Four Nights With the Duke (20 page)

He sighed. “I’ve never made love to a woman wearing clothing before.”

Her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Really? I thought that gentlemen were always taking women into back alleys and tupping them against the wall?” She meant her tone to be sardonic, but somehow it came out a little intrigued.

“I have not had that particular pleasure,” he said, after a telling moment of silence. “But I’d be delighted to experiment, Duchess.”

“No!” she spluttered.

He lowered his head and his lips drifted across hers. “Fair warning: in lieu of a back alley, I propose to make you scream my name. I’m tired of being Your Grace’d.”

Mia felt another chilly bolt of panic as Vander pulled her legs apart. He lowered his head, and dropped a kiss on her inner thigh. “That’s inappropriate!” she whispered urgently.

He lifted his head, eyes devilish. “How do you know?”

“I . . .” His lips caressed skin, closer to the heart of her.

This was
too
intimate. It was one thing if he put that part of himself inside her. She could turn her head, or—or something. But she had a terrible feeling that if he kissed her there, she would lose what remained of her self-control.

It would be worse than when he touched her. She wouldn’t be herself; she would be turned inside out by desire, ravished, begging him . . .

She was not wrong.

Without warning, he lapped at her and she screamed. His mouth was wet and ravenous, and set Mia on fire like a spark landing on a pile of dry kindling.

She couldn’t think. She could do nothing but twine her fingers in his hair. Even his warm breath against her flesh made her shudder. She let go of Vander’s hair because her fingers curled, and her toes curled. Everything in her was tightening, launching her like a boat to some distant shore.

And then it was happening; she slammed out into deep water, sensation rushing over her. Vander was urging her on, his voice smoky. She heard him dimly, realizing only later what he was saying.

And she . . . that wave brought her back to where she’d been years ago: in love. In love with Evander Septimus Brody.

So mad with love that she had written him a poem, had dreamt of him entering her moonlit room.

He was rising over her, pushing her legs further apart, whispering something . . . an apology? Pushing into her.

It was a possession her body welcomed, even though it was uncomfortable. Perhaps more than uncomfortable. Abruptly her mind slammed back into clarity and she stopped him with both hands to his chest. “No!”

Alarm had replaced every other emotion. Something was wrong. He was too large, like a cork that didn’t fit a bottle.

His words were strangled. “Duchess, you can’t stop me now.”

“It doesn’t fit,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “We are not compatible. You’ll have to—” She shoved at his shoulders. “Take yourself off. It’s not working.”

He took a breath, didn’t move.

Mia felt a primitive surge of fear: “Get off me,” she cried. “Didn’t you hear me? It doesn’t fit.”

To her utter fury, a flash of amusement went through his eyes. “Are you certain?” he asked silkily. “Because it feels damned perfect to me.”

“Don’t swear!” she cried, beside herself. Then she realized what he was doing, rocking slightly as he spoke, slipping in further. And further. “Stop that,” she said, between clenched teeth.

He was braced on his arms, over her. She smelled something heady: a man’s sweat, combined with an elusive touch of leather and fresh air. Vander’s eyes were intense blue slits, and she grasped that he was exerting tremendous self-control not to push forward.

Mia cleared her throat. “Let’s try again at a later date,” she suggested.
Such as never
, her mind supplied.

He nudged forward again. “Is it painful?” he asked, his eyes intent on hers.

It felt intrusive. Too much. Too wide. Too fast. “It isn’t painful, exactly, but it’s just not right. We’re not compatible. You’re too large and too
close
.”

“May I move a bit more?” he whispered back. “You’re driving me mad, Mia. I’ve never felt anything like it.” He nudged forward again and as she watched, his pupils dilated and his head dipped so that strands of hair brushed her face.

Just like that all the heat bubbled up in her again. And just like that, he no longer seemed intrusive and too large, but like a part of her body that had been missing until now. He was both foreign and intrinsic to her.

Tentatively, she tilted her hips, and though he hadn’t moved, the thick length of him came into her a bit more. Breath came harshly between his lips. “You,” he whispered. “It’s up to you, Mia.”

A dark undertow of desire pulled her down, teasing her, taunting. She braced her knees, and slowly, slowly pressed upward. Her body shook, but it had nothing to do with pain.

