Duchess in Love (32 page)

C
arola huddled under chilly linen sheets, safely enclosed in Tuppy's curtained bed. She had pulled the curtains so tightly together that not even a gleam of light penetrated the cloth. Everything was in place except her resolution. In fact, she was contemplating flight. She had just realized that there was one important thing wrong with Esme's plan.

She, Carola, didn't like the marital act. Didn't like it when Tuppy instigated it on their wedding night, and didn't like it any better two weeks later. Her mother's assumption that she would calm to the bridle had never taken place.

She huddled into a tighter ball and clutched her knees. The key thing to remember was that she did want to be Tuppy's wife, even if she didn't want to do
that
wifely duty. She would like to kiss him. The very thought of kissing Tuppy—of Tuppy kissing her!—sent a flush to her face.

But kissing wasn't enough. Esme had been cuttingly straightforward in her analysis. Carola had to persuade Tuppy that she wanted to be in his bed so much that she would humiliate herself to be there. To her mind, humilia
tion was inevitable. She was so embarrassed that she truly thought she might faint when he climbed into the bed.

The problem was that Tuppy was no good at this sort of thing. Of course, she hadn't stressed that with her friends. It wasn't a loyal thought. She was going to have to pretend to enjoy it. That was the only way she could make Tuppy believe that he wasn't a bad rider, and all the other things she said when they were first married.

She had to be congratulatory. “That's wonderful, Tuppy!” she practiced, under her breath. “What wonderful…” Wonderful what? Rhythm? Cadence? “What wonderful finesse you have,” she decided. “What wonderful finesse you have, and how much I am enjoying this!” That sounded sophisticated. She had to avoid a tendency to sound like her mother opening a charity bazaar. She had to sound fervent. Truthful.

Just then there was a scraping noise and the door opened. Carola squeaked with panic and then buried her face in the pillow. Had he heard her gasp? She would
die
if he discovered her when he was still fully clothed. He had to come to bed unclothed and having turned down the lamp. Otherwise, he might be put off by the sight of her overgrown breasts. She was wearing her nightgown with a small corset underneath, just to keep her flesh in place. There were muffled sounds as Tuppy walked around the room, presumably undressing.

Carola's heart was beating so fast that she could hardly hear his movements over the drumroll in her ears. What was taking him so long? There was a creak, and then silence. She lay rigid. One moment. Two minutes. Surely she had waited ten minutes! He wasn't coming to bed at all. Or—perhaps it wasn't Tuppy in the room?

Carola's eyes grew wide. It was the thief! The man who rifled Gina's room had come to steal her husband's cuff links. She inched up on her knees and slowly, slowly edged
toward the curtains. The thief would likely kill her as soon as look at her. Everyone knew that criminals were desperate by nature and regularly battered people on the head with heavy objects.

With the tip of a finger, she drew the curtain slightly apart. At first she couldn't see anything but the corner of the room. Then she edged to the side and saw—

Tuppy. It was no thief. It was Tuppy. Carola felt a surge of irritation. It was just like Tuppy to sit around and be idle when there was something important to do. He always wanted to sit and read a book, when she wanted to be at a play or, better, a ball.

The fire wasn't even lit. He was just sitting. His legs were outstretched and his lean face was tired. He looks lonely, Carola thought, and a pang caught her just under her heart. Maybe he's thinking about our marriage. Maybe he'll
cry
! But Tuppy had never shown any sign of tears, and Carola had to admit that he didn't look ready to succumb now. He just stared blankly at the charred logs.

Finally he stood up, stretched, and began unbuttoning his evening jacket. Carola's breath caught in her throat as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Tuppy wasn't much of an athlete, compared to some men of the
ton
. He didn't strip and box with Gentleman Jackson himself. He didn't ride to the hunt four days out of five; nor did he careen around the countryside in a racing phaeton. Nothing she knew of explained the whip-lean body he had. How could you get those chiseled muscles sitting around on a riverbank? Tuppy tossed his trousers over the chair and began looking around the room.

