Authors: Jo Beverley
The Secret Duke (30 page)
Instead, she sewed, finishing some plain hemming she could almost do blind.
It gave her mind too much time to wander.
She realized that Tabitha hadn’t closed the basket lid, so Bella asked, “He calls you an oracle. Are you able to give advice, or even tell the future?”
The cat made one of her incomprehensible series of sounds. Bella chose to take it as encouragement.
“I see you like him. I must warn you that sailors are notoriously unfaithful, being away so much.”
The cat’s answer seemed denial.
“No, no, it’s true. Do you think perhaps wives don’t mind too much if it happens on a distant shore? It’s certainly not the same as when a husband sets up a mistress in a nearby village and all the neighbors know about it. That was the situation with Lady Fowler and others among her followers.”
It was what Squire Thoroughgood had done with his first wife, heartlessly shaming her. That had been just one reason that Bella had refused the match.
“It’s intriguing, isn’t it?” she said to the slit-eyed cat. “What we can do and not do. For example, I would have said I could never have traveled like this with a man. A stranger, really.”
Tabitha made a sound that appeared to be a sigh. Bella chose to take it as sympathy rather than boredom.
“And now he’s off to a brothel. To find information, of course, but I assume he’ll have to . . . to do what men do in such places.” Bella realized she was scowling as much as the cat. “Of course, it’s nothing to do with me.”
The door opened and Bella started, but it was only the maid, come with more wood for the fire. The woman looked around. “Oh, I thought I heard voices, ma’am.”
“The cat,” Bella said. “It gets nervous in silence. Cat-rabbits do.”
The woman looked dubiously at Tabitha, who obligingly chose that moment to rise and take one of her walks, showing her rabbitlike hind end.
“It is an odd one, and no mistake,” the maid said. “Have you found any others, ma’am?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Then likely there are none hereabouts, ma’am. The whole area’s talking of the reward your husband’s offered. Shall I bring your water yet, ma’am, and the warming pan?”
In other words,
Are you ready for bed?
Are you ready for bed?
Bella realized the maid might know that Mistress Rose’s husband wasn’t in the inn, and might even know where he was. How mortifying, but even more so to be sitting up waiting for him to roll home.
“Yes, please,” she said, and was soon preparing for bed.
She climbed up the steps and into her side of the big bed, feeling even more awkward than the night before.
That kiss had changed everything.
No, not just that. A day in his company had also turned her mind upside down.
They talked so easily, and often found amusement in the same things. There had also been some comfortable silences, but underneath, such awareness, and a powerful physical sensation whenever they were close.
She’d never experienced the like before.
She rolled onto her back. What if this were her wedding night and she were waiting for her husband?
Did she love her mythical husband? Had they been courting for weeks, months, even years, with kisses and a little more than kisses, both burning for this night?
Or was it an arranged marriage, with the two of them still almost strangers and she uncertain of how he would be? She’d heard enough snippets at Lady Fowler’s to know a wedding night could be rough or considerate. Even, it seemed, clothed or unclothed.
She realized then that she’d put on her nightgown.
How had that happened?
Because the maid had spread it on the rack near the fire to be warm, as Kitty did. Her mind on other things, she’d put it on without thinking.
She should get up and change into her shift and petticoat, but she was too warm and comfortable, and after all, the plain, serviceable nightgown did cover all except her head and hands.
If this were her wedding night she might have something of finer cloth, trimmed with lace, and perhaps not fastened right up to her neck.
She was growing too warm now, and strangely restless.
She remembered those women at Lady Fowler’s who had better memories, women who’d loved and enjoyed their husbands and who would smile in a sweet, sad way when they thought of them.
Those women had come to live on Lady Fowler’s charity because their sweet, loving husbands had left them penniless. That was the trouble with choosing a husband. A woman needed not just a man to love and . . . and pleasure her, but one who would manage his affairs wisely, work hard, and provide for her and her children, even after death.
