The Duke Diaries (14 page)
“You’re lying, and I’m not all you think. But I understand.” She rebuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and headed toward the door, determined for him not to see the hot swell of sadness. “Thank you for tea and for bandaging—”
The air left her lungs as he came up behind her and spun her back into his embrace, all gentleness gone.
“I want you,” he said roughly into her ear. “Don’t you dare go.”
A moment later he gathered her in his arms, and for the first time in her life she felt extremely fragile and feminine.
Her heart was beating so loudly she could almost hear it. He deposited her at the foot of the chaise and with a few, deft, fast, and furious movements had divested her of her old boots and breeches. His eyes never wavered from her face as he slowed to carefully unbutton her shirt. She was certain a blush extended to her toes. He grasped the bottom of the shirt and eased it over her head.
He sucked in a breath. “Oh, V . . . you are perfection,” he murmured in a dark, gravelly voice she had never heard.
She was too shy to glance at him as he removed his own clothes. But she felt his eyes studying her, watching her.
His shirt was still in place, but she very much feared and was equally delighted that all the other articles of his clothing were not. He took her hand and she finally gazed into his eyes.
“I have not told you what we were doing when I woke up beside you at Carleton House,” he said as he eased her onto the chaise lounge.
She could not form a word in her mouth.
He stood in front of her and grasped the ends of his shirt to pull it over his head in a supremely masculine fashion. Lord above, he was all sinew and muscle. Hard planes of flesh jutted in a beautiful picture of everything virile. She would not allow her eyes to drift lower. He kneeled onto the chaise and stretched out beside her.
“Are you certain, V?”
“Continue with your story,” she returned.
“Not until you are in my arms,” he murmured. He opened his arms and she moved into his embrace.
Something so primal and elemental happened the moment they were skin-to-skin. It was a hot, thick, pungent desire that took her breath away. She felt him swallow.
“V . . . oh, V.” He grasped her neck and pulled her closer.
“The story,” she whispered, barely able to concentrate while his flesh caressed hers.
“When I began to wake I felt the most astounding sensation. I looked down and my hand was entwined with yours.” He grasped her uninjured hand with his. “Like this,” he murmured, and then kissed her with parted lips.
She wanted him to touch her breast again. It had set her aflame. She arched her back and he immediately broke free of her lips and lowered his head to the very place she wanted.
Oh my Lord
. . . his mouth hovered over her breast and then descended. His tongue swirled the tip of her and she entered paradise.
Her body surged with pleasure and she instinctively ran her injured hand up the deep indentation of his spine to where his hair dovetailed.
He exhaled roughly as she brought her other fingers to his flexed hip.
“Not yet, V,” he ground out, bowing down to minister to her other breast. His hands fanned out and grasped her ribs, forcing her to endure the torture he rained down on her with his tongue.
And then she could not wait another moment. She had to touch him. Her curiosity would not be denied; she just had to know. So much for any remnants of maidenly virtue.
Her fingers closed the distance and she grasped the hard, massive jut of him. She could never have imagined what his manhood would feel like. It was very like an iron rod covered in silk satin. She stroked his full length and he pulsed. She had not known it would grow to this size. The idea of it made her shiver. She caressed him again.
He groaned as if in pain and she released him.
“God. Please . . . please, do that again,” he groaned.
She complied, taking confidence in the pleasure pain she surely was inflicting.
And all of a sudden he became a madman. He swept her body under his. His forehead dropped down until it touched hers and he went still.
She could sense his trepidation. “Hey . . . are you all right?”
He looked at her; his eyes were glassy with guarded mystery. “I should be asking you that.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you, V,” he said with pain radiating from his eyes.
“This is my decision, not yours.”
His eyes were old, the harsh planes of his face grim as he gazed down the length of her figure. “You are so damn beautiful.”
She knew it wasn’t true. Never in her life had she felt beautiful . . . but this one instant in time she suddenly did. Here with him on this soft chaise.
Verity knew what would come next. She released the tight grip of her knees and allowed him to slip between her thighs.
A vein in his neck pulsed with tension as long moments passed without a word from him, his head slightly above her own. For a moment she feared he had changed his mind and would leave her. Instead he finally moved his strong hands to push her legs still wider and came up on his forearms to stare at her below him. She never ever wanted to forget this moment. It was the pinnacle of her every dream . . . only so much more poignant than she had ever imagined.
