Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  After dinner, she would sit in the same room and feel his eyes on her. She would put down her book or her needlework and look over at him to see that expression in his eyes. She’d come to understand what it meant. Now she knew that it was caused by hunger, the type that races through the blood and causes an ache, a feeling almost like pain if it wasn’t satisfied. From the moment he looked at her, she would feel it as well.

  Too many nights they’d left Hortensia alone in the parlor, no doubt confused as to their rapid departure.

  Moncrief had become her obsession.

  Today, she found herself rising from her desk in the ducal suite too often and going to the window to see if she could catch sight of him. Finally, she did see him, striding across the frosty grass, attired in his greatcoat against the chill of the day.

  He was, no doubt, on his way to the distillery, where he was modernizing the building, or to talk to Munson or tour the home farms. Moncrief had a thousand errands, a hundred duties, and he was diligent in every one of them, including enthralling her.

  She placed her fingers on the glass, obscuring the sight of him. Then, because she couldn’t bear it any longer, she dropped her hand and watched him until he was out of sight.

  An unbearable sadness crept over her, a feeling that mimicked her grief for Harry. She pushed it away, unwilling to think about what it might mean.

  One night she had studied his hand, as if to discern the magic of it, but it was an ordinary hand, just like his eyes were like any other eyes. There was no reason why his touch should make her shiver so, or that his look would cause a flush of heat to warm her body. But what made him different was the force of his personality, the strength of his character, a dozen attributes that separated him from other men.

  I am Moncrief.

  She could remember the exact moment he’d said that, could recall the exact tone of his voice, so ducal and authoritative.

  A touch of color caught her eye, and she saw Hortensia bundled against the cold and picking her way across the frozen ground on her way to visit Juliana. Despite the weather she made a daily pilgrimage to the gatekeeper’s cottage, although Juliana never visited her in return.

  Members of a family, however, were to be valued despite their personalities. Neither she nor Moncrief had a large family, and Catherine was acutely aware of Juliana’s absence at dinner. But even when she’d sent an invitation with Hortensia, Juliana had refused to attend.

  “She doesn’t feel welcome here,” Hortensia said, attempting to explain her sister.

  Hortensia, however, had blossomed in Juliana’s absence. She didn’t discuss her health incessantly, and a bloom of color on her cheeks made her look more vibrant and healthy. Also, she’d gained weight, and the resultant curves were very attractive.

  The older woman reminded Catherine of a widow in the village not far from Colstin Hall. Moira Campbell had been widowed for a decade, each successive year of her loneliness brought about a change in her temperament. She became more and more surly around people, more judgmental, more apt to make quick pronouncements and condemn wayward behavior. What she saw as incorrigible behavior, however, was often nothing more then the exuberance of youth.

  The greatest change in the widow Campbell’s demeanor came about every third month when the peddler stopped by the village and stayed a few days. Her smiles, rarely in existence until that time, broadened, her demeanor changed, and her step grew livelier. The peddler was an old man with a hunched back and a weathered, wrinkled face. Love hadn’t changed the widow but attention had, and she responded to it like a flower would the sun.

  The peddler was an expert in deciphering what people wanted and giving it to them. His skill translated also to seeing the needs of the human heart. He had evidently discerned what the others in the village had not, that the widow was not so much angry at the world as she was acutely lonely.

  Catherine couldn’t help but wonder if Juliana’s departure had changed Hortensia, or if there was a peddler in the other woman’s life.

  Now Catherine resolutely turned away from the window and left the suite, her destination Moncrief’s library. She nodded to the footmen aligned along the wall like soldiers, and not one of them nodded back or otherwise pretended to see her. Such was Moncrief’s doing, of course.

  She descended the graceful stairs slowly, still cautious of her ankle even though weeks had passed since she’d used her crutches. The foyer was empty, Wallace no doubt about on his duties. Only one young maid was in sight, and the girl curtsied at Catherine, then went back to polishing the glass in one of the windows.

  With Moncrief gone, it felt as if Balidonough had lost its heart. The strumming energy she felt when he was striding about, intent on one task or another, was oddly lacking.

  He evidently loved his home and tended it with the dedication of a doting father. Farms in the outlying regions had been left fallow for too many years, and he was determined to make them produce. He had given orders that the stables were to be renovated as well and had put Peter in charge.

  In a surprising move, he’d called her into his library just a few days earlier, to announce that he had invested her funds in a way that would no doubt prove wise over the future.

  “But you have control over my money, Moncrief,” she’d said. “You needn’t show this to me.”

  “On the contrary, Catherine. It’s your money now. Use it for what you wish, or save it for our children.”

  She’d left him, not revealing how much that one word had shocked her. Children. A child. She pressed her hand against her waist and wondered if their passion would result in a child soon.

  She’d always wanted a child, but after Harry died, she’d put those thoughts away, and grieved for the loss of those unborn children.

  What would it be like to bear Moncrief’s child? He would be solicitous of her, she knew, simply because everything he did was performed with care and concern. She imagined that he had been a great commander of men, and all the ladies with whom he had been involved had no doubt loved him.

