Duchess in Love (15 page)

He took her lips with the ruthlessness of a man tasting rain in the desert. And still, when she drew back her head, he let her go.

“I don't
like
wet kisses,” Gina said wonderingly. Her arms were still around his neck.

Cam looked down into her green eyes. They looked darker now, the color of fir trees.

“No?” he asked. Then he brazenly licked her lips. They were tempting beyond all measure. He pulled her even more tightly against him. “I think you do,” he said, voice dark with need and amusement, mixed.

She tried to speak and her voice came out a hoarse gasp.

“Did you say something, wife?” came a voice.

“Are you licking my ear?” Gina asked, shocked into coherence.

“Mmm,” Cam said. “You see, I love wet kisses. Wet,” he said, licking the curl of her delicate ear. “Wet,” he said, licking the sweet swan curve of her neck. “Wet,” he said, licking his way across her rain-drenched cheek to her open mouth.

Not a word came from that mouth indicating a dislike of his wet kisses. Pleasure burned in his loins as a tongue innocently—but oh so ardently—met his. Burned down his legs as Gina's hands clasped his face, drawing him closer. Raged in his chest as she trembled against his body, as she
answered the hard arrogance of his hips with a tiny undulation that said everything of innocence and even more of desire.

But something was nagging at Cam's mind. An annoying, pestilent, pestering voice was saying over and over, in the inner recesses of his head,
She's your wife. She's your wife
.

“You're my wife,” he repeated, kissing her eyes.

Gina wasn't listening. She was discovering precisely why Esme's eyes flared at the sight of Bernie's arm. Running her hands over Cam's chest, she could feel muscles under the thin linen: heat, life, intoxicating strength under her fingertips.

But Cam, by saying it aloud, had woken to the truth. “Oh God,” he said, pulling his hands away as if he had touched molten iron. “You're my
wife
.”

He stepped back and ran his hands through his hair, leaving it standing straight up. “This is not a felicitous way to conduct our annulment,” he said dryly.

She smiled at him. “I found it very pleasurable. And there is nothing wrong with kissing, after all. Kissing is not, is not—”

“Intercourse,” Cam said.

In the moonlight, Gina's cheeks flushed a color that could never be caught by oil paints, a translucent, rose-stained tint he'd seen only on the inside of a large shell. But she maintained her composure. “Kissing is only kissing. And I enjoyed it.” She looked at him, head held high. “I have kissed other men. I have kissed Sebastian, many times. I am a married woman after all.”

“Married to
me
!” Cam barked. The idea of Bonnington kissing Gina made him hot with irritation.

“All the more suitable,” Gina said. She turned back to the house. Her heart was thudding in her breast and making it difficult to speak coherently.

She looked back to find he hadn't moved from the path. He stood there, spangled by moonlight, black eyes inscrutable.

“I am rather cold,” she stated.

He ran his hand through his hair one more time and then started walking.

“No more kissing.” His voice was dangerously quiet.

Gina pushed a damp lock of hair behind her ear. Her fingers were trembling but she managed to steady her voice. She would
not
show a reaction. “It was just a kiss,” she said, with just the right touch of impatience in her voice. “The fact that we are married doesn't make it more or less than just a kiss.”

He looked at her sideways, from underneath long lashes. There was a sardonic gleam in his eyes and he brought her to a halt with just a touch. “A
wet
kiss, Gina,” he said softly.

She said nothing and lost her air of sophistication in an instant.

He bent his head and deliberately swept his tongue across her beautiful, cherry dark lips. They opened, just an inch, but he took the invitation. When he finally raised his head, blood was pounding through his body in a demanding rhythm. “No more kisses,” he said. His voice was ragged.

This time she didn't look so disinterested. She looked up at him and nodded.

They walked into the salon together, Cam mentally castigating himself for telling implausible lies. No more kisses: it was as if his father promised not to cheat anyone.

He would stop kissing his wife…the moment she wasn't his wife anymore. After all, a kiss is nothing more than a kiss, to quote that same wife.

But somehow he managed to stop himself from pinning that wife to the corridor wall and covering her mouth. “Good night,” he said nonchalantly.

He fancied he saw a flash of disappointment on her face.

