The Rusticated Duchess (44 page)

Sixteen-year-old Genevieve could attract the attention of a dozen bucks and blades simply by walking down Bond Street with her sisters. According to the men that congregated in Pall Mall and lodged in rooms on Jermyn Street, it was not uncommon for the younger set to call at Winchester House, ostensibly to pay court to Gloria but in actuality to lie in wait for a glimpse of Genevieve, who was permitted to appear in the drawing room with her sisters for no more than twenty minutes every morning. Genevieve was not officially out and about in society, of course, but marrying her off now would have saved Winchester from the expense of at least one London season. But then, like Gloria, Genevieve would not need to worry about her own financial security. Finding a man susceptible to those girlish curves and that virginal womb would hardly be a challenge, even without a penny to her name.

Almost before his musing was concluded, the earl found he had been bundled by his well-intentioned servitors into a plain black carriage he’d kept.

Abigail’s aunt, Lady Arlington, had begun to recover, with the fortitude of her intimidating reputation, as soon as she’d been laid flat in the back of the cart. Still, her wound was serious and the ride up the lane in the dray would be excruciating if she woke. With her coachman and a footman on each side of her, pressing fresh bandages to her head, she’d been loaded into the back. When he’d stepped back, Lady Arlington had been stirring.

Lady Abigail and a maid—both pale with shock and pain—were already settling into the seat opposite him. From their appearances, it seemed as though the servant had taken the brunt of any injuries. She was clutching her arm in desperation, while Abigail hugged her and murmured words of encouragement and comfort.

Charles hadn’t expected Lady Abigail to be her parents’ choice, either. He’d assumed Fiona was the natural sacrifice—perhaps even the reason Winchester hadn’t refused his plan outright. In the days after his meeting with Winchester, Charles had watched Fiona, Abigail and Gloria in the park, in Bruton Street, and even from the shadowed corridors of Hatchards. Gloria had amused him by subtly but effectively interrogating every man who had approached her about politics, parents and pocketbook. Fiona, both gracious and reserved, had chatted politely with all who had approached. Abigail, either unaware of him or at least ignoring his presence, had flirted freely with an established circle of suitors who were Charles’ equal in almost every respect. She had attracted peers of his age, rank and intelligence who were looking for a bride, precisely because she was not a ninnyhammer, socialite or awkward wallflower. Even excluded, Charles understood how Abigail had charmed all those around her with her smiles and laughter. One day soon, she would turn that witty, teasing beam on him and he knew he would struggle to keep his hands from her tempting curves.

At that moment she was ignoring him, and he grasped the opportunity to study her. She was drenched, and the rivulets still dripped from the tendrils of reddish-brown curls that peeked from her bonnet. In the dim lamplight of the carriage he couldn’t see the shade of her eyes, but he knew better light would reveal questioning, brown orbs. Right at that moment, they would likely be consumed with concern for her aunt, and he was certain her shoulders would be drooping from exhaustion if she had not been occupied with comforting the maid.

Charles couldn’t muster an ounce of pity for her state.

No, Abigail looked stunning.

He shifted uncomfortably in response to an awkward and unwelcome erection, glad that the carriage was nearly already in the forecourt. Darkness had long since fallen, and it was useless to think that he might be able to speak with Abigail alone that night. Her aunt would need, even deserve, Abigail’s attention, if any could be spared from her own injuries.

Charles winced inwardly as the carriage lurched to a halt. He glanced at Abigail, who had looked up, before saying abruptly, “My butler will help you both.”

Her jaw tightened a bit with wilfulness, but she acquiesced with a brief nod, a motion that sent water dripping from her bonnet down her nose and eyes. Abigail grimaced openly, and the reversal of expressions almost brought a chuckle to Charles’ lips. So she wouldn’t see it, or the telltale signs of his arousal, he jumped from the coach into the rain and waved forward his butler, Grady.

“Take care of them,” he told the man shortly, then had to frown at the small smile on Grady’s lips. His blasted butler understood him far too well.

 Charles hurried inside and up the steps, not bothering to throw his greatcoat at a footman. For the moment, it hid his more prominent problem. At the landing, he turned to the left and strode down the gallery, making a quick turn into the narrower corridor that led to the earl’s apartments. Abigail’s boudoir was on his left and the main bedchamber ahead of him, but Charles turned to the right, to his own sitting room.

The room was lit, and he was rubbing his palm against the flap of his trousers even as he dropped the greatcoat carelessly on the floor. His valet Robert would clean up his mess. Charles stopped to fumble with the buttons on his trousers, then sank down on the chaise and stared at the painting above the fireplace. The subject was a particularly charming mistress of Louis the Fifteenth in little clothing and a provocative position. It had always been helpful for just these surprising situations, but this time Charles felt absolutely nothing when he looked at the eager girl.

Frowning, he gripped his still-hard cock in his fist and pumped it, remembering again his fierce reaction to Abigail’s discomfiture, to rescuing her, and even to her saucy tongue. He used his left hand and palmed the heavy sac beneath his penis, massaging it in conjunction with the fisted cock. He’d expected—and had felt—sympathy and a violent protectiveness. He hadn’t expected such a strong surge of arousal, however. The turbulent and unfamiliar emotions had made Charles more abrupt than usual, and he’d barked at her instead of speaking as a gentleman ought to have spoken.

As he remembered her disgruntlement, he hardened further. Many peers might value gentlewomen but the patriarchs of the Wessex clan had historically prized, sought and zealously guarded their queens. Charles was no different. Abigail’s spirit had been tested and she’d come through as valiantly as any soldier he’d seen in Spain. He was more convinced every day that she could rule his corner of Warwickshire, and heaven help him, but he wanted her to.

Charles slid his hand up towards the head of his fully engorged cock and pulled hard and fast, imagining Abigail’s face drawn with sensual exhaustion rather than pain. On the heels of that thought came another, firmly forbidden fantasy that Charles couldn’t resist. It was Abigail’s face as he thought she would look when consumed with lust. Her eyes would beseech and her body would beg and her voice would plead for him to give her relief and succour, to pleasure her.

Charles let his cream shoot down the side of his trousers, which had already been ruined by the rainy excursion. He fell back and sighed as relief and an unexpected sense of anticipation gripped him. He’d have to wash and change, then he’d see about Abigail. He had a suspicion she wouldn’t be safely in her bed, resting.

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About the Author

Elle writes stories to entertain her friends and amuse herself. Over time, the stories have got better, and she hopes romance lovers everywhere will love them as much as she does.

Elle lives among the redwoods in the very great state of California with a devoted Mr. Sabine, one golden-headed daughter and one loving, eternally young pup. Yes, those are her curls and part of her study bookshelves!

In her spare time, she loves to explore fairy circles, climb to high places to see the Pacific and look at the bottom of the Golden Gate Bridge.

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