“It’s up to you.”
She grinned. “You can be so agreeable, darling. I think it’s your most charming trait. Would you like to sit or stand or lie?”
“How about all three?”
In answer, she released her hold and winked at him. “Perfect”
He could have retaliated had he wished, and for a brief moment, he considered the possibility.
But more pressing, overwrought urges impelled them both and issues of conjugal duties were abruptly dismissed in favor of orgasmic bliss. Very frenzied, heart-stirring, unbridled orgasmic bliss.
Caro even overlooked Simon’s cautious withdrawal at climax.
And Simon overlooked the fact that his wife appeared to be disturbingly insatiable.
Chapter 27
The next few days were an unrelenting contest of wills, the battleground confined predominantly to the bedroom. Sometimes Caro won and other times Simon prevailed, both equally stubborn and uncompromising on issues of independence. But when it came to sex, they grudgingly came to the conclusion that they shared an astonishing compatibility.
Which considerably muddled the other areas of contention.
On the fifth day, late in the morning, while they were still abed, temporarily reconciled on their treaty ground of sexual gratification, Simon withdrew for his orgasm, glanced down and suddenly smiled.
He’d not realized how profound his misgivings until he was struck with the full force of his relief.
Lying beside her a moment later, his heart still beating furiously, exhilaration inundating his brain, he murmured, “It started.”
There was no need to question the unspecified phrase after the contentious nature of the last few days. Sitting up, Caroline looked down, saw the minute streak of blood on the sheet and turned to her husband. “You owe me an apology.” Rapping him on the chest, she put a hand to her ear. “I’m waiting…”
“Yes, dear.” Which was all he was capable of saying with the image of Caro kissing that man at Netherton Castle still inciting an ungovernable jealousy. In his experience, grown men and women didn’t exchange single kisses. In his experience, Caro certainly didn’t exchange single kisses-regardless of her protestations. And her insatiable sexual appetite of the last few days hardly induced him to change his mind. “Get dressed,” he ordered, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. “We’re off to London. You need some clothes. I need to get back to my life. And I haven’t fucked you in a carriage for years.”
“And you’re not likely to now, either, unless I hear an apology,” she retorted, not moving.
“You think I and my guards can’t throw you in the carriage?”
“I think I need an apology. And then I’ll consider whether I want you or your guards to touch me.”
He was standing beside the bed, his smile benign, all suddenly right with his world. ‘Tour father has much to answer for, darling. I’ve never known such a difficult, obstinate female.“
“My hearing is very good, however.” She put her hand to her ear once again.
“Good God, I apologize. Now, may we leave?”
“Why should I?”
Because he had no intention of allowing her out of his sight, he wished to say and he no longer had reason to stay. The unknown Will was now free to fuck whomever he pleased. It wouldn’t be necessary to kill him. “I thought you might like to pay Daphne a visit,” he said instead, his grin a flash of mischief.
“You do know how to tempt a woman,” Caroline murmured, a sportive light in her eyes.
“And then there’s mother. You two could discuss the disposition of the Hargreave jewels.”
She laughed. “Perhaps for that, I’ll harness the horses myself.”
“And as an added fillip, I could introduce you to the publisher, Bothwick. Gore knows him well.”
“Bothwick! You don’t mean it! If you’re teasing me, Simon, I’ll never forgive you. Do you know how many wonderful authors he publishes?”
“I have no idea, darling, but I’m sure Gore will know. Are we agreed then?”
“I don’t really have to see your mother, do I?”
“Not without me for protection. I promise.”
“Will you come with me to Daphne’s?”
“If you wish.”
“Why are you being so cooperative?”
He was quickly dressing. “I’m always cooperative,” he said with the perverse presumption of a man who bent the world to his will. “Do you want me to send up a maid?”
“I haven’t been to London in five years.”
“It looks the same.” He glanced at her. “You’re not worried about”-he made a dismissive gesture-“what would you be worried about?”
“Nothing, everything… I don’t know.”
Moving to the bed, he sat down and drew her into his arms. “You’ll enjoy yourself, darling. And I’ll keep the Daphnes away if you’re worried. And mother too.”
“I don’t know if I’m worried or not.”
And he didn’t know why he couldn’t live without her. But he couldn’t so he understood a measure of her incomprehension. “We’ll see Bothwick first thing,” he promised, offering her an indulgence sure to please. “What do you think?”
She nodded, jettisoning her apprehensions about the viciousness of the ton, and Simon’s patterns of amusement. He was offering her a lavish world and a place by his side. She’d be foolish to refuse on principle. And Bothwick. She couldn’t help but smile.
Twenty minutes later, they were traveling south.
Chapter 28
The news of Simon’s marriage had raced through the ton within hours of their arrival at Hargreave House. But all the curious callers were turned away until the new duchess had a suitable wardrobe-a process much accelerated by Simon’s wealth.
In the meantime, though, as promised, the publisher, Martin Bothwick was sent for immediately. And for the occasion, Simon presented Caroline with an at-home gown he’d had the modiste who made her wedding gown deliver to Hargreave Home in his absence.
“How did you know I’d be coming back?” Caroline asked, her life one of uncertainty and transience for so long, she still didn’t think in terms of the future.
