by Eloisa James
When he finally pulled back, he said huskily, “So Octavius won’t do, and neither will Mortimer?”
“What?” Merry asked, sounding like a breathless fool.
“Mortimer.”
She shook her head. “Mortimer sounds like an uncle whom you wouldn’t invite to dinner.”
“I hesitate to tell you that, following tradition, our sons will be Mortimers.”
“I might have to think hard about annulment,” she said demurely. That brought a reaction. Her breath caught as he leaned forward, a wicked light in his eyes, and kissed her so deeply that pleasure flashed down her limbs.
“What about John?” he said a while later. “It’s my third name.”
Merry tried it out in her head. She could be married to a John. Though it would be better . . .
“Jack,” she said decisively.
Her husband’s brows drew together.
“Do you not like it?” she asked.
“Cedric used to call me Jack,” Trent said, his voice emotionless. “It sounds childish. I would much prefer John.”
Merry had only heard Cedric address his brother as “Duke,” and always with an edge of sarcasm. She reached up and slid her fingers into his hair. “Jack makes you sound American.”
“Have you any notion how disturbing that is to me?”
“Precisely. Please? If only in private? You may call me Merry.”
“I would like to take you to Hawksmede, Merry,” Trent said. Surely that was tacit permission to call him whatever she liked.
“Your house in the country,” Merry murmured. His hands were wandering over her back, leaving delightful heat in their wake. Was she supposed to pretend his caresses didn’t make her feel like collapsing to the floor like a marionette without strings? She leaned into the hard lines of his body, flirting with his tongue, tasting him and feeling him.
“My home,” Trent said, a while later. “Have you ever visited a great house?”
“My father lived in a large house in Boston. My uncle’s house in the country is even larger. But I have the feeling that Hawksmede is quite different.”
“It’s older, for one thing.”
“There aren’t many very old buildings in Boston,” she agreed. “Do you live in a crumbling castle, the kind described by Mrs. Radcliffe?”
“No. But my mother called it, not fondly, an ‘old heap of stone.’ There are few conveniences.”
Merry nodded. “No water closets, I suppose?”
“Water closets?” Trent looked taken aback. “My mother put in a bathing chamber, which was seen as progressive in the extreme. Between the watermen and the footmen, we manage to stay clean and warm.”
“But there are gardens,” Merry said simply. “How far is it from London?”
“Only three hours, if the roads are clear. I thought we might ask your uncle and aunt to pay us a visit in a few days. The chapel is said to be haunted by an angry monk; I’m sure it would be inspiration for a thousand lines at least.”
That was very thoughtful of him. She did want to see Bess, if only because her aunt had some explaining to do, as Nanny used to say when Merry was naughty.
“What about George and Snowdrop? Can they come?”
“Of course. Though if you don’t mind, I’d prefer that they travel with your maid and my valet. I assume that this will be George’s first carriage trip.”
“He will learn,” she said a trifle defensively. “He’s already much better.”
Trent dropped a kiss on her mouth. “He is an intelligent puppy. I have no doubt of it. What would you think of leaving for the country today?”
He wanted his bride there, in the old sprawling pile of stone that felt his, as opposed to this shiny London townhouse that Cedric had been living in.
“Very well,” Merry said easily. “I will need a half hour or so to put on a traveling dress and pack a small bag.”
His mouth almost fell open.
“Is that too much time?” she asked.
“My mother always required hours, if not days, to ready herself for a trip.”
“I do not,” Merry said, keeping her explanation simple so as not to further baffle her husband. “I like to travel.”
Trent’s arms went around her again. “Merry,” he said, in that husky voice that melted her inside. “We are not going to consummate our marriage in a moving carriage.”
Her arms wrapped around his neck. “We’re not?” she breathed. Her eyes grew wide as a smile shaped his mouth.
“Though it is—”
“A consummation devoutly to be wished?” she suggested, laughing.
“‘Devoutly’ does not convey my feelings on the matter,” Trent replied, his lips ghosting over hers. “I shall take you home to the place where my ancestors bedded their wives for the first time. This townhouse is too new.”
“New?” she managed. “How old is it?”
“My great-grandfather built it in 1720.”
“Just so you know,” Merry said, pulling back so she could meet his eyes, “you and I have very different ideas of ‘new.’ My country is new. It is twenty-seven years old.”
“This house is new,” he replied with a crooked grin. “It is eighty-three years old.”
Chapter Twenty-three
An hour later, Merry climbed into the ducal carriage with a net bag containing two novels she had borrowed from the townhouse’s library. She never opened the bag, though, because she and Trent started arguing about the treasure of the Mycenaean kings, which Trent had read about in the paper, and Merry had heard about from a friend of Lord Elgin’s wife.
“Lady Elgin had to crawl through a hole on all fours to reach the inner chamber,” Merry told him. “And later she saw a city built by the Cyclopes! Would you like another piece of chicken?” They were sharing an excellent hamper containing enough food to feed at least three pairs of newlyweds.
“She may have seen a city,” Trent said, accepting the chicken, “but I doubt very much that there was any evidence it was built by Cyclopes. Just how would that fact be demonstrated through its architecture?”