Carola suppressed a nervous giggle. He was looking for his nightshirt. But she had bundled it up and stuck it under the bed. She had thought that he was less likely to throw her out of the room if he were completely undressed.

After a while, he gave up the search and just readjusted his smalls in the front. Carola watched with fascination. Men were so oddly constructed. His thighs bulged with muscles as he walked across the room. She felt an odd, flickering heat all over her body.

She nervously shifted back, dropping the curtain. But nothing happened. She couldn't hear anything.

Delicately, she reached forward again and peeked out. He had apparently decided to tend to the dying fire. He was standing next to the fireplace, leaning one arm on the mantel and lackadaisically smashing the charred log with a poker.

He
does
look sad, Carola thought. Perhaps he doesn't want to leave tomorrow morning. Perhaps he cares for me.

Then Tuppy headed for the bed.

It was curtain time.

T
uppy opened the bed curtains and pulled at the blanket before he realized that there was already someone under that blanket. In fact, she was clutching it to her neck. Her tousled mop of curls and bright eyes were all that could be seen.

He felt an instinctive lurch in the area of his chest, instantly quelled. She was a charmer, his maddening wife. But she wasn't his. They had quarreled from their first day together, and he had come to the painful decision that it was time to end the marriage. She could marry her tidy dancer, and he would forget about her. Forget about all women.

His tone was colder than it might have been, given that last thought. “What are you doing in my bed, Carola?”

She bit her lip but didn't say anything.

“Can it be you mistook the way?” he asked. He felt anger growing in his chest. What the devil was she doing, climbing in his bed? She didn't want to be with him; she'd made that clear enough the day before. “Did you think that this was Charlton's bed? I would think that you knew the way quite well, by now.”

He stared at her, willing her to blurt out the truth, but all
she did was put a small hand on his arm and say, rather imploringly, “Tuppy?”

A sudden thought struck him. “You're carrying Charlton's child, and you hope to seduce me into acknowledging the child as my own. It would be one of those six month babes, I presume.”

She flinched as if he had struck her. For a moment they just stared at each other in the gloomy half light cast by one oil lamp.

“The scheme is almost too clever for you to have thought of alone. Do I see Lady Rawlings's delicate handiwork?”

“Do you—do you truly think that of me?” Her voice shook.

Either Carola had become a fine actress, or she was truly stunned. “What else should I think?” His eyes searched her face. “I cannot imagine a single reason why you would frequent my bed. Unless someone has changed your mind, you consider intercourse to be a messy, utterly tedious, and rather painful task. Please let me know if I have misquoted you.”

She bit her lip. Tuppy strained to see her face. Were her eyes filled with tears? A dangerous part of his heart thumped—the part of him that had seen an effortlessly joyous angel dancing and asked for her hand five days later.

He clenched his jaw. “Well, Carola? We are both older and wiser than we were. I hardly think that we need to pretend that you would initiate an activity you found so unpleasant, at least without a very good reason.”

“I had better go,” she said. There was a little shake in her voice that confirmed his suspicions. She began scrambling toward the other side of the bed.

Instantly he changed his mind. Did he really give a damn if she were pregnant by another man? He would never discard his wife. He grabbed her arm. “Cara.” The pet name he
gave her during their brief marriage fell unconsciously from his lips.

She shook her head. “Please, let me go.”

He pulled on her arm. Now he was determined to find out what was going on.

“It's all right about the baby.” His other hand came up, willy-nilly, and touched the little curls at the nape of her neck. He loved—he used to love the way they were so white-blond and soft, just there. “I'll take care of your child.”

She still didn't look at him. He tugged gently on the curl he held. “It's just me, Cara. Your irritating old husband, remember? You can tell me about it. I didn't—I didn't expect you to remain chaste, after all. We have been apart for three years.” It was almost true. Hoping was not the same thing as expecting.

She shook her head and mumbled something he couldn't hear.

“What?”

“Four years.” She looked at him, and her eyes were drenched with tears. “It's been four years and two months.”

He blinked. “Ah.” He pushed away a tear that was snaking down her cheek. “Don't cry. It's not important, whatever the problem is. You don't have to sleep with me. I'll never, ever make you do that again.”

