The Heir and the Spare (27 page)

As
the carriage rolled through the countryside, Emilia couldn’t help but remember the last time she had undertaken this journey. She had been infatuated with Phillip and thrilled at the prospect of merely being under the same roof. It was stunning how much could change in such a short time. Her eyes had been opened. There were two brothers, identical in appearance, and as different as night and day in truth. And there was only one for her. She looked up at him, her husband. He was staring out the window.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked tentatively.

“Nothing. Everything,” he replied, still gazing at the scenery.

“Were you close to your father?”

“No. I tried so hard to please him, but he was only ever interested in Phillip. A passing interest at best, but it was more than I ever received.”

“It is his loss.”

“Yes. But mine as well.”

She reached out for his hand, not knowing any other way to comfort him.

“I lost a parent, too. I know what you must be feeling.”

“How old were you?” he asked, turning toward her.

“Seven. I miss her terribly sometimes, or the idea of what things would be like if she was still with me. But the pain eases in time. But, I at least had my father, and now Lady Palmerston. And you, and you have me.”

He smiled at her, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m so sorry, Emilia.”

“What for?”

“It’s our wedding day. And you are saddled with a brooding husband and will be spending your honeymoon at a deathbed. And I am worried about you and Phillip.”

“Please don’t think that I have any affection for him. I do not.”

“I know. I trust you, but not him. We were never on good terms, to put it mildly, and I don’t think anything will be different.”

“I promise I won’t leave your side,” she said to assure him, and also herself. She was nervous about being near Phillip as well. With the way she and Lady Palmerston had humiliated him, she was sure he would not brush the whole episode off with a laugh. He nearly had a fit when she spilled tea on him; she didn’t want to imagine his anger now that she had rejected his demands to marry him and instead married his twin. As the safest place would surely be by Devon’s side, she would remain there. That, and it was the only place she wanted to be.

“I want you closer than that,” he murmured, pulling her onto his lap. She laughed, as her full skirts covered them both in a sea of white satin. “This is a beautiful dress,” he said. “But there is far too much of it.” She laughed again, as he positioned her to straddle him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close with her breasts pushing into his chest. He feathered kisses upon her soft throat, his lips moving closer to hers. Teasing her, he delicately traced his tongue upon her parted lips. She moved closer for more, and he pulled back, tugging at the bodice of her dress.

Freeing her breasts from the damnable layers of satin, he took a moment to admire them in the daylight, casting a glance at her face as well. She seemed a little bit ashamed, yet enthralled as he admired the perfect roundness and the pale, soft skin begging for his attention. His mouth enclosed the dusky center, eliciting a soft sigh from her lips. He cupped one in each hand, finding they fit perfectly, and she surrendered to the gentle pressure of his touch. And when his mouth crashed on hers, she surrendered to that, too.

Emilia desperately needed to feel more of him. She tugged off his stupid cravat. She worked at the buttons, her fingers not nearly nimble enough. But soon, there was nothing between her palms and his hot skin. She slid her hands lower and lower, toying at the band of his breeches. He had seemed to enjoy it, but then he grabbed her wrists.

“We shouldn’t do this here. Not now. Not like this,” he panted.

“You’re right.” Emilia adjusted her position and thereby rubbed against the hardness in his breeches. For one second they looked into each other’s eyes.

And then they collapsed into a frantic kiss. In a far corner of his mind, Devon thought that perhaps taking his wife in the carriage was not how it ought to be done. It wasn’t her first time, but it was their first time as man and wife. They should make love in a bed, preferably a large one. But the only beds available were either at an inn, or at Cliveden. To hell with it, he thought.

Somehow, with her and all that fabric covering them both, he managed to unbutton his breeches, freeing his erection. His hands slid along the silk of her stockings, finding that soft center that he stroked steadily. Grasping her hips, he pulled her just above him. He meant to go slow, to savor the sensation of entering her, and at the very least to be gentle. But the carriage hit a bump in the road and he was inside of her with one hard thrust, wrenching a cry from her lips.

