Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (21 page)

Chapter 21

“W
ho is Sir John North?”

“A third cousin, by way of the late duke's mother.” Minerva made a note, awed by the way the duchess had generations of Vanderlin connections at her fingertips. “He is looking for a recommendation for his younger son at the Horse Guards.”

“Send that down to the duke's secretary. Hetherington sees to military matters.”

There was a lot to being a duchess Minerva had never considered. Though to be fair it wasn't a subject she'd wasted a lot of time on. When her mother-in-law invited her to the duchess's suite—soon to be Minerva's—she'd been intrigued to discover, in addition to a bedroom, dressing room, and comfortable sitting room, a chamber set up as a very efficient office. Since the family was in strict mourning, there were no merely social invitations to answer. But the greater part of the duchess's correspondence was appeals for charity, and reports and requests from huge numbers of relations in every part of England. Already many letters were addressed to Minerva. The changing of the ducal regime took place with brutal speed.

Minerva couldn't tell how Blake's mother felt about her demotion to dowager. She was as efficient as ever and perfectly friendly in her distant way. An air of depression spoke of her grief at her husband's death, not that she confided anything of her personal feelings.

Not every letter Minerva received was from the Vanderlin side of the family. Branches of her own family seemed pleased to number a duchess among their relations. Connections from both her father's and mother's side wrote to her, cousins who'd never paid the slightest attention to her before. As the days passed she began to understand the Duke and Duchess of Hampton's position at the center of a web of alliances, a system of mutual favors that benefited all. In return for Hampton patronage, the dukedom was paid with loyalty and influence. On a political level Minerva had always understood it, but she was fascinated to see it work close-at-hand.

Not that the feminine office of the alliance was directly involved in political decisions. Her virtual exclusion from Blake's office continued to chafe. Once the mourning period was over Minerva would be attending entertainments and giving her own. Then she would develop the power of the political hostess that had always been her ambition. She'd seize it for herself, with or without her husband's cooperation. Meanwhile she learned the less public but nonetheless vital part of her job.

With her egalitarian leanings she couldn't help feeling a certain disapproval, in principle. On the other hand, if she could help Cousin James's curate son find a living that would enable him to marry, she was glad to help.

The handsome allowance Blake had awarded her no longer seemed so outrageously generous. A duchess had demands on her purse Minerva would never have guessed. Having the means to contribute to worthy causes and personal appeals was an unexpected benefit of her position. She made a note to send a generous gift of money to her cousin Lucy who was about to make her modest debut, and another to the Middlesex charity hospital.

It was as well to be busy, otherwise it would be harder to stick with her resolution about how to treat Blake. She didn't interfere with his business and she welcomed him into her bed every night. And while she hadn't yet achieved the level of rapture of that afternoon in Paris, before her tiresome maidenhead ruined the experience, she found sleeping with her husband entirely enjoyable and felt she was getting the hang of the business.

Instead of giving her correspondence her undivided attention, she occasionally found herself staring into space while her mind wandered to earthy thoughts. And when she caught sight of Blake during the day, especially if he came into a room when she didn't expect him, an odd churning affected her from the chest to deep in her belly.

Nevertheless, because she had so little leisure, she missed reading in bed. It was all she could do to keep up with the newspapers, and Sir Walter Scott's latest romance lay unopened in her chamber. One evening she excused herself early from the after-dinner gathering in the drawing room. Hurrying through her bedtime preparations, she dismissed her maid and spent ten minutes cutting open the pages of the first three or four chapters of
The Fortunes of Nigel.
With a sigh of pleasure she snuggled down under the blankets, set her candle in the right spot, and opened the book. She hadn't even turned the first page when Blake came in, clad in his dressing gown, and stood next to the bed.

“You retired early. Are you tired?”

She lowered the volume. “I wanted to read. This new novel arrived days ago and I've been too busy to start it. Why don't you get a book of your own and join me?”

“Read yours aloud. I'd enjoy that.”

The beginning was a little slow, but Minerva was soon caught up in the tale of London in the reign of James I. Judging by Blake's quiet attention, so was he.

“There's more than meets in the eye in young Lord Nigel's trip to London,” he commented when she stopped for a rest, his air of surprise confirming the impression from a few weeks ago that he wasn't much in the habit of reading novels.

“Of course there is. We've only just started. Scott's stories are always long and complicated.”

“I lay you odds Nigel is going to fall for pretty Miss Margaret, the watchmaker's daughter.”

“In that case he had better succeed in mending his fortunes.”

“You're always so practical. I thought ladies were only interested in love stories.”

“Not this lady. Why don't you read for a while? My voice is tired.”

Because they were slouched against the pillows in relaxed camaraderie, arms touching, she noticed a momentary tension in him, so quickly passed as to be barely perceptible. Then she felt his lips at her temple. “I have a better idea,” he murmured.

“Really?” She loved having her ear kissed. His hot breath and swirling tongue sent shivers through her.

“Much, much better,” he said and removed the volume from her hands.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like another chapter?”

“I'll write my own. I'll be Nigel and you can be Margaret.” He untied the ribbon at the neck of her nightgown. His hand, warm and strong, sought her breast.

“I don't think Sir Walter Scott writes this kind of book.” Even as she arched into his clever caressing hand, a fleeting sense of familiarity tickled her brain. There'd been another occasion like this: that evening in Berkeley Square, their first kiss. Deflection. Blake had kissed her to distract her from something and he was doing it again.

He pinched her nipple and a pang of desire shot straight to her lower regions. She was distracted, all right. “Perhaps he should start. Scott. Writing this kind of book.” Then he kissed her and she lost the inclination to speak along with all interest in the fortunes of Nigel, or Margaret, or anyone else's but their own. “Don't stop,” she protested when he released her lips.