Merry cocked her head and laughed, acknowledging the point. “Half windows?”
She was seated opposite him, but Trent pulled her over to his side. “I suppose the houses might be on one level. I’ve heard that stairs can be difficult without both eyes.”
“Homer is a better writer than Shakespeare,” she said, snuggling against him. “Obviously he believed in Cyclopes, since he wrote about them.”
“Yes, well, Shakespeare wrote about fairies dancing around in the woods,” Trent said, offering her a lemon tart.
“No, thank you. I read somewhere that the Cyclopes built a magnificent civilization on an island off the coast of Greece. Oh! And they are credited with giving Zeus his thunderbolt.”
“That proves my point, don’t you think? They’re products of someone’s imagination. It’s not as if the prime minister goes around handing out thunderbolts.” He pulled her a little tighter. “You look sleepy.”
“I will admit that the last two nights were wretched,” Merry admitted. She gave him a mock scowl. “No thanks to you, allowing me to believe that I was about to become Lady Cedric.”
Even hearing that made Trent’s blood run cold. He moved along the seat until his back was to the corner, and pulled her into his lap. With his free arm, he felt under the seat and drew out a blanket, which he shook over her.
“This is so soft,” Merry said drowsily. “We don’t have cashmere in Boston. Do you know where cashmere comes from?”
She felt, rather than heard, his chuckle. “Tell me later,” he whispered.
“I think I’ll take a nap, if you don’t mind.” Her head was leaning on Trent’s chest, and her hand had come to rest lightly on his stomach.
He was wearing a waistcoat, and a shirt beneath that, but all the same . . . Merry surreptitiously spread her fingers. His skin was so warm that she could feel it through the layers. She felt safe for the firs
t time since Cedric had threatened her at the Vereker ball.
“Do you wish to loosen your corset?” he said, his voice low. “I could assist.”
She opened an eye and peered up at him. “What do you know of corsets?”
“Enough.” Trent’s eyes had a hungry gleam.
“Humph,” Merry said, slumping back against his shoulder. “I am perfectly comfortable, thank you. I never wear a corset while traveling.”
He made a strangled noise, but her eyes were already closing. It seemed only a few minutes before she heard, “Merry,” and then, louder, “Merry.”
“Yes?” she asked groggily.
“Time to wake up.”
“I’d rather not,” she said, from the depths of a dream. “Thank you very much, though.”
Trent’s laugh woke her.
Merry pushed herself upright. Outside the windows, the sky was black, but flickering torches threw an unsteady light around the carriage. They had arrived.
Trent climbed out. When she appeared in the door after him, he effortlessly plucked her from the carriage.
“You seem to be sweeping me off my feet frequently,” she said, her eyes searching his.
“I like holding you.” His arms tightened. “My American duchess,” he whispered, his breath warming her forehead. He set her down, but he kept her hand in his.
When Merry looked around her, she saw that the carriage had drawn into a large courtyard. Torches were bolted to the walls at regular intervals, but even so, she couldn’t make out much more than stone walls, rising into the darkness.
A dignified man advanced out of the murk and was introduced as Oswald, the Hawksmede butler.
“The groom you sent ahead noted that the market fair would likely slow down your journey,” Oswald said, after greetings had been exchanged.
“Yes, we’ve been some five hours on the road,” Trent replied. “If you would make the duchess’s maid and her dogs comfortable, Oswald, I shall take my wife indoors.”
Merry was squinting to see if there were possibly turrets—she hoped so, because she dearly loved the idea of a haunted turret—when Trent turned back to her, flashed a naughty grin, and picked her up in his arms.
Merry gasped and lost her grip on her reticule and net bag, which fell to the flagstones with a soft thud.
Trent paid no attention, striding on toward the lighted door to the house.
“This is very romantic of you,” she said, after an awkward moment.
“It is expedient. You slept on the journey, but I spent hours trying to think of anything other than your lack of a corset. And frankly, if the household thinks I’m in love, it affirms the idea that I stole you from my brother due to passion.”
Before Merry could reply, he was walking in the door. In the entry, footmen stood ready to receive directions, but she scarcely saw them because Trent went straight for the stairs, carrying her up two at a time without apparent effort.
Top of the stairs, to the left, through a pair of magnificent doors attended by another footman, who closed the doors behind them with a quiet click of the latch.
Her new husband tipped her onto the bed and leaned over her, so close that she could see the curl of his sooty lashes. They were long—as long as hers, probably.
She had judged Cedric handsome, but Trent had a raw masculine beauty that put his brother’s prettiness to shame. Together with the gleam in his eyes, he was pure, wanton temptation. His eyes slid over her body as if he were starving and she a banquet, lingered on the curves of her breasts, on the swell of her hips.
“Hello, Jack?” she asked, unable to stop herself from smiling. “I’m up here.”
It took a moment for his gaze to return to hers. Without answering, he bent his head and his tongue plunged into her mouth. He kissed her just long enough to make desire riot through her bloodstream, before he lowered his body onto hers.