She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

He bowed. Bowing brought his head past the flimsy silk of her darkened bodice. Brought him eye to eye with nipples grown cold and tautly visible through thin silk. His hand stirred at his side as if it had a will of its own. “You'd better go to your chamber,” he said, voice harsh.

A glint of amusement lit her face. “I won't forget,” she said sweetly, tapping his chin with one slender finger. “No more kisses—from my husband at least.”

She was very pleased to see his mouth tighten. “Good night, Cam,” she repeated. And closed the door to her chamber in his face.

“I
'm not saying that it was humiliating, precisely. But it was unnerving.”

Esme regarded her closest friend with a smile that was almost—not quite—a smirk. “Then what happened?”

“Nothing, of course. I went into my room and presumably he went into his.”

“A pity,” Esme said.

“I thought so too,” Gina remarked.

Esme laughed. “That kiss did you some good, my girl. You don't want to become a stick in the mud like your fiancé.”

“Sebastian isn't a stick in the mud.” But her voice didn't have much conviction and Esme ignored her.

“I forgot to tell you,” Gina said. “I received a bequest from Countess Ligny.”

“Bequest? From your mother?”

Gina nodded. “Cam gave it to me last night. Her solicitor must have mistakenly thought that I live with my husband, so he sent it to Greece.”

“What is it?”

“A statue,” she said. “A statue of a naked woman.” A
night's sleep had blunted her rage and embarrassment, and she said it without inflection.

True to form, Esme grinned. “Salacious, is it?”

She nodded. “Pink, and all polished. The woman doesn't have a stitch of clothing on.”

A peal of laughter rang out. “You have to say this for your mama: she died as she lived, didn't she?”

“You could put it that way,” Gina said, feeling peevish again.

“Do you dislike the statue?”

“No. It's precisely what one would expect from a woman who gave her child away.”

“That's harsh,” Esme said. “It is remarkably difficult for an unmarried woman to raise a child. Look at you. You're a duchess. You're happy. What would your life have been like if she had kept you?”

“I would have had a mother.”

“You
do
have a mother. Lady Cranborne loves you dearly, so don't weave me any Banbury tales about a sad childhood.”

“You're probably right,” Gina admitted.

“Where is the scandalous nude?” Esme looked around the room.

“I've put it in the cupboard, of course.”

“Why
of course
? Unless you're afraid of the competition, which you shouldn't be. I'd put it next to my bed, if I were you.”

Gina colored. “I'm
not
you!”

Esme rose and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I don't mean to tease, sweetheart. It was a wise move. What if Bonnington caught sight of it? Disaster!”

“He doesn't enter my bedchamber.”

“Just as well. If he knew you were concealing scandalous statues in cupboards—especially bequests from your incon
veniently unmarried mother—there'd be no controlling his righteous indignation. Why, he'd probably turn as orange as a pumpkin and blow smoke from his ears.”

Gina sighed. “Couldn't you two simply ignore each other?”

Esme regarded herself in the cheval mirror. “Is this gown dowdy?”

“No. You look exquisite.” And it was true.

“Lady Childe looks very well these days.”

“She's old. And not nearly as beautiful as you are.”

Esme sighed. “I'm a competitive beast. I can't bear it that everyone knows whose bed my husband is frequenting.”

“Everyone knows whose bed you are frequenting as well,” Gina pointed out, unable to stop herself.

“You know I rarely frequent beds,” she answered, unruffled. “I enjoy, I sample, but I don't partake.”

“Miles's mistresses never bothered you before. You sound like Carola, hoping to win back her husband. Do you wish to court him, then?”

A look of pure revulsion passed over Esme's face. “Absolutely not. I am only vexed—and this is horrible of me—because he is in love. Isn't that dreadful?”

Gina rose and slung an arm around her neck. “Dreadful,” she agreed. “Natural, though.”

Esme stared at their reflection in the glass. “She has children, Gina.” Her voice was tight. “That's what really bothers me.”

“I know.” Gina tightened her arm. “I know.” Their eyes met in the mirror. “Now, what do you say if we two childless crones make our way out for luncheon?”

Esme smiled, with only a tiny waver. “Is Holy Willy going to be there?”