To his dismay the tears overflowed and a sob broke from her chest. Tuppy felt a sickening pang in his stomach. He had found Cara to be one of the most incomprehensible people he'd ever met. He felt as if he'd lost the ability to understand simple English the moment he put the ring on her finger.

“I'll give you the divorce, if that's what you want,” he said desperately. “There's no need to cry. You can marry Charlton, or I will acknowledge the child. And you don't have to
sleep with me. I would never humiliate you that way.” He wiped off the tears that were falling so hard that he couldn't stop them with his fingers.

Then, without warning, she flung herself into his arms and plastered her lips against his. They were soft and full, and it all came back in a rush—his young self, so drowned in desire that he could hardly control himself every time he kissed her.

He pushed her away, embarrassed by the memory of his own foolishness. “As I said, you needn't embarrass yourself or me, Carola. I will acknowledge your child.”

It was as if she didn't hear him. She just lurched forward again and actually pushed him against the bedboard. And kissed him. Tuppy had a moment of claustrophobia and gasped for air, and in that second her tongue met his and he was a drowning man. He had never felt with anyone else the rush of erotic sensation he felt with his young, obstinate wife. Certainly not with his desultory mistress of the past year or so, an older and experienced widow who admitted him to her home with a measured enthusiasm that suited them both.

Carola's tongue met his eagerly, and with a sad little pang, he thought that Neville Charlton had certainly taught his wife a thing or two. But he pushed the thought away and simply kissed her fiercely, with all the pent-up longing he felt every time he saw her.

Two things occurred to Tuppy during that long kiss: two facts slowly crystallized in a shaking wave of lust. The first was that he doubted his wife was making up her enthusiasm just to mask an unwanted pregnancy. Such a sophisticated lie wasn't in his Cara's nature. But the second was that, for some unknown reason, she had come to his bed wearing a nightgown with a corset under it, which seemed to imply that she had no intention of taking that nightdress off. In
fact, it implied that she wanted to look her best—and if she never intended to undress, what the devil was she doing in his bed?

So, from the depths of his lust-fogged mind, he pushed her away and growled, “Carola, tell me what the hell you're doing in my bed.”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

“Carola,” he said, dangerously.

“I came to make—to seduce you,” she said in a little, unsteady voice.

His belly throbbed, and his resolution slipped another inch. “I know that's not the truth,” he said, fastening his mind on the corset. “This seems more along the lines of an old-fashioned comedy to me—the moment of the bed trick.”

The flash of surprise on her face confirmed his suspicion. But anger didn't follow, just a weary sadness. “So you've arranged for people to find us together, have you? I suppose that will ensure that your child's paternity is unquestioned.
And
then you needn't go through with something as distasteful as actual intercourse.”

“I don't know why you keep talking about a child, Tuppy,” she said, in a steady voice. “I am not carrying a child.”

He pounced. “Oh? Then why, my dear, are you wearing a corset unless it is either to prevent me from seeing your swelling belly or to look your best when we are opportunely interrupted?”

She blushed. The light was dim but there was no mistaking his Carola's blushes. Her skin was so porcelain white that she blushed as red as a peony flower. She didn't say anything, though, just wrung her hands. She was so adorable that Tuppy felt another surge of lust that almost crippled his reason.

“Well?” he asked, through clenched teeth.

“I didn't want to disgust you.”

“Because of the child?” Tuppy asked awkwardly.

“There is
no baby
! This corset doesn't even cover my belly—see?” She smoothed the thin cloth of her nightgown against her body, and he could clearly see that the corset ended just above her waist. Her tummy had a gentle curve that fired him with desire but said nothing of pregnancy.

“Then why are you here?” His tone had all the bewildered frustration of a man who had never understood his wife since her first bout of tears on their wedding night.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, mortified.

He tipped up her chin. “Carola?”

She took a deep breath. “You were correct when you noticed that my—my dress size has changed since we married.”

“What?”

He didn't have to sound so shocked. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I made a mistake coming to your room. This is absurd!” And this time she moved so quickly that she was off the bed before he even blinked.