She was with him, and he with her. And for just this one moment out of time nothing else mattered.
The cool air in the darkened chamber made her shiver. And then he was stroking the side of her body and running his hand to the dark nest of curls between her thighs. With his strong, deft fingers, he parted her folds and it was all she could do not to shout from the wicked sensation he released from her. His touch was so shocking and sure over her soft flesh. A moment later she felt her body’s molten response. She became hotter, wetter. She raised her head, only to see his own move ever lower.
A curl of the most irresistible heat swirled over her. God. He was kissing her.
There
. Where his hand and fingers had been. She would have objected if not for the intense pleasure that left a silent scream in her throat.
Oh, she should not have suggested this. How could she live without it? There was a reason this was forbidden to unmarried ladies. Ecstasy like this—once tasted could never be forgotten.
And then she felt his finger enter her. A dark passion overtook her when he moved within her passage. The thrust and release was a sweet pleasure pain that was immeasurable in time and place. The intensity was almost too much to bear, and she forgot to breathe.
She closed her eyes for a moment and regretted it. She suddenly remembered another time, another very different place. She forced her eyes open. She only wanted to remember today. With Rory. It was burning away all the old, horrid, humiliating memories.
He looked up from below her, his eyes burning with intensity. “It’s me, Verity . . . and I want you.”
It was as if he could read her every need. She nearly cried for the sweetness of it.
And then he entered her again gently with his finger, and took a long taste of her at the same time. It unfurled a great need deep inside of her. She pulsed with some unknown longing, which was terrifyingly intense. She wanted to speak, but she could not. Something was growing louder in her mind and in her body. And suddenly she reached some unknown zenith, and a white burning pleasure gripped her as she balanced on the edge of an invisible precipice. A massive series of pulses raced through her core so deeply she cried out, which only served to make the pulses echo throughout her again.
As reason returned to her, she felt him inch up and lay his head on her belly. He turned to kiss her navel. He seemed to caress her ribs with something very near reverence. But surely in her daze she was imagining it.
Without a word his body moved fully over her and his whole weight pressed down on her. She felt almost suffocated by the strength surrounding her. And for a moment, just the briefest moment, she had the urge to stop him.
But this was Rory. He would not hurt her. He would stop if she asked.
And yet now he would not move. He would not raise up on his arms and kiss her. He was like a statue, and she could imagine his thoughts churning wildly.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered. She parted her knees once again and raised her legs, inviting him, almost daring him not to possess her.
He finally raised his head and she saw a look of raw need in a dark expression he wore like a mask. The heavy length of him pressed against her thigh. He moved slightly and his hardness was now at the entrance to her, still radiating sensations. And once again she couldn’t breathe for the intensity of the moment . . . and the small fear growing in the pit of her stomach. His body was solid and sinewed with strength. Her apprehension grew when he did not move.
He finally rose to look at her with such an expression of worry on his face. His hand pushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “Breathe, Verity.”
She exhaled roughly.
“Shall I stop, then?”
She shook her head with force, unable to speak.
“Are you sure? I can’t bear to hurt you.”
“Oh, Rory,” she said finally. “I can’t stand this waiting. Please . . .”
And then he was testing the edges of her. She angled her hips and then he seemed to make a decision. He slid an inch inside of her and withdrew. And then again, slowly going carefully deeper. She tensed as he withdrew. She could feel how intensely he was holding himself in check. He paused and studied her for a moment and then dropped his face to gently kiss her brow. She relaxed instantly. At that moment he arched and drove deep inside her.
She closed her eyes and almost groaned with relief that there was none of the searing pain of so long ago. Instead there was his fullness pulsing deep within her when he stopped. She had never felt such intimate communion. She finally opened her eyes and found him studying her, his eyes dark and remote.
She knew what would come next. A few jerky, painful movements and then he would withdraw and get dressed, cough, and apologize.
She prepared herself, only wishing this could last far longer. She almost begged for him not to stop again. She wanted this to be more binding; everlasting.
He withdrew, breathing deeply, and then slowly plunged deeper than before, and deeper still until she felt so full, so vulnerable, that she would burst.
The edges of her burned with pleasure-pain. He slowly withdrew yet again only to begin a long tumble into a steady rhythm meant to draw from within her a maddening desire that would only build. And again she felt herself on the edge of something wild and reckless. She would not let go again. She could not.
