The Perfect Duchess

by Jen YatesNZ

  Thoughts rioted back into her mind, which moments before had been empty, aware only that dreams could come true. She was such a fool. It would be so easy to convince herself she held his regard when he could make her feel like that. So easy to forget all he wanted was a suitable wife to bear his children. She’d give much to be that woman, but she’d not allow herself to lose her pride.

  Armed with anger once again, she fixed her gaze straight ahead in the darkness.

  What had she promised to Bax?

  The vague suspicion building in her mind became a rigid certainty. Bax was playing with them both.

  ‘If you don’t know me well enough by now to know I wouldn’t promise Lord Baxendene anything, and if you don’t know your cousin well enough to know when he’s playing a May-game with you, then—you’re not the man I thought you. If you can’t trust my integrity there’s no point in pursuing marriage.’

  ‘We’re pursuing marriage, Sher, and that won’t change.’ His hands brushed her breasts and closed over hers at her throat. Pulling them down to his lap, he continued, ‘It seems contemplating marriage has turned me into an idiot. Not only do I trust your integrity but you may trust mine.’

  She should tug her hands free, but they felt so right enclosed in his large ones. Skin on skin. She’d rarely touched a man’s ungloved hands with hers until Dom had started taking that liberty.

  ‘We have much more on which to build a marriage than many couples of our status start with, Sher. We have a friendship that spans many years. We both bring considerable assets to the marriage. We’re on an equal footing, if you will—and now, it seems we have passion. I—didn’t expect that. It’s messing with my mind. You, Sherida Dearing, have surprised me. We’ll have a good marriage—and here’s why.’

  His hands slid up her arms, pushing the cloak right off her shoulders and encircling her, lifting her bodily onto his lap. With one arm cradling her shoulders and the other buried in her hair, he took her mouth again in a kiss that stole the last of her resistance. She speared her fingers into his hair and held him to her, opening helplessly to the teasing of his tongue. She allowed him the mastery he demanded and he took command. Like a maestro with a fine violin, he played her, delving deep into her mouth, claiming her secrets and compliance, easing back to nibble and lick the corners of her mouth, her eyelids.

  Sheri couldn’t breathe. Dom kissing her eyelids was simply exquisite. By the time she’d recalled the need to breathe he was back at her mouth nibbling hungrily at her bottom lip, dragging moans of need from deep within her. He rendered her shameless, desperate. She’d waited so long, living only in dreams—that now seemed woefully innocent. How could she have known what the reality of Dominic Beresford would do to her?

  Angling kisses along her jaw, he licked around the diamonds at her earlobe and she twisted her head, desperate to give him greater access. His breath was hot, his tongue hotter as he licked and nibbled down the side of her throat and stopped to suckle in the hollow at its base.

  She’d been only dimly aware of his hand under her gown beneath her shoulder, but when he slid the material down her arm and lowered the bodice to expose the swell of her breast to seeking fingers, a frisson of panic made her open her eyes and stiffen in his arms.

  The side curtains were drawn. It was pitch dark in the carriage. He’d only know her by touch. She squeezed her eyes tight, slowed her breathing, tried to remember they were not yet married, should not—

  ‘Dear God!’ she whispered into the darkness as his head swooped lower and his mouth found her nipple, teeth rasping gently across it, tongue swirling round it. Sheri moaned, her body arching, desperate for more.

  He growled, a deep, rich vibration against her tender flesh.

  ‘Sweet Jezebel! Your body calls me.’

  Closing his mouth over her breast he began suckling in deep earnest. Sheri bucked, writhed. She wanted—something—more—

  ‘Dom!’ she pleaded and knew a deep relief when his hand found its way beneath her skirts and caressed up and down the inside of her thighs. Her legs fell open and she felt only desperation for his touch.

  His fingers slipped into her curls.

  ‘So wet,’ he muttered around her nipple, and resumed suckling.

  Strong fingers entered her, tenderly exploring and moving inside her. Sheri had never known anything like it, her whole being was focused on the point his finger pressed, caressed; as if every nerve in her body began and ended there.

  ‘Dom! Please!’ she cried, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Beautiful, magnificent, Sher. Give it to me. Give me your total surrender.’

  Helpless to deny him, as if the words themselves had triggered it, she fell through some invisible barrier and burst into flame from deep within. Wild cries of ecstatic release came from her throat and Dom muffled them with his mouth on hers, continuing to thrust his hand in a deeply satisfying rhythm over that spot she never knew existed until this night.

  ‘Ah, Sher! That was beautiful,’ he murmured against her breast. ‘You’re beautiful. Your breasts feel so perfect in my hands, in my mouth. God, I want to see them, see the whole of you, laid bare for my eyes only.’

  ‘No!’

  Oh God no! Fingers searching desperately for the edges of her bodice, she tugged it back up over her exposed flesh and thrust herself off his lap and back onto the seat. Her mind was a painful whirl of panic and desire. He found her hand in the dark and pressed it down over the fall of his trousers. His—Oh God!—his—man part—was big and hot and hard, straining against the material.

  ‘I want you, Sher. God damn, I want you!’ He pressed her hand firmly against his rigid flesh. ‘But not here. Not now. I—’

  A groan erupted from his throat as if he suffered pain. He dragged in a deep, calming breath then shifted her hand further down his thigh. ‘I just want you to know what you do to me. We’ll be good together, Sher. Don’t hide yourself from me. I want to see you!’

  Reaching beyond her he opened the side curtain.

  ‘I want to look at you as we drive back through the streets—as we drive under the street lamps.’

  ‘No!’ Sheri gasped, snatching his hand away from the curtain and pulling it closed again. ‘No! I—I can’t—let you look—at me. I can’t!’

  …

  That had been a mistake on his part, a mistake that wouldn’t have happened if he’d maintained his usual self-control and command. The weight of her in his lap against his cock had been agony enough but the pressure of her hand had unleashed a depth of desire painful in its intensity, an intensity he’d not felt for any woman but Jassie.

  He, the Master, the Initiator of Virgins, was at the edge of his control, a whisper away from dragging her down onto the seat and taking her any way it was possible within the confines of the carriage.

  Damn he ached. Even so, he heard the panic in her voice. Sheri wasn’t a virgin come seeking initiation at the hands of the Master at the Matrix Club. She deserved more from him than his undoubted expertise in the art of sexual satisfaction. Being a husband to a delicately reared virgin not seeking his attentions as an act of rebellion or revenge, would require a different approach entirely. He reached for her bodice to help her pull it back into place.

  That earned him a vicious slap.

  ‘Don’t touch me! I can’t think when you touch me!’

  ‘That’s how it should be, Sher,’ he said, trying to sound patient while gritting his teeth in annoyance. ‘It’s why our marriage will work. We touch one another and we both become all sensation. The ability to think is banished in a haze of passion. Passion involves all our senses—touch, smell, hearing, taste—and sight. I’ll be your husband and will have the right to look upon your beautiful body—and you’ll look upon mine,’ he gentled, finding her hands where they were tightly clenched across her breasts and pulling them down into her lap. ‘Sher, there’s no room for prudery or shyness between a husband and wife.’

  ‘No—you’ll not—’. She stop
ped, breathed deeply and started again. ‘Mama said what takes place between a man and a woman takes place mostly in the dark. I’ll not le—let you—look upon me. I cannot! You must—must promise!’

  ‘Promise