Thorn.
“Thorn.” She said it aloud, savoring it. She was certain he was a hard worker who would manage his affairs well. He’d never leave a widow burdened with debts or unprovided for. And he would skillfully pleasure her.
Her hand wandered over her body as she wondered exactly what that pleasuring involved. Apart from kisses and embraces, she wasn’t clear. She felt sure she could get infinite pleasure from kissing and embracing Thorn.
Memories rushed in, memories of that encounter when he’d been drunk. His nakedness and how it had made her feel. The brash invitation to his bed. His promise that she’d enjoy it, which she’d believed.
And again at the Goat. Another wicked invitation, and as sinfully tempting.
Put together with hot, overwhelming kisses on a terrace at Ithorne House . . .
Bella drifted into wild, unthinkable dreams. . . .
Thorn crept into the room after midnight, boots in hand, somewhat drunk but mostly unblemished. He’d gone to the Old Oak prepared to use one of the women if necessary, but he’d been glad not to have had to. A good part of the reason was the unsavory nature of the place, but the other was lying in his curtained bed.
Their bed.
He’d carried up a candle and now he took it behind the screen to undress and wash. He returned to the hearth for the water jug so thoughtfully placed there, but the fire was dead and the water cool. What else could an errant husband expect?
He cleaned his teeth and washed as thoroughly as he could, glad to get the stink of the Oak out of his nose. He’d stripped off his shirt because a clinging whore had left cheap perfume on it along with streaks of her heavy face paint.
She probably wore it to cover pox sores. It was that sort of place. They had what he wanted, however, and more than he’d hoped for. Bella would get her just retribution, and he’d have the satisfaction of providing it.
He went to his valise to find a clean shirt and put it on, then carried the candle over to her side of the bed. He carefully parted the curtains, letting in as little light as possible.
His heart somersaulted in his chest. With her plait and cap, and a nightgown frill demurely circling her neck, she looked young, and innocent in a way long lost to the girls at the Oak.
She stole his breath, but why the devil had he allowed her to come on this dangerous adventure? He’d not just allowed it; he’d encouraged it, because he’d recognized Kelano and been fiercely curious.
How had Bella Barstowe come to be at the Olympian Revels?
Again those needle pricks of suspicion stirred that this was some deeply complex plot to trick him into making her his duchess, but he couldn’t believe it. Especially not after days in her company, and that sweet, inexperienced kiss.
He should send her packing for her own safety, but how? He knew her by now, and knew she wouldn’t be sent away so close to triumph. If he forced the issue she might take any notion into her head and act on it.
It occurred to him that she was a combination of his friends’ wives. At times calm and conventional, a perfect, tranquil companion like Caro. At times fiery, resolute, and capable of instant, extreme action like Petra.
The perfect combination.
She opened her eyes and tensed. Before he could speak, she relaxed. “Oh, it’s you. What time is it?”
“Long past midnight. Go back to sleep.”
But she was smiling at him, sweet and beguiling in that rosy relaxation that came out of sleep.
He leaned down and kissed her. He made sure to keep it like the last kiss, gentle and unalarming, even though her warm scent rose dangerously into his brain. He drew back, making it slow so she didn’t imagine rejection and be hurt. He stepped away from the bed meaning to take the candle and go around to his side.
But then she licked her lips. And left them parted. With a sigh, he leaned down again to taste a little more.
Delicious. He put a hand to her cheek to cherish her, ran his fingers up under her cap, into her hair, wishing the cap gone and the hair loose.
She welcomed his deeper kiss, and then she gripped his upper arm, making a sound in her throat. It was faint, hesitant, but unmistakably a response. Something deep inside him stirred. Desire, yes, but more than that—a need to cherish and protect, to hold her. . . .
He was on the bed now. She’d rolled with him, onto her back. He was half over her, but the bedcovers were still between them. She was safe.
Her hand squeezed his arm again. It wasn’t hot, but it burned anyway.