Her body and his . . .

They were two halves of the same whole.

Vander made that inarticulate noise again, and she caught sight of his face: beautiful, voracious, raw. It fired her blood, dragged her under. With a wild cry, she pushed up, pulling him down at the same moment, seating him fully in the softness of her body.

His response was carnal, as his body surged into motion. Mia gasped, trying to learn the rhythm of the dance, an urgent, hard, pounding dance. She barely mastered it and she was shooting down that same river again, clinging to him, arms around his
neck, legs curving around his hips, head back, being pulled faster and faster . . .

She finally let go with a scream, surrendering to the deep pleasure that washed over her, her fingernails digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders.

Dimly, she heard a harsh noise come from his lips and he pumped again, once, twice more, pressed into her so far that there was no place where he stopped and she started.

From Miss Lucibella Delicosa to Mrs. Petunia Stubbs

September 11, 1800

Dear Mrs. Stubbs,

I write in response to your letter of June 17, informing me that you plan to name your unborn daughter
—
if she is a daughter
—
after one of my heroines. I am truly honored to think that you have read
Esmeralda, or Memoirs of an Heiress
over twenty times. And I am deeply moved to know that my books helped you overcome the tragedy of your mother’s death.

I generally hesitate to offer advice, but since you express the fervent wish that your future daughter resemble my heroine in every particular, I do want to point out that Esmeralda’s appearance might lead one to think that the hero loves her
for that reason. It is not so: he loves Esmeralda for her loving spirit, kind heart, and courageous disposition.

It is my hope that your daughter will have those attributes of Esmeralda, as they will give her a much happier life than if she resembles my heroine’s appearance.

I wish you and Esmeralda all the best in life,

Miss Lucibella Delicosa

M
ia woke suddenly, the way she used to jerk awake when Charlie was a baby and she heard a wail from the nursery.

Vander lay on his back, his face turned away from her, the sheet barely covering his hips. Dawn was creeping into the room, just enough that it clung to the contours of his body, as if the glow originated within him. Bands of muscle marched across his belly in perfect order.

If she dared, she would have traced each band with her fingers, investigating how they knit to his back and shoulders, linking to burly arms stained brown by the sun.

His body was the opposite of hers. There wasn’t a bit of fat on him; his body was like stored motion, shaped to conquer men and pleasure women. Her fingers itched to caress him, feel all that untamed strength under her hands . . . lying still at her command. She imagined him quivering as she drove him to make the unguarded, rough sound that had come from his throat the night before.

She snatched her hand back just in time. She had already made a fool of herself. It would be different if they were better matched.

The dissimilarities between them couldn’t be more
obvious. It was unnecessary to glance down: Her knees were plump and her thighs were plumper. There must be muscle somewhere in her legs, because she managed to stand and sit and walk, but they certainly weren’t visible to the naked eye.

Thank goodness, he hadn’t argued with her about her chemise, though it didn’t hide very much in the growing light of morning. She could see her nipples and the curve of her belly through the cloth.

Lower, where her chemise was still hitched up around her hips, she saw rusty stains on her leg. And on the sheets, she saw with some dismay. Susan—and the rest of the household—would have no doubts about what had happened the night before.

She wiggled backward cautiously, reaching her toe down to touch the floor, eyes on Vander. He breathed slowly, his arms flung out, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He slept like a man who owned the world, a duke whom everyone desired. It was another dissimilarity between them: she always slept in a ball, tightly coiled.

Once in the bathing room, and with the door to Vander’s bedchamber firmly latched, she stared at herself in all those mirrors. Last night he had spread her out like a feast and done things to her with his mouth and hands . . . things that made her whimper and cry and generally act like a fool.

The four nights rule was a good one. She knew instinctively that it would hurt to do this more than once every few months. Oh, not hurt in a physical sense, but in her heart.

Making love could too easily become a habit, like some sort of honey dream leading her to believe that her husband adored her, the way Frederic adored Flora in the novel she was writing.

Except Vander was nothing whatsoever like Frederic. She was probably lucky that he remembered her name in the midst of passion. In fact, now she thought of it, Vander might not remember her name, since he always called her “Duchess.”

