Duchess Decadence (13 page)

“That bad?” Wynchester asked.

“My intelligence,” he replied, “goes more to the matter of clarifying your enigma.”

“Go on,” Wynchester said.

“In an indirect quote, the enigma named your approval foremost in her desire.”

Wynchester angled his head so his ear pointed out. “Come again?”

“The duchess voiced her wish to make you happy,” Harrison sighed, “in a tone suggesting she’s baffled as to how.”

The chair hit the floor. “Are you quite certain?”

“If I weren’t,” Harrison
again
adjusted his collar, “would I have exposed myself to this awkwardness?”

“Point taken.” Wynchester said. She had told her friends she wanted to make him happy? What kind of nonsense—a swell of sentiment interrupted his internal verbal tirade.
How interesting
. “Might you reveal her exact words?”

Harrison’s exhale was distinctly perturbed. “I believe her exact words were,
all I want to do is be certain I’ve pleased Wynchester
.”

“Damn me,” Wynchester said.

Harrison watched him with a wary eye. “Do not expect a habit of such revelations, should I be privy to one again.”

“No—no.” The exchange had been uncomfortable enough for them both. “You were right, in this case.” Now
his
collar had grown tight. “Helpful.”

Harrison flashed a dubious glance.

“I am obliged,” Wynchester said.

Harrison drained the last of his glass.

Wynchester rang for Bates. The butler arrived posthaste. “Will you send word to the Lady Vaile, that Mr. Harrison will escort her home?”

Harrison grinned. “Banished, am I?”

“I have food for thought.” He grinned. “And you, I believe, a distinct wish to be gone.”

…

Thea sent away Bates, assuring him she would see to her guests’ departure. Poor Mr. Harrison looked like he’d been through a brawl. He assisted Lavinia as she donned her coat.

“You’ve set the stage?” she whispered.

“Thorny business,” he replied under his breath. “I split
very
fine hairs.”

Lavinia put a comforting hand on Harrison’s chest. “You’ve acted with earnest care in the interests of your friend.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But God help us all if Wynchester should discover our meddling.”

Although not cold, Thea wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her shoulders.

Harrison gave her a hard look. “He’s asked me to look into Eustace’s past.”

“Well,” Thea said. “That is a surprise.”

“A welcome one, I think, for you.” Harrison lifted his brows. “Can I trust you to keep him out of Eustace’s path and his mind otherwise occupied?”

The duchess returned his expression. “With luck and a great deal of cunning.”

“Oh, I don’t think you will need all that.” Lavinia wiggled her fingers and giggled as she leaned in to kiss Thea goodbye. “You will be well?”

“Yes,” she kissed Lavinia back. “Now go. Mr. Harrison needs tending.”

Thea allowed Harrison to kiss her hand.

“Mr. Harrison,” Harrison corrected, “would
enjoy
tending.”

“I stand by ‘needs,’” Thea replied firmly.

Mr. Harrison’s smile made her grateful on behalf of her friend.

She watched the carriage leave the courtyard and stood admiring the statue of Diana for a long time. There was something comforting in the statue’s drawn bow. Diana—Goddess of the hunt, yes, but also of the moon and of childbirth. The statue, fierce and intent, no longer intimidated.
I am watching over you
, she seemed to say.

Thea left Diana to head for Wynchester’s study. She knocked on and then opened the door.

“I said I was not to be bothered.”

“I will come again later,” Thea responded.

He looked up, and surprise softened the lines in his face. “You.”

“Yes.”

What next? Uncrossable, this chasm.
Thank you, carry on
would have been so much simpler.

“To what,” Wynchester asked, “do I owe this unexpected visit?”

“Last time I was here,” she swallowed—ineffective in a dry throat, “you said you wanted our life back.”

He had the wary look of a hunted fox. Was she so forbidding?

“I understand Parliament is still in session, but could we plan a visit to Wynterhill?”

“Really?”

She heard his further surprise and hadn’t considered he’d refuse.

“If you cannot, I understand—I—”

He rose from his chair so quickly it toppled.