“Did I hurt you?” he practically grunted. Lord knew it had been far from painful for him.

“Oh no,” she murmured.

They moved together, aided by the stretch of bumpy road. Each jolt and each thrust drew moans from each of them. But somehow, the sounds never traveled far; instead they were trapped and savored. When he could hardly contain himself any longer, his fingers found the bud of her sex and stroked it with an increasing pressure. She writhed above him.

That hot feeling was taking her over. Every place that he touched sent a million thrills coursing through her. She moved eagerly, desperate to find her release, and that made him groan. She couldn’t even kiss anymore, because then she really wouldn’t be able to breathe, and she was already light-headed. He caught her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard. She cried out, digging her fingers into his skin, and felt his release.

Emilia fell onto his chest, resting her head there, lulled to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat returning to normal.

Devon closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the top of her head, and inhaled her scent of rose, vanilla, and him. Her soft, even breath on his chest told him she was asleep. When she had fallen into his arms, he never imagined he would hold her again. Like this—the two of them alone together, for life. It seemed to him to have happened so fast. He imagined she felt the same.

But holding her felt so right, and the prospect of being able to do so forever made everything seem better. He wasn’t sure if she felt the same, and he certainly wasn’t going to wake her to ask. He would give her time, as long as she needed. He pulled her closer and closed his eyes.

Sometime later, he hazily opened his eyes and looked out the window.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Wake up, darling, we have arrived,” he murmured. As the carriage strolled down the long drive, they fumbled to adjust their clothes.

“At least it doesn’t really matter if I look ravished, now that we’re married,” she said lightly.

“True. But I’d like to be the only man to see your breasts,” he said, kissing each one before pulling up the bodice of her dress.

He stepped out of the carriage first, and then helped his wife. She was trying to smooth wrinkles from her skirts when Marksmith exited the front door.

“Miss Highhart!” he exclaimed in obvious shock.

“She is Mrs. Kensington now,” Devon replied, taking her hand.

“Congratulations to you both! When did this event occur?”

“This morning,” Emilia answered.

“Right,” the butler said, taking note of her white gown and disheveled hair. “A splendid match, if I may be so bold to say so. I’ll ensure another room is made up.”

“Just one will be necessary,” Devon stated.

“Of course,” Marksmith quickly replied.

“How is my father?”

“Not well, but still with us,” the butler replied gravely.

“And my brother . . .”

“He has not arrived yet. But Lord Devon, there is something that I must discuss with you . . .” His voice trailed off as Devon was already leading his new wife upstairs.

The duke’s rooms were large and excessively masculine. In His Grace’s private sitting room, the walls and ceiling were paneled mahogany. Drapes of burgundy velvet were pulled shut over the tall windows, shutting out any light. Candles burned, placed upon tables about the room. Paintings of hunting scenes, done in dark, drab colors, and in large, engraved gold frames hung on the walls, along with stuffed heads of animals the duke had killed, during the days when he was still able to hunt.

Devon noted the small side table Phillip had overturned and broken after their argument in this room had been removed. Pausing before the paneled doors that led to the master bedroom, Devon realized he had never been inside.

He opened the door slowly, unsure of what to expect. The room was quiet and still. There was a fire in the massive fireplace, providing the only light. There was something in the air that spoke of grave silence and old age. He crossed the room to the large four-poster bed and looked down at his father.

To Devon, his father had always seemed so large and imposing, but now he seemed so small, lying there in the great big bed, with his ashen complexion and thinning hair. His eyes were closed. Devon wondered if he should say something or simply be content with the silence.

He turned at the sound of someone entering. Emilia look like a little flame in this room, redheaded, flushed, and alive. “How is he?” she asked as she walked over to his side, tripping slightly on the edge of the carpet.

“I don’t know. Not well, I gather.”

