Then he climbed on the bed and kissed her just behind the ear. “I wish to be inside of you, my lady,” he said, in his stilted, short way.
“I wish it, too, Your Grace,” she replied. “Zack, I wish it too!”
He leaned over her, and their nakedness brushed: her breasts, nipples hard, touching his hard-muscled chest. He reached down and touched her womanhood, and then touched his manhood and guided himself. She reached down and assisted him, and then the tip of his manhood pressed against her hole, and he pushed. She was very wet, and she opened for him easily. Pleasure filled her at once, and he pushed his manhood deep inside of her, to the hot, pleasure-filled spot.
“Oh,” he moaned, pushing deeper. “Oh, my lady.”
“Your Grace,” Abbie returned, lifting her legs and pushing down on his manhood, pushing with the motion of his thrusts.
Although it wasn’t, it felt like they were making love for the first time. But there was none of the pain that came with the deflowering: none of the pain and none of the blood. There was only pleasure as his huge manhood entered her. He gripped the pillows and thrust into her quicker and quicker, pushing deep inside of her.
Abbie buried her face in his neck and stifled her moans in his skin. “My lady,” he moaned, as his manhood moved quicker and quicker inside of her. The Pleasure was building, as it had near the lake, but this was a deeper, more intense Pleasure. Her womanhood went positively tight around him.
“Is it happening?” he moaned.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she cried.
“Shall I keep doing this?”
“Oh, yes!”
He thrust into her as he had been, and the pleasure came. It wrestled her entire body into submission, and her womanhood poured its wetness onto his manhood. His Grace was moaning louder now, and he thrust into her once more, and then he was moaning too. Abbie knew that he had spilled his seed—inside of her.
When they were done, and the sheets were wet with sweat and love, they lay side by side. She rested her head on his chest, and his hand came to rest somewhat awkwardly but kindly upon her shoulder. “That was incredible, my lady,” he said, his voice full of surprise. “I never knew—pleasure could be so, hmm, pleasurable.”
Abbie smiled. “Neither did I, Zack,” Abbie said, her eyes closing lazily. “Neither did I.”
*****
The bump protruded from Abbie’s dress. She looked down at it fondly and wondered if it was a boy or a girl that grew inside her. Zack walked behind her and placed his hands upon her belly. It had been six months since that day near the lake. It was impossible to know if the baby had been conceived on that night, but Abbie like to think he or she was. Zack was still awkward, and at times cold, and at times distant, but there had developed a bond between them that oftentimes – if not always – transcended his troubled past. He had revealed two months after the lake that it was the war that caused him to sleep alone.
“I served my King,” he said, “but it came at a price. I wake at night in a cold sweat, and I see the faces of the dead peering out at me. All of the dead. Not just our soldiers. But theirs, too. All of them, staring at me. And I roll over and bury my head in my pillow and pretend that none of it happened.” He shivered, but his voice did not change. It was cold, and hard, and ready to deal with the madness of life. “If you like – if you think you can handle it, my lady – we could share a bedchamber. For a night or two. As a sort of experiment.”
She had agreed, and now when night terrors took him, she led him through their home to the library. She read to him from great tomes of Homer, translating quite skillfully for an amateur, and he commented, almost with warmth, upon her skills. His Grace was never quite warm to her, but she came to understand that. And when they were in each other’s arms, in deep night, there was nothing better. They frequently lost themselves in each other: in each other’s bodies. They frequently left this realm and ascended to another.
Abbie rubbed her belly, coming back to the present. This baby, she knew, was the first of many. And it filled her with joy. Zack moved his hand over the bump. “My son is restless,” he said.
“She is,” Abbie said.
(It was a game they played, dueling with the sex of the baby.)
Mother emerged onto the porch, looking older in skin and body but younger in spirit. She seated herself in the chair and wrapped a blanket around her. “The chill is returning,” she said. “And yet I like to sit out here. I do not think I have many winters left.”
“Mother, do not be morbid,” Abbie said. “Life is not as terrible as you make it.”
Mother smiled. It was warm and genuine and shocking to see on her face, which for years had been locked in a rictus look of despair. “I suppose you are right, dear daughter,” she said. “But habits accumulated over years of sadness and hardship are hard to lose.”
“She speaks the truth,” Zack muttered.
“I fear you have only emerged to spectate, Mother,” Abbie said, with a smile. “You wish to see Lady Ollivander made a fool of for sport. But I will not do it. We were friends, once.”
“She is a frightful woman,” Zack said matter-of-factly. “I do not know what inspired to you invite her into our home.”
“As somebody who has benefited from a second chance, I cannot help but believe in them, Your Grace.”
Zack smiled and took his hand from her stomach as the footman approached the door. “Lord and Lady Ollivander has arrived, Your Grace, my ladies.” He bowed his head, awaiting instruction.
“Invite her in, Sebastian,” Zack said.
“The show begins,” Mother murmured under her breath.
“Mother!” Abbie cried.
The baby kicked its little legs within her. Abbie bit back a squeal of excitement.
