happy. You’ll be a splendid wife.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “I’ll be out most of the day. Bragg has his instructions. Do let him know if you need anything as you settle in.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Gerard, already halfway to the door, paused to smile at her before he left. Kate would be fine. He was fortunate she had such a calm and steady disposition.

  He skipped his morning ride. The horse needed a rest after two long days of travel. Instead he walked the streets of Bath, reacquainting himself with the town in daylight. Up and down the hills he strode, past the gleaming stone that glowed in the morning sun and along the verdant banks of the rushing Avon. It was still a beautiful town, and he filled his lungs with fresh air, appreciating it all the more for having been in London.

  When the post office opened, he made his way there. The postmaster, Mr. Watson, was a businesslike fellow, and once Gerard put the problem to him the right way, he was eager to help. Of the blackmail letter sent eight months ago, there seemed little hope; but the one posted a mere seven weeks before had far more potential. The clerks were summoned and shown the letters, which Gerard had brought with him. One man did indeed remember them. Both were addressed to His Grace the Duke of Durham, which was unusual, and the postage had also been prepaid, a significant enough sum to have attracted notice. Given the combination, the clerk was certain he remembered the man who posted the letter.

  “I would know him again if I saw him,” he vowed.

  “Have you seen him since?” Gerard asked.

  “No, sir. He’s not a regular patron, at least not to this post office.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  The clerk did, although a hundred men might have answered to the same description. Medium tall and spare, in his prime years, brown hair, spectacles, dressed well enough for a lawyer or a shopkeeper but not better.

  “And he had a mark on his cheek,” added the clerk, pointing out the location on his own face. “A scar of some sort.”

  Gerard produced the older letter again. “Are you quite certain you never saw him before? I wonder if someone else posted this letter. It’s most certainly from the same person, mailed six months earlier, with the same direction.”

  The clerk peered at both letters, but finally shook his head. “They do look very similar, but I couldn’t recall so far back. Another clerk might have served him.”

  “May I see them?” Mr. Watson asked. The clerk handed them to the postmaster, who held the two letters side by side. “The writing appears to be the same,” he said, studying them. “In fact . . .” He squinted at one, then the other. “I would almost say they were written at the same time.”

  “Oh?” Gerard sat up straighter. He’d scrutinized both letters, and the writing was identical. Of course, he paid more attention to the postmarks and other clues, but if he had missed anything, he was anxious to hear it.

  “It rather looks as though the author misspelled the town, then corrected it, on both letters.” He gave them back to Gerard, who spent a good few minutes looking.

  “Notice the stroke of the pen from the ‘t’ to the ‘y,’ ” said the postmaster. “The ‘e’ has been written over it, not as part of the original stroke.”

  “It’s very cramped writing.” Gerard bent over the letters. “How can you see such a thing?”

  Mr. Watson rummaged in his desk and produced a magnifying lens. “Does this help?” As Gerard turned the lens on the letter, the postmaster added, a touch grandly, “I once served in the Dead Letter Office, sir. We’re trained to spot any such clue that might identify a letter.”

  “How fortunate I am to have encountered you, then,” Gerard replied. “I think you’re correct. The writer originally wrote ‘Styning,’ and then added the ‘e’ later. It’s clear on this one—he wasn’t very artful, and his pen strayed across the ‘y’—but on this one I should never have believed it without the lens. Well spotted, Mr. Watson.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Of course, what good did that information do him? Did the same error mean the letters had been written at the same time, or just that the sender repeated his mistakes? Gerard mustered a smile and turned to the clerk, still perched attentively on his chair. “If the man who sent these should return, I would be very glad to have a word with him. Here is my card.” He scribbled the Queen Square house number on the back.

  “Very good, sir.” Mr. Watson took the card and cleared his throat. “Of course I can only notify him of your interest, unless you are alleging some illegal activity has taken place in connection with these letters . . . ?”

  It bloody well should be illegal to blackmail a duke, but Gerard was aware he had little to stand on. He was not the Duke of Durham, and he wasn’t about to make any more scandal over this blasted Durham Dilemma. He’d brought the letters to the post office sealed, and not opened them. Mr. Watson and his clerk didn’t need to know what message was inside them. All together, that meant he really couldn’t cry foul too loudly.

