The Wyndham Legacy (18 page)

“I have heard Spears singing it. I think it a clever ditty. He has a beautiful voice.”

“He thinks so at any rate. As I said, Aunt Wilhelmina acted normal, at least as much as a Colonist can act normal, their speech being so slow you want to yell at them to just get on with it. Yes, the evening went off just fine.”

The evening hadn't been all that painful, she thought, as she nodded slowly. She had, however, been surprised when Aunt Wilhelmina had oozed charm all over Marcus. He was right about that. And she'd watched him, she couldn't seem to help herself. She'd looked at his beautiful mouth, listened to his deep voice, his deeper laughter, the way he chuckled off-key, and couldn't seem to keep her eyes off his hands, large hands with black hair on the backs, and those long fingers of his, fingers that had touched her, caressed her.

“Would you please unbutton my gown, Marcus? I cannot seem to manage it.”

With any other woman, he would have believed it an invitation. But not with her. Not with the Duchess. His wife. She turned, lifted the thick glossy black hair that was in a loose pile down her back. It hung there in deep ripples, for she'd just pulled the braids apart and smoothed them through with her fingers. It was a style that suited her, those fat braids interwoven with ribbons in a coronet atop her head. Her face was too fine, too well-sculpted for all those clusters of ringlets over the ears. No, this style suited her to perfection. He unfastened the row of small
buttons that marched up her back. The gown was quite pretty, the dark blue the precise color of her eyes. Still, it was cut too low.

When the gown gaped open, he took a step back. “There,” he said. “You're free of it.”

She turned to face him. He didn't move. There was no screen in the bedchamber. “I have to change now, Marcus. Would you please leave me for a while?”

“No. But I will get in bed.”

She stared at him, words shoved together into a meaningless mass in her throat. She watched him walk to the bed set on its foot-high dais, watched him walk in his bare feet, big feet that were really quite beautiful, watched him pull the covers back, unsash the dressing gown, shrug it off, and naked as a black-haired god, climb into the bed. He pulled the covers to his waist, fluffed the pillows behind his head, and settled himself. Now he watched her.

She wasn't stupid. He wanted to have sex with her. But still there were no words in her mouth or in her mind. Her mind was filled with the sight of him, standing there, for just an instant really, shrugging off that dressing gown, showing her his long muscled back, his man's flanks, his man's buttocks and long, thick legs. She swallowed. She supposed she'd considered this, but not really, not to this point, not to where he was actually in her bed, and he was awake and sober and appeared to want this. To want her.

She felt a surge of hope. She stared at his chest with its mat of thick black hair, at the obvious strength and power of him and said, “You want me to be your wife now, Marcus?”

He merely smiled at her and crossed his arms behind his head. “Get undressed, Duchess.”

Slowly, she pulled the gown off her shoulders, eased it past her hips, and let it drop to a soft pool of blue silk at her feet. She slid her hands beneath her chemise and pulled the dark blue garters down her legs and unrolled her stockings. She kicked off her slippers and pulled the stockings off her
feet. Dressed only in her chemise, she stepped out of the clothing and walked slowly toward the bed.

“You didn't want me before,” she said, stopping a foot from the dais. Her black hair fell and framed her face, a face now very pale in the dim light. Maggie her maid had been right. The contrast of all that sinful black hair against the white flesh of her arms and legs and the pure white of her chemise was starkly beautiful. She was exquisite, this wife of his who had drugged him and married him while he was in a stupor and who had come to his bed and made him take her virginity so that he couldn't, in a state of enraged stupidity, if he could have ever been that abysmally stupid, annul the marriage.

“True,” he said, “but I'm a man. Since you are my wife and have no say in the matter, I might as well avail myself of you. It's certainly more convenient than riding into Darlington and finding a comely wench there to see to my pleasure. Not that I'll gain much pleasure from you, but I'll make do. I'm not that bad off, so even a modicum of pleasure will suffice me. Now, come here. I want that chemise off you.”

“But you said you didn't want a child from me. You said you would gain vengeance against my father by not allowing a child of mine to inherit the earldom.”

“That is what I said. I meant it.”

“I don't understand.”

“Undoubtedly you don't, but you will soon enough. I do ask that you not cry or moan or whimper when I take you, Duchess. If you must lie there like a piece of silverware, then I will make do, but no sounds, if you please.”