“Sebastian may be a little stiff in his manners, but he is
not
a Holy Willy!”

“Hoity-toity,” Esme retorted. “Why don't you bring
Much
Ado
along? We could practice our lines after the meal, if you don't have other plans.”

“All right,” Gina agreed, picking up the little leather-bound volume. “I can't practice too long, though; Mr. Wapping and I are still working on the Medicis.”

“I don't understand how you can spend so much time with Wapping, Gina. One would think you missed the schoolroom! What on earth do you get out of it? What do you gain? I would almost think you
were
having an affair with him except—”

“Except?”

“Except Mr. Wapping is…Mr. Wapping!”

“
The Tatler
described him as an extremely handsome young man,” Gina said loftily. “I should be fortunate to attract such a beau.”

Esme chuckled. “If you like them short and rather furry.”

“Rather like a squirrel, isn't he?” Gina said. “Someday he'll marry a small—”

“—
very
small,” Esme put in.

“—a very small woman and they'll have little furry babies.”

“Who will all speak Greek. In fact, if you keep him around long enough, he could teach your children to speak Greek.”

“As soon as he finishes his book I'm sure he'll be invited to teach at Oxford or Cambridge. He has innovative ideas about the political situation in the Italian Renaissance,” Gina said.

Esme rolled her eyes. “What
are
you doing with him?”

“I think Cam found him in a Greek temple somewhere. At any rate, he sent Wapping over to me so that I could keep him fed. I agreed to be tutored because that was the reason Cam sent him to England. And then the subject grew interesting.”

“For goodness' sake, why couldn't your husband feed the man himself?”

Gina thought about it. “I suppose he just thought it was easier to send Wapping to England. That would be like Cam. And I do enjoy the tutoring.”

“Ah well.” Esme sighed, giving her gown one last twitch.

“I flirt and you learn history: it's clear who will get into heaven, isn't it?”

The moment Gina walked into the Long Salon, Carola dashed up and whispered in an anguished undertone: “Tuppy is here, and I'm supposed to begin courting him. But I can't gather my courage to do it! In fact, I think I'd rather faint than speak to him. At least I wouldn't feel so distressed.”

“All you need to do is speak to him. Remember Esme's lessons. Show interest in whatever he says.”

“I don't even have the courage to approach him. Not that it matters, because I always seem to fall silent whenever he's around.”

“I don't believe you,” Gina said. “I've never seen you act in a shy manner.”

“It's different with Tuppy. I can't explain it. I go clammy and fall utterly silent.”

“I'll go with you.” Gina patted her arm. “I'll start a conversation and you join in when you wish.”

Carola nodded and began to tow Gina through the room so quickly that an elderly gentleman almost spilled his wine as they rushed by.

“Slow down!” Gina hissed. “You don't want to be obvious!”

She stopped, panic-stricken. “I know that,” she said. “Do I look all right?”

Gina nodded. “You look charming. Did Esme choose that gown?”

“Yes. I wanted to wear a yellow one that is more cheerful. It has ruffles all along the hem, and a sweet little parasol. But Esme said that this one is more elegant. It certainly has a low neckline. Do you think I ought to change?”

“Absolutely not. You look charming and cheerful.”

“Not desperate?” Carola asked desperately.

“No. Now let's make our way gracefully over to where Tuppy is standing. Yes, I see him.
Drift,
Carola,
drift
.”

Carola looked agonized. “Drift,” she muttered to herself, making an odd crablike motion to the side.

Gina swallowed a giggle. A moment later they gracefully placed themselves in front of Lord Perwinkle. Gina was glad to see that Carola didn't faint. Even more interesting was the fact that her husband went silent as a rock. Very interesting.

Of course, while Carola didn't faint, she didn't say anything either. So Gina automatically became a duchess. The duchess effect worked wonders with people who were uncomfortable: she told stories, she told a mild joke or two, she laughed at her own jokes. She smiled encouragingly and asked Tuppy question after question until the man gathered himself together and began to speak civilly enough.

In fact, after about a half hour, she and Lord Perwinkle had had an interesting conversation about the life cycle of trout, although Carola had still to utter one word. And Gina had had enough of marine life.