Whereas for her . . . she stared blankly at herself, acknowledging the truth of it. She was fifty times more in love with him now than she had been as a young girl. Even thinking about him made her heart flutter in her chest.

If she didn’t protect that heart, it would crack into a hundred pieces when he lost interest. Last night was like playing a game, the best game ever invented. She had to keep in mind that it was only a game, and one at which Vander excelled.

At least the four nights were at her discretion. As her husband, he could have demanded marital intimacies whenever he wanted, even if he came straight from another woman’s bed. The thought made her feel ill.

For a moment, a gaping emptiness opened up before her, the conviction that she wouldn’t survive this marriage. Men craved variety; she knew that even with her limited understanding of society and its relations. How could she join him in bed, once she knew that he had turned to another woman?

Ruthlessness took over.

She could. She would.

She wasn’t the first woman to have fallen in love with a beautiful man. Besides, everything might change in a few months. Vander might wake up and realize that he wanted a wife like the one his friend Thorn had: a perfect, exquisite noblewoman.

They would divorce . . . unless she was with child.

For a moment she lapsed into fear, her mind
scurrying in circles. But her brother, John, had been married to Pansy for years, and they had but one child. Vander was an only child.

She had a vague understanding that it took repeated attempts over a long time.

The four nights rule would save her from that.

NOTES
ON
F
LORA’S
E
XILE

         
~ Flora believes Frederic jilted her, made her forfeit the inheritance, from pure malice. (That’s good!)

         
~ Having spent her last 2d. on a crust of bread, she wanders along the lanes of England, tattered, cold, hungry. Near death? Yes. Faints in a field of
bluebells
poppies.

“Dear Mother, take me to thy Breast and save me from the Cruel Indignities of this
Cruel
World,” she breathed, as a single tear slid down her porcelain cheek.

         
~ ghost of mother? “The dear face hovered above her, just out of reach of her trembling fingers. ‘The Goodness of
Heaven will guard you, my Dearest Child, & keep you from the heartless intimacy of a Loveless Marriage.’”

         
~ More than hunger, thirst, and cold, the spur to her
flagging life
death was the understanding that the man who should most constitute her Earthly Happiness—he whose love ought to fill her heart and mind—had proved himself an infidel.

         
~ Infidel? Maybe not.

         
~ Ruffian. Rake. Roué.

         
~ Scoundrel?

         
~ “He whom she had long worshipped had proved himself naught but a Worthless Idol. It was
that
cruelty that broke the soft heart of this creature, the spirit, the joy of her family and friends. Now fallen lower than the lowest of tavern wenches . . .”

         
~ Tavern wenches?

M
ia bathed, dressed, and escaped her bedchamber without hearing a peep from her husband.

“Aunt Mia!” Charlie shouted when she opened the door to the nursery. “Look what Dobbie is doing now!”

He stood braced against the back of the settee, holding a crust of bread in the air while a shaggy pillow pawed his legs. “I’m teaching Dobbie to roll. Just look at this.” He looked down at the dog at his feet and commanded, “Roll, Dobbie, roll!”

Dobbie sat down and looked up at him, panting with willingness.

Mia waited, but nothing happened. “You’ll get it, old fellow,” Charlie reassured the dog, dropping the bread into his open mouth.

“How did Dobbie and Winky sleep last night?” Mia inquired.

“They love being with me,” Charlie boasted. “They used to be the duke’s mother’s dogs, and His Grace says they’ve been lonely. I let them both sleep on the bed with me, and they weren’t lonely at all.”

And neither was Charlie, apparently.

Mia went over and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. She remembered the duchess’ exquisitely groomed and scented dogs, always tricked out in bright ribbons. A year after her death, the animals were considerably shaggier, with no ribbons in sight.

Winky trotted over to her so she crouched down and scratched his ears. He had thin legs, like the brown cigars that the grooms smoked when they weren’t on duty. Age had brought touches of white here and there, but his eyes were still bright and cheerful.

“Do sit down, sweetheart,” she said to Charlie. “You might fall, especially if Dobbie starts pawing your legs again.”

“I’m trying to stay on my feet as much as possible. It will make me stronger. The duke says so.”