  He made himself flick one hand in response to Mr. Watson’s muted question. “No, no. I doubt he is any danger to anyone. The letters were obviously unsigned, but I have a great interest in speaking to the author on my brother’s behalf. If the fellow should come in again, I would be very glad to know of it. Give him my card and express my eagerness to see him. I would be”—he paused delicately—“most grateful for any assistance.”

  The clerk bobbed his head. Mr. Watson smiled and got to his feet, hand extended. “Of course, sir. Brynfield here will keep an eye out, you may depend on it.”

  Gerard shook the postmaster’s hand. “Excellent. A good day to you both.”

  He left the post office and resumed walking the streets, although this time without purpose or direction. He thought more clearly when he was active, and this was a moment for thinking. The two letters from Bath were sent six months apart; why would they have been written at the same time? Or perhaps that was wrong, and the sender had a persistent inability to spell and always had to correct his work. And yet, why bother to correct a misspelling on a blackmail letter? If Gerard intended to blackmail someone, he would use the worst spelling and handwriting possible. In fact, he would probably hire someone to write the notes, another person to address them, and a third to send them, so no one could trace them back to him.

  His steps slowed. Perhaps that was an idea. If the letters were all written at one time, as Mr. Watson suggested, it might have been done to hand them off to a third party who would post them. If the actual blackmailer didn’t know when they would be sent, that could explain why no one ever inquired after the ransom that was demanded. Perhaps he didn’t know the letter had been sent.

  Then he shook his head. What sort of idiot would blackmail the Duke of Durham for five thousand pounds and not even keep track of the letters, let alone the ransom demand? Where was the point in that? This villain had already proven himself crafty enough to avoid Durham’s investigators and escape detection. His evil letters hadn’t gained him anything yet, but he clearly wanted something out of it. Gerard just hadn’t figured out what that was yet.

  Sunk deep in thought, he wandered up to Milsom Street, where a number of fine shops were located. Perhaps he should buy something for Kate, sweets or a book or something. He remembered how earnestly she’d told him she wanted to be a good wife and felt a twinge of regret he had to spend the first few weeks of his marriage on this blasted blackmailing problem instead of introducing his bride to his family and setting her up in a proper home. She’d been so agreeable about everything—particularly last night, to Gerard’s deep satisfaction—he owed her some small token.

  Half an hour later he was ready to admit defeat. A book seemed a fine idea; what did she like to read? He didn’t know. Perhaps a shawl, or a new bonnet; what sort would she admire? He didn’t know. Gloves? Music? A fan? Perhaps jewels, although he had intended only a small trinket. He’d never seen so much as a
simple locket around her neck. Perhaps she didn’t care for jewels . . . unlike every other woman of his acquaintance. He was scowling at the jeweler’s window when the sound of his name roused him.

  “Imagine meeting you here!” cried the man advancing on him. “I thought you were still in camp with the rest of the regiment.”

  “I was.” Gerard shook hands with Daniel Carter, an officer in his regiment and a good friend. Carter had been shot in the leg a few months ago and still leaned heavily on a cane. “My father died,” Gerard explained. “I was given some leave to tidy up his affairs.”

  “Ah. So sorry,” murmured Carter.

  Gerard nodded in acknowledgment. “What brings you to Bath?”

  “As you can see, I’m no good to the army yet.” Carter grimaced as he shifted his weight. “Another month, perhaps.”

  “We shall return at the same time then, I hope.”

  “Very good!” Carter’s face brightened. “Have you any time for pleasure in Bath? My sister’s been looking out for me, but I’m a dashed dull fellow, with this leg. She’s very good-natured about it, but I’m sure she’d be glad of a more jovial fellow’s arm from time to time. Ah—there she is now. Cora,” he called to a woman just leaving a shop behind him. “Come say hello to a most excellent friend of mine.”

  She joined them and was introduced. Cora Fitzwilliam was a tall, slender woman with a dazzling smile and a warm, open manner. After a few pleasantries about the weather, Mrs. Fitzwilliam turned to him. “Captain, do you attend the theater? Much to my delight, they’re presenting a comedy this week.”

  “Cora loves a farce,” said her brother. “And a good laugh is always welcome. De Lacey, you must join us.”