“I was hopeful, of course.” The ultimate politesse from a man who would have abducted her from the dungeons of hell. Try it on. We can have some adjustments made before Bothwick arrives if need be.“
“Bothwick is really coming here today?” she said, still in awe. “Do you know how important he is- how influential?”
“He must have had time in his schedule,” Simon replied casually, more aware than she perhaps of a wealthy duke’s position in the hierarchy of influence. The moss green silk gown fit well, as did the matching kid slippers; and the cashmere paisley shawl that was all the rage was so delicate and fine it could be drawn through a ring.
“You look good enough to eat,” Simon said with a wolfish grin, lounging in a chair in Caroline’s dressing room while she finished her dressing with the addition of beaten gold earrings. “A shame we don’t have time.” He glanced at the clock. “Although…”
“Don’t you even dare think of it,” Caroline interjected, shaking out the folds of her shawl so they draped over her arm properly. “I’m not going to meet the important Mr. Bothwick with my hair all atumble and my face flushed from lovemaking.” She pointed a finger at him. “You stay right there.”
“Yes, ma’am. And if I behave, will you lift up your pretty green skirts for me later?”
“I may if you don’t embarrass me with Bothwick.” “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” he murmured, grinning.
Her look was one of reproof. “I mean it, Simon. This is very serious. I don’t want any of your sardonic or disparaging comments.” “Me?”
“Simon!” She turned back from the mirror. “Promise me this instant or you’ll have to stay in your room.”
He laughed. “Now that I’d like to see.” Her answering smile was seduction incarnate. “And I know just what to offer you to
have you
His mouth quirked. “I suppose you do at that. Very well. I promise to behave.” He had something to say to Mr. Bothwick as well, although his conversation would be by necessity, private.
The duke was extremely kind to their visitor when he arrived. He went to meet Bothwick in the entrance hall and personally escorted him into the drawing room to meet Caroline, a mark of distinction that didn’t go unnoticed by the publisher who was never invited to ducal homes.
Martin Bothwick was a plump little man, clearly nervous despite Simon’s amiability, but as he and Caroline began discussing several of the authors he’d published, his disquietude subsided. They spoke at length of various books that he’d brought to prominence; Caroline had read them all. They spoke of plots and dialogue and pacing through several cups of tea while Simon listened and occasionally offered a comment. Caroline was surprised Simon was so well read in terms of the newest fiction; she would have considered him too busy with carousing.
Martin Bothwick was equally surprised. He hadn’t thought the Duke of Hargreave dedicated to intellectual pursuits. But apparently, he’d read a great deal of contemporary English literature as well as that of France and Germany. There was absolutely no doubt he knew the best tailors. Even a man of Bothwick’s background who professed no interest in sartorial matters found his gaze returning to the Duke’s elegant lounging form. He might have such a coat made for himself, he thought, sitting up a it straighter to hide his paunch. Black would be slimming too.
Sometime later, when Simon brought up the subject of Caroline’s manuscript, she immediately blushed. “It’s not in the least ready yet, Simon. Really, Mr. Bothwick, it’s in the very earliest stages.”
“When you’ve finished it, Lady Hargreave, please allow me to have the first look.”
“There’s no need to be polite, sir. I’m the most rank amateur,” she protested, all her dreams of writing paling into insignificance against this man’s accomplishments.
“Nevertheless, I’d be remiss as a businessman if I didn’t take advantage of this meeting with you. You understand, writers from the ton are very rare. And of great interest to the world.”
“There, you see, darling,” Simon interposed. “Mr. Bothwick has a point. And who better than he to know the literary landscape?”
“Thank you very much.” Caroline could scarce catch her breath. “I’m thrilled, of course.”
The manuscript is in Yorkshire at the moment, but we’ll have it brought to London,“ Simon remarked.
“It’s not at all ready, though,” Caroline quickly noted.
“When it is, Lady Hargreave, I’d be delighted to read it”
And for the remainder of their visit, Caroline was floating on air.
The men spoke briefly once again as Simon walked with the publisher to the front door. And whether His Grace could actually read minds or whether Bothwick’s inspection had been too obvious, the duke said, “Let me send my tailor to you. You’ll enjoy him. And it would give my wife pleasure.”
The publisher attempted to refuse, but the duke was ingratiating and winning and Bothwick was ushered from the house, quite charmed.
Hargreave was in love with his wife, Bothwick understood as he paused curbside a moment later, waiting for a footman to open the door of the duke’s carriage that was there to drive him home.
Although he wasn’t sure His Lordship realized it.
Perhaps he’d been the byword for vice too long to recognize the gentler emotions.
Simon’s reputation gave pause to many in the ton as well, when at the end of the week, the duke and duchess were finally at home to visitors. The shock of Simon seated in the drawing room beside his new wife was almost as astonishing as news of his marriage.
Many might understand a man’s eventual need for a wife. Or more pertinently, a man’s need to marry an enceinte lover, but for the Duke of Hargreave to actually make an appearance at tea was definitely in the nature of a miracle. Not that he went so far as to actually drink tea-the brandy at his elbow his preferred choice-but his mere presence spoke volumes.
