To Desire a Wicked Duke (25 page)

Tess was suddenly straining against him also, as if she’d die if she ceased touching him, ceased kissing him.

Reaching between her thighs, Ian stroked her sex, probing urgently. The cream of her arousal soaked his fingers in an instant. Tess whimpered, and when he delved even deeper, she gave a soft sob.

He rolled her over then and covered her body with his. He felt her sigh burst against his lips as he entered her in one long, slow thrust.

Ian sighed harshly himself as her lush folds enveloped him, creamy hot and wet. It was like plunging into molten honey, and it was his undoing.

His body bucked just as she went rigid and began to sob. Groaning, he preceded her shivering convulsions in a climax that was bright and brilliant and explosive, her sweet cries of pleasure mingling with his hoarse shout of release.

When their shudders at last subsided, Ian collapsed to one side of her shoulder, barely having the strength to spare Tess his weight. He could scarcely believe his lack of control. No other woman had ever affected him this strongly.

Yet he no longer marveled at his wild physical response to Tess. The powerful sexual drive churning in his blood was matched only by his possessiveness. Already he wanted her again—yet he had to remember her inexperience. He had to be gentle with Tess, at least until she could grow accustomed to the demands he made on her body.

Easing off her, he drew Tess’s naked form against him, lying with her head on his shoulder.

The sigh she gave was sated and content, although her voice was hoarse and held a teasing note when she spoke. “Admit it, Ian, you came very close to begging me.”

Indeed, he had. But he would not share that thought aloud. “I would say we came to a draw this time.”

She glanced up at him, her mouth fighting a smile. “Very well, I will acknowledge a draw. But if I am to have a fair chance at winning, you must teach me more about passion.”

“What more do you need to learn? Your knowledge seems more than adequate now.”

“Not adequate enough. You have a vast advantage over me. If you show me the secrets of being an ideal lover, it will put us on more equal footing.”

He pressed a light kiss on the crown of her head. “I will be happy to oblige, darling. I am surprised you know so little about lovemaking,” he added absently.

Her eyebrow lifted. “Why would you be surprised? Setting aside the fact that ladies are supposed to remain chaste until after marriage, where would I have gained any experience?”

“From Richard. I would never have thought he would be slow in that arena.”

Ian felt Tess stiffen at the mention of her betrothed.

“Richard was a gentleman,” she replied in his defense. “He never attempted more than a kiss or two. And we never had much opportunity for anything else. He was away with his regiment for much of the time we were betrothed.”

Ian’s jaw hardened for a moment. He was infinitely glad his cousin hadn’t had the chance to spoil Tess’s
innocence. But he should never have brought up the subject.

Seeking to distract her, Ian drew a finger over her swollen lips. “So you wish me to share my secrets, hmmm? Where would you like to begin?”

Tess allowed him to divert her attention, even though the reference to Richard had unsettled her. Eventually they fell asleep from sated exhaustion, but later when she woke from a doze, as she lay beside her sleeping husband, her thoughts returned to her late betrothed.

Her marriage was nothing like what she’d dreamed of when she accepted Richard’s proposal. She had loved him a great deal, both as a friend and future husband, yet she honestly had never felt much
passion
for him. Certainly not the kind of fiery sparks she always felt for Ian.

Richard had been kind and gentle and sweet and compassionate. He frequently made her laugh, and even when she was vexed with him, he always managed to charm her out of her ill mood.

Ian, on the other hand, made her burn for him and yearn for something more exciting and fulfilling.

Still, despite the danger of being swept up in an ardor beyond her control, she could justify her decision to share his bed, Tess reflected defensively. Simply because Ian could arouse her body did
not
mean she would lose her heart to him.

Yes, he made her feel a fierce desire for him. It was also true that he fired her emotions by challenging her, that he forced her to
feel
.

But she relished that exhilarating sensation and
had no intention of giving it up. She would never return to that numb state she had existed in for the past two years, Tess vowed. She refused to let life pass her by, to grow old wondering what might have been.

Her hopes of having a loving marriage would likely elude her, but at least she could have passion.

Moreover, she was not as vulnerable now, Tess knew. It was quite possible that she’d fallen so earnestly in love with Richard because she had recently lost both her parents, but she was much stronger now, and fully on her guard.

Hearing Ian’s quiet breathing, she opened her eyes and studied him as he slept. His striking features were softer in repose, but she would not make the mistake of thinking he had a heart.

After today’s sensual battles, she felt much more optimistic that she could enjoy their nuptial bed, but keep their physical relations from leading to anything more intimate. Especially if Ian was willing to teach her how to be his ideal lover. She was a quick study, and she would use his expert skills to further arm herself against her handsome husband.

With that comforting thought, Tess once more closed her eyes and slept.

Ian continued her lessons in passion that afternoon, although making allowances for the unaccustomed tenderness of Tess’s body. Her overheated senses were still throbbing when she returned to her own bedchamber later to dress for dinner, and it required significant effort to focus on such mundane tasks as ringing for her maid and choosing what gown to wear.