Mia sat down and Winky hopped up, curling into a ball in her lap.

“Perhaps I’ll sit down now,” Charlie allowed.

She patted the sofa beside her and he picked up Dobbie and made his way around and sat.

“Mr. Gaunt thinks it best that they be kept out of the drawing room, but they can go everywhere else with me. Just think: that old butler made them sleep in the garden shed the whole last year,” Charlie said, stroking Dobbie’s ears.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Mia agreed. “I gather you rescued them from the potato cellar.”

Charlie nodded. “The duke and I went to the kitchens night before last, because that’s what we always do. We fetched something to eat, because I’m growing.”

“What you
always
do?” Mia echoed. “You’ve known His Grace for only two days, Charlie!”

“Well, perhaps not every day. But we did it at home, in Carrington House, and last night too.” He paused. “I suppose this is our home now, Aunt Mia?”

Mia cleared her throat. “For now,” she said weakly.

“The duke said Dobbie and Winky look like hairy eggs.” He held Dobbie up by his front paws and leaned forward to rub noses. “You’re not a hairy egg, are you, old fellow?” Dobbie obligingly licked him, giving a little bark.

“Try not to let him lick your mouth,” Mia said. She pulled her feet up beneath her and shifted Winky to the crook of her left arm. “These dogs are smaller than you were when you were born.”

“Really?” Charlie was trying to avoid Dobbie’s enthusiastic licks and giggling madly.

“You had a plump tummy. The duke is right: if Winky didn’t have all this fur, he wouldn’t be much bigger than an egg. Of course, it would have to be a large egg.”

“Perhaps an ostrich egg,” Charlie said. “I have just been reading about them. An ostrich is an enormous bird that can’t fly. It has the biggest eggs of any bird.”

“Where does one find an ostrich?”

“I don’t remember. Not in Berkshire. Was my mother there when I was born?”

Mia opened her mouth and shut it again. Was Charlie still at the age where babies were found under cabbage leaves?

“Do you want to see how I can make Dobbie dance?” Charlie said, already having forgotten his question. “Look at this!”

Winky had gone to sleep, so Mia stopped stroking him. “I think I’ll pay a brief visit to the stables,
Charlie. Perhaps you should work on your essay for the vicar?”

“No, I want to come to the stables with you,” Charlie said, dropping Dobbie’s legs. “I want to see the wild Arabian horse who loves only you. Mary—she’s the maid assigned to the nursery—told me all about him. His name means storm, or something like that. I shall ride him. Someday.”

Mia’s head spun. Charlie was thinking of riding Jafeer? Not while she had breath in her body.

He hopped up and put his crutch under his arm. “Let’s go! Winky and Dobbie can come as well.”

“Winky is having a nap,” Mia said, moving the little curl of dog onto the sofa cushion as she rose.

“That’s because he’s older,” Charlie reported. “Winky could be a grandfather. The duke says his mother bought Dobbie to be Winky’s friend.”

“Why don’t you three wait here, and I’ll ask a footman to carry you downstairs,” Mia suggested.

“I can get down the stairs
myself
,” Charlie said, marching to the door and pulling it open. “Come on, Aunt Mia!”

Mia’s heart sank. He would hang onto the railing and make his way down backward, a step at a time, and agonizingly slowly; it could take an hour to reach the bottom. She was longing for a cup of tea and breakfast. “Have you eaten?” she asked Charlie.

“Not yet,” he said, clumping his way along the corridor.

The stairs curved in a gracious semicircle. “Are you certain you don’t want me to fetch a footman, Charlie? It would be the work of a moment for one of those young men to carry you down.”

Charlie shook his head. “I’m too old for that. His Grace said so.”

“His Grace said so?” What hadn’t His Grace said?

“You may wait for me at the bottom,” Charlie ordered, sounding for all the world like a duke himself.

He was growing up. That was natural, Mia told herself. Charlie issued another order. “Dobbie, you go with Aunt Mia.” The dog frisked around Charlie’s feet, paying no attention.

Mia picked up Dobbie and started down the stairs with a sigh. She would have to discuss this with Vander. He was treating Charlie with cavalier indifference, as if her nephew were a typical boy.