“Oh dear,” she said.

“The chair’s sturdy enough.” He circled his desk and took both of her hands into his. “That’s not the first time it’s tumbled.”

“Are you frequently moved to knock over furniture?”

He chuckled. “More so in the past few months than ever before.”

He approached. Last night, when a similar banyan had fallen open to his nightshirt, the barest hint of dark hair had shown. She stared at the spot as if her eyes could penetrate his clothes.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

“I was saying,” she repeated. Had she been saying anything at all?

She looked up into his eyes.
Fine
eyes. Like bark. No, bark would not do. Bark was rough and bland. His eyes were
chocolate
. Smooth and dark and something you wanted to savor.

“Thea Marie?”

He asked his question to her lips. Odd, was that not? Then again, he was probably willing her lips to speak. Why had she come?

Chocolate?
No
. Chest hair?
Definitely not
.

Wynterhill.

“Wynterhill this time of year is very fine,”
rather like your eyes
. “Time together would not be amiss.”
And would you mind undoing your neck cloth? I would like to see your chest.

“Extraordinary,” he said.

She hadn’t said that last part aloud, had she? “How so?”

“I was going to suggest the same.”

She exhaled.
Bless Harrison. Bless him well
.

Chapter Eight

Ensconced in the comfort of her London bed, Thea listened to the church bells chime—eleven in total. She stared up at the bed canopy. The floral patterns carved into the wood were still vaguely visible even though night’s veil had transformed her chamber into shadows. Her movement was shrouded in gray, made dull and indistinct by darkness and, still, she had…difficulty.

She groaned and nestled further into her mattress.

Every day she inhabited her body. Why should the idea of touching certain parts dissemble her so?

Pleasure
. She mistrusted the very idea.

For one, she had not been raised to pleasure.
No
lady was raised to sensual pleasure, of course, but she had not been raised to indulge in pleasures of any sort. She had no memory of anyone dissuading her from pleasure, but, in the absence of encouragement, she’d simply tucked the concept into a trunk marked
Not Useful
. Duty, competence, grace, and purity. Those had been the instructed ideals, and indeed, the ideals she aspired to embody.

Leave it to Sophia,
Lady Scandal,
to argue pleasure as a virtue—Sophia ordered her world in terms of aesthetic appreciation. Thea might not agree, but one question Sophia posed had struck a chord:
How can you expect Wynchester to guess how to bring you pleasure, when you do not even know?

So here she was, unpacking that secret pleasure trunk. …Parties were a pleasure. As was a new, modish dress. Gambling could be included, provided one was winning. And a fine-spring saunter on a handsome mare.

Sophia, however, had not been speaking of clothes, or cards, or horses. She’d been speaking of an answer to the restless yearning that followed Wynchester’s visit. And there was only one way to discover such an answer, absent assistance.

Touch
.

On one hand, the concept seemed vaguely defiling. On the other…was it not her duty to, um, be “fruitful and multiply”? She exhaled and pressed her head back into her pillow.

Enough
. She was not, as was the pretty Bow Porcelain Factory figurine she so admired,
completely
incapable of feeling.

She bent her knees and shimmied her shift up her thighs. Had removing her stockings been unseemly? Was
seemly
even possible when exposed in such a position? The whole was unseemly.

…and a bit exciting.

The summer night’s damp edge was eased by the smattering of lit coals in the fireplace. A whisper of gentle air passed over her exposed skin. She spread her legs in the manner she remembered. She spidered her hand down her stomach until she reached the place between her legs. Cold fingers dipped into soft folds, sending shivers up her spine.

Well, that would not do. However…

She touched those same fingers to her arm.
No shiver
. To her shoulder.
No shiver
. Over her breasts and—

Ah
. Shiver.

So, she thought triumphantly, shiver was
good
. She covered one nipple over her sheer cotton shift. The warmth of her palm was pleasant, but no shiver. Hesitantly, she made a circle. Wynchester-tightness coalesced between her legs.