Lady Ollivander and her father merged onto the porch. Her father wore an expression of the profoundest deference, and Carol stared at the ground as though Abbie were a queen. “Carol,” Abbie said, remembering their last meeting, when she had corrected her. Now, Carol took the use of her Christian name without a word.
“Your Grace,” Lord Ollivander said, and then turned to Abbie and repeated: “Your Grace.” He nodded to Mother. “My lady.”
Carol did the same, curtseying deeply.
Abbie took this as gallantly as she could. “Carol,” she said. “Do you remember the day we built a daisy chain so long we wrapped it around my father twice-over when he was napping by the fire? He awoke and looked down and how shocked he was! Do you remember?”
Carol looked into her face, and Lord Ollivander let a small smile play about his lips – he was also there that day – and then Carol smiled. Abbie could see it in her face: she knew she was getting a second chance.
Zack leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for her to here. “You are quite graceful, my sweet Duchess.”
“I am as graceful as you are brave, my love.”
She wanted to kiss him then, to kiss him fully upon the lips, but there was company.
The pleasure would have to wait until later.
A Dangerous Reunion
I cannot marry you, for my heart belongs to another.
Lady Ruth Eyre knew these words were going to be monstrously hard to speak, and yet she knew with the same sure conviction that they had to be spoken. The war in France had been dreadful (or so she had heard) and there had been many horrors committed and lives taken. But now it was over and the order of things was restored, and His Grace had returned to England.
I am sorry, Lord Charles Stone, she thought, as she gazed at herself in the looking-glass. She did not look like a lady who would break a heart. She had a kind, open face with soft features and bright blue eyes. Her skin was pale and her hands, as she brought them to her eyes, were small and childlike. And yet the soft exterior hid a hardness that had moved through her for seven longs years, even since His Grace, her love, had gone to France. Luke Orr – now Brigadier Luke Orr – Duke of Stunton, had returned to England.
Lady and Lord
Eyre had begun to lose hope for Ruth when she reached six-and-twenty. They had ceased to look at her with the same hopefulness with which they’d looked at her older sisters before they were married. Then Lord Charles Stone – a man quite beneath them socially and economically – had the gall to visit them time and time again to court her, and Father had done nothing about it. She could see the reservation in their faces, the looks that said that she had to marry somebody before she became old.
Ruth sighed. “Charles, I cannot marry you,” she said, practicing in the mirror.
Oh, how full of rage Father would be!
She retrieved the letter from the drawer and gazed down at it. It was worded perfectly, innocuously, as though it was a run-of-the-mill invitation from a Duke returning to England after a long, bloody time. But the words sang out in Ruth’s mind.
Dear Lord Eyre,
I cordially invite you and your family to a ball at Brook Castle. As you know I have been away and I would like to reacquaint myself with the ebb and flow of social life. The Eyres have always been kind friends to me and it would gladden me greatly if you would attend.
Yours sincerely,
Brigadier Luke Orr, Duke of Stunton.
“Luke,” Ruth whispered.
Her mind was thrown backwards then, backwards seven years, when she was a girl of one-and-nine, a girl full of hope and naivety: a girl who still believed in fairytales. She and His Grace had been dancing close together. It was their third dance of the evening and they were by far the most graceful couple upon the floor. “You move well, my lady,” he had said, looking down at her with his hard, sharp features. “It is an honor to dance with you.”
“As it is to dance with you, Your Grace.”
“Use my Christian name,” he had said casually.
“Luke?”
He smiled. “Does it scare you, to speak my name?”
“It makes me feel awfully close to you.”
“That was my intention.”
After that, His Grace had visited them in Somerset once, under the pretense of some business deal or other with Father. But after the men had discussed their business, the Eyres and His Grace had walked around the grounds, and His Grace had fallen back and walked level with her. “I wished to see you again,” he said plainly. Ruth’s heart had pounded frantically in her chest. But she contrived to keep her expression impassive, her gait smooth, her behavior unimpeachable.
If one were to gaze upon the two of them, one could reasonably assume that they were discussing the weather. “I have dreamt about you, my lady,” His Grace went on. “In my dream we broke our fast together in my home, and you smiled at me and I smiled at you. We said nothing, and after a while we watched a solitary beam of sunlight track its course across the table. You find it quaint.”
“It is quaint but lovely,” Ruth had said carefully.
“My lady, my I kiss your hand?”
The request had come like a scream from the dark. Father and Mother were just ahead, but they were tied in conversation and their eyes were trained firmly ahead of them. Ruth looked at His Grace and saw that he was in earnest. “I do not know—” She faltered. “What a request!”
“Is it monstrous of me?”
“Yes, but I will grant it.”
Ruth raised her hand. His Grace raised an eyebrow.
“Would you remove the glove?”
Ruth’s hands were shaking as she pulled the glove free. Mother and Father had stopped at the edge of a pond and were watching the ducks. Mother loved to watch the ducks and Father said there was something peaceful and life-assuring in it. Ruth slowly and carefully removed her glove, revealing her skin, and raised her hand. His Grace leaned down and placed a warm kiss upon her hand, and then another at the end of her middle finger. Warmth moved through Ruth, awarmth that came with doing something illicit and quite improper. She swiftly put her glove back on. Almost at the same time, Father turned.
