by Eva Devon
How the devil was he going to get through this night?
He knew that society would expect him to knock on his wife's door, which connected between his room and hers. It was what husbands did on the night of their wedding.
Yet, he could not bear the idea of doing it.
No, that wasn't entirely true.
He could bear the idea just fine.
In fact, there had been several times that his legs had urged him in that direction. And not just his legs, but another specific part of his male anatomy, one that often had controlled many of his actions in the past.
Tonight he wanted his reason to be firmly in control, his mind, his brain, his soul, not his lust. And he did not know if he could really consummate his marriage this night. . . which sounded mad.
Consummation had never been difficult for him. But now that he was married, the idea was causing him to panic a bit. He had not been in such a relationship since he was a young man. A boy, really, and he'd been deeply in love then.
He wasn't certain that he could consummate a marriage.
What if, somehow, he began to like her? To feel close to her?
He wasn't certain he could bear the idea that he could lose his heart entirely again. It terrified him. Because of the pain, the pain of the past was still so present and evident in him that it felt that if he went and knocked on that door, he might just be pouring salt on a wound that had never healed.
He took a large drink of brandy, drove a hand through his hair, and then blew out a sigh.
Damn, he was acting a fool and a coward.
Brookhaven would have laughed at it, but not with real humor.
No doubt, there would have been pity in his eyes.
Pity.
It was the one thing he’d endeavored to avoid his entire life.
He’d never told anyone about his sorrows because he wished to avoid that haunting horrible look that he'd seen in the eyes of others when grief struck.
That? He did not want that.
Now he had a young wife waiting in the next room that he didn't particularly like, nor did she like him, and yet they were supposed to consummate their marriage.
They did not like each other. . . But he desired her.
It was remarkable to him.
His body hungered for hers. It was unquestionable. That kiss had stolen his reason, and if she had not stepped back, he would have taken her in that moment without a second thought.
There would have been nothing to stop him.
His hands had already been eager to work at the back of her gown. His entire body had been lost to the notion that she would relieve the deep need that he had within him. But she had stepped back, torn away, looking rather appalled by the pleasure that she’d experienced from their kiss.
And she had experienced pleasure, for he had seen it in the pink tinge of her cheeks and the fullness of her lips, the wideness of her eyes, and the fast pace of her breath.
Whether Augusta wanted to admit it or not, she enjoyed kissing. How he'd like to teach her to kiss some more.
But he could not. Could he?
No. Truly, no. It was beyond him. Not this night. Another night. He could wait. They could wait. It wasn't necessary that he do this at all. Distance. He wished to maintain distance between them.
The knock on the door between them nearly made him jump.
Him, a man of six foot two, and a duke. It was ridiculous. How could a woman of such minute stature as Augusta make a man like him jump?
"Come," he barked, sounding far more gruff than he intended to.
But he was feeling completely off foot at this particular moment. The door handle turned ever so slightly, and then it opened very slowly, in inches, as if the person on the other side was rather reticent to actually see what they might find.
The panel swung entirely open, leaving an illuminated rectangle of candle glow.
Augusta stood in it. Her pale, thin chemise clung to her perfect frame easily.
The soft, thin fabric bared the shadows of her body. That soft fabric caressed her breasts, her hips, her thighs. And bloody hell, he had to bite back a curse because she was absolute perfection.
Her eyes flitted over him. Her long curling mane had been brushed into long ropes over her shoulders and down her back. A single glass of champagne was in her hands, and she held it as if it was a lifeline.
"I dare say, Adam, are you quite well?” she asked, a slight note of amusement in her voice. But she also seemed concerned.
It was a strange combination of affairs.
"I'm perfectly well,” he rushed. “Whatever would give you leave to believe that I was not?"
She frowned. “You’ve been pacing back and forth, and I'm not sure that you know, but you've been cursing aloud. Quite a good deal.”
He scowled, feeling defensive, rather like a bear woken in winter. "Is this to be my life then? Someone listening to me at all hours. I shall have to find a new room."
Instead of recoiling, she straightened her already perfectly straight spine, which pressed her beautiful breasts against her chemise as she said tartly, “I cannot help the fact that I can hear you."
He tore his gaze from her bosom and admitted, “No, of course you cannot, Augusta. Please don’t linger in the doorway. Either go back to your room or come into mine."
He prayed she would retreat. Surely, that was what he wanted. Her quick exit?
Instead, she gave a quick nod of her head and stepped inside.
She glanced back, clearly trying to decide whether to shut the door or not. And then much to his surprise, she did.
"Can I help assist you? Did your lady’s maid forget something?"
"I was concerned for you," she admitted, her fingers tracing over the cut crystal flute. "You did sound a bit. . . disturbed.”
"Disturbed," he echoed, narrowing his gaze. "I'm perfectly fine. Perfectly well."
She did not appear convinced before she blurted, "Were you going to come and visit me?"
He gazed at her with astonishment. "Visit you?"