She peered down at the duke. “Hello, Your Grace,” she said. His eyelids fluttered open and focused on the ceiling. Devon looked at her in pure amazement.

“Your Grace, if you are able to hear us, blink twice.”

“What are—” Devon started, but stopped as soon as the Duke blinked two times.

“Is there anything you want to say to your son Devon?” she asked. Again the duke blinked twice. He then opened his mouth, but there were no words, only gasps of air. His eyes closed.

“Oh God.”

“He’s not dead. Just asleep. Let’s go have something to eat and we’ll return later,” she said, taking his hand and leading him away from the bedside.

“How did you know about that? How to do that?” he asked.

“I read it in a book,” she replied.

“I didn’t know you liked to read medical treatises.”

“I don’t. I learned it from a novel. Oh, it was so good. The hero, you see, had suffered a terrible accident and that was how the heroine knew that—”

Devon made a show of rolling his eyes, but pulled her close for a long kiss.

Later that afternoon, when Marksmith had a free moment, he retired to his chamber on the top floor of the house. He went straight to his desk and pulled open a hidden drawer. From it he withdrew an old book full of faded script on brittle pages. It was his late wife’s diary. He opened to that certain page, in which his wife had revealed a secret that had troubled him for twenty-five years. Time and time again, he had tried to make it known to His Grace.

“Your Grace, if I may be so bold,” Marksmith would begin.

“You may not,” the duke would always reply, without even looking up from whatever task he was engaged in.

Two years ago, Marksmith had even taken to leaving the diary in the duke’s chamber, open to that certain page. It was returned without a word.

Later, at the duke’s bedside, they saw there was no change in his condition. The old man looked dead already, if not for the shallow breaths one could see if they looked closely.

“Em, can you talk to him again?” Devon asked, finding himself oddly bewildered and unusually helpless.

“Yes. But you can, too,” she replied, looking up at him. When he did not respond, she muttered something and leaned over the bed.

“Hello again, Your Grace,” she said loudly. There was no response. Straightening up, she looked around the darkened room. “Open the drapes and a window, slightly,” she commanded.

“I don’t think that is a good idea. He might catch a chill and . . .”

“Nonsense. He is practically smothered in blankets, and we could all use some fresh air and sunlight in this room.” She had adopted her aunt’s commanding tone. Devon found himself grinning as he followed her orders. But it wasn’t just the brisk ease with which she ordered him about. As he tugged open the window that apparently hadn’t been opened in years, he realized he trusted her. But did she trust him, too?

He returned to the bedside to hear her declaration that it was far too late to be sleeping and that His Grace really ought to wake up now. Devon was impressed at her daring and laughed softly. He doubted anyone had ever addressed his father in that manner. His laughter ceased when the duke did indeed open his eyes.

“Excellent. I’m going to ask you some questions and you must blink twice for yes and once for no. Do you understand me, Your Grace?”

He blinked twice.

“Would you like something to eat?” One blink.

“Would you like something to drink?” One blink.

“Would you like me to read to you?” she asked. The duke blinked twice.

“I thought so. It must be horribly dull just having to lie there. Now what shall I read to you?”

Devon pulled over a chair and listened as Emilia rattled off a list of yes or no questions to determine what the duke would like to hear. History? Philosophy? Novel? Play? Shakespeare? Tragedy? Comedy? With that prompt, she began to list all the Shakespeare comedies, pausing between titles to afford the duke a chance to respond. He finally signaled his choice and Emilia left for the library.

“Hello, Father,” Devon said, feeling quite uncomfortable. “It’s me, Devon. Your younger son. Do you know who I am?”

The duke blinked twice. Stunned by the response, Devon took a moment before saying anything else. And then he apologized for running off and explained that he had no choice. He asked why his father had ordered him to fight the duel for Phillip, but that wasn’t a yes or no question, so the duke did not respond. Devon told his father about his life in America, and that his father would probably hate it, but that he loved it. He told him of his marriage to Emilia.