  She halted, stunned by the thought. She was not in love with Moncrief. True, she admired him, and perhaps respected him. He touched her and she shivered with desire, but that was not love. No, she was not in love with him.

  Instead of continuing on to the library, she turned and walked into the Ladies’ Parlor. Here, the windows faced the front of Balidonough, and she wouldn’t be tempted to stand and watch for Moncrief as she had upstairs.

  The upholstery in the Ladies’ Parlor was yellow with sprigs of flowers, a perfect counterpart to the dark wood of the tables and mantelpiece. If the day had been sunny, the room would have been bright and cheery. But it was overcast now and cold even though someone had wisely lit a fire.

  One advantage to Juliana’s living in the gatekeeper’s cottage—no one complained at the cost of anything, and everyone was a great deal more comfortable as a consequence.

  Catherine closed the sliding doors and went to sit beside the fire.

  From here she could see the view of the front gardens. But they held no appeal at the moment. Instead, she leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. The mantel clock ticked the moments as she grappled with her thoughts.

  Her life had been so much easier when she had been married to Harry. How innocent and naïve she’d been. She had loved him unreservedly, believing him to be kind and gentle, a man of character and honor.

  When he died, she had grieved deeply, but her mourning had been untainted by the truth.

  Only after coming to Balidonough had everything she’d known to be true been questioned and proven false. First Harry and now her own nature.

  She lusted after her own husband. There, the crux of her confusion.

  Over the last few weeks, she’d become a raving beast, a creature who thought only of pleasure. Her nipples tightened painfully when Moncrief would look at her in a certain way, and she warmed all over with the thought of him entering the room.

  He’
d taken her against a wall one day, and she’d gloried in it. When it was done, she’d straightened her skirts and placed her hands on his chest for support, unable to speak for the sensations running through her. Outwardly, they looked demure enough if a servant happened upon them. But she’d felt his seed in her, and the thrumming aftermath of intense pleasure hadn’t faded for an hour or more.

  If she looked in the mirror now, she knew what she’d see: sparkling eyes, glistening lips, and fiery red cheeks.

  She felt restless and unsettled, and her limbs felt weak, but they weren’t, of course. A deep tingling raced through her body, spread outward to her fingers and toes. Her eyelids were weighted, her mouth too full, her breath too tight, and a pulse beat heavily between her legs to signal her body’s craving.

  A moan emerged from deep in her throat, and she wasn’t entirely certain if it was a sound of despair or longing. She clenched the chair arms with both hands. Anyone looking at her would think that she was resting, that she was decorous and ladylike. They would never know that she was becoming heated with desire from only the memory of him.

  Nor did he leave her after taking his pleasure. Sometimes, he’d even question her, shocking her with his frankness.

  “Did you like that?” he’d ask, and she would nod, burying her face against his shoulder.

  “I like to touch you there. You are so responsive.”

  She would kiss him on the throat in a bid to silence him. His comments embarrassed her, because she was not used to such things, but she suspected she could become quite comfortable with telling him exactly what she liked, and how.

  Moncrief lost control from time to time, and it was when she touched him or kissed him in certain places. She felt an incredible power that fed on her desire and even strengthened it. In passion they were equals.

  She had never had that type of partnership before. Nor had she imagined that such equality could exist. But in the Duke’s Chamber, he became simply Moncrief and she was Catherine. Titles, rank, birth, and even the past didn’t seem to matter.

  Sometimes, they spoke of mundane things and they would laugh over a petty annoyance, or a story the other told. A laugh would lead to a kiss, and Moncrief’s kisses always led to her desire.

  She wanted him now. There, another truth she told herself. She wanted his kisses now, wanted his hands on her.

  If she were as brazen as she felt, she’d go in search of him and demand that he perform his husbandly duties. She did not have such courage.

  Or did she?

  The clock’s ticking was louder, as if reminding her that it was just noon.

  The distillery was not accessible to her because of an old superstition that stated the presence of a woman could sour a good mash and turn a fine ale to bitter dregs. She’d never been inside the building. But the workers wouldn’t be there either. They’d be taking their midday meal.

  She stood, walked to the pocket doors, and opened them. Her body felt flushed, her thoughts solely on Moncrief.

  He heard a sound and looked up to see Catherine standing there, attired in one of her new dresses, and nothing more than a shawl. The bitter cold had seeped through his greatcoat, and he could imagine how frozen she felt.

  “What you doing here, Catherine?”

  “I’m not supposed to be here, am I?”

  “Have you come to sour the mash?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. “Will I shock the workmen?”

  “Most of them have left for their noon meal.”

  He studied the copper kettle for a few moments, then carefully turned the long wooden handle to the left until it was pointing up. He stepped back, and the steam volume immediately decreased.

  “I didn’t know that you knew anything about making whiskey.”

  “Every member of the family learns,” he said. “From the time we were little boys, we had to learn the business. Whiskey, after all, has been more profitable than marrying heiresses.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Did you need me, Catherine?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  She turned and watched him as he walked to the door and turned the key in the lock before facing her again.