Also good
. More than good, really. Very…
very
pleasant.

She closed her eyes and conjured the hot look in Wynchester’s gaze when she’d asked him to
misbehave for me
. His imaginary lips caressed hers—his taste neither sweet nor bitter, but wine-like and lingering. Her other hand crept to her folds and she stroked until she found a satisfactory angle.

Ah
and
ahhhh
.

Awareness of what she was doing—wrong or right—slipped to oblivion. Only, she, sensation, and her imagination continued to exist. She murmured Wyn’s name as she increased the tempo of her strokes. She brushed her cheek against her pillow and, with curious fingers, sought the touches that would produce
ahs
.

Something
was happening. Something
supremely
good. A feeling was growing as if she were climbing a mountain. Climbing, climbing, climbing and just over the rise—

“May I be of service?” Wynchester’s
very
real voice broke through her reverie.

Both hands flew to her face and a far less pleasurable
ah
shuddered though her body.

She rolled onto her side. If she pressed hard enough, perhaps feathers would swallow her up into permanent gray-white nothingness. Oh,
yes
. Please. Anything to avoid the red-hot mortification flooding her senses.

Another not-good, full-body shudder.

Run
. Run away from the voice. Away from the mocking glint that likely flickered in his eyes. Or away from even worse. Shock. Chagrin. Or the ultimate humiliation—disappointment and revulsion. She’d been an embarrassment from the start and now she’d proved a wanton.

Very well
. She would never, ever look at Wyn again. That
was
possible, wasn’t it?

The wooden bed protested as the mattress gave way under his weight. Unwillingly, she slid into the indentation made by his thigh. The exposed skin of her bum met his leg…his hard, hot,
naked
leg. Her eyes flew open.

The sound of his groan ricocheted through her body, winding her tight as a laced boot.

He set warm hands against her back and nudged her over. His uneven breath—and hers—broke the silence as he settled into her bed. The bed protested yet again as he slid next to her, his sizzling chest to her shivering back. His chest hair tickled.
Hair!
She’d been right when she thought she saw hair. Hair meant his body was different, now—larger, more manly—although her response to him, clearly not.

He lifted her heavy braid from her shoulder. He was silk and hardness. Muscle and warmth. His lips met her neck and she shuddered in a very
good
way.

“Well.” From the angle of his breath’s path across her cheek, he’d propped up his head. “What an intriguing surprise.”

She whimpered.

His guttural sound of sympathy reverberated against her spine. “Poor duchess, I’ve caused you embarrassment, have I? I am disinclined to apologize, but, if I called my ambush unintended, would it help?”

She whimpered again.

“One could argue I have every right to be here.” He nipped the spot he had kissed and her body flushed with delight. “After all, you called my name.”

“Out loud?” Mouse-voice small.

“Uh-huh” A noise of certain assent. He ran spiral circles down from her shoulder to her side. In the wake of his light touch, tingles scattered. His large hand came to rest on her hip. “Aren’t you a clever duchess?”

She managed to scoff, part laugh and part snort. “Confounded.”

“Like hell.” His tone hinted a smile. “Not
my
Thea Marie.”

He’d left a candle burning on the nightstand at their backs. Weak orange light flickered through the gloom.

“You are not,” she wet her lips, “revolted?”

“No.”

“Displeased?”

“Let’s settle on astonished.” He took another taste of her neck. “
Agreeably
astonished.” His cock’s silky hardness slid against her thigh “You see?”

The thought of him hard and ready and frustratingly close set loose another whimper.

“I assure you,” he drummed his fingers on the apex of her thigh, “I can help.”

His baritone alone brought her nipples back out to play. A flash of hot awareness made every sense tingle and rush down between her legs. He was willing to touch her.
There
. …If she gave him permission. Now, she understood what Lavinia meant by a
readied
body. Her answer, however, remained stuck behind a nettle-sharp lump in her throat.

Without looking his way, she sat up just enough to slip her shift over her head and not enough to merit the loss of his hand’s comforting warmth from her thigh. She stuffed her shift beneath her pillow. She settled back into the mattress.