"Yes, because, well,” she gestured with her glass, which caused the delicate bubbling liquid to slosh dangerously near the rim. “You know, it is our..."
And then her voice died off as if she could not finish what she had started out to say.
"Our wedding night,” he finished for her.
She nodded.
"Did you wish me to?" he asked.
Her breasts began to rise and fall in quick takes. "I don't know what I wish," she admitted softly, "but we are married."
"So we are," he said. "And you are someone who is concerned with doing their duty, are you not?"
She gave another nod. "Duty is important, Adam. Duty keeps us on the path and keeps us from being led astray."
"And you're very concerned with not being led astray, are you?"
She licked her lips, then rushed, "I've seen what happens when duty is not followed. I will never stray from it. I will not suffer the pain or the sadness that I have seen when one gives way to too much emotion or too much anything. A simple way of living is for me.”
“Augusta,” he said softly, recognizing how vulnerable she likely was at this moment, yet feeling world weary listening to her. “It’s easy for you to give up things that you've never experienced."
"I beg your pardon?" she gasped.
"You've never been in love,” he replied simply, hoping not to hurt her. “You’ve never been truly tempted. You've never had the experience of too much of anything. How do you know that what you truly wish is the simple path? The path of duty?"
She lifted her chin then, proudly. "Because it is."
"Then I will have to take you at your word for it," he replied, not sure what was overtaking him. Some emotion deep within him struggled to the surface, and suddenly he growled ever so slightly, "Come here, then, so we can do our duty."
Her dark blue eyes flared at that and she took a sip of her champagne.
Slowly, ever s
o slowly, she began to cross the room as if she was a sacrifice for some demon and yet she did not appear afraid.
Her bare feet padded lightly on the carpet. He studied those slim, elegant arches.
Damnation, she had beautiful feet.
It was astonishing that she was not a good dancer. But he wondered if that was true, that she truly was a bad dancer as she claimed.
Perhaps it was something that she'd simply decided about herself years ago and made it true because she believed it.
When he had led her upon the floor, she had danced quite well. He wondered, if given a bit of confidence and a bit of encouragement, she would have danced just as beautifully as any other young lady in society.
He placed his brandy snifter down, contemplating his young bride. This was the moment.
He should tell her to turn around and go back to her chamber.
But he wasn't doing that.
Quite the contrary, he'd told her to come to him. It had been a mystifying thing to do.
It was almost as if the words had spilled from his mouth without thought. His soul, his mind, had acted without any sort of thought for the consequences, and now he was not going to go back. He knew that. Once he'd asked her to come to him, he wouldn't be turning back on this particular road.
"You're a very bold young woman,” he observed as she stopped before him. “You know that, don't you?"
"I do," she agreed, her lips quirking at the corner. “It has gotten me into trouble several times."
"Anyone who's bold gets into trouble, Augusta. People who are not bold have no idea what to do with people who are. They punish anyone who behaves in a way they think they ought not.”
"I see," she said.
He studied her. Had she not known this? ”Surely you came to that summary on your own?"
"Of course,” she replied quietly. “But it's interesting to hear you say it."
Did she think he too might punish her boldness? Would she be surprised to find he admired her for it?
"As a duke, I very rarely get punished,” he confessed. “But I can see when people are displeased by what I have to say. You, your boldness, on the other hand, is far more brave. It's full of courage, you know, because you haven’t the sort of power I do. The fact that you continue to speak what you think, it is a remarkable thing."
She blinked at him, astonished by what appeared to be a compliment.
"You are bold just by being here, you know?" he teased, gently stroking an errant lock of her hair away from her cheek. The silkiness of that lock was far more tempting than it should have been. "Most young ladies never would have entered my chamber without invitation."
Her lips parted. "I suppose I considered our marriage to be an invitation of sorts."
"Did you?" he queried. "You surmise that I've invited you into my life by wedding you?"
“Not that," she replied quickly, her face tilting slightly towards his palm as he touched her hair. "But this, this room, it's different, is it not? It's part of the most basic necessities of being married. You do not have to tell me your innermost thoughts or your innermost feelings, but this room is where our duty lies."
"To get an heir," he said.
"Yes," she agreed. "And I wish to do—”
"Your duty," he finished, not knowing what to think. He did not plan to have children. He knew the danger of it. The chance both babe and mother took on such a venture.
“Augusta,” he warned, twirling that lock of hair between his fingers. “Your duty can also be pleasure.”
Her lips parted slightly and her eyes darkened with anticipation at his words. “If you say so, Adam.”
“I do,” he rumbled. "Now, put that glass down so I might hold your hand."
Chapter 17
Duty could be pleasure.
Those words echoed through her brain, a brain which was not responding with as much precision as she usually possessed. Simply standing in his tigerish presence in his chamber was quite overwhelming.
In her chemise, in his chamber, it seemed he was capable of stealing her comprehensive thought.
Luckily, he didn't seem to know it.
The vast size of him, the sharpness of his features, the lushness of his hair, and his gaze, that gaze which looked so dark that if she leaned into it she might fall and fall forever, captivated her.