“You won't call me Lisette, will you?”

He laughed, not a very pleasant laugh. “Oh, indeed not. But perhaps I will call you Celeste.”

She paled even further, flinching deeply, but none of it showed in her face, for it was all inside her. She didn't move. “You were only in London for a single night.”

“Yes. So?”

“This Celeste person, you were with her for just that one night?”

“Yes. She was quite talented. Not so much as Lisette, but she's from Bristol where there were naught but rough seamen to practice on. Doubtless it will take her another year or so to perfect her skills. Her breasts were quite impressive. I couldn't hold them and my hands are quite large. Not that it mattered really. Now, come here, Duchess.”

There was pride, after all, and he'd just pushed her beyond what she could excuse, beyond what she could bear. “No, Marcus. I don't think so.” No, she couldn't bear any more of it, not another word. She turned on her heel, her bare heel, grabbed her dressing gown from the end of the bed, and walked quickly to the door, jerking on the dressing gown as she went. Her hand was on the doorknob when she felt him behind her, touching her, his right hand over her head against the door. She tried to jerk it open but it didn't budge.

He leaned down, his left hand lifting her hair and he kissed the back of her neck.

She stood very still, her dressing gown loose about her for somehow, somewhere, the sash had disappeared. He blew his warm breath against her ear and gently nibbled the lobe.

She didn't move, didn't make a sound. She was holding her breath.

Very gently, he turned her around, laced his hands beneath her hips and lifted her. He carried her to the bed and laid her on her back. He stood above her, naked, but she didn't look at him, she couldn't, she was too frightened and far too excited. She was aware of his size, his power, the way be filled her vision, if she would but look at him. He didn't say anything. He jerked the dressing gown off her, then turned and smiled. “Now the chemise.”

He lifted her hips and jerked it up to her waist, then pulled her upright, bringing her face against his chest, and tugged it over her head.

He eased her back down and stretched himself out next to her on his side. He didn't touch her, just looked at her face.

“So cold, so contained,” he said, then stroked her hair from her forehead and back from her ears. “It is what a man expects from a wife, who is also a lady, I suppose. It is considered well-bred to be cold and contained, having no ill-bred feelings to betray any bodily pleasures. But still it is a disappointment. You have very nice ears, Duchess.” He kissed her ear, his tongue tracing its outline.

She sucked in her breath, but held herself perfectly still.

“Don't ever again wear a gown like the one you wore tonight,” he said in her ear. “It's beautiful and obviously expensive, but it's still a tart's gown.”

“You mean it is a gown my mother would wear?”

He paused a moment. “I didn't say that.”

“You're afraid I will be a tart, that it's in my blood, that it's already beginning to come out, at least in my clothes.”

“Perhaps, I don't know. Hold still now.” He leaned over her and her breasts were pressed against his chest. He closed his eyes a moment at the feel of her. His hand fell to her face, his fingers tracing over her cheekbones, her nose, smoothing her eyebrows, then moving to stroke her throat. “You are so white,” he said, leaned down and kissed the pulse in her neck. Then his mouth was on hers, hot and pressing, and she gave no more thought to Lisette or to Celeste; she gave it no thought at all. She opened her mouth and gave him her own warmth and her excitement that was building deep inside her, pounding in her, wanting to be free, to shout, but she tried to hold it down, tried and tried.

His hand was caressing her breast now, tugging gently, making that pounding go deeper and deeper until she didn't think she could bear it. She slid her arms around his back, fascinated by the warmth of his flesh. He was now hers, this
man who was also her husband, and at least now, in these few moments, he held no contempt or anger for her, just wanting and need, and it was enough, it had to be enough.

He raised his head and stared down at her. He saw the flush on her cheeks, saw the pulse pounding in her throat. Her arms were tight around his back, her hands stroking downward to his flanks.

“Duchess,” he said and came over her.

She moaned words that wouldn't speak themselves, she couldn't hold it in, at the feel of him against her, the heat of him, and she opened her legs for him.

She heard him suck in his breath, she saw him rise over her, looking down at her body, his breathing harsh and raw now, and then he was touching her with his fingers. Suddenly he shook his head. He stared at her until she was trembling with the excitement of it, then he lifted her hips and then his mouth was touching her belly, his tongue harsh and wet and hot on her flesh, and she didn't understand, but she didn't care, for the pounding was building and building and there was no stopping it now. She knew if it did stop, she would shatter somehow.