But he would not leave her there. He alternated between looking at her, watching what he did to her, and then losing himself in the ageless rhythm. He seemed transfixed in agonized pleasure as he thrust the great root of himself into her again and again.
“Open yourself to me,” he demanded with a groan. “Yes, that’s it. Even more. Don’t be afraid. I have you, Verity. I won’t go without you.” His hands suddenly slid to grip her bottom and he pulled her ever closer to him.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. But she listened to him.
“Close your eyes.”
She shook her head. She had to look at his beautiful body covering hers. She had to know it was him.
“Let it come, then,” he ground out. “Oh God.” He closed his dark green eyes and strained his head back, giving her as much of him as she could take.
She could not have breathed if she had wanted to. The air within her swirled wildly into a vortex that spun out of control, and finally, teetering, she felt her cleft constrict and she shattered into a thousand incandescent filaments of pulsing light.
He let himself follow her, pumping and pumping, until with another groan he swiftly withdrew from her and spilled his seed on her body.
With an unsteady hand, he carefully stroked her belly clean with the discarded neckcloth he had used as a makeshift bandage. And then he slowly collapsed his great weight on her, his exhaustion finally evident. Great emotion welled inside her and she didn’t dare move for she feared it might jar the sudden tears in her eyes.
Oh dear Lord. She should not have done this. She knew she should not. She had held herself so rigidly in check. And this was the reason. She had instinctively and unconsciously known it would be like this with him. And it was hopeless. It could never happen again. It
would
never happen again.
And so her punishment would be knowing for the rest of her life what she had given up to keep her sanity.
She knew with all her heart and soul that she could not marry him. He could never love her as she loved him. And he had even warned her of this effect. Of the ungovernable feminine emotions that followed an event of this magnitude.
She fought valiantly to keep her emotions in check. She would not allow him to see how deeply these moments with him had affected her. She could not let him see. It would only lead to guilt on his side. And it would be unbearable to see that in his expression. She knew without one doubt that he had a great conscience. And she would not let him suffer regret again. She loved him too much to allow it.
But above all, there was one other reason she could never marry Rory. It trumped all. When someone finally figured out she was the author of the Duke Diaries—and she had no doubt her identity would eventually come to light—she had no intention of dragging the man she loved down with her.
At that moment one of Rory’s hands found hers and grasped it gently with a squeeze that promised comfort. She shivered.
I
n the final throes of passion, Rory had fought to ignore the familiar tightening in his lower back. He had concentrated on her happiness, on her pleasure. He wanted more than anything to bring her to completion again. He would have shot himself if he hadn’t. He had focused on slowing and deepening the even rhythm of thrusts. She had been so soft and inviting. It was an exquisite torture he could not remember ever experiencing.
Rory had never been more surprised in his life. He’d expected her to show fear. And where had been the resistance, pain, blood, and all the rest that came part and parcel with a virgin?
He had lain with only one before—the widow of a gentleman too elderly to exercise his marital rights. The entire experience had been so unpleasant, had involved so many tears, and so much obvious pain, that he had sworn off virgins altogether.
But Verity had asked him to make love to her and he could not deny her. And in equal measure, he had not been able to deny himself.
And so he had not.
But she had been everything sweet. Her body was like an impossibly delicious fruit, ready to be savored and revered. He simply could not get enough of her. He was insatiable at the sight and scent of every inch of her.
But at the moment of truth, the moment where there should have been an impossibly tight impasse, there had been only intense pleasure as he slowly penetrated her narrow passage.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the back of the chaise. He could not understand. He had heard that riding astride could damage a lady physically, but there had been something more to it.
When he entered her and discovered there was no barrier, he had studied her face for a moment and seen the unmistakable signs of fear and . . .
guilt
. That was the word. There was absolutely no shock or surprise in her expression.
“Rory?” she whispered.
He released her hand and raised himself up on his forearms. “I’m squashing you.”
“No,” she replied evenly.
He was certain he saw uncertainty and the remnants of sorrow in her eyes. “Are you in pain?”
“No,” she said quietly.
He could see the hesitancy in her dark eyes. It was the first time she was not saying what was on her mind.
He had left her reputation in tatters in London, and had no doubt the whispers would soon reach Derbyshire. Yet she was determined not to force him into marriage. Little did she know, he would never allow it, even if he could not yet tell her since he knew she would refuse. But he sensed he had learned the reason for her refusal. He had also finally learned that winning her hand would prove to be the most complex and important mission of his life. He would never again make the mistake of thinking that surmounting her reservations would be an easy task.