Alice was arranging Tess’s hair when Fanny knocked and wandered into the room. Giving a big yawn, Fanny said she had just risen from a nap after being up a good part of the night guarding the cave—which had all been for naught.

“It is disheartening that our efforts yielded no results,” the courtesan complained. “We saw nothing of any smugglers last night, or anyone else for that matter.”

Tess started to reply that it was too early to deem their plan to catch the smugglers a failure, but a sudden muffled cry interrupted her.

All three women started at the strange sound, although only Alice vocalized her fear.

“Was that the
ghost
?” the maid breathed in a hoarse whisper.

When the eerie cry came again from near the hearth—something between a groan and a tormented scream—the hair on the back of Tess’s neck stood up.

Alice exclaimed,
“Heaven save us,”
while Tess rose from her dressing table and moved cautiously toward the hearth.

“Your grace … please, take care,” Alice pleaded.

“I will,” Tess murmured in return. “But I believe that was a human sound and not one made by a ghost.”

She picked up a fire iron to use as a weapon and approached the secret panel they’d discovered the previous day. With a glance behind her, she saw that Fanny had also armed herself with a large china figurine.

Inhaling slowly to calm her pounding heartbeat, Tess pressed on the catch point and slid the panel aside. The passageway was fairly dark, but she could hear the rough rasp of labored breathing to her left.

Gripping the iron harder, Tess peered inside. To her astonishment she saw a form lying there, a man from the looks of it. Since he was shifting restlessly on his back, he clearly wasn’t dead, but appeared to be asleep. Just then he cried out again, likely in the throes of a nightmare.

Repressing a wince, Tess called softly over her shoulder, “Alice, there is a man slumbering in the passageway. Go and fetch the duke—quickly. And send whatever footmen you can find. I think we have solved the mystery of our castle ghost.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Alice hurried to do her bidding. Tess sank down on her knees and inched a bit further inside the passage, although keeping the iron in front of her.

The sleeping man was dressed in a ragged coat and trousers and emitted the foul odor she recognized from her bad dream. She was debating whether to wake him when he abruptly opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. Upon seeing Tess, he shrank back in alarm.

The left sleeve of his coat was half empty, she noted. He was missing much of one arm, and his features were gaunt and grimy as well as being flushed with fever.

Tess’s fear suddenly diminished a measure, to be replaced by a powerful rush of pity. She had seen too many such men over the past two years. Forlorn relics of humanity lying in hospital beds—if they were fortunate enough to even
have
beds. Former soldiers and seamen dressed in rags and missing limbs, their grimy, unwashed bodies mere skin and bones, their tormenting memories making them cry out in their sleep.

When her bedchamber door swung back with a bang to admit a footman, the one-armed man shrieked and cowered in fear. That, too, was indicative of soldiers who had seen the horrors of battle.

Tess quickly held up a hand behind her to stay the servant, and said in a low soothing voice to the frightened man, “It is all right, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He blinked in the dim light. “Sal, is that you?”

Tess hesitated, wondering if she should pretend to be someone else to ease his apprehension. “Won’t you
come out, please?” she coaxed instead. “You must be chilled sleeping in there on the hard floor.”

“Eh?” He turned one side of his face toward her. “I canna hear too well in one ear.”

Raising her voice, she repeated her request. When he nodded, Tess backed out but remained on her knees, trying to appear unthreatening.

The man eventually crawled out from the passageway, but stayed hunched down, like a wary animal, his eyes darting around the room until finally coming to rest on Tess. “You are not Sal.”

“No, my name is Tess,” she said gently.

“I thought ye were Sal … my daughter.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Ned … Ned Crutchley.”

“Were you a soldier, Ned?”

“Aye, a gunner. Served with the Royal Artillery under General Lord Mulgrave.”

Which doubtless explained his loss of hearing, Tess reflected. The continuous explosions from cannon bombardments had deafened many a gunner.

“You seem to be ill, Ned. Do you have a fever?”

“Aye, summat. Lost me arm at Wa’erloo. Never healed proper. Gives me a brain fever sometimes.”

Tess felt her heart twist. From the terrible accounts she’d heard, the Battle of Waterloo, where Allied armies had finally defeated Napoleon Bonaparte once and for all, had been hell on earth. So much blood had been shed, so many lives lost, including her beloved Richard’s. Even the men who had survived physically sometimes suffered from mental trauma.

She knew because she had spent countless hours sitting by the bedsides of wounded and dying war veterans,
holding frail hands, sometimes reading aloud, sometimes singing, sometimes simply speaking in a low, soothing voice about nothing much at all.

Recognizing Ned’s plight, Tess came to a decision. Her aim had to be to make him feel safe for now. They could sort out the issues of his ghostly behavior later.

Just then, however, she heard the sound of pounding footsteps. An instant later, Ian burst into the room, holding a pistol, his expression fierce.

When Ned jumped and tried to crawl back into the passage, Tess placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said hastily, “It is all right, Ned. This is my husband, Ian. He will not hurt you either, I promise you.”

Ned stilled at the soothing sound of her voice, but then he simply collapsed on the carpet. Curling into a fetal ball, he lay there cringing, his one hand covering an ear as he rocked back and forth, moaning.