Pride & Passion

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “I don’t think so. But thank you for the earrings. They really are lovely.”

  His smile was pure devilry. “I didn’t simply order a shopkeeper to pick something and wrap it up. I went to several stores before I found what I was looking for, and I thought of you the entire time I was choosing them. It’s not a poor replica of a hand-carved bed, but the sentiment is no less worthy. Till tomorrow.” His breath was a whisper across her lips. He didn’t try to kiss her, and Lucy was left to follow him as he departed the room. He turned back one last time.

  “This is not how I wanted it to be, but I’m too ruthless and determined to regret it. I wanted you, and now I have you. I intend to keep you, Lucy. And I will do anything to make certain that you stay where you belong—by my side.”

  “Is that all that matters to you? Am I some prize to be won?”

  “No. But Lucy? You are my most treasured possession, and I will keep you just as safe as you have kept that little piece of carved wood.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ADRIAN HAD NEVER anticipated seeing anyone more than he had his Lucy on their wedding day. She looked beautiful in her copper gown, her ears adorned with his gift. He was saddened to see that her eyes held nothing but coolness in them. He had hoped that somehow she might have found their union more agreeable, but apparently she did not.

  When they said their vows, hers were repeated in a quiet voice. He had shuddered when she had repeated “with my body I thee worship.” He could hardly think of anything other than how he was going to endure this night—his wedding night—without being lost inside her.

  She would not relent in her proclamation, and he would not give in and take her. One night was a farce. He needed to tread carefully where Lucy was concerned. He had believed she was thinking differently of him. Believed she might even return his feelings after that night in his Mount Street house, but then this had happened, and she believed him a coldhearted bastard, reduced to clandestine meetings in order to get what he wanted out of her.

  “Shall we?” he asked as they walked arm in arm down the hall. “I thought we might have a word.”

  “Of course.”

  There was no warmth, no fire in her, and he thought he might die if he never felt that again.

  They stepped into the salon, and she sat, her wedding gown spread over the cushions, reminding him of a crimson sky at sunset.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She said nothing, but looked at him—or rather, through him.

  “I… Things did not get off for us as I hoped. I wanted to win you fairly, not…this way.”

  “Well, you have me. Whether you will still want me is another matter entirely.”

  “I understand you’re hurting, Lucy.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do. I know what you’re feeling.”

  Something inside her snapped, and everything bottled up inside came crashing down. “You know nothing! Not me, not my feelings, nothing!”

  “I have felt much the same before you. I know the feelings, Lucy.”

  She began to rail and rage, to show him how pompous he was to even begin to think he understood the depths of what she was feeling.

  “When have you ever done anything against the grain, your grace?” she demanded. “When have you ever broken the mold, or gone outside your unbearably proper and stuffy organized little world to risk anything?”

  Oh, how she felt like striking him. The world and her future loomed heavy and lonely before her. She was filled with anger—and rage. The injustice of it all, the pain of having her life managed for her as if she were too weak and feebleminded to manage it for herself. And while the anger she felt seethed and grew and all but consumed her thoughts and body, the duke stood silently, towering over her with his implacable granite like countenance that betrayed nothing of what he felt—if indeed he even felt at all.

  “What do you know of what it is to live, to take a risk? You can have no understanding, no comprehension, because you live your life ordered and distant and controlled. You’re nothing but a title,” she taunted, baiting him, waiting for some flicker of something from those glacial eyes of his. When he would not rise and meet her challenge, she jumped from the settee and took a step toward him, the anger inside now a living, breathing thing, making her restless and destructive. But she must obey it. From childhood, she had ignored the pain, the heartache, hoping it would go away, but it hadn’t, and now…now her heart was shattering into a million little shards while her new husband looked on—remote, unfeeling. Not giving a damn, only caring that he had secured himself a rich, blue-blooded bride.

  “You can have no idea what it is to risk all for happiness.” She took another step, and then another, heedless of the fact her body was trembling, and her bottom lip quivering, and her eyes—how they misted with the scalding heat of tears. One slipped down her cheek and she tasted it, the bitterness of betrayal and pain, and the engulfing melancholy and despair that filled every fiber of her being. Another fell, unchecked, a testament to her sorrow, the pain of having every last one of her hopes and dreams dashed by one negligent, selfish wave of both her father’s and the duke’s hands.

  “What?” she demanded, taking another step toward him, until her burnished-golden gown brushed over his trousers, and shoes, and she was forced to tilt her head back to glare up at him. “Damn you, Sussex, what do you know of risking all for the one thing you want most?”

  The seconds ticked by, marked by the delicate clicking of the mantel clock. Between them, the air, which had been settled, seemed to change. It was a subtle thing at first, but then it seemed to crackle, to take on new life, to hum between them as Sussex lowered his gaze to her face, letting it travel over her tearstained cheeks, then to her mouth, where it lingered, robbing Lucy of breath.

  “What do I know of risk?” he murmured, his voice deep and velvety, as luring as the nap of expensive velvet against her fingertips. “What do I know?” he repeated, this time his voice darker, more compelling, and when he stepped closer, and the heat from his body, and the scent of his cologne washed over her, he seemed to take the air straight out of her lungs—the room—possibly the very Earth.