He slammed himself in front of the door just as she pulled a robe from behind a chair. Clearly, the corset was one of those female things that there was no point in deciphering. “Why were you in my bed?” he said, standing before the door.

“Because I wanted to seduce you!” she shrieked.

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“But now I don't, you big oaf! And don't you dare mention that baby again. I don't have a baby, and it's unprincipled of you to even suggest that I might have—that I would do such a thing as sleep with a man not my husband!”

She stood in front of him and her golden curls turned into a fuzzy halo around her head. Tuppy could feel a heat in his
chest that was so deep and so hot that he might expire. “You wanted to seduce me?”

She glared at him. “
Wanted
. I've changed my mind.”

“No, you haven't,” he said. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to him.

His kiss was just as clumsy as she remembered. There was nothing polished about Tuppy: he was direct, and fierce, and awkward. But it was different now. She melted into his clumsy kisses as if he were more polished than Byron himself. When he pulled her roughly against his hard body, it didn't occur to her that he showed no finesse. Instead she trembled all over and arched back against him. He spun her quickly and backed her against the door, which was just the kind of unsophisticated thing he used to do.

He wrenched off her robe because he couldn't get the tie undone. His hands fumbled, but everywhere he touched her, she burned with liquid pleasure.

It wasn't until they were lying on the rug and Tuppy had managed to bundle her nightgown over her head that she came even slightly to her senses. She opened her eyes to find him hanging over her, braced on his elbows, and the lock of hair that was falling over his eyes was so dear that she had to brush it back and kiss him. When they emerged for air he still looked troubled.

“Cara,” he said, and his voice had such a deep resonance that she almost wept to hear it. But he was talking, and so she wrenched her mind back to his words. “Would you be greatly distressed if I removed your corset?”

His big hand hovered, and she shuddered with desire to feel him—and blushed when she realized what he was saying. Shyly she pulled her hands from his shoulders and unlaced the front.

He closed his eyes for a second when she pulled the corset
open and her breasts spilled free. For the first time Carola thought that she might have misunderstood him.

“You're so beautiful,” he said. His voice was everything his hands were not: reverent, delicate, hushed. But she arched into his hands, his wonderful hands and then his mouth—

“You don't think I'm overfleshy,” she said before she lost all capacity for thought. “You really don't, Tuppy? Because you said I was fat.”

“Fat?”
His voice splintered with surprise.

Carola started to smile. He never did answer her, but his mouth was on her breast, and after a while she didn't care what he might have said.

It was only when they were both undressed and he rolled on top of her that her body remembered and tensed, grew a little rigid. He stopped kissing her.

“What's the matter?” he whispered against her lips. But his hand slid down her hip—it was—surely he never touched her like this when they were first married! He eased the stiffness away, soothed the fear away.

“Would you rather be in the bed? I didn't turn the lamp down. I remember that you don't think it's proper—”

“It doesn't matter,” Carola said with a little pant. And she found, to her surprise, that she meant it.

Still, she stiffened again when she felt him between her legs. It was confusing—the liquid warmth that seemed to have taken over her body, and her memories of painful intrusion. She couldn't help it. She yelped when he entered, even though he was cautious.

“Does it hurt?” he said, and his deep voice shook.

“No,” she whispered. And it didn't. It felt as if molten gold spread through her legs and she moved her knees up and he fell in, a little way, and a harsh noise came out of his mouth. So she nudged against him again, and he came to her more, and more.

She never bothered to tell him how much finesse he had, because he didn't have any. And she lost the inclination to lie. Instead, she sobbed his name and clung to him as he moved in her hard and fast and without any finesse or delicacy at all. The whole experience had nothing to do with being a good rider, or any of those things her mother had said. It was about moving together in a dance so fierce and hungry that Carola experienced something she had never expected or imagined. And the only thing she could do was clutch him to her as hard as she could and even—after a while—move with him.

“The French call it a
petit mort,
” Tuppy told her later, lying on his side and stroking her neck. His fingers wandered downward and his eyes laughed at her.