She cried out, her hands now on his shoulders, wildly kneading his flesh, then in his hair, tugging, and he went lower then and sealed his mouth against her and she screamed with the shock of it, the immense power of it. Screamed and moaned and lurched wildly, her head thrashing on the pillows.

The feelings were beyond shattering. Never had she believed such a thing possible, but it was and she was in the midst of it, and it went on and on and she let those feelings fill her, knowing somehow they would overwhelm her and she wanted that. She reveled in the nearly painful sensations that rocked her deep, expanding to enclose all of her, not just her body, but her mind and her hearing and her smelling and it was hard to breathe even. The wildness controlled all of her senses, and for those moments she was naught but feeling, naught but mad frenzy, willingly trapped
in those wondrous sensations that shook her and made her cry out. His mouth burned into her flesh, so very hot, pulling on her, then soothing her, and slowly, very slowly and gently as the feelings retreated, softening now, but they were still there, deep yet easing now, but somehow waiting still, and he reared up, and she saw him staring down at himself and at her, saw his hand on himself, then move to open her for himself, and he came into her fully and deeply.

She screamed, bucking upward, nearly heaving him off her, grabbed him around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers. She felt the weight of him, the strength of him and she felt his tongue deep in her mouth just as his sex was deep inside her belly. It didn't last long, just a few moments and she felt him tense and drive even more deeply, even more fiercely, and then she took his moans in her mouth and she held him against her. She never wanted to let him go, never.

I
T WAS HE
who left her, pulling away to stand beside the bed, his big chest heaving with the power of his release, a sheen of sweat making his flesh glisten, just standing there, staring at her, and she wanted desperately to touch him, just to touch her fingertips to his flesh, to slide them through the thick hair on his chest, to trace the contours of the deep muscles that shaped his arms and shoulders and his belly. She'd never known, never even considered that a man's body could be so very beautiful, so pure and strong, such an instrument of pleasure for her. She forced her eyes upward.

She started to hold out her arms to him, wanting desperately to bring him back to her, to feel the heaviness of him on top of her, to feel his warm breath against her cheek, her ear, but knowing now, realizing now as her brain cleared, that he was well and far away from her now. She was utterly alone. Slowly, saying nothing, for there was nothing to say, after all, she pulled the covers to her chin. She wanted to cover herself, to sink down under the protection of those covers, for he was gone now, almost as if he'd never been driving into her, making her quake and scream and heave like a madwoman.

He said, “Dammit.”

That was odd, she thought, and frowned. “Why do you curse? Did I do something wrong?”

His eyes narrowed even more on her face. “I hadn't meant that to happen.” She heard it now, the disgust in his voice.

Oh God, he was regretting all of it now. But she wasn't a shy tongue-tied maiden to be devastated. She had pride, but still it was difficult to keep her voice steady and calm, but she managed it, saying, “You didn't mean what to happen? You didn't want to stay with me?”

He shrugged then, and grabbed up his dressing gown. “Oh, I wanted to stay with you, Duchess, and that was my downfall, but it won't be again. Next time, I'll do what I must. Surely this one time won't matter, surely.”

“What are you talking about, Marcus?”

“You'll see,” he said, then grinned painfully. “Doubtless you'll see even before this bloody night is over.”

She'd expected—she didn't know what she'd expected. Perhaps some new sign of closeness from him, for what he'd made her feel had been more than she could ever have imagined. It had been glorious and beyond wonderful, and she'd been part of him even though he was a man, a being so utterly different from her in thought and strength and body. Unlike her, he hadn't seemed to care or notice or feel anything other than his man's release. She could have been Lisette or Celeste or any of the now faceless women who would probably be in his future. She couldn't bear it. She was nothing to him—a wife, a convenience. She couldn't bear to look at him. She turned her head away from him.

Marcus stared at her as his heart finally began to slow. He'd never experienced such untidy surges of raw feeling before with any woman in his life. And now with her, the bloodless Duchess, who was cold and contained and frigid and . . . what bloody nonsense. When he'd caressed her with his mouth she'd been more frantic, more uninhibited, than any woman he'd known in his adult life. And when he'd come into her, she'd become frenzied again, pulling him deep, bucking and yelling and it had made him into a savage, grunting over her, wanting to devour her, to absorb her into himself. Fool that he was, he'd been a part of her frenzied pleasure and he'd lost control. By God, he didn't
like that, didn't like what she'd made him do, didn't like what she'd made him feel.

