“You and my son love each other,” the Dowager Duchess had said, squeezing Deborah’s hands tightly. “And that is all that matters.”
Deborah drew in her breath. Yes, she loved Leonard more than she had ever thought possible. And she was ready to become his wife. She turned to face her mother. “Yes,” she said with a smile. “I’m ready. Take me to be married.”
Leonard was awash with emotion as he watched Deborah make her way down the aisle. How achingly beautiful she looked—not just her glorious turquoise gown, but the radiant smile that lit up her face. He felt such an overwhelming sense of pride.
After all she had been through, after all she had learned, here she was, able to carry herself with such confidence, such poise. His heart swelled with love.
And as she approached, Leonard made a silent promise to himself.
I will make certain that the rest of your life is a joyful one. I will see to it that these dreadful memories fade into the background…
As she reached the altar, Leonard caught her fingers in his and gave them a gentle squeeze. He looked into her eyes, silently conveying his promise. She responded with a gentle smile of her own and he knew she had understood.
They spoke their vows in soft, loving voices, as the winter sun streamed through the stained glass above their heads. In the wake of all that had happened, they had decided against the lavish celebration Lord Chilson had planned. In its place was this small, intimate ceremony, surrounded by their closest family and friends.
Out of the corner of his eye, Leonard could see his mother in the front pew, Phineas on one side of her and Florentina on the other, wriggling excitedly in her seat like a wind-up toy. His mother was smiling broadly while tears rolled down her cheeks.
On the other side of the aisle sat Lady Chilson, in a similar tearful state to the Dowager Duchess. And there was Mrs. Barton, there was Annie, there was Sarah, all come to wish them well and to put the past behind them.
Deborah sighed happily and leaned against her husband as the coach rattled through the streets. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, painting the sky a vivid orange. The last rays of light streamed through the carriage window, warming Deborah’s cheek.
The day had been wonderful. Though she had feared the ton might revert to their usually gossiping ways, she had been surrounded by nothing but well-wishing friends and family, had felt endless support and love.
But now there was nothing she wanted more than to be alone with her husband. To give herself to him entirely, to be his in every way.
As thought reading her thoughts, Leonard lurched forward and pressed his lips hard against hers. Her mouth opened beneath his, his hot tongue tangling with her own. His hand slid over the side of her ribs, his thumb grazing the side of her breast.
Deborah sighed with need. She ached for him. Longed for the feel of his hands on her body. But she did not want this to be a fast and frantic thing in the back of a carriage. She wanted it to be slow, endless. She wanted to remember every second of it. “Not yet,” she breathed, with more than a hint of reluctance. The feel of Leonard’s hand against her chest had set a fire blazing inside her. “Just a little longer.”
He smiled. “I’m not sure I can wait.” But he pulled his hand away, and entangled his fingers with her own.
After a seemingly interminable carriage ride, they rolled through the gates of the Tarsington manor.
Home.
Deborah felt a smile on her lips. Lamps glittered on either side of the front door, welcoming them to the manor.
Leonard’s hand in hers, they made their way through the glow of the entrance hall and up the grand staircase toward their bedchamber. He led her inside and locked the door behind them.
Deborah let out her breath at the vast, canopied bed in the center of the room. Crisp white curtains hung above the bed, elaborately embroidered coverlets swathed across the mattress. She smiled to herself. It was made even more beautiful by the fact that she would be waking up in it each morning beside the husband she loved.
Leonard came toward her and carefully unhooked her cloak, letting the velvet fall to the floor with a sigh. He ran his fingers gently over Deborah’s bare arms, causing a faint sigh to escape her lips.
“The first time you called on me,” she said with a smile, “I was so nervous I spilled the tea all over you. Do you remember?”
Leonard chuckled. “I remember.” His eyes met hers. “I remember the way your cheeks colored and your words tangled.” He smiled gently. “And are you nervous now?”
She pressed a hand to the side of his face.
Was it truly only weeks ago I was that jittery, nervous child?
Now, she was just as besotted with Leonard as she had ever been, but being around him filled her with nothing but joy and love.
“No,” she said, her voice low. “No. I’m not nervous at all.”
And before she could take a breath, his lips were on hers, forceful, possessive. His kiss was hot and hungry, his fingers sliding between the delicate blonde curls piled up on her head. She responded instinctively, grabbing a fistful of his coat and tugging hard until he shrugged out of the garment. Her fingers kept moving, tugging at his silky cravat, finding the buttons on his waistcoat.
Breathlessly, Deborah broke the kiss and turned her back to her husband, presenting him with the row of tiny hooks on the back of her wedding gown.
He chuckled, pushing his lips into her neck. “Will you forgive me if I tear them?” His fingers worked feverishly to free her from the gown.