As she neared the stairs’ midpoint, where the steps curved, Mia looked back to check on Charlie’s progress and discovered he was still at the top, waving to a footman in the entry below.

“That’s Roberts,” Charlie shouted. “Hurry up, Aunt Mia, or I shall beat you!”

Before Mia could respond, he tucked his crutch under an arm, threw a leg over the railing, and whizzed past her.

Mia let out a shriek and dropped Dobbie. Mercifully, the animal landed on his feet, barking madly, and bounced down the stairs, ears flapping. For her part, Mia stopped breathing, heart pounding, until she saw Roberts deftly catch Charlie.

She sagged down onto a step, her hand pressed to her heart. Below, Charlie was hopping around the black-and-white marble floor as if he hadn’t been close to bashing his head. Or losing his life.

“You mustn’t worry,” a deep voice said behind her.

Mia looked up, her throat too tight to speak. Vander put a hand under her arm, and helped her to her feet. “Children always hang on tighter than their parents believe they will. Shall we join him?”

She couldn’t respond. She had to have a stern talk with Charlie. From this moment on, he was not
allowed to touch the banister. If he did that again, she’d do something . . . something serious. Lock him in the nursery.

Even as the idea came to her, she recoiled from it. Charlie spent too much time indoors already; his skin was porcelain white.

She realized that Vander still held her arm. Shuddering alarm was replaced by a sense of warmth radiating from his touch. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I was terrified by that . . . by Charlie, and I didn’t hear what you just said.”

“I merely said that your nephew is a brave fellow. I’m proud of him.”

“You’re—you’re proud of him.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Charlie had already made his way through the front door that Gaunt held open, and was waiting for them at the top of three stone steps leading to the drive.

He turned, gave them an impish grin, and shouted, “Look at me!” Then, before she could take a breath, he dropped his crutch and jumped.

She screamed again, freezing in place. When Charlie landed, his right foot couldn’t hold his weight and he collapsed, plunging forward and hitting his face on the cobblestones.

“Oh dear God,” Mia cried, and ran down the steps toward him. Vander preceded her, and was already crouching over Charlie and gently turning him over. A bloody scrape discolored Charlie’s brow and his eyes were closed.

Mia felt a dagger of fear when his eyes didn’t instantly open.

“Charlie,” Vander said. “You’re frightening your aunt. Open your eyes.”

Mia sank to her knees. “Darling?”

“That hurt,” Charlie said, his eyelids flying open.

Her heart began beating again. That was the voice her child used when he bruised something, stubbed his toe, sprained a wrist breaking his fall. He had been falling since he could stand—but she’d never once seen him do anything deliberately dangerous the way he had today.

Twice today.

The timbre of Vander’s voice was dark and commanding. “Look at me, Charles Wallace.”

Charlie turned his head and looked up at him.

“That was exceedingly foolish. You had no way of knowing whether your leg would be able to support you, and it was possible that you could concuss yourself on the stones, or stab yourself with your crutch. And to try such a thing while your aunt watched showed callous disregard for her. I am disappointed.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference if I hadn’t seen it,” Mia said, her voice wavering. “You must promise
never
to do something so dangerous ever again, Charlie. Never!”

Charlie sat up, rubbing his weak leg. “I won’t get strong if I don’t test myself.” He sounded sulky.

“That’s true,” Vander said, “but you must go about it intelligently. Your leg has to be strong enough to bear your weight first. Remember when you told me that if you bowed, you would topple?”

Charlie nodded, his bottom lip jutting out in a way that made a pang of pure love go through Mia. When he was two years old, he had that expression almost every day, every hour, as he fought to walk. The doctors said he would never manage it, but they had been wrong.

“You knew how to fall and roll. That’s how confident you have to be before you take a risk of any kind.” He hoisted Charlie to his feet. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Yes!” Charlie said stoutly, leaning against Vander.

Mia blotted the scrape on his forehead with a handkerchief. Then she scooped up Charlie’s crutch and handed it to him.

Tears were pressing on the back of her throat, and she longed to give him a tight hug, but instinct told her to keep silent. Charlie needed advice from a grown male, and no one was more male than Vander. The duke crouched again and ran his hand along Charlie’s leg.