He was lying to himself. He'd more than liked what she'd done to him then. But not now, not now that his brain had returned to functioning properly.

He said, as he flicked a fleck of lint from the sleeve of his dressing gown, not looking at her for he was going to lie to her now, not just to himself, “You surprised me, Duchess. You didn't just lie there and endure me. You didn't whimper or moan. Well, you moaned, but it was with pleasure not sufferance.”

Actually she'd screamed like the most lascivious woman ever born. She said nothing. She'd pressed her fist into her mouth.

“You were willing. You were more than willing. You appeared to want me more than the most skilled harlot—” He broke off, then continued more slowly now, his speech measured, “I didn't mean that. Forget I said it. What I meant was that you were not pretending. I know women well and I know when a woman feigns pleasure. No, you weren't dissembling. I find that vastly incredible.”

Tears seeped from her eyes and onto the fist stuffed in her mouth to keep all sound within her. She would die if he knew how he hurt her.

“I don't like it, Duchess. I don't like surprises and I don't like losing control. Is that what you wanted me to do? Lose control so that you would breed a son for this cursed earldom, for your cursed father who gave you what you wanted? Was it a deal the two of you struck? Well, it doesn't matter what your plots and plans may be. It won't happen again, not this way, in any case. I will see you later.”

As soon as the adjoining door closed with a sharp snap, she sat up and snuffed out the candles on the table beside the bed. There were more on the dresser and she rose. There was his seed on her and her steps faltered for a moment. She bathed herself, then snuffed out the other branch of candles.

She was sore, but it was a wonderful sore, a drawing sort of feeling that made her feel again those hidden places that were deep within her. She pulled her nightgown over her head and got back into bed, burrowing beneath the covers.

She lay awake for a very long time. He didn't come to her again that night.

 

When she awoke, the sunlight was bright in her bedchamber. She blinked and yawned, her mind blurred, for she was feeling again the warmth deep inside her, remembering the softness, the frenzy, the utter losing of herself within her and within him.

“Good morning.”

Slowly, she turned her head to face him. He was seated on the side of her bed, fully dressed in a riding habit and glossy black Hessians. One leg was crossed over the other. The softness was gone, the deep warmth naught but a senseless dream. She'd been a fool, naught but a witless fool.

“Did you sleep well?”

She nodded. “Yes, very well.”

“A man who knows what he's doing can bring a good night's sleep to a woman.”

“And vice versa?”

He frowned. “Yes, that is also true. And yes, I slept very well. Of course a man is much easier to please than a woman.” His frown deepened. “I didn't wake up during the night. If I had, I would have come back to you.”

He fell silent now, obviously brooding, swinging a booted foot. “You surprised me.”

She waited. She wanted desperately for him to tell her that he was pleased, that he found he now wanted her. That he hadn't meant what he'd said last night.

“Yes, you were a great surprise. So wild you became when I put my mouth on you. When I came inside you I thought you'd throw me off you were so frenzied.”

Surely he shouldn't be speaking so baldly about it, not now, not in the sunlight, but he was Marcus and he was her husband, and so she said honestly, “I felt things I've never imagined could be. I couldn't help it.”

“No, I daresay that if you could have stopped yourself from being so very frantic and savage, you would have.” He paused then, and she wondered what he was thinking. Then she wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. He'd said it last night. In a thin voice barely above a whisper she said, “You shouldn't have been so surprised, Marcus, that I acted like a harlot. After all, didn't you believe my gown last night was a tart's gown, like a gown my mother would have worn? Why shouldn't I react to a man like my mother undoubtedly did to my father? You called me savage and wild. Perhaps lewd and promiscuous would do as well, given the bastard I am, given my mother was a rich man's mistress, his bought whore.”

“I do not find you amusing. What you are doing,” he said coldly, “is giving over to melodrama. It doesn't suit you.”

She only shook her head. She'd said it and he hadn't denied it, just steered clear of it. He rose and began to pace the bedchamber. She saw he was carrying a riding crop. He was slapping it against his right thigh as he paced. He turned then, saying, “That damned impertinent Spears was hovering over me this morning, indeed, it was he who woke me because in my dreams I could hear his breathing and see that vicar's disapproving face of his, and he was exhorting me not to be a sinner, and when I woke up there he was.”