Deborah breathed hard, impatient. She wanted to be free of the gown, wanted herself exposed. Leonard tugged it down over her shoulders, his lips working their way along the back of her neck. He yanked at the lacing on her stays, pushing her petticoats downwards and turning her to face him.
Deborah stood before him in nothing but her thin shift. There was something so thrilling about standing before her husband like this. She wanted him to see every inch of her. She looked into his eyes and pulled her shift over her head. She tossed it onto the floor beside her wedding gown.
She felt Leonard’s eyes moving over her naked body, his gaze searing her skin, making heat pulse inside her. He slid a gentle hand down her cheek, over her neck and collarbone, stopping as it reached her breast. His thumb traced delicate circles over her skin and Deborah heard herself gasp.
She reached out and snatched at Leonard’s shirt, tugging it up over his head. She pressed her lips against the sparse curls of hair on his chest. His thumb kept moving, circling the peak of her nipple. She sighed and moaned against his chest.
And suddenly she was lifted up in his arms, being carried toward the palatial bed. He lay her gently on the silky sheets and looked down at her with eyes full of love. Deborah pulled him down into a deep kiss.
With his body close to hers, Deborah’s hips moved upwards instinctively, needing him, aching for him. His hand slid up her bare thigh, finding the gathering dampness between her legs.
She cried out, the sudden jolt of pleasure tearing through her. And in an instant, she did not want it to be slow, did not care about remembering every second. She wanted him now. Needed him now.
“Please,” she managed, her voice raspy. She reached down to find the buttons on his trousers. Could feel him straining against her.
Leonard slid off the last of his clothes and looked down to meet her eyes. His breath was fast and hot against her nose.
He eased himself into her, slowly, carefully, a deep groan of pleasure escaping his lips. Deborah knotted her hands in his hair, dizzy with the intensity of this pleasure tinged with pain.
Leonard kissed her deeply. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
Unable to speak, she just nodded.
Yes. I’m far better than all right.
He began to move inside her, slowly at first, then faster, their cries of pleasure growing louder, mingling with each other’s. Deborah clung to him, feeling utterly out of control of her own body. She
didn’t want to be in control. This powerlessness felt indescribably wonderful.
She felt the pleasure building. Heard the sounds that came from her lips growing in intensity. And finally the pleasure flooded her, leaving her breathless. Leonard groaned against her ear as he claimed his own release.
Deborah wrapped her legs around him, feeling the waves of warmth rush over her. She felt as though she were floating, dizzy and free. She never wanted to return to Earth.
Leonard rolled onto his side and pulled her into him, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. Neither of them spoke. What was there to say? Everything about this night had been achingly perfect.
Deborah felt a peace inside her that she had not experienced since before Edith’s death. And with it was the certainty that everything would be all right. She closed her eyes and curled up against her husband, feeling his heart beating beside her own.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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Tempting the Ruined Duke
About the Book
There is something beautiful about his scars. Something that tells her he is the one.
Talented artist Louisa Notley finds herself in the awkward position of having to paint the portrait of the new Duke of Munboro. When she sees his face for the first time, her life changes completely.
Having no other choice but to accept his duties as the new Duke of Munboro, Jeremy Harper must say goodbye to his only mistress—the sea. The scars marring his body and face, though, are always there to remind him of his time of freedom. That is until he meets the artist meant to create his portrait, who, like a true siren of the land, keeps him ashore.
The attraction between them is strong but the minute Jeremy realizes he is in love, he finds a thief in his manor. When all fingers point at Louisa, he is determined to solve the mystery.
What he discovers, though, is that the only clue that can prove Louisa's innocence can also destroy her...
Chapter 1
Last Rites
The funeral chapel his mother had chosen was agreeable. That was no surprise – even as far as Munboro was from London, they still attracted a wellspring of competent labor. His father had worked hard to make sure the town was prospering. He was to be buried in the large burial ground behind the chapel rather than the family crypt per his last wishes. It was perhaps a little further away from his family seat than one would expect, but then Joseph Harper, late Duke of Munboro, had always gone his own way. It was one thing he and Jeremy had in common.
The spot wasn’t bad, either. It was right beneath a big old oak. The flower arrangements were purple and white. The ceremony was beautiful. His mother always had good taste.
There were many people inside the back room. All mourning the loss of their beloved Duke. Nobody noticed him slipping in, he was just another face in the crowd. Nobody recognized him. Nobody pretended to, either.
It had been five years since he’d ran away to the sea – fed up with the confines imposed on him as Marquess Steelboro and only son of the Duke. He had wanted to be free. He knew that as far as these people - the Haute Ton - were concerned, he was dead to them. Dead for five years now. He might have been dead the minute he stepped out of the safe walls of Munboro and onto a sailing vessel to explore the wide seas. He had been everywhere from the Far East to India, and had explored the dark continent from tip to tail. He had run into pirates, been injured in battle – had the scars to prove it - and still, he had not come home.
