by Jane Goodger
“How old are you, Rebecca?”
The question startled her. “Twenty-three.”
“And why are you not married? You are beyond lovely. Is everyone in St. Ives blind?” He kissed the side of her breast, gently, casually.
“You have only seen the painting. Perhaps I am spotted and crone-like.”
She felt rather than heard him laugh, as he kissed her breast again, and then he found one peak, and sucked, and Rebecca’s eyes flew open and her breath caught. What was that? A low growl sounded from his throat as he continued to suckle her, and Rebecca’s hands, with a mind of their own, apparently, moved to the back of his head, holding him there.
For the first time in her life, Rebecca felt a sharp stab of desire, a liquid pooling between her legs, and she moved restlessly beneath him as he moved to her other breast. How was it possible she had lived twenty-three years and never realized the pleasure one could rouse with a kiss? She let out a small sound, unable to remain silent, and he lifted his head, allowing the air to cool her breast. Then he kissed her mouth, fully, with lips and tongue and teeth and Rebecca, who had never been kissed like that before, found herself lost in the sensations, the sounds, the feel of a man making love to her. He tasted of mint and he felt like velvet steel beneath her wandering hands. His back was broad and unblemished, his manhood hard and long against her thigh. She knew what it was, pressing against her, moving in a rhythm even someone as innocent as she could recognize.
He stopped, pulled away, his breathing harsh. “I need to slow,” he said, then brought his head down for another drugging kiss. “Tell me about your family,” he said, but he’d moved one hand between her legs, to where she burned, and she could not speak. “Later, then.” He chuckled, then found the center of her, and Rebecca let out a sound she’d never in her life emitted before.
“What are you doing?”
“I haven’t the foggiest, really.”
“You seem to be doing well enough.”
He kissed her jaw and she sensed he was smiling. “I’ll muddle through.”
“Yes,” she said on a hiss, when the feeling between her legs intensified. “Muddle away.”
Then her world shattered in a seizure of pleasure, a bit frightening but wonderful too.
“Rather good muddling,” he said, laughing, obviously pleased with himself.
Rebecca was liquid and drowsy, but tensed when he moved, pushing her legs gently apart and positioning himself between them. “Shh,” he said, and she felt something between her legs, quickly realizing what it was. Some primal urge overcame her at that moment, and she lifted toward him. It was the oddest thing, as if her body knew better than she what it needed.
He pushed inside her in one fluid movement, and she cried out at the unexpected pain. She’d known it would hurt, her mother had told her as much, but she hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he said, and kissed her cheek, her nose, her lips. He was still, rather like a human statue, and she could feel him inside her. “I have to…” He pulled out slightly, then eased in, and though Rebecca braced herself for pain again, she felt little more than a burning sensation.
“It’s all right now,” she said, and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Good, good. Because I’m afraid if I don’t move, I shall die.”
He began moving, thrusting in and out, his arms shaking, and Rebecca was uncertain what she should be doing. She lifted her knees and he let out a sound that told her whatever she’d done was a good thing. “Wrap your legs around me,” he said, his voice hoarse. She did, and his movements became faster, harder, and not entirely unpleasant. In fact, his movements were beginning to produce rather nice feelings and the need to move her own hips. And when she did that, he arched his back and found his release, letting out a sound so primal, Rebecca couldn’t help but smile and feel just a bit heady with feminine power.
He lay atop her, most of his weight on his arms, for a long moment, his breathing harsh, his head pressed against the pillow. “I am sorry I hurt you,” he said finally, and shifted, pulling himself out of her.
“It was only for a moment,” she said, turning her head toward him even though it was black as pitch. “We are officially married now.”
“No escaping.”
She smiled, but thought it an odd thing to say, as if he knew she’d wanted to run away. It was possible, she realized, that he knew how strange this marriage had been so far and felt sorry for it. She couldn’t help but wonder how long they would continue this way. He couldn’t mean for them to not see each other forever, could he?
“May I see you in the morning?”
He immediately sat up. “No.” And then he left the bed. “I’ll ring for a footman to light the fire.”
“Am I never to see you, Oliver?”
Silence met her words. Just when she thought he must be gone, he said, “I don’t think I could bear it.”
Chapter 5
Rebecca did not see nor hear her husband the next day. She spent her morning writing to friends and family, making things up for she hadn’t much to say that wouldn’t leave them worrying about her. She certainly couldn’t mention what had happened the previous evening, even though it had gone quite a bit better than she could have hoped. Just thinking about it made her blush, made her feel hot and achy. How could making love to her husband have been so pleasant when she was still so uncertain of him? Was he so different from other men that he had to hide himself? He certainly hadn’t felt different—or at least as different as she imagined a man would feel.
Instead, her letters were filled with descriptions of her journey and Horncliffe, but she knew everyone would want to know what the mysterious Duke of Kendal was like. What should she say? What could she say? That he knew how to touch her to make her writhe with pure pleasure? That he was a skilled lover in bed and had been considerate of her? In the end, she decided to include a vague description that would hopefully put her family and friends at ease while satisfying their curiosity.
The duke is a shy fellow, charming and kind. He is taller than I, which is a relief, and has a head full of thick hair.