Chapter Twenty-four
Trent had always chosen mistresses for their beauty and intelligence; none, though, held a candle to Merry. His wife’s face and figure made him feel more savage than nobleman. He would like to throw her over his shoulder, take her off to a cave, and lick her from head to foot. Especially now, when her cheeks were flushed and her lips swollen from his kisses.
The women he’d bedded to this point had been skilled courtesans. In turn, he considered himself a punctilious lover, satisfying them once or twice before he allowed himself to come, always sheathed in a condom to prevent a child born out of wedlock.
This time he didn’t have to slip on a wrinkled French letter, let alone tie it so tightly that it left a red mark for hours after.
What’s more, he liked his wife. Who would have thought that would make such a difference?
“We shall consummate this marriage,” he said, “and then we shall stay married for sixty or seventy years.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I do want to make one thing clear. Had you been engaged to anyone other than Cedric, I would have stolen you from your fiancé the first night we met. You have been mine since the moment we met on the balcony.”
Merry pressed a kiss on his lips. “Then you are mine by fiat,” she told him, and a sweet smile echoed in her eyes. “I claim you.”
The thick length of his cock was pressed against her leg and he was harder than he’d ever been. Another look at her rosy lips and smiling eyes, and the ache in his groin deepened.
“What is that noise?” Merry asked, turning toward the sound.
“Footmen are filling the tub in the bathing chamber, through that door.” Her maid must have assumed that she would want to wash off the dust of their journey. He wanted to make love to her just as she was, with the perfume that was Merry after sleeping. The most erotic scent in the world.
But she was a lady and a virgin. She was looking back at him now, desire in her eyes, but a wary shyness as well.
Trent washed quickly in a wooden bath brought to his room. It was novel—and delightful—to hear light voices of women filtering through from the bathing chamber next door. When Merry laughed, it sounded like music.
An hour later, the sounds from the other side of the door had finally ceased. He decided that sufficient time had passed that he might pay a visit to his wife’s bedchamber. He tied his dressing gown tightly, knocked twice, and strode through the connecting door.
Merry was curled on her side on top of a snowy sheet, her inky hair spread across the pillows. He warned himself for the tenth time that he had to be slow and disciplined. This wild urgency he felt had to be kept in check.
“Good evening,” she said, as he walked toward her.
Through the frail stuff of her gown, he could see the dark rose of her nipples, the shadow that embraced the curve of her breast, another tantalizing shadow between her legs.
“God,” he said, the sound coming from his throat like a tortured whisper. “You’re exquisite.”
Her smile deepened.
“I would like to remove my dressing gown, but if you’d prefer, I could do so beneath the sheets.”
“What are you wearing under it, Your Grace?”
“Nothing.”
He saw her throat ripple as she swallowed. “You said that we are to be married sixty years. I suppose I’ll grow accustomed to the look of your knees.” She looked adorably shy but willing.
“Not just knees,” he said, casting aside his dressing gown. His wife looked him over slowly. It was hard to tell what she was thinking. His body was unlike most gentlemen’s, and certainly unlike Cedric’s, not that he believed she’d ever seen a man naked.
Still, he didn’t resemble the sleek Greek statues one saw in museums. He liked to take vigorous exercise, spending entire days on horseback riding around one or another of his estates. His thighs were muscled . . . hell, there was nothing sleek on his body.
He was all lumps and knobs of muscle, with a few scars to boot: a white one across his right leg, a darker scar on his abdomen where he had tripped on a scythe as a boy.
Lust was pumping through his veins with a rough rhythm that told him that his control was gone, torn away during the journey in which Merry had slept. He had stroked her cheek, her hair, and the curve of her hip while she dreamed peacefully against his shoulder.
Now he followed her gaze down to where his thick, heavy cock strained toward her. “You’re all dash-fire,” she breathed.
Trent didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant, but he understood the wanton desire in her voice, particularly when the edge of her tongue peeked out between pink lips.
He took a step toward the bed but before he could join her, Merry sat up and began pulling up her nightgown. Her generous breasts moved, swaying gently, and he froze in place.
She wiggled until she could free her gown from under her bottom. Then, in one sudden gesture, she drew it over her head. Her face turned pink, but she remained still.
Something primal rose in his gut as he saw her naked for the first time; suddenly Trent understood the sly language of a lady’s skirts.
Merry let out a shaky giggle. “You look as if you’ve never seen a woman’s knees—or the rest of her—before.”
“I’ve never seen my wife’s knees—or the rest of her—before,” Trent said hoarsely, finally moving onto the bed. His weight settled onto her with a feeling of rightness that spread through his veins like wildfire.
Merry gasped, then curled her arms around his neck and gave him her intrepid American grin, the unreserved expression he’d never seen in an English ballroom.
“Aunt Bess told me that bedtime is when married couples frolic,” she whispered against his lips.
First they should discuss the act in a restrained, gentlemanly fashion. Right. He cleared his throat and moved so that he lay on his side next to her. “Do you understand what we’re about to do together?” His voice came out like a growl, but Merry didn’t flinch.
She turned on her side as well and smiled again, surprising him. Hell, she would probably always surprise him, no matter how long they lived.