“Let me see you,” he demanded with a disquieting level of need.

“Not yet,” she said with a pleading note.

He groaned, tucking his chin against her shoulder and his cock into the cleft in her bottom. “If you will not let me see you,” his cheek rested lightly on hers, his breath heightened with anticipation, “at least show me what you want.”

For a long breath in and a long breath out, she gathered her courage. Then, she covered his hand, still resting on her hip. His fingers were not cold at all. They were smoking-pipe hot. Ghosted by embarrassment, she bent one leg and opened for his access. Wordlessly, she guided his hand to her mound.

“S—Shall I,” she stuttered, “tell you?”

He dove into her wetness and began to move his finger in slow, searching strokes.

“Guide me,” he said against her ear, “with whimpers and sighs.”

Thank goodness.
Sighs were easier than words. His fingers drifted across her most sensitive spot and she moaned.

“
Umm
.” His sound of approval echoed into her thighs. “You make the most arresting, womanish sounds.”

Arresting
and
womanish
?

The moment was terrible. The moment was marvelous. Perhaps she was a minx, after all. A wanton minx. And if she was, Wynchester did not seem to mind.

She relaxed against her husband, giving herself over to the dark and his heat, enjoying the pleasure of his fingers as they moved within her folds. Even the way he ground his thick column against her bum caused furtive thrill.

She brought her hand up to cup his cheek—sparse stubble below the smoothest of cheekbones. She whimpered again, this time as her body cried
more.

She dropped her hand to her breast and discovered her husband’s arresting,
mannish
sounds.

…

She’d kill him…a slow death, beginning with the soft sounds of delight she made when touching her breasts with her elegant, lady-like hands. By the time he brought her to completion, he’d be slayed. Vanquished. Done.

And he did not give a damn.

Long ago he’d pledged to be a proper husband to his proper wife…and he was fairly certain a proper husband would never spread and stroke his wife’s wet folds with unabashed glee. But her scent—Saint bloody, damnable Swithin—her scent shrouded his dogma, and unleashed coarse instinct instead.

Another moan shivered through her body. Dark, liquid gratification pooled inside his groin. Damn proper precepts. He slid his cock against her cleft. Such things were ordinary. A duke—he licked her neck and caught her shudder—need
never
be ordinary. Especially not when holding his extraordinary, naked duchess.

“Wyn.” A muffled sound of desire. “I want… I want…”

She did not know what she wanted
. He was at once heavy with shame and light with elation. If she did not yet know, first rapture was his to grant. He’d not been sure, until this moment, her pleasure was still his to discover. After all, she had said,
I’ve been no saint
. She had not had intercourse with another man—but he’d wondered if perhaps she’d permitted a kiss—or more? Just the thought made possessive jealousy shoot through him like a gush of warm blood.

If she had, he’d muffle, strangle,
and scourge
any memories she had of others.

“Please, Wyn,” she lashed her cheek against her pillow. “Pleeeease.”

His lips spread against her salty-sweet softness. He could no longer say she’d never asked anything of him. She may not know
what
she sought, but she knew
whom
to beseech.

“
Shhh
.” He made sure his breath skated across the most sensitive parts of her ear. “I have you, little minx.”

She trembled—artless, abandoned.

Insatiable
.

The word burst forth, unbidden. And an unwelcome memory followed.

In his youth, an admired gentleman had warned him against introducing carnal delights into the marriage bed, saying such knowledge would render a wife
insatiable
. Wynchester glanced down at the dark rose of his wife’s nipple, peaking out between her fingers. He savored the way her labored breath rocked her back against his chest.

Insatiable,
devil take it, was more than fine with him. He—hands, cock, mouth, and greed—was more than a match for
insatiable
. He wanted his minx to hunger, deep and clawing. He wanted her to shiver and shake and moan and beg. He was confident he could match insatiable.

“Wyn-n-n.”

Her mewl caught him in his groin; his cock’s tip moistened in response.
Sweet, illicit friction
.