Variations of that description filled her letters. She’d finished with her correspondence by noon, and after taking a light lunch, again in the breakfast room and again alone, Rebecca went to her rooms and sat at her writing table, lost in thought. She’d yet to write to Eliza, for she was debating whether she should tell her dearest friend the truth about her situation. The servants were so convinced the duke was a monster, and yet the man she’d been with had seemed rather ordinary. Perhaps even better than ordinary, given how his touch had made her lose herself. If not for the fact he would not allow her to look at him, she would think him no different from any other man. How was it that the superstition around him had grown to the point where an entire village lived in fear of crossing Kendal?
After a time, Rebecca grew bored. Nothing would be proven nor accomplished sitting in her room feeling sorry for herself. She considered taking a walk around the grounds, but decided instead to explore the house a bit. As disjointed as the outside had been, the inside was even more of a puzzle. Only the public rooms were accessible. Room after room, in each wing of the house, was locked. It was a maze of hallways and stairs, some that seemed to lead nowhere but to a small window. It was as if a madman had designed the place. Though she was tempted to go to the tower room, where she suspected Oliver was spending all his time doing God knew what, she did not. The one time she walked in that direction, Mr. Winters intercepted her.
“His Grace is working,” he’d said, then had gently taken her arm and led her away.
Everything in the house was immaculately clean. Silver polished to a high sheen, furniture gleaming from beeswax. The stairs, the very floors, were spotless. Even a chandelier, unlit since she’d been in the house, held not one speck of dust. Yet no one ever used
the rooms. No one, as far as she could tell, even walked through them. The dining room lay empty, a china cabinet filled with unused plates. The music room, with its pianoforte, piano, and harp, seemed to be frozen, waiting for someone to fill the room with sound. When she’d first seen it, she’d thought perhaps His Grace played an instrument, but she hadn’t heard a note since her arrival. It was almost like walking through a meticulously maintained museum.
When she found a library, she felt her spirits lift and hurried to the first shelf, her eyes scanning the titles. Most of the books were written in Latin or French and those that were written in English were scientific treatises that she could hardly make sense of. Did the duke read anything for pleasure? Disappointed, she was about the leave when she spied a series of small tables, each holding what appeared to be a tiny dollhouse. Above them were a series of landscapes and portraits of women, all beautiful. A quick scan showed that her painting was not among them, so Rebecca turned her attention to the tiny houses.
Walking to the first, she couldn’t help but smile, for the detail of the creation was remarkable. It was a small cottage with a kitchen, main room, and two bedrooms above. If she could shrink herself down, she would live quite comfortably in a homey little cottage such as this, and she felt a sharp pang at the realization she never would. No, she would live in this rambling monstrosity of a place with cold marble floors and soaring ceilings, a mansion that smelled of beeswax and little else.
Rebecca reluctantly moved to the next table, then to the next, delighted by the creations. It was an astounding collection, unlike anything she’d ever seen in her life. Each detail was exquisite, from a tiny desk, some drawers left casually open and filled with tiny bits of writing paper, to sweeping staircases with intricate bannisters. She wondered who had been collecting the little wonders. It seemed such a whimsical collection to find in the otherwise dreary house. Despite the lack of a readable book, the library became her second favorite room in the house. Her bathroom could not be eclipsed just yet.
If the library delighted her, the portrait gallery did the opposite. A long, narrow room with thick, heavy paneling of some dark wood, it seemed to Rebecca to hold a malevolent air, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. The paintings themselves were innocuous enough, the typical series of stern faces looking down at her with lifeless eyes. One painting of a duchess from 1751 included a charming little dog, which only served to remind her of the pets she’d left behind. Dates progressed to 1856 and stopped abruptly with the Fifth Duke of Kendal, Oliver’s father. He was a handsome man, with long sideburns and smiling blue eyes, and Rebecca couldn’t help but smile back at him. Like his son, he had thick, wavy hair, and Rebecca wondered if Oliver’s shared the same rich brown color as his sire’s. If he looked anything like his father, Oliver was a handsome devil, which made absolutely no sense to her. Oliver had the same sharp jaw, the same straight nose and masculine brow—at least based on what her fingertips had told her.
Oliver couldn’t hide from her forever; she’d learn soon enough whether he resembled his father. The wall had many spots left, but the one next to the fifth duke was empty of either a duchess or the next duke, Oliver. She stood there a long moment, looking at that empty spot. She sensed it would likely never be filled with his likeness and wondered if her own portrait would ever hang in the gallery.
That’s when she heard the hazy sound of a woman crying, a strange noise in the otherwise silent house, and she shivered. It was so faint and faded so quickly, she thought she might be imagining things or hearing the wind as it whistled around the angles and arches of the house. Straining her ears, she heard nothing more and decided it had been her imagination.
After wandering about for a time, Rebecca grew restless. Would this be the pattern of her days? Wandering alone with no one to talk to? Perhaps the village would prove to be a place where she might strike up a conversation. With that happy thought, she decided to explore the small place she’d caught a glimpse of when she’d arrived. A nice walk in the bracing air would do her good, as would seeing other people and perhaps visiting a few shops. She thought she’d seen a bookstore on the way in. A good book would help fill the long hours of the day when the only company she had was herself.
