The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  Hugo forced himself to watch Lucinda’s reply, waiting for her to fall into her savior’s arms. The Duke of Vale had proved to be what Hugo had known instinctively, a good man behind a mask, a man who had continued his quest to help a woman in jeopardy. He obviously cared for her. He’d risked his life for her, for God’s sake. He was the kind of man Lucinda deserved—charming, wealthy, and clearly enamored.

  Amazingly, she didn’t move.

  The duke’s cold gaze flittered around the silent group, coming to rest on Hugo in question.

  Aware of Lucinda’s gaze fixed on his face, Hugo shook his head. He backed toward Grif at the fence.

  The duke took a deep breath. A rare smile curved his thin mouth, turning his face from cynical devil to dark angel. “Lady Denbigh,” Vale said. “I would be honored if you would agree to be my wife?”

  Hugo turned, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ached, his heart picking up so much speed he had trouble breathing. What woman would refuse the wealthiest man in England and a duke to boot? And she shouldn’t. After all she’d suffered, she deserved the best of life. All Hugo had to offer was a mountain of debts and a heart encased in ice. He would be little better than her dead husband. And besides, she’d already given him her answer. I would never give you that kind of power over me. She’d been right not to trust him.

  Yet somehow he wasn’t surprised when she shook her head. “You are too kind, your grace.” Lucinda’s clear soft voice broke through his attempt to block it out. “But I do not love you.” She cast him a swift yearning glance.

  He stamped out the flicker of hope. Love was a foolish foundation on which to build a marriage. It weakened a man and made getting through life impossibly painful. Love required a man’s soul, and he’d left his in Spain, buried beneath the hot dry soil.

  Give her time to think the duke’s offer through and she’d realize the advantages. If not, she’d return to her family. Hugo caught Grif’s reins and unhooked them from the peeling fence.

  He thrust his foot in the stirrup and dragged himself into the saddle. He stared down at her from Grif’s back, drinking in her slowly widening fathomless eyes, the way she lifted her chin, the sweet curve of her cheek. He forced words past his stiff lips. “The duke makes a good offer, Lady Denbigh. The best you’ll get.” He touched his hat and turned Grif down the lane.

  • • •

  Catherine rushed to Lucinda’s side to put an arm around her shoulders, but Lucinda couldn’t take her gaze from the broad back riding away. Hugo didn’t want her. Her arms went around her waist at the sudden wave of nausea. She was carrying his child, and he didn’t want her. He didn’t know about the child. Perhaps if she told him . . .

  And force herself on a man who’d rejected her out of hand after she’d as good as declared her love? What had happened? Before he knew about Denbigh, he had wanted to marry her. A sense of betrayal warred with confusion. Why was it different now she was Denbigh’s widow? She glanced at the draped form on the ground and shuddered. What had changed his mind? The duke’s offer of marriage?

  She had to know. She turned to Postlethwaite. “Can I stay here for a few more days?”

  Postlethwaite’s mouth dropped open. Catherine gave a gasp of astonishment.

  The duke flashed a rather pained smile. “Your family has been worried sick since you disappeared, you know. They will be relieved to discover you are safe.”

  “You have spoken to them?” Lucinda asked.

  “Scrips is their man. Your brother Geoffrey hired him. When I discovered we were on the same errand, we joined forces. The child threw us off track for a while.”

  “Geoffrey is in England?”

  Vale nodded. “Scrips sent him a message yesterday. Your brother, possibly even your father, will no doubt arrive tomorrow, Lady Denbigh,” Vale said. “They both agreed to support you against your husband.”

  “Coming here? To the vicarage?”

  The duke raised a brow at the still stunned-looking vicar. “Can Lady Denbigh remain here until her brother arrives?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I won’t hear of it. Lady Denbigh, you will stay at the Hall until you feel well enough to travel.”

  Postlethwaite breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  A feeling of numbness seemed to invade Lucinda’s chest. Not even the news of her family’s arrival pierced the strange emptiness.

