Defiant Angel (41 page)

"But of course! Is there something special?"

"Yes, Clinton is fond of eggs and kidneys, oysters, and herring. Tea and perhaps a bottle of Bordeaux."

"And you, Duchess?"

"Some fruit, cheese, and a salad if your cook can manage it."

Bien,
I shall have it sent up immediately." He turned, walking to the door, but was stopped by her words.

"No, monsieur, in about an hour or so."

He turned to see her close the door behind her.

He smiled, whistling as he left the room. He would probably not see his friend until dinner, if at all. Maybe this marriage thing was not so bad.

Clinton was dreaming he was sailing on the Aegean Sea when he first felt the stirring in his groin. He dreamed he shouted to Austin to let the mast out when he felt a growing ache in his groin. He groaned softly at the sensation. "Mmm."

Slowly his dream faded as his body responded and he drifted upward, as if coming from the bottom of a pool. He heard himself moan and felt his manhood grow hard and erect.

Slowly he opened his eyes, savoring the incredible sensations. His eyes focused on a dark head which moved slowly up and down between his thighs. "Ahhh," he moaned, reaching out to touch her shoulders. He whispered hoarsely, and somewhat stupidly, "What are you doing, love?"

Tiffany looked up, her hand continuing where her mouth had been, moving slowly upward and downward as she breathed, "Loving you, Clinton."

Her breathing sounded shallow, ragged, to him as his became rapid and harsh. His body was taut from the throbbing ache in his loins and the agony of the sensations she was creating within him. He managed to utter, "Don't, Princess," then moaned, "ahhhh."

"Let me love you, my lord." Her mouth closed over him, drawing him deep into the moist velvet sheath of her mouth.

He protested no more and yielded to her exquisite torture until he felt himself tighten and ache. "No, no more, love, no more." He grabbed her shoulders, stopping her, and pulled her on top of him. Their faces met. Tiffany saw the strain and concentration etched across his handsome features and felt the wild hammerings of his heart. She inadvertently moved, causing him to cry out, "Don't move, love, don't!"

Tiffany stilled. He opened his eyes and looked into hers, listening to what her eyes told him and her words confirmed. "Please, I need to feel you inside me, my lord." He closed his eyes, groaning at her words, trying to gain a measure of control over his desire, and would have succeeded had she not mistaken his pause and implored in a broken whisper, "Please."

Feeling her hard nipples brush against his chest, and his manhood press against her belly, he whispered, "Do you wish to ride, love, or be ridden?"

His hand moved to her moistness, lightly stroking her source of desire, and not waiting for her reply, he grasped her hips, lifting her onto his erect shaft.

Tiffany moaned, gripping his sides tightly, setting the tempo to bring them to release. Clinton tried to still her movements, for he was close to his own release and wished to prolong their joining but was unable to stop the convulsive heave and spurted himself hotly into her welcoming warmth. He groaned deep in his throat, a measure of pleasure, a measure of disappointment in not bringing her with him.

Tiffany gazed at him with passion-dazed eyes. When he opened his, he looked up, seeing her unfulfillment and confusion; her lips still parted, her nipples erect, peaking from beneath the veil of her hair, her breathing still ragged.

He lifted her from him and brought her against him, and she rested her head against his throat. A moment of silence passed and he whispered against her hair, "Pleasant way to awaken, Princess."

Tiffany rested against him, feeling an ache, almost like a pain, throb between her thighs, but she managed to ask, "Are you hungry, my lord?"

"Mm-huh." He smiled, feeling himself begin to harden at her innocent, yet suggestive query.

Lifting her head, she said, "I informed Richilieu--" Before she could finish, he tossed her onto her back, raising her legs over his shoulders, and before his mouth closed over her, he said, "For you, not food."

He brought her to a much-needed release with his tongue, then plunged his eager member into her slick woman's flesh. And because he had already gained his pleasure, he was able to ride her into release after tumultuous release before he again took his own.

"I want to go home, Clinton," she whispered as she lay satiated in his arms.

"We shall leave for Chablisienne tomorrow, love. 'Tis too late today," he answered as his hand stroked her shoulder gently.

"Nay, I want to go home to Wentworth, Clinton."

Lifting her chin with the tip of his finger, gazing into her eyes, he said, "Then to Wentworth it is." He gently kissed her lips.

A gentle knocking at the door caused him to raise his head and call, "Enter."

Germane and Mortimer scurried in. Germane rushed to open the curtains, letting in the afternoon sun, while Mortimer directed a servant who rolled in a cart laden with an assortment of covered trays.

"Will you be bathing, my lord, my lady?" At their nod, Germane dashed off to the bathing chamber, ordering about the servants to make haste, lest the food got cold.

Mortimer opened the bottle of wine, allowing it to breathe.

The two servants were in harmony today and had put aside their differences. They were united in the cause to see to their lord and lady's comfort. Having done so, they withdrew.

On the way to their bath, Clinton stopped to view the array of food: oysters, shrimp, mussels, eggs, kidneys-- an ambrosia of delights meant to appease the palate as well as augment one's sexual prowess.

With amusement he asked, "Who ordered this?"

Tiffany peeked over his shoulder, glancing at the array, and saw nothing amiss. "Richilieu, I believe."

Clinton threw back his head, and a throaty laugh escaped as he led Tiffany to their communal bath.

"B
ut why do you have to go? Can't Austin handle
it?"
Tiffany pleaded while helping Clinton on with his jacket. He turned to face her and she began to straighten out his cravat.

"Princess, Austin is tied up with the strikers, trying to negotiate a settlement." Lifting her face, gazing in her tear-filled eyes, he promised, "I'll return in three days, four tops."