She said nothing.

“Silent? Yes, of course, you're always silent. That way, you never put yourself on the line, do you? You never have to take a risk. Well, it doesn't matter. Spears knew I'd been in your bed, doubtless doing despicable things to your fair person. He was concerned. No doubt Badger was outside the door anxiously awaiting a full report. I told him to go bugger himself. He drew himself up proud as
the Prince Regent, only without the huge belly, and said in that insubordinate bland voice of his that he would fetch his lordship's bath. Then, I daresay, he left to confer with Badger, the disloyal sod.”

He lightly slapped his riding crop against his open left hand. “Should I have told him that you were more than willing for me to be with you? Should I have mentioned your screams, the way you lurched and trembled and quivered when I touched you? No, I suppose not. Leave him with his belief that you are the Madonna reincarnated. You're silent. No matter. Your red-haired maid is wrong. You're beyond passable. There's no need for any stretching at all. You're bloody beautiful with that black hair of yours all tangled around your face, and your mouth looks red and swollen. Was I too rough with you?” He leaned down and planted an arm on either side of her. His breath was sweet and warm on her cheek. “Perhaps a bit swollen, but very soft too. I have things to do else I'd stay and kiss you and if I did, then those covers would be around your dainty ankles and I'd be freeing my sex and coming into you so fast you would surely faint from the boorishness of it. No, if I did that, I doubt strongly that you'd behave as you did last night. Yes, you would swoon.”

She looked up into his blue eyes and said, “Perhaps not.”

He jerked, looked uncertainly at her mouth, then forced himself to straighten. “I will see you later.”

He was gone then and she was left to wonder what was in his mind. She'd surprised him a bit. That was something, she supposed. Maggie came in then, doubtless sent by Marcus, and soon she was bathed and perfumed and powdered and dressed in a becoming, quite modest morning dress of white cambric muslin with two deep flounces at the hem. The gown fell gracefully to her ankles where the ribbons of her white slippers were tied in a small bow over her white stockings. The gown also looked exquisitely sweet with its small puffed sleeves. A well-bred
just-out-of-the-schoolroom gown fit for a shy debutante. Why had she ever considered the bloody thing? She knew the answer to that. She'd bought it when she didn't know a blessed thing about what went on between men and women, more to the point, what Marcus would do to her and make her feel.

She sighed and pulled the bodice down as far as she could, but there was no cleavage in sight. There were two rows of lace that reached nearly to the pulse in her neck.

Maggie said, “Whatever are you doing, Duchess? Don't ruin the line of this lovely gown. Ah, I see. You want to entice his lordship. Well, cleavage is all well and good, but not necessary, not with your other assets.”

The Duchess laughed, a rueful, perhaps even wistful laugh, and Maggie fell silent for a moment, but only for a moment. “Now, you heed me. At least long hair is back in fashion. All those mincing little coiffure fools with their snapping scissors won't be balding any more ladies' heads. Let's keep the fat braids on top of your head with the tendrils dangling down to your shoulders. Those silly little ringlets you're supposed to pile over your ears don't become you, not as they do me. I was made to wear them, what with my brilliant glorious red hair, but you weren't.

“And stop worrying that he won't notice your other things. Men always notice things, particularly a lady's things, though they'll pretend not to, at least overtly, since they're supposed to be gentlemen, at least around ladies.”

This monologue left the Duchess momentarily deprived of words. “I understand, Maggie,” she said at last. “Thank you.”

Maggie beamed at her and patted her own hair, all done up this morning in those impossible little ringlets on each side of her face that did indeed look quite alluring on her. “Now, you go downstairs and have breakfast.”

* * *

Badger was waiting for her in the breakfast room, a smallish nearly circular room that was filled with bright sunlight pouring in through the big windows that faced toward the east of the house. The table wasn't large enough for all the relatives currently descended upon Chase Park and she imagined they'd dined in the formal dining room. She was thankfully alone. She could see through the lime, maple, and oak trees and the thick well-trimmed bushes to the stables.

“You are pale and too thin. Eat this porridge, it's from a Scots recipe and I made it myself.”

She allowed him to seat her and eyed the steaming oats before her. “I hate porridge, Badger. I'm not thin. It's this silly little girl's gown that makes me look unsatisfactory.”