But finally, he could do something for her. He could open a path for her to confide in him.
He stroked her head and gazed into her lovely face. “You know, V, you can say or tell me anything, don’t you? You did say we are to be the best of friends.”
Her anxious eyes roamed his face.
“You showed me not two hours ago that you would not judge me,” he began. “I would hope you know that I am the last person to ever judge you.” He rolled slowly to the inside of the chaise and pulled her into his arms to cradle her and nuzzle her nose. “And everyone knows rakes make the very best confidants.”
She bit her lower lip. “I suppose you know, then.”
“That you are extraordinary?”
She whispered, “You can say the truth.”
He pondered his words. “You were not a virgin.” He paused. “There’s no need for an explanation. If you start, then I’ll feel compelled to tell you about my past indiscretions, which I am sorry to say will surely shock you, and then where will we be?”
“But I want to tell you, even if I really
don’t
want to.” Her smile was wan.
Levity was clearly not giving her ease. He gathered his thoughts. “I gather it is something more serious than riding astride.” He pressed a kiss on the top of her warm head.
“I wish I could say it was riding. I hadn’t thought that was a possibility.”
“You know it doesn’t matter to me. It only matters to you. You can still tell me it was due to riding, V.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. “I cannot.”
He waited to see if she really wanted to tell him more or not.
“I—I . . . did something unpardonably imprudent the summer I was seventeen.”
He felt a slight chill. Seventeen was such a dangerous age. The same age Catharine had been. Females were usually not quite out at that momentous time, but desperate to begin life. He should know. “What did you do?”
“I fell in love. Or I thought I fell in love. I cannot be certain. I was so young and foolish.”
“You fell in love,” he said with certainty. “Love does not pay attention to age.”
“And so . . . against everything I knew or believed to be right or true, I entered into a secret engagement.”
He raised his brows. “And who was this lucky fellow, may I ask?” He had the oddest sensation in the pit of his gut. He simply had to know who it was. He tried to relax without success.
“Mr. Battswell,” she whispered. “You probably remember that my cousin Esme’s father was a great artist. Well, he invited three of the most promising students from Hillwood’s Fine Arts School to spend a month on his estate—painting, and sketching the vast beauty of the peaks. Theo was one of the three.”
“And?” He asked the question casually, taking care to keep every trace of ill ease from his voice.
“And I was always there. Visiting Esme as usual. And . . . and, well, I became infatuated. Mr. Battswell possessed an extraordinary talent. He was witty and charming, and he was . . .”
“I don’t like him already.”
“He was very handsome.”
Rory could feel her growing sadness, and tried to cheer her. “But not as handsome as I, one could hope.”
“No, of course not,” she said, biting her lower lip.
He wanted to kiss her lip, tell her not to worry so, but he did not. Speaking was more important. “And yet you did not marry him,” he continued. The gentleman must have died. They must have yielded to the wild passions of youth, anticipated the wedding night, and then this ill-behaved young man had probably succumbed to a sudden, violent illness. That’s how it always went in romantic cases such as these.
“No, we did not marry.”
Her legs were restless and so Rory carefully spread a deep green velvet throw over them both. “You don’t have to go on, V.”
“I want to.” She rushed her words. “When he went to my brother to ask for my hand, James agreed, but then added a proviso.”
“Yes?”
“He explained to Mr. Battswell that there would be no immediate dowry due to our father’s wishes. That James had been instructed to provide one thousand pounds a year should any of his sisters marry, but any dowry would be left in a trust until we were five and twenty.”
“And how old was this Mr. Battswell?”
“Eight and twenty.”
God. She had been eleven years his junior. James Fitzroy, the premier duke of England, was no fool. “I assume Mr. Battswell had pockets to let, then?”
“He had a very modest sum from his family. James understood he was a second son of a vicar.”
“I’ve never trusted vicars,” he murmured.
Her eyes cheered a bit. “Of course you don’t. You’re clearly not one for sermonizing.”
“Or promises of hell or heaven. I already know where St. Peter will send me when I clang on his gates. At least I won’t have to endure any more of these blasted wretched English winters.”
“I’ve always admired your ability to see the positive in any situation,” she replied softly, her eyes finally taking on a gleam of humor.
“You should always smile like that, V. It’s very becoming.”