“Darlene, I wish for you to accompany me into the village this afternoon,” Rebecca informed her maid after she’d finished lunch.
“I shall ask Mr. Starke to have the carriage readied,” the maid said, and headed for the door.
“I think I’d rather walk, to be honest.” One might have thought Rebecca had said she planned to fly to the village on the back of an owl.
“Walk? Goodness, no, Your Grace. You could never do that. Whatever would people think, the Duchess of Kendal forced to walk to town.”
She smiled gently. “Perhaps they would think I wanted to take a walk?”
They took the carriage, an ornate affair from another decade, drawn by four identical black horses with red plumes on their harnesses. It was the type of vehicle that Rebecca would have run out to the street to watch pass by back home. When she saw it, she again wished they were walking, for it seemed garish and far too conspicuous. The inside was spotless and smelled of beeswax; soft, tufted leather covered the benches. It was by far the most luxurious vehicle she had ever been in.
The ride took all of ten minutes, and throughout the short journey, Darlene remained uncharacteristically quiet and tense, as if she wished she had not been asked to accompany Rebecca. When the carriage stopped, Darlene looked at her. “Are you sure, Your Grace? The villagers are a bit wary of the residents of Horncliffe.”
Furrowing her brow, Rebecca asked, “What do you mean, wary?”
“They think Horncliffe and all who live there are cursed. Because they believe the duke—”
Rebecca held her hand up to stop the maid. “I’ll have no such talk about His Grace. One of the reasons I wish to visit the village is to dispel such ridiculous rumors.” Surely when the villagers saw her, saw that she had not been harmed, they would begin to wonder about all the evil rumors that surrounded the place.
“Very well, Your Grace,” Darlene said, but her expression told Rebecca she greatly disapproved of this visit.
Rebecca had grown up in a small village and so understood how rumors and tales could grow out of hand. Likely, a tale or two had been told about the duke, given his reticence at being seen by anyone other than Mr. Winters. “I thought I noticed a bookstore when I was passing through,” she said.
“Miller’s Books that would be.”
“I think that should be our first stop,” Rebecca said with a firm nod.
“If you say so, Your Grace.”
Darlene gazed out the small window of the carriage as if she feared a wild mob was about to attack them. Could the residents of this village be that fearful of Horncliffe’s inhabitants? When they stopped, Rebecca waited for the footman to drop the stairs before standing. The door opened and wonderfully clean chill air filled the carriage. Rebecca stepped down, reminding herself that she was a duchess and trying to imagine how a duchess might act. In her limited experience—she had never met a duchess and only a handful of aristocrats—duchesses did not smile or shrug or speak too loudly. Her sisters and she had played pretend, of course, and because she was the oldest she’d always held the highest rank, but this was far different. She was an actual duchess, and she had no idea what to do. After a long minute of waiting for Darlene to join her, she realized her maid was not going to follow her.
“Darlene, I wish for you to accompany me.”
“Yes, Your Grace, and I have.”
“You actually mean to remain in the carriage?”
“I do, Your Grace.” Indeed, Darlene didn’t even deign to lean forward into the light, forcing Rebecca to speak into the shadowed carriage. Biting her lip, Rebecca wondered what a true duchess would do. Demand Darlene remove herself from the carriage? Terminate her employment inst
antly? In the end, she did nothing but lift her chin and scan the narrow, cobbled street for the book store.
The streets seemed eerily vacant for such a bright day. The air held a chill that portended winter, but it was not so cold as to prevent the souls who were used to the cold from venturing out. She’d expected to see more bustle. In St. Ives, one couldn’t walk more than a few feet before stumbling into someone one knew. Or at least see a stray dog or cat. With one last look at the carriage, its bold crest gleaming in the sun, Rebecca made her way across the street toward the book store, an uncomfortable feeling of being stared at following her.
When she opened the door, it sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet, creaking eerily as she pushed it open. The place seemed deserted at first, but then Rebecca noticed some movement toward the back of the long, narrow shop and began walking that way. The store was divided into two long aisles, with a long, tall set of shelves dividing the shop. It smelled divinely of books, that wonderful combination of ink, paper, and leather that always sent a bit of a thrill through her heart.
“Hello?”
Silence. Utter and complete, but for the ticking of a clock somewhere.
Rebecca walked to the very end of the aisle, the room growing darker the farther she got from the door. When she got to the end of the aisle, she cautiously went around the center bookcase and looked back toward the entrance, only to see the shadow of a man slipping behind the counter. “Hello!”
Letting out a sigh of frustration when she heard no response, she headed back to the front, stopping in front of the counter, where a portly gentleman wearing a bright green coat and yellow waistcoat sat upon a tall stool looking out the window. He was pretending to read, but his eyes, she noticed, were on the carriage that seemed far too large for the narrow village street. “You are the proprietor here? Mr. Miller?” Rebecca asked.
He hesitated a moment before turning his gaze toward her. “Indeed I am.” He gave her a good long look before adding, “Visiting our fair village?”