  “I know risk,” he said, and she heard the rustle of her gown swishing around his legs as he moved closer. “I’ve tasted it. Felt its heady call.”

  “You’ve never heeded the call,” she accused.

  “Oh, but I have. I know what it is to take the greatest risk of my life, for the one thing I want most.”

  He had backed her up against the wall, and the marble pillar that stood on either side of the salon door pressed cool and unyielding against her shoulders.

  “The greatest risk of my life was today, when I made you my wife. When I vowed to love and protect and stay faithful to you. When I vowed to worship you with my body.”

  To remind her of that, he brushed against her, his body melding and pressing against hers in an erotic reminder of what would happen between them. Another brush, another waft of his skin, and hair, and everything that made a man a man, told her that he would use this body against her to subdue her, break her—worship her. The whispered reminder—in his voice—made her skin grow warm and taut, her breasts swell as her body seemed to grow weak and willing beneath the subtle erotic pressure of his.

  He was crowding her, his big, tall body encompassing her short one. Surely that was the reason she had suddenly reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket; why his hand was wrapped around her waist, his strong fingers squeezing, pressing into the bodice of her gown.

  “Today, I tasted that risk when I made you my wife, knowing that you might never feel the way about me as I feel about you.”

  His hand, so hot and strong, was sliding up her midriff, his fingers gliding over her ribs. The tip of his index finger lingering beneath her breast. Their gazes were locked, and she felt some inexplicable force pull her to him. But she would not give in to that power.

  “I am but a pawn in the gam
e of powerful men. A possession to be bought and placed on the shelf for your friends to admire.”

  “No.” The word was a deep whisper against her flesh as he lowered his head to hers.

  “A duchess to play hostess for you. A wife to see to the running of your household, and your social and political ambitions.”

  “No.”

  “A…a…” She floundered, trying to find another analogy for his purpose in marrying her, but he stopped her with the delicate brush of his mouth above her jaw.

  “A friend. A companion. A beautiful, passionate lover to spend the days and nights with. A woman to carry my children, a partner to share the triumphs and failures. A woman I can share my dreams with, and who will share hers with me. A woman who I can comfort and hold in times of need, and who will hold me when I am weak, and sorrowful, and in need of the sort of succor only a wife can give to her husband. A woman who I want so desperately to make love to. You, Lucy, you are that woman.”

  Their gazes met, and she could not resist asking him the question that burned in her mind. “H-how…” She wet her lips, tried to speak again. “How do you feel about me?”

  His eyes, those cold, mysterious eyes, stared down at her, haunting her with their ghosts and mysteries. But they were not the eyes of the duke, she thought in wonder as they grew warmer—almost silver. These were the haunted, troubled eyes of the man behind the title, the man who had known pain and coldness. The man who was her husband and who held troubling secrets deep within.

  “My dearest Lucy,” he said, his gaze never wavering from hers, “I would die for you.”

  THE CARRIAGE TRUNDLED amongst the streets of Mayfair, before making its way out of the city along the old North Road that would take them to Yorkshire. The November sky was gray with the promise of snow. He had debated taking the train, and perhaps now, looking up at the sky, he should have made arrangements to do so. But then, he had not been thinking clearly these past days.

  He studied Lucy from beneath the brim of his hat. She was gazing out the window, and he could not help but wonder if she was thinking the same thing, that he was a fool to drag them to North Yorkshire in this weather. Did she think her new husband inconsiderate? he wondered.

  His wife. Air stuck in his lungs as the word whispered in his mind. They’d signed their names, and the clergy had blessed the rings they now wore on their fingers. She belonged to him in the eyes of the law and God. But she was not his. He was acutely aware of that fact. She was a wife in name only, and would remain so until he found a way to break through the icy shield she’d built around her.

  She had said little that day—nothing but her vows, and a quiet goodbye to her father and Lady Black. She hadn’t spoken to him since her explosion after the ceremony. There was so much to be said, so many words that needed to be shared, but he was at a loss to begin.

  It was strange how uncomfortable he was with the silence between them. How he longed to hear her voice in the quiet of the carriage. He’d never been one for talking, and yet he craved the sound of Lucy’s voice enveloping him.

  Day by day he learned more about her. Today, he was discovering that his wife was at peace with the quiet. Strange. Every female he had ever known had chatted away, barely stopping to draw breath. They had tried to coerce and lull him into their web with words, but he had never been lured. But there was something in Lucy’s voice that made him draw near to her. Perhaps it was the fact he knew it might be the only thing he had of her—her conversation.

  “It’s going to snow.”

  His gaze darted from the lead-colored clouds to his wife. “You’re right. I suppose I should have arranged for the train to take us north.”

  Dismissively she waved her hand. “People have been traveling north in the winter by coach for centuries. I’m certain we shall endure and survive the ordeal.”

  “I shall see to it that we do.”