It was really quite mind-boggling.
Indeed, that was the word. Mind-boggling. The effect he had upon her could be described as nothing else. Against all reason, all sense, all logic, he made her wish to slip into his strong arms, something she'd never thought she might wish.
Now he was encouraging her to do just as her primal self desired. She took a sip of her champagne and did as urged.
Mirroring his earlier action, she put her crystal flute down on the Carrera marble table next to his brandy snifter. It seemed she would, as he did, need her hands free for their endeavor.
His hand remained outstretched, waiting for her to take it. Much to her surprise, she slipped her hand into his. She stifled a gasp.
She hadn't held a man’s hand ever, in her whole life, not for something like this. It was the most remarkable sensation as her fingers skimmed over his. The firmness of his grip was pleasant and strong, reassuring.
Gently, he pulled her towards him.
"Augusta," he said. "Is this truly what you wish? This is not something you have to do, you know."
She nodded wordlessly, feeling that she had nodded a great deal too much, but not able to respond in any other way. Words failed her in this new venture.
She wished to do her duty.
Duty was what she believed in. It kept families and society afloat and at peace.
This is what she had lived for her whole life, to do the right thing. And of course, the right thing was for a wife to bed her husband.
"Do you know what is going to take place between us?" he asked softly, his voice a tempting rumble in the fire-lit room.
"I know a few facts about what transpires," she said. “From anatomy books and literature.”
"Young ladies are often not prepared for this, and I shouldn't like to force myself upon you or frighten you."
She arched a brow. “Force yourself upon me? Are you a highwayman in the night then?"
"No, I am no thief, Augusta,” he replied, the golden glow of the candles reflected in his dark eyes. “But I care about your experience in this. I would hate for it to be unpleasant for you."
A shiver of anticipation danced through her.
She had heard whispers that it could be painful, whatever it exactly was. She had a rudimentary idea of the workings of it, due to her father’s library. She and her sisters had pored over the books over the years, trying to gain clarity out of mystery. Still, she was aware that there was likely a great deal to it that she had no inkling of.
“No need to worry," she assured, lifting her chin. “I am most capable.”
He smiled. A slow, burning smile that promised something she couldn’t understand.
"I'm glad to hear it. But if I do something you do not care for, you must tell me. Promise me that. Can you promise that you will always be honest with me in this, Augusta?"
She held her breath for a moment, uncertain how to answer. He wanted her to promise to be honest with him. She wondered if he would do the same thing with her, or did he simply mean in this chamber? Frankly, honesty was something that she was quite comfortable with, and so she said, "Of course, Adam. I will be honest with you."
He gazed down at her carefully, then stroked his fingers softly along her cheek. "You're a most fascinating young woman, Augusta. You know that?"
"I'm not fascinating in the least,” she scoffed, stunned by the feelings just his fingertips upon her cheek evoked. “There's nothing singular or interesting about me."
"Except your boldness as you pointed out, and your stubbornness, and your advocacy for your sisters and—”
"Oh, I suppose,” she rushed, unused to being compli
mented. “All those things are true, but they don't make me particularly remarkable.”
"Now, Augusta,” he said, letting his finger linger under her chin. “You must learn to take compliments. You are a duchess now, and you will receive many of them."
"Most of them will be hollow," she said, her body swaying slightly towards his.
"I'm glad that you know that. But this, Augusta, is true. A bold young woman is a prize indeed."
Her heart slammed in her ribs at that.
Did he mean it?
Did he see her as a possible prize?
How could that be when she knew that he did not like her at all? Was it simply a compliment to put her at ease? Or did he wish to seduce her in truth? No, he couldn't possibly. He was the most longed-for rake in London. He was only here because he had married her and had no other choice.
"I'm going to kiss you, Augusta.” His gaze heated as he caressed the pulse at her neck. “Would you like that?"
She wet her lips, hardly believing this was not some strange dream. “Yes,” she said, "I'd like that."
"I'd like it too."
Her whole body thrummed with excitement at his words.
His hand slid into the curls at the nape of her neck and tilted her head back. He lingered over her mouth as if he could study every feature of her face and memorize it for eternity.
It was the oddest thing, considering that he had no love for her or affection. But he was studying her as if he could memorize her forever. And then, ever so slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers, and there was that hot soft touch again of his lips upon hers.
They worked over her mouth as if they could bring her a sensual pleasure that would shake the coldest of hearts. And she had to agree that this kiss was even better than the last.
Now that she had an understanding of how a kiss might work, she was able to kiss him back, parting her lips ever so slightly, allowing him to tease her mouth, kissing and kissing again. She took each kiss and tried to give it back a little bit, for she had no desire to be completely passive, even if she knew that she was doing this for no other purpose than duty.
So, she allowed herself to give in a bit.
Just a bit.
Not too much.
Just enough that he might know that she wished him to kiss her. And then his tongue was touching hers. A hot, desirous passage of breath traveled between them. His hands came to her back, sliding over her.