He smiled; His Grace was standing a number of feet away from her.
“Come and look,” he smiled. “The ducks are quite lively.”
That was the last time they had met. Then he had left for France. Ruth had discovered it through her Father, who had heard about it through the usual gossip-streams of high society. “His Grace, Duke Orr, I hear he has gone to France.”
“What a brave man!” Mother cried. And then, turning to her daughter: “Ruthie, are you quite alright?”
“Yes, Mother,” Ruth said, her voice low and gruff. “I am—tired.”
A knock at the door brought Ruth back to the present. “Yes?” she said, standing.
Mother entered. “Are you ready to leave for the ball?” she said.
“Yes, Mother,” she said.
“It is such a shame that Charles cannot be there.”
“Yes, Mother,” Ruth agreed.
“But soon you will be married!”
“Mother, no official proposal has been made.” Thank Lord! “We should not presume things like that.”
“Oh, gosh.” Mother waved a hand. “At my age, one must presume to save one’s time. We haven’t got the time to wait.”
Ruth followed her mother from the bedroom, through the house, and outside to the carriage.
I am coming, Your Grace.
*****
His Grace was a tall, muscular man with an overall look of solidity. When he moved, it was with a quiet power. He was not bullish or bullying, but people moved out of his way. He looked out of earth-brown eyes with a tiredness that pronounced the world eager but ultimately lacking. His square jaw was clean shaven and his features were rock-like. The last time Ruth had seen him, he did not have the scar on his face; it was a long scar that ran from his forehead, across his left eye, and down his cheek. She gasped when she saw it, and then immediately recovered herself. It wasn’t that the scar was ghastly. It wasn’t. It was just that she had been so sure the same man would return that it shook her convictions.
His Grace’s sight rested upon her when she, Mother, and Father entered the ballroom. A footman brought family cups of wine and Ruth was dragged into a group of Goodfellows and Appleyards and Chellenhams and Elwoods. The conversation washed over her with an unreal quality, as though the words were coming from a great distant. Past the head of Lord Appleyard she continually spied His Grace, moving between groups, contriving to get closer and closer to their group, but constantly accosted by smaller huddles of Lords and Ladies. Finally, he was able to navigate the fray and stopped at the edge of their group.
There was a general murmur of Your Grace. Mother and Ruth curtseyed. Father bowed and extemporized briefly on the wonderfulness of the party. His Grace was polite and thanked Father sincerely. With a boldness that Ruth would never forget, he walked around Father and stood directly before Ruth. She could not help but trace the scar with her eyes. It was pink and raw-looking, as though it was only a few months old. His face creased when he realized what she was looking at. The entire group had turned expectantly.
“A Frenchman misplaced his knife,” His Grace said, with a smooth smile. “As a sort of joke I hid it in my face.”
The men laughed raucously at that. The Ladies gasped with astonishment and pleasurable outrage. “My lady,” His Grace said. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Ruth looked to Mother, who gave the slightest of nods. “It would be my pleasure,” she said.
She followed His Grace to the floor, feeling as though she was following him into the past.
*****
A dance at a ball was a sort of refuge of conversation, somebody had said to Ruth when she was very young. Away from the general throng of Lords and Ladies, there was the almighty Dance, where a man and a woman were alone but for the steps and the music, where whispered words could be exchanged. His Grace led her with practiced steps and Ruth fell easily back into the routine of dancing with him.
“Does the scar frighten you?” he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” Ruth said h
onestly.
“Luke, my lady—call me Luke.”
“Yes—Luke.” Ruth lowered her voice on the second syllable, as though it was magic word.
They danced in silence for a half-minute and then His Grace said, quietly and conspiratorially: “You cannot imagine how I feel seeing you again. Leaving for France was the most monstrous thing I have had to do. It was ghastly. But it had to be done. The King needed a man to inspire the soldiers, and it seems I was that man. But, my lady, oh, if only you could see into my mind’s eye. I was covered in mud one day – mud and blood. Am I frightening you? Must I stop?”
“No!” Ruth said quickly. She was interested, enthralled.
“It was after a battle on the outskirts of a village I forget the name of. There had been many deaths and lots of the men were ready to give in right then. They wanted nothing more to do with battle and I couldn’t blame them. They sat around in a huddle and I sat a little further off. I was ready to give in – we hadn’t won yet – and I feared they might turn on me. There was an atmosphere of danger in the air, like at any moment the world could snap.” He spun her around and they commenced more complex steps. “And then, from the village, a woman came. The battle had started early – an ambush – and the sun was just rising behind the village. She was framed in sunlight and I could not discern the particulars. And for a few glorious moments I thought she was you. Oh, how my heart soared! I even rose to my feet and began jogging toward you, arms outstretched, and then my eyes focused and I saw it was not you. It was just a woman from the village who had come to talk to one of the men. I believe they had been having an affair.”
Suddenly, without her consultation, Ruth’s feet stopped moving. The dance was over.
“But for a wonderful moment, you were with me,” His Grace whispered fiercely. “And things were as they should be. You have not forgotten me?”
The Duke of Ice Page 27