He watched from the back as they lowered the coffin into the ground; he didn’t want to disturb the polite farewell rituals. Not on his behalf. His father had never truly loved him, so he wouldn’t have much to say and it wouldn’t matter to the late Duke if he was there or not. As long as his legacy continued, his father was not one to care for much else than his horses and his dogs. Even his wife – much as she doted upon her husband – came second to those. He snorted quietly, shaking his head. They had all been bit players in the great production that was Joseph Harper’s life but his mother had never seen it that way. She continued to be disappointed that Jeremy did not worship at the altar of his father’s greatness – as she did. She could not understand his antipathy.
Jeremy supposed he could not blame her. For all intents and purposes, the late Duke had been a great man.
After he was interred, the company filed back to Munboro Hall for refreshments, but Jeremy took the opportunity to bid his father a private goodbye. He squatted staring down at the coffin before collecting a handful of dirt and letting it slide between his fingers onto the coffin.
“I wish we had a chance to meet once again, Father. Rest in peace.”
He got to his feet, staring at the tip of the Hall just visible through the trees. He wondered if he should go there or simply return to his friend Daniel’s house where he was currently staying. It was not as if he would be missed.
He was not sure why he deigned to return to the Hall afterward. It was filled with charlatans and dissemblers, members of the Haute Ton who had spoken ill of his father behind his back but fawned on him to his face. His mother looked grief-stricken and inattentive to all, various important townspeople, probably come to remind the Dowager that she owed them goodwill or something. Jeremy took a step toward her, wondering if his approach would help or harm.
She was smiling; but not in a way that Jeremy remembered her smiling. The corners of her eyes didn’t crinkle. When she noticed him, her stare passed right by him, without stopping. And then her smile faded, and her body tensed. On second thought, there was no way that she did not notice him. Although she did not glance back at him, her rigid neck, her very stiffness gave her away. She was probably afraid that Jeremy would still be there if her eyes returned to the spot. Or perhaps she was afraid that he would not.
Well, he would definitely still be there.
Because he was not a ghost. Not yet. And if he was, he was back now to haunt them all with his repugnant scars and abrupt manner. He was the new Duke and much as no one would be glad of it, there was nothing for it but to wear the mantle with as much dignity as he could muster.
His mother touched the ring on her finger – then hid it. She was surrounded by mourners intent on having at least a word with her. His mother smiled again, the fake curt smile, then nodded and ducked into the other room.
Jeremy followed her.
It was quiet here. It was a small room adjoining the conservatory that had belonged to his mother for as long as he remembered. The door creaked behind him as it closed. His mother was standing in front of a painting of the late Duke, her breathing erratic.
“Did you really forget my face?”
His mother covered her eyes. “You cannot be here, it is impossible.”
She chanted it a few more times, each time getting a bit quieter, until it turned into a whisper, and then nothing more. She just stood there, frozen, waiting for something to happen. She turned around to face him and froze as if she didn’t know how to react, eyes wide, not daring to breathe.
“Your Grace, where did you—” the voice stopped short on seeing them facing off against each other.
Jeremy exhaled and put a smile on his face as he turned toward a familiar-looking man who had simply barged into the room. “You must be Mr. Gilbert Notley – the steward if memory serves?” He said.
“And who are you?” Gilbert moved quickly past him, ignoring his extended hand, and stopped in front of his mother. At least he was protective of her.
“You must have heard of me,” he answered, “but we never properly met. I’m Lord Steelboro, or I should probably
say I’m Munboro now.”
“The Duke’s son? The one who is said to have died at sea—?” Gilbert glanced at the Dowager, but it seemed like the matter was confirmed if only by her expression.
“Still very much alive.” Jeremy murmured.
Louisa startled awake, opening her eyes and looking around for the threat. She realized but a moment later that she had been dreaming and everything was fine. She sat up in bed and sighed. The sun was nothing but a hint of pinks and oranges on the horizon. She stared through her open curtains left that way for just this purpose; wondering whether she had time to commit the scene to paper, before the Great Artist in the sky replaced the blue blackness tinged with peach and apricot, with blue skies and cheerful white clouds.
She leaned forward toward the tiny desk beside her bed, picking up a piece of charcoal and a paper and making a quick outline. She slid out of bed and ran to her armoire which was littered with brushes and paints. Quickly setting up beside the window, she did her best to have at least the broad strokes of the scene before her – Munboro waking to a new day – laid out on the canvas. The rest she would fill in from memory.
Guilty Pleasures of a Bluestocking: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 28