Snapping her head away, not in the least bit appeased, she turned her back to him. She watched Mortimer direct the servants to carry out his baggage.

What's wrong with me? she wondered, her eyes filling with unexplained tears. God, I'm so weepy lately, she thought as she brushed a tear away. And so tired. Every afternoon I have to nap, and just this morning I nearly vomited when Germane brought me blueberries in cream. She shuddered in recollection and pushed the thought away, asking, "Why do you have to go?"

Clinton regarded her. His experienced eye traveled down her back, stopping at her slightly thickening waist. She had been excessively sensitive since they'd returned to England; her impulsive changes of mood--from exuberant to weepy--had not gone unnoticed by him. Her appetite was at times waning, then voracious-. Even certain foods she normally turned her nose up at, she now could not have enough of. Then there was the greenish tinge that colored her face whenever he smoked a cigar. These were all clear, undeniable signs she carried his child.

Patiently he explained again. "Princess, Brent is in Genoa, Tristan at sea, and Rory is handling the spring foaling. That leaves no one but me. I must go."

"Then take me!" She spun around, no longer tiffed, but now imploring.

He saw the soft curve of her slightly rounded belly and the fullness of her breasts, noting the tiny blue veins more prominent against her creamy skin. Her nipples were darker and larger as they pressed against the sheer cloth of her shirt.

Running his hand through his hair, he patiently explained, "The roads are not safe, Tiffany. We have been plagued with a rash of robberies. I would not endanger you."

"I would not call two robberies in six weeks a rash!"

"No," he said in a voice she knew brooked no argument. Tears filling her eyes, Tiffany brushed past him, stomping out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Clinton stood quietly going through his mental checklist: Clarissa had been summoned, Rory was about, and Keegan was instructed not to allow her to ride.

Shaking his dark head over the last item, he thought she certainly was not going to be happy over that restriction, especially since she was riot yet aware she was with child. He considered telling her, for possibly she would then understand his concern, but he wanted her to realize her condition. Until she did, he would have to take measures to protect her and the child, for he knew not what he would do if he ever lost her. Confident in his decision, he left the room to search for her.

He found her where he expected, by the window in his study. He saw her shoulders trembling as she sobbed, and walked toward her.

Tiffany heard him approach and turned, wiping her tears

Tiffany heard him approach and turned, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, trying to appear indifferent between her gulps and sniffles.

"I . . . would have thought, my lord, you left. It is past time."

He smiled at her pretense and extended his arm to her. "Will you not see me off, love? Why, in the days of old, the lady offered the stirrup cup to her departing lord with her blessing."

Pouting and sniffling, she replied, "In days of old, some lords gave scutage, my lord."

"Ah, my lady, I would never ask of anyone what I would not do."

Knowing his words to be true, she relented and walked to him. His arms encircled her waist, and together they went outside. As countless women before her, in days of old, she saw her man off and to battle without tears.

"What is the meaning of this! I want Xanadu immediately," she screamed at the young groom who stood with hat in hand, nervously twisting its brim.

"But m'lady, I have me orders."

Exasperated beyond belief, Tiffany waved an impatient hand at the groom, cutting off his words. "Yes, yes, I know. Well, we'll see about this."

Turning her head, her hair flying out nearly smacking the young groom in the face, she asked as she looked about, "Where is Keegan?"

"I 'eard 'e went to . . . Oh, there he be, m'lady." The groom pointed, relieved. Keegan appeared at the scene, for his lady, while normally a sweet thing, had turned into a regular termagant lately.

With purposeful strides, Tiffany moved toward Keegan. Just by the jaunty way she walked and the color on her cheeks, Keegan could see her temper rode high. He waited till she stopped before him.

"Keegan--" she pointed a finger at the retreating figure

of the groom "--that miscreant says you gave orders I'm not to ride."

Keegan saw the glimmer of challenge in her blue eyes but responded easily, " 'At's right, 'at's what I said."

"Why?" she asked disbelievingly.

" 'Cuz the guv'nor instructed it."

"He would do no such thing!" she screamed at him.

" 'Fraid so, m'lady," he answered, apologetically.

Pressing her lips together, she narrowed her eyes in anger. "Well, then, stand aside, Keegan. If you and that miscreant won't tack Xanadu, then I will!" She made to pass him, but he stepped in her way.

"Now, m'lady, I can't let ye do 'at."

"You would stop me?" she challenged.

He nodded his red head. "I'd do wonts necessary to carry out the guv'nor's orders."

She stood for a moment sizing up her opponent and then spun about, charging out of the stables.

"What the hell--" Rory ducked quickly, a priceless vase smashing inches from his head against the wall, as he entered the study "--is going on here?"

His eyes scanned the room quickly, taking in the books, the contents of Clinton's desktop strewn about the floor, coming to rest on Tiffany, ready to throw another missile.

Covering the distance that separated them in a few strides, he grabbed her poised hand holding the missile.

"Here, here! Now, what the hell is the matter?"

Tiffany fell against him, breaking into heartrending sobs, her tears making wet spots on his shirt.

"I . . . I . . . just--" she gulped "--want to
riiidde!"
she cried.

Taking in the condition of the room as his hand moved comfortingly over her quaking shoulders, his eyes widened in disbelief at the havoc she wrought, and he asked incredulously, "You did all
this
because you wanted to ride?"

"Wouldn't," she sobbed.

"Wouldn't what?" he asked, confused.

"Let me ride," she cried, new tears falling freely on his already damp shirt.

"Who wouldn't let you ride?" he asked, becoming more confused by the moment.

Her head snapped up, hitting his squarely in the chin. Tiffany stepped out of the circle of his arms. She tossed her head and lifted her chin defiantly and spat, "Your
brother!"