  If she detected the smile in his voice, she did not let it show. “My father and I traveled by train to Whitby in March when we brought Isabella back to London. There was a sudden snowstorm, and we were stuck for days. You see, there really is little difference between track and road—both must be cleared for safe passage. At least by road, you’re more apt to come across someone who might be of a mind to help, or a little roadside inn that might have a room to spare. On a train, you’re stuck in the carriage on a track, with nothing around but open air. I’d rather take my chances on the North Road.”

  “I imagine that it was somewhat more comfortable to be on the train than in a carriage.”

  “No. It was just as cold in the train carriage as it would have been in a coach. And I was rather irritated by the other travelers, always grumbling about the situation. What more did they wish the conductor to do? The snow was blinding and the drifts so deep over the tracks that the train was utterly immobile.”

  That was Lucy. Practical. He never would have thought it but there it was. She might be a forerunner in fashion—a slave to the ways of the ton. She might have been pampered and spoiled but she was not the sort to carry on and indulge in theatrics. Hell, she’d had every right to do so when they had been discovered at the House of Orpheus, but she hadn’t. She’d borne it all like a vigilant little soldier, when he knew that her hopes and dreams had been shattered.

  He probably should have felt remorse for being the one who had dashed all her hopes—it was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all—but he was no gentleman. Nor could he summon up the regret and remorse. He wanted her. Had wanted her from the very first moment he’d seen her. No, he was not one bit remorseful that the beautiful woman who sat across from him was now the Duchess of Sussex.

  There were so many mysteries to her, so many complex layers, that he wondered if he would ever truly discover them, and know her as a husband ought to know his wife. Had she allowed Thomas to discover her? To learn her as a man learns his lover?

  The pain of that thought made his expression blacken. He’d told himself that it no longer mattered. Thomas was dead, and Lucy knew the sort of man he had been. Besides, she was his now, and they were traveling far away from London for their honeymoon, a chance for them to get to know one another, to start anew.

  There was melancholy in her; he could see it brimming there in her green eyes. She wasn’t happy and he’d give everything he owned, everything he was, for just one chance to change that. To bring a smile to her lips, and a glow to her eye.

  “I need to apologize.”

  The words cut through his thoughts, and he stilled then sharply gazed at her. She was wearing the dark green velvet cloak, and the white fur muff lay on her lap—her fingers warm and safely out of grasping range.

  “Oh?” he mumbled, perplexed at her abruptness.

  She swallowed and he followed the fluid line of her throat, the paleness of her skin. She looked so small sitting across from him, dwarfed by the heavy velvet squabs. He wanted to lift her up and haul her onto his lap, and hold her in his arms. He wanted to be the big brutish ruffian she had accused him of being, and show her that this big, brutish body could offer safety and warmth—and pleasure.

  “Isabella confided in me before we left that she was the one to tell my father about the House of Orpheus. In fact, she and Black brought him in their carriage. I assumed, well…”

  “You thought I had staged it.”

  “Yes. I may be prideful but I am one to admit when I’m wrong. And I was wrong. It is over now, we’re married. And I’ve discovered that it’s too much effort to exert to sulk and be miserable all the time.”

  “Lucy…” She looked at him and he reached for her, wishing she would yield a bit more so he could pull her from the carriage seat and kiss her. “Pixie,” he murmured, “if we could do it over again, I would win you fairly.”

  “And you might have succeeded, too.”

  “You talk in the past tense, as if now it is not possible for me to win your affections.”

  “Affections are not required in a marriage such as ours. B
reeding and money are all that one needs—and an heir.”

  They were out of the city now, making their way north. He was feeling tired and miserable, and ready to fight with her. Her jabs were well-placed, hitting him where he felt guilty.

  “Perhaps now is not the time for this. We should both rest.”

  Closing his eyes, he meant to feign sleep, but actually succumbed. When he awoke it was to the sound of the footman pounding on the carriage door, and a raging blizzard outside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “YOU CANNOT MEAN to go outside in this weather.”

  They were forced to find shelter within the walls of a small inn. Something heavy hit the scarred wooden table, and Lucy turned from the window to see Sussex tossing his overcoat onto it.

  “I must.”

  He was rifling through the pockets, pulling something out and placing it to one side, paying no heed to her concerns. “You will freeze out there. Besides, you won’t be able to see a foot in front of you. The snow is blinding.”

  He grunted something, and carried on about his business making Lucy’s temper flare. Strange how easily he could provoke her into a temper—or any rash feeling at all. She had thought after all these years, she’d conquered the emotions that had threatened to rule her as a child; she had easily found them once again after she thought he betrayed her.

  “Go then,” she grumbled and turned her back to him. Wrapping her arms about her waist, she watched as the innkeeper and his wife ran out into the ravaging snowstorm.

  “There’s not enough help for them and the animals. They must be brought into the barns, and I must see to the horses and the servants.”

  Why did she care? she thought churlishly. What concern was it of hers?

  “You’ll be safe here.”

  She whirled around, her skirts in a rustling flurry about her. “It’s not my safety that concerns me!”

  Her cheeks flamed, and she darted her gaze away, refusing to look at him. What the devil was wrong with her? Let him go out in the snow; she would not allow herself to care.