“My lord,” she said, giving him her very widest smile.

“This has been a tremendous, tremendous pleasure. I trust that we can speak of your fascinating experiments again in the very near future.”

He bowed. “I would be happy to, Your Grace.” He looked rather more cheerful. In fact, in a rangy, unpolished kind of way she could see why Carola hankered after him. When he grew excited about baby trout, his hair fell over his eyes in an engaging fashion.

“I must say hello to my husband,” Gina said. “He just entered the room.” And she drifted away at top speed, leaving Carola and Tuppy staring at each other.

When she reached Cam she grabbed his arm and swung him around so that she could appear to be talking to him but really watch the Perwinkles over his shoulder.

“What the devil are you up to?” he asked.

“Hush!”

Cam started to turn so she jerked him back around. “No, you look at me and pretend we're having a riveting conversation.”

“Well, this is interesting,” Cam said, starting to enjoy himself. He'd been awake half the night, and when he finally went to sleep, his dreams had been full of one overseductive wife who had transformed mid-sentence into a naked statue. And then he spent the morning staring at the marble lump in the corner of his bedroom. Should he sculpt Gina as a pink, naked Aphrodite? A pleasant thought.

Even more pleasant when the duchess herself stood before him. She would make a lovely Aphrodite. Unusual for an Aphrodite, of course. She was slimmer than the normal model, and her face was far more intelligent. The Aphrodites he could bring to mind had sensual, indolent faces, like that of Gina's statue. Whereas her face was thin with a look of curiosity. But why should Aphrodite, as the goddess of eros, of desire, be indolent? Why shouldn't she have precisely that innocent look combined with a gleam of erotic curiosity—the look in his wife's eyes?

“Who
are
you watching?” he asked, casting a look over his shoulder. “That woman who's rouged to the eyeballs?”

“No,” Gina said absently.

“Everyone is looking at us. They think I'm about to lunge down your bodice.”

At that, her head swung up. Sure enough, a good portion
of the room did seem to be entranced by the intimacy being displayed by the Duke and Duchess of Girton. A little group of dowagers turned back among themselves with a general titter.

“I'll go flirt madly with that gorgeous friend of yours,” Cam offered. “It will mitigate the burning anxiety the ladies clearly feel about our annulment.”

“Quite a sacrifice,” Gina remarked, a drop of acid in her voice.

“Are you staring at Tuppy Perwinkle?” Cam had finally managed to locate the site of interest.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Why on earth?”

“That's his wife he's speaking to.”

“I thought he lost his wife three years ago.”

Her eyes grew wide. “He told you that his wife had
died
?”

“Oh no, just that he had misplaced her.”

Gina nodded with some satisfaction. “I don't think he's overlooking her now.” In fact, Tuppy and Carola seemed to be having an animated conversation.

“You know,” Cam said, “I'm not certain that Tuppy wanted to rediscover his wife.”

“Too late,” she said. The couple were standing very close together and Carola was talking with great emphasis.

“Look! They must have found something to talk about besides trout. Isn't that sweet?”

“Does she know anything about trout?”

Gina gasped.

The sound of Carola's slap could be heard throughout the room.

“That's what comes of rediscovering a lost wife,” Cam said cheerfully. “I told you he didn't want her.”

“I think one could say more precisely that she doesn't want him,” Gina retorted.

 

A
t luncheon, his wife was seated next to her fiancé. Just to amuse himself, Cam had started a list of epithets for the man. “Poker-faced” he'd already used. He needed something more vulgar to truly make an impression on Gina. “Uppish” sounded almost complimentary. “Wiggy” was a good one. Had a pedantic yet tedious air. Wiggy Bonnington. He liked it. He ambled over to the table where they were seated and, as luck would have it, the seat next to Gina's luscious friend was unoccupied.

“Hello there, Lady Rawlings,” he said with just a touch more pleasure than was called for by common politeness. “Bonnington, your servant,” he remarked. “I'm afraid I didn't register your presence immediately.” And he smiled, an indolent type of smile.

The wiggy one stiffened but confined himself to a cool nod in response.

“How's your hysterical friend? The one who belted Perwinkle?” Cam asked, looking at his wife across the table.