He released her lips to kiss her cheek, her ear, and along her jaw. “Tell me to stop,” he said.
“No.” But, ever sensible, she added, “Not yet.”
He chuckled as he ran his finger along the frill of her nunlike nightgown. It came up to her neck as her shift didn’t, but it destroyed him as her shift had not. “When should I stop?”
She was blushing deeply, but her eyes shone. “I don’t know. Yet.”
“Wicked wench.”
He tugged the lace loose and laid the gown open down to the cleft between her breasts.
“I’m not a wench,” she insisted, but her voice was husky and her chest was rising and falling with her excited breaths.
That breathing sped when he slid a finger into the rich, warm valley between her breasts, hardly seen in the dim light, but so vivid to his senses.
“Please be a wench,” he murmured. “Just for tonight.”
He stroked the generous swell of the breasts on either side and then he cradled one, loving as always that sweetest of all soft weights. He was hard now and aching to be in her, but he wouldn’t do that. He commanded himself, laid down the order that no matter what, he wouldn’t do that. But he must have a little more.
He kissed her again, more deeply now but still carefully, enjoying her unskillful enthusiasm and her sharp reaction when he brushed a thumb over her nipple. She made a throaty sound, part alarm, part astonishment, part—he hoped—excited pleasure.
He wanted to purr, because clearly he was the first to do this to her, to summon these exquisite pleasures. He’d known it must be so, but the confirmation was like a medal, like a victory. Like a conquest.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right. Just let me touch you there.”
She shifted, and it could’ve been with resistance or pleasure, but then she whispered, “Very well.”
“Very well indeed.” He kissed her again as he played with her, assessing her response. If she was afraid, she wouldn’t respond and he’d stop.
He caught the catch in her throat as she opened her mouth more, pressed closer. Their tongues met, hers tentative but eager. He thrust with his. Her body moved in response. It was torment. It was wonderful.
He kissed her and played with her, first one breast, then the other, then slid away from her panting lips to put his mouth to a breast.
Once he had her response there, he pulled back the bedclothes at the side, raised her nightgown, and explored between her thighs, sensing, sensing, sensing her every reaction so he could stop if he must. So he could progress at the right pace, give her all possible, perfect delight.
For why else had he become skilled in these arts, if not for this? For this woman. This moment.
He’d been trained when young by skillful women, and the training had included self-control, because he had always wanted to be in control. Bella was safe here with him, and as she moved in delight, more frantically by the moment, her face showing how lost she was in that wondrous land, he smiled, complete. Then he pushed her over into the little death.
He met her in the climax kiss, catching her cries, and then slipped under the covers to hold her through the shudders of after-pleasure. He soothed her back, kissed her cheek, told her how much her pleasure had pleased him.
Some women didn’t believe him. Some were even suspicious of any man wanting to bring them to climax and witness it. His own fierce pleasure in bedding a woman was delicious, but he couldn’t be fully aware when he was consumed himself. Bringing a responsive woman to her peak, fully aware of every sight, sound, taste, and smell—that was a special banquet.
He could, at the right time, with the right woman, make it last a very long time. He looked forward to that with Bella one day very soon.
He smiled down at her cap. She was silent, but he didn’t press her for words.
Eventually she asked, “What was that?”
“Now there’s a question. Pleasure. Is that not explanation enough?”
She shifted to look at him, frowning slightly. “But you didn’t . . . enter me. Did you?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
He kissed her again. “It’s too complicated to explain now. I must leave you for a little.”
He went to the parlor to relieve himself, thinking of Bella while he did it. Would she mind if she knew that? He returned to the bedchamber, extinguished the candle, and then got into his side of the bed.
She made a move to be closer, but he said, “It’s better if we keep apart now. Good night, Bella.”
After a moment, she said, “Good night, Thorn.”
He was glad she couldn’t see his uncontrollable smile at hearing his intimate name from her lips here and now.
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