His choice of Caroline Morrow for his wife caused enormous tittle-tattle and rumor. Was she not already married? Although certainly, the duke had enough money to buy off a husband or two. But five years wasn’t so long and everyone recalled the circumstances of their parting. That scandalous little story had spread through the ton like wildfire.
So, where had he found her?
And where was her other husband?
And more important, why had he married her?
No one ever contemplated he’d married for love. Hargreave’s profligate manner of living rather nullified any such fantasy. And while the duke and Lady Caroline had grown up together, friendship, too, was hardly a reason for marriage.
Which left only the likelihood that Simon had sired a child.
But if Caroline had been married, whose was it?
Not only would everyone be counting on their fingers, but the entire ton would be waiting with bated breath to see the child.
Simon, of course, was aware of all the rumors. Gore and all the servants had their ears to the ground and news traveled faster below stairs than above. But he’d forbidden any of the gossip reach Caroline. It was pointless to worry her.
Now that they’d finally reached a measure of emotional compromise.
It helped that he’d been home with her since their return to London. Although truthfully, he didn’t know how much longer he could continue playing the cicisbeo.
Neither spoke of his altered stance on having a child.
His reasons were too brutally possessive.
And Caroline couldn’t bring herself to voice the extent of her attachment and affection for a man who didn’t understand either emotion. But she quietly wished and hoped and considering the frequency of their lovemaking, judged the possibility of a child as highly likely.
They had made love repeatedly since their marriage, their journey to London, more leisurely than anticipated when they found themselves more interested in sexual amusements than travel. And while they’d been incommunicado at Hargreave House, waiting for Caroline’s wardrobe to be finished, their days and nights had been a carnal feast for the senses. In fact, Caroline found herself in a constant state of raging desire, as though she were perennially in heat. She had but to look at Simon and she melted in longing. He had but to smile her way and she was wet with desire.
It wasn’t as though Simon was unaffected by ravenous lust. He was in an ungovernable state of rut as well. And while he didn’t understand the finer points of love, he understood carnal desire. He quickened at the mere sight of his wife, and when she welcomed him into her body with the wild, tempestuous passion that was so much her nature, he was always reminded how intensely he’d missed her. And during those glorious moments of fierce, fanatical delirium, he would have gladly relinquished all his worldly goods.
That first afternoon at tea, they were forced to ignore their ready passions and close proximity and present the face of composure to their callers. Their guests had all come to ask pointed questions in as oblique a manner as possible and watch their hosts’ every move as though such close scrutiny would uncover the unimaginable reasons behind their marriage. Or at least lend a piquant authenticity to the reports that would come from this afternoon teatime. The whole town would be dining on the details of this mysterious marriage for weeks.
Throughout the afternoon, Simon was dealing with feelings he hadn’t experienced since he was fifteen. Not since then had he been so aroused by lustful cravings. At times he only half-listened to the banal conversation, consumed with desire. All he wanted to do was push Caro down on the settee, toss up her skirts, plunge into her and fuck himself to death. Glancing at the clock, he swore under his breath. Would these people never leave?
Caroline wondered if the heated flush on her cheeks was visible. Simon was much too close. It had been a mistake to sit side by side on the settee. She was wet with desire, the t
hrobbing between her legs increasing in intensity, while she was having more and more trouble concentrating on the conversation. She moved away fractionally, so Simon’s thigh wouldn’t touch hers.
He shifted position, following her and she glanced up at him in panic.
His dark gaze was hot with lust.
She quickly looked away.
But not before everyone in the room had taken note of the shocking display.
Daphne was one of the visitors and her mouth tightened in resentment. “Do you ever see Louvois, Caro?” she asked in a silken tone, eaten with jealousy, wanting to draw blood. “Or shouldn’t I mention your former husband?”
Daphne was very blonde and very beautiful and not showing her pregnancy at all, a fact everyone in the room had observed the moment she had arrived. Another of Daphne’s ruses, everyone had concluded. Or she’d rid herself of the stable boy’s child, Simon more cynically reflected.
“Actually, I saw Louvois last,” Simon interposed, better able to withstand Daphne’s barbed tongue. “He was in fine spirits, as was his new wife. They seemed very happy. How is Blessington?” he inquired blandly. “Still in Ireland?”
“Charles is very busy with his estates.”
And his Irish mistress, Simon thought. “Charles has found a new calling, I hear. Although, farming? I wouldn’t have thought him a devotee.”
Daphne’s mouth firmed for a moment. “He’s quite involved, actually. Will you be visiting Monkshood soon?” she shot back.
As capable as Daphne at dissembling, Simon turned to Caroline and smiled. “What do you think, dear. Should we go and visit mother?”
“I’d love to.”
There was an audible gasp. Isabella had been heard to tell Caroline on more than one occasion, that she would never allow her son to marry a woman with a drunken father and no money.
“Mother may be off for Florence soon, Gore tells me,” Simon noted with a smile. “Perhaps we’ll drive down before she leaves and bid her adieu.”
If the visitors hadn’t known better, they might have thought Simon actually talked to his mother other than on those instances when their business affairs required it.
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