On his knees, he loomed over her with an evil glint in his eye. Oh, she did like Blake when he was wicked.

“Are you fond of this nightgown?”

He wanted to talk about her attire? “It's just a nightgown.”

“Not for long.” His hands grasped each side of the opening over her breasts. With one rip the garment divided, leaving her exposed from neck to toes, an act of masterful arrogance she found shamefully exciting. His patent admiration of her body made it thrill with longing.

She reached up and shoved at his silk robe, anxious to reach
his
unclothed body. She loved the texture of his skin over the contour of his muscles, the way they seemed to come alive under her hand. And she loved his hands on her. He kissed her again, deeper, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, pulled him close, devouring him as his hands worked her breasts. Finally he pulled away.

“No,” she objected.

“Ssh. You'll like this.” Blake tossed aside his dressing gown. He never wore a nightshirt as far as she knew. His torso glowed golden in the candlelight and her heart, as usual, lurched at the sight of his male beauty. She sunk almost onto her back against the pillows as he tugged away the shredded remnants of her nightgown and tossed them aside.

Gently parting her legs, he knelt in front of her exposed and vulnerable body. In the flickering candlelight they gazed at each other. His face was grave and intent, his breathing a little labored and his member jutted out. Except for the first time, they'd always made love under the covers, so Minerva was pleased to get another good look at it. She felt a little shy as his eyes scanned her from head to toe. Then he leaned forward and, supported by outstretched arms on either side of her, he kissed his way down her body, sucking on each nipple, tickling her rib cage with his hair as he explored the indentation of her naval. She giggled a little, never having thought of it as an erotic zone. She also felt a little apprehensive at the proximity of his mouth to her private parts. Was he going to carry on his kissing descent?

The answer was yes. His lips on the tender flesh of her lower belly sent tingles through her. “Be still,” he ordered, as her pelvis twisted upward. Then he edged back and opened her with his thumbs and, yes, he did. He plunged his tongue in.

The feeling was indescribably wonderful: wet, supple heat stroking and sucking and driving her to delirium. She pushed into him, silently urging him on. Involuntarily her hands went to her bosom, which was aching with desire. With her thumbs she tweaked her own nipples in time with the strokes of Blake's tongue below. Mindless with pleasure she lapsed into concentrated relaxation and felt the tension grow and crest until she exploded into a state of shuddering bliss more intense than she'd yet experienced. She'd had no idea that a man, this man, could make her feel so splendid. Her husband possessed his own variety of genius and she was grateful. Grateful she'd married him.

When he entered her still throbbing passage, his strong repetitive thrusts renewed her urgency. It was a slower ascent and took a long time. The skin of his torso grew damp and hard breathing and groans of exertion filled her ears. She grasped his buttocks and met the slow rhythm of his movements. She was panting herself and she was sure the sound wasn't pretty but it reflected the way she worked her way into their union, grinding her hips, using her muscles to clench his member with every inward drive. When the moment came it was on a scream of mingled frustration and joy and once more she tumbled into ecstasy.

“Minnie,” he called through his groans. “Minnie, Minnie, Minnie.” The name jerked out with an accelerating beat as he drove to his own completion. An extra glow of happiness filled her at the sound of the name he hadn't used since Paris.

“So?” he asked after a few minutes, when they'd both recaptured their breath. They lay side by side under the sheet, holding hands. “What did you think of that?”

“I think you sound quite smug. And I think you deserve to. It was utterly delicious.”

He grinned, more like his old carefree self than he had since his father's death. “There's nothing like it after a hard day's work.”

“Did you have a bad day?”

“Not worse than yesterday. Or the day before. Or the day before that. I feel more exhausted by six hours of ducal correspondence than I do after a week's hunting in cold weather. I have more respect for my father now. I had no idea how much the old man did.”

“How can I help?”

“You have enough to do on your own, my dear. My mother tells me how hard you are working.”

“I'd
like
to help,” she insisted.

He nuzzled her neck. “There'll be plenty to do once we have to go out in public again. I must confess I quite enjoy our state of mourning. I don't have to worry yet about taking my seat in the Lords. That's a horror I won't have to face until next season.”

To Minerva, who could think of nothing she'd enjoy more than taking a seat in either House of Parliament, this was a stark reminder of their differences, despite their recently demonstrated compatibility in one area.

“Thank Heavens we'll be at Mandeville soon. The bad thing about being almost confined to the house is the lack of exercise. I can't wait for a decent gallop in the park.”

“This house is big enough to keep me healthy. Today I discovered a whole new wing. Did you know you have three elderly ladies living upstairs who never leave their rooms?”

“The great-aunts. They've lived here forever. They used to come down for dinner but they prefer to stay put now. The youngest one can't be a day less than eighty. I called on them yesterday and they scolded me for not bringing you to meet them. I'm glad you found them on your own.”

“I haven't yet managed to discover exactly how many people work here.”

“I hope it's not too much for you.”

“Hardly. Your mother assured me I need not concern myself with domestic details, like menus and housekeeping, unless I wish to, which I don't. If I need something, or perceive a problem, I have only to mention it and someone sees to it. How could I complain?”

“So it's not too terrible being Duchess of Hampton?” Blake sounded unsure of himself. “I know you didn't want it.”

“Don't make me laugh. Everyone thinks I'm the luckiest girl in the world.”

“But you don't.”

“I manage,” she said gruffly. “Especially if all our days end like this one,” she added, realizing she'd sounded ungracious.

“Any time, Minnie. Let me know if there's anything else I can do to make things easier.”

Minerva shifted up onto her elbow and gave him a lingering kiss. “Well,” she said, “you can tell me who you're considering as the next member for Warfield Castle.”

A light seemed to go out behind his eyes. “I'm probably going to give the seat to Huntley, my old Eton chum.”