  “If I were a proper woman, I would demand that you release me at once.”

  “You are a duchess,” he reminded her.

  “I have a journal to complete, an inventory to finish.”

  He nodded.

  “Menus to approve.”

  “Yet you came here without a proper coat just when you knew we’d be alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you come to be a temptation to my duties?”

  “I hope so.”

  She was still perfectly dressed, and he was properly attired. But they might have been naked for the hunger in their gazes.

  “It’s afternoon.”

  “It is.”

  “There are hours and hours until nightfall.”

  “I agree.”

  “And hours and hours until bedtime.”

  “That too.”

  “How will I last, Moncrief?”

  “Can I assist you?” he asked.

  “If you’ll try, I’d be very grateful.”

  “You must come closer.”

  She walked slowly toward him, allowing her shawl to drop. Perhaps it landed on the floor or on one of the numerous barrels but she didn’t seem to care. He reached out and took her hand, placing a kiss on each knuckle.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Here.” She traced her finger around her breast.

  He rubbed his palms back and forth over her bodice. She grabbed one hand and placed it over a protuberant nipple. “There.”

  His fingers pinched it gently, and she closed her eyes on a sigh.

  With one hand, he gathered up her skirts, a finger trailing up her stockings to rest in the curls at the jointure of her legs. His finger traced along the outer lips, unsurprised to find her wet for him.

  “You thought me drugged before, but you are my opium, Moncrief. Can I take too much of you?”

  “No,” he said, inserting one finger into her.

  She made a sound deep in her throat, and he added another finger.

  “It’s not enough,” she complained.

  “I know,” he said gently, beginning a rhythm. Two fingers were gently sliding in and out of her, his thumb beginning a rotating motion.

  “I need more, Moncrief. I need you.”

  “Now you know how I feel about you.”

  She reached up and pulled the lace fichu from her neck. And then, still not removing her gaze from his, slowly began to unlace the front of her dress.

  “I should undress you, Catherine. It looks as if you need my lips on your breasts.”

  “Yes, please.” Her brown eyes were lambent, the pupils large. Desire was there in her eyes, in the fullness of her lips.

  He smiled with the glee of an errant schoolboy aided and abetted in his debauchery by a beautiful and amply endowed wild girl.

  Her skin was the softest silk, her blush caused either by anticipation or embarrassment, he could not be sure. He fervently hoped it was not the latter, because he could not have spared her now. He reached out with a hand that shook a little despite its gladness, buried it in the mane that was her auburn hair, stroking through the heavy tresses and lifting them to his nose.

  “You smell of lilacs,” he murmured, and she made a sound of agreement deep in her throat.

  He finished unlacing her.

  He pulled back, and studied her. Her eyes were luminous, her lips pink from his kisses, open, slightly moist. It was the first time in his experienced life he’d ever felt desire and sweetness melded together.

  His palm slid up her rib cage to the fullness of a breast, cupped it, felt the smooth globe of its perfection, its tip tightly drawn and needy. They were equals, evenly matched in need at this moment. Her nipple puckered in invitation; he soothed it with a small kiss, a gesture accompanied by a hiss of Catherine’s brea
th, a short, abortive sound of awareness.

  Her breasts lured him, their creamy softness a pillow for his tongue, their jutting nipples tender and defenseless, an easy conquest given his determination. He held her captive by that touch, her nipple hot in his mouth, ringed by lips not willing to surrender their prize. He sucked her hard, a demand for both surrender and succor. Catherine’s response was to moan softly, helplessly.

  She reached up with both hands and looped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for a kiss. She made a sound, and he smiled, knowing the power of their kiss. Kissing Catherine was like disappearing inside himself, as if he were experiencing all the sensations of his body from a different place.

  A jerky little breath escaped her, a sound of such distress that he smiled, softly. He felt the same.

  When the kiss was done, he pulled back.

  “Shall I enter you now?”

  “Please. Please.”

  He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down. But before he could enter her, she pushed him away, surprising him. He watched as she knelt, staring at his body. With one tentative hand, she reached out and touched him, one finger sliding down his erection as if to measure its length.

  She licked her lips, and he almost spilled his seed then and there.

  “Catherine,” he warned, but she only shook her head, empress of the moment.

  He was hard, but at the touch of her finger, he’d grown even harder.

  Moncrief slowed his breathing, to allow her time to explore, time to satisfy her curiosity. But when she bent forward, and he felt the warmth of her breath, he moaned aloud.

  She brushed her cheek against his penis, then her mouth, as if acquainting him with her touch. Her tongue lashed out, and she licked the crown. He shuddered, and she smiled.

  When he would have put his hands on her shoulders, she only moved back, a warning not to do so again.

  He dropped his hands to his side and she tongued him once more, this time an excruciatingly slow touch from base to tip.

  “Catherine.”

  She concentrated on her task, reaching out and holding him steady while her lips rounded and her mouth opened. Then he was inside, the sensations so exquisite that he tilted back his head and closed his eyes.