  “If you’ll take my advice, your grace,” Scrips put in, “you’ll get to a doctor as soon as maybe. Bullet’s still in there. Have it out, or by morning you’ll be cocking up your toes. We’ll take a room at the local inn. I’ll send the magistrate back to look at the body and take statements.”

  “Timely reminder, Scrips,” the duke said on a weary sigh. “Hopefully the pesky inn will have rooms for us.”

  Scrips assisted him to the carriage. “They’ll make room, yer grace.”

  “I’ll ride ahead,” Mr. Brown said, “have a word with Peddle, send for the doctor, and then ride for the squire.”

  “Good idea,” Catherine said. “Father loves playing magistrate, and he won’t be happy if you do not call him right away. Perhaps you would also request my mother to expect a guest?” She took Lucinda’s arm. “I think you should come indoors, Mrs. Graham. I mean, Lady Denbigh. I think we could all use a cup of tea.”

  “And biscuits,” Sophia said with a little hop and a smile on her tear-stained face.

  Lucinda forced her gaze away from where Hugo had disappeared at the end of the lane and pulled Sophia close to her side. “Yes. A cup of tea would be just the thing.” And some time to gather her wits.

  • • •

  “Are you sure you are all right?” Catherine’s gentle voice asked when tea was over and Sophia was tucked in bed for a nap.

  Lucinda hesitated, looking into Catherine’s sympathetic if puzzled eyes and drew a deep breath. “I do not understand why Hugo . . . Lord Wanstead left like that. What did I do wrong?”

  Like a tiny bird, Catherine pursed her lips and slowly shook her head. “I can’t help you, I’m afraid. His father was a harsh disciplinarian, a cold man, but Hugo was always kind and gentle, more like his mother for all he looks just like his father.” Catherine looked down at her hands folded in her lap and sighed. “The army does seem to have changed him, made him stern and remote.” She glanced up. “Except when he looks at you.” She shrugged. “We’ve all changed. Look at Arthur. He never cared about clothes and gambling. Now he is a dandy of the worst sort.”

  “Hugo certainly seemed relieved when Vale proposed.” The pain of that moment came back to strike another blow at her heart.

  Catherine’s eyes shone unshed tears. “I cannot think what to tell you.”

  Lucinda rose to her feet and paced in front of the hearth, twisting her handkerchief around her fingers. After meeting Denbigh, had the disgust Hugo felt for her husband rubbed off on her? Could she ever be satisfied if she did not hear the truth from his lips? “I must speak with him.”

  “I could invite him to the Hall tomorrow.”

  “No. I have to broach him alone.” Catherine’s eyes widened, but Lucinda continued, “Today is Wednesday. I will go to the Grange after dinner, the moment Sophia settles.” She would accost the bear in his cave, poke him with a stick, and see if she could make him roar.

  Catherine caught at her hand and stopped her rapid steps. “You are very daring.”

  Lucinda smiled and shook her head. “With my parents arriving tomorrow, this might be my only chance. May I borrow a horse?”

  • • •

  Dark had fallen hours before Lucinda crept through the Grange’s kitchen garden. She inhaled the scent of lavender on her way past the rampant bush beside the path. Only reflections from the new moon glittered on the diamond-paned windows across the back of the house. No glow from within. The last time she had crept around in the dark, she had been on the run from London. That long-ago night had brought her to Hugo.

  Tense, breath held, heart pounding in her che
st, she pressed down on the back-door latch. Perhaps she was wrong and Wednesday was no longer the servants’ night off.

  Gliding across the kitchen, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as if she could sense someone watching. She stopped. The clock ticked on the mantel, and the banked fire cast a red glow over clean pots and polished tile. And not a sign or sound of any of the servants. A movement, at the hearth. Belderone lifted his great head, his black nose quivering.

  “It is me,” she whispered.

  The dog thumped its tail once and let its head fall back to its crossed paws.

  “Fine watch dog you are.”

  The door to the passageway creaked as she drew it back. She stopped, listening. Silence. She tiptoed into the great hall. Empty. Apart from a lantern on the stairs, there were no lights and no sounds from the study or the library. She peeked through their doors just to be sure. No one.