She didn’t respond. Instead her grin disappeared. “And so, Mr. Battswell agreed. He said he didn’t care about my dowry, that we would live modestly and very quietly in a tiny cottage in the country somewhere. He would paint, I would keep house, and have children, and eventually all would fall into place. He said eight years was nothing to wait. Everyone knows money did not bring happiness, he insisted.” She was studying the tips of her fingers as she spoke.
“And then he took advantage of you.” He was careful to keep the anger threatening to break into his voice.
“No. It wasn’t like that, and yet—” Her voice caught. “—it was in the end.”
“When?” His word was more curt than he meant it to be. “Verity, tell me.”
“Does it really matter? It was ten years ago,” she whispered. “The day before the summer solstice.”
“Where?” he asked, his voice more even.
She stared at him mutely, uncertainty on her face. Finally she answered. “At the heart of Boxwood’s maze. Where I knew no one would find us.”
He waited, his body tense.
“I am the only one who knows how to find the garden in the center without getting impossibly lost.”
He would not let himself speak.
“Oh, I shall tell you all, what does it matter? We picnicked in secret after his meeting with my brother. He said he would return to Town, make all the arrangements for us to marry there, and also secure a cottage as close to London as we could afford.” One of her hands was so tightly clenched her knuckles showed points of white. “And I told him I loved him, and he said something very like it in return. I cannot remember precisely what he said, but he told me to wait for him, and then, well . . . you can imagine the rest.”
He replied evenly without emotion. “The heartless bastard took advantage of your generous young heart, ruined you, and never returned.”
“Actually,” she murmured, “he disappeared. Esme’s father learned that Mr. Battswell’s father was not a vicar, but rather a tooth-drawer who went from village to village to ply his trade.”
Rory’s eyes never left hers. “And James tracked him down and extracted all of the son’s teeth, followed by all of his limbs.”
“No,” she replied calmly. “James doesn’t know what happened in the maze. I never told anyone. Except one other person and now you, and, well, I’m certain my—my mother guessed, although she never said a word.” The last was said in a whisper that Rory had to bend his head to hear.
“And that is when you decided you would never marry anyone,” he replied.
“I suppose my decision formed then,” she said slowly. “But, you see, it never really mattered. My older sisters, Faith and Hope, and I had decided long before that we would never marry. So it was not such a grave tragedy as you obviously think by the look on your face.”
“Ah, there you are wrong. Very wrong.” Suddenly he envisioned a handsome, black-hearted devil of a bastard taking the innocence of the lady. The first icy cold taste for revenge flooded his senses. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her.
And he could do it.
If there was anything he had learned as Wellington’s wily, chameleon henchman, it was deception, tracking, and murder.
She looked at him steadily. “But Rory, please don’t misunderstand. That is merely one of the reasons I decided long ago that I would not marry.”
He lay back on the chaise again and closed his eyes. Of course that was only one of the reasons. Had he not just figured out that nothing would ever come easily regarding Verity?
T
he next morning, Verity handed Captio’s reins to the stable boy with carrot-colored hair in the tidy stables bordering one side of the village green. She tousled his thick hair and he dimpled.
“My lady,” he said, bobbing his head. “I saved the best alfalfa for Captio.”
“Perfect,” Verity replied with a wink and a smile. “And I saved the best ha’penny for you.”
His eyes shone as she pressed the coin into his hand.
“So are you ever going to visit the school?” she asked. “You remember what I promised.”
He looked away, sheepish to the nth degree.
“What? You’ve heard I’m an ogre at a chalkboard, have you?”
“Not at all, Lady Fitzroy. It’s jus’ me pa, he needs me here.”
“Don’t you worry. I shall have a word with your pa. I’m very good with fathers.”
She gathered her books and papers from her saddlebags and marched out of the dark stable into the bright sunlight of a Wednesday morning. The air was fresh, and a few small clouds slowly drifted high above. She would rather be riding or . . .
And in a moment she was right back with Rory, and the shock at what she had instigated and what had transpired between them. She never would have imagined something could be so mesmerizing, so elemental, so wildly, heartbreakingly beautiful. And yet, it would never happen again. It could not for she knew he would never love her as deeply as she loved him. She had already experienced that sort of pain with Theo Battswell. She had survived by promising herself never to make that same mistake twice.
Brushing aside Mary Haverty’s words of concern during the evening meal, Verity had tossed and turned in her bed in her elegant, cozy bedchamber, desperate for sleep but then desperate to wake when the terrible dreams began.