  Her heart sank. Could he have already left to rejoin the army? One hand gripping the cool balustrade, the other lifting her skirts high in readiness for flight, she climbed the stairs.

  Outside Hugo’s chamber, she paused. This room, too, appeared to be in darkness.

  With fingers that trembled, she turned the knob a fraction at a time until the latch slid back. Under her gentle pressure, the door cracked open. She waited. Listening. The bed ropes creaked. A muffled curse. The sound of heavy breathing. Awake breathing? Or the deep breath of a sleeping man? She pushed the door a fraction wider. No challenge rang out, so she slipped inside.

  Body taut, she lingered at the door waiting for her eyes to adjust. The fastened-back shutters permitted the moon to fling eerie shadows on the floor and the walls. Furniture slowly took shape—the armchair against the wall, the glint of a brass handle on the dresser, its mirror reflecting moonbeams onto the great bed.

  Ready to run, she crept to the side of the bed closest to the door. Hugo’s naked chest rose and fell, his eyes remained shadowed. Was he watching her, waiting to pounce when she drew close enough? The scent of soap and sleeping man assailed her nostrils, tempting and scary.

  He rolled onto his side, punching at the pillow as if it contained rocks. Not so peacefully asleep, then. Would he be furious at her invasion?

  What had triggered his rejection this afternoon? Had the cruel jibes of her husband made him see her through Denbigh’s eyes as disgustingly fat? If so, by coming to see him she was in for a hefty dose of mortification.

  She crept closer. Stretched out in the center of the huge bed, his torso gleamed like polished pewter in the moon’s cold light. A moonbeam grazed a cheek hazed with stubble, deepening the crease between his brows and hollowing his cheeks. He seemed so alone in the great bed.

  He shifted. The covers slid down to his waist. He groaned and rolled away from her. Stock-still, she waited until once more his breath evened out. She relaxed her shoulders and watched the wide chest expand with each indrawn breath. A beautiful man.

  Her mouth dried at the sight of his powerful muscular body and the curve of his firm buttocks. How she’d missed him these last few weeks. Missed his touch, his heat, the pleasure of his flesh buried inside her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and remembered how she’d decided to say goodbye on the night of the fête, when as a married women she’d been wrong to carry on an affair. Circumstances had changed. Why then had he handed her over to the duke like a worn pair of shoes?

  Had it been relief she’d seen in his gaze, or regret? If only she could be sure. She had to discover what had caused the breach, plumb its depths, even if he did savage her heart like a wounded bear.

  On tiptoes, she merged into the shadows near the head of the bed, afraid he might see her, wishing he would. All the time she scarcely dared to breathe. She stripped off her gown. Stays and chemise dropped to the floor with a whisper. Teeth clamped tight to prevent their clatter, she eased out of her shoes and stockings.

  God, she felt cold. Anyone would think it was the middle of winter. Fright made her cold. Fear held her in its thrall. She knew the feeling too well, but never with Hugo. Perhaps he would roll over and see her, taking the final decision from her hands. Fingers clenched on the edge of the sheet, she waited. If anything he seemed to breathe more deeply.

  Now. If she didn’t do this now, she’d give in, the way she always had. For once she was in control. To find peace, she had to see this through to the end, no matter how painful.

  Lifting the corner of the sheet, she perched on the edge of the bed and felt the cool linen against her bare thighs and buttocks. Slow, like thistledown landing on water, she slipped beneath the cover. The air didn’t move as the mattress sank beneath her weight. She lay back on the pillow, stiff and straight, the way she had lain waiting so many nights in Mayfair. But in those days she had not been waiting for Hugo.

  She wriggled deeper into the bed, warmed her hands beneath her armpits, and then touched her fingertips to his warm silken back.

  His breath hitched.

  She froze, remaining still until his breathing became easy and smooth. Was he imitating sleep, ignoring her presence in the hope she’d leave? She turned on her side and edged herself closer until they lay like two spoons in a drawer. His bottom fitted into her lap, pressed against her curls with a most pleasurable tickle.

  She nuzzled his knobby spine, licked his skin, tasted salt and musky male. Hugo. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder blade and ran her finger along the outside of his ear.

  A breath hissed into the dark. His backside pushed deeper into her groin, firing sparks of pleasure at the outer lips to her entrance. Heat flushed her skin and desire tightened low in her belly.

  She traced the smooth contour of his upper arm, trying to drum up courage. Hesitantly, she reached over his arm to rub his nipple with her thumb.

  He growled low in his throat. The sound made her quicken and ache.

  Hugo. Her bear. The thought made her smile.

  He flipped onto his back. She jerked away, escaped being crushed beneath his shoulder by inches. He flung his arms above his head. Awake or asleep, he certainly wasn’t protesting, and now she had much better access to his glorious body.

  When he made no further move, she dared to resume her exploration. This time she stroked the hard ridges of his stomach. They flickered beneath her palm, hard, warm, full of life, incredibly vigorous. She propped herself on her elbow and leaned over him to taste the nearest manly nipple. The rough hair tickled her lips and her tongue. The tiny bead stiffened to attention.

  Interesting. She ran her palm over her breast and felt the nipple harden. She rubbed it against his bicep and shivered at the delicious sensation firing rockets of pleasure to her core. She bit back a moan of desire and raked his large body with a greedy gaze. He lay immobile, eyes closed, expression tight but not grim, legs spread wide, the sheet tenting at his groin.

  Completely at her wicked mercy.

  Touch him there, a naughty voice goaded. The bold idea jolted her insides. Desire heightened. She worked the sheet down until his mighty phallus lay exposed, curving up toward his navel in virile glory. She swallowed at the sight of a tiny bead of gleaming moisture at its dark tip.

  In a sudden unexpected move, his hand came to his groin. She froze as he adjusted the dark-skinned sack beneath his rigid shaft, then his fingers encircled his straining member, stroking its length with swift jerks. The purple tip emerged to its fullest extent and seemed to swell with each downward stroke. He moaned with pleasure.

  Instinctively, she reached out and curled her fingers around the hot base below his fist, feeling wiry curls against her hand.

  He stilled, his hand falling to his side.

  She held her breath.

  His hips arched up, driving his cock through her closed hand, the hot velvet skin gliding against her palm. She squeezed. He groaned deep in his throat and deepened the thrust of his hips, covering her fingers with his, encouraging her to grip tighter, to follow his lead.

  She darted a glance
at his face. Was he really sleeping? His eyes remained closed, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of her caress. It felt good, this slide of skin over a shaft of hot rigid flesh. Pleasurable. Her quim stirred with its own demand, tightening insistent longing.

  This was wicked and madness. She swallowed. She’d been insane to climb in his bed like a woman of the night. Did she really want to suffer more embarrassment? If he awoke and found her toying with his body as if she owned it, he’d be appalled by her wantonness. She released him.

  Quick as a flash, he caught her around the waist, pulled her on top of him, her chest against his thundering heart, his hand fumbling to bring himself inside her, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear. He wanted her. Even in sleep, desire etched deep lines around his mouth and heated his body to fever pitch.

  And she wanted him. Just as flowers wither from lack of sunlight in winter, her heart had shriveled at the thought she would never see his face again or feel the magic of his touch. The tears trapped in her throat made it difficult to breathe.

  She knelt astride him, nudged the tip of his hard male flesh into her wet, welcoming passage.

  A breath hissed from between his teeth as if the heat inside him had been released in steam.

  She lowered herself down his length, felt her insides stretching to accommodate his width and length. Closing her eyes, feeling the throb of his blood inside her, she pressed down until she could go no further.

  His hands came to her hips, and he arched into her, pressing deeper, fraction by fraction, until she felt his stones against the cheeks of her bottom.

  He let go the long sigh of someone who has come home to safe harbor. “Lucinda. Love.”

  The tears sprang to her eyes at the sound of her name coupled with the one word she longed to hear, even if he never knew it had crossed his lips.

  She looked down at the place where they joined, where his body entered hers, their damp curls mingling and glistening. Desire forced her to rise, to create that wonderful friction. She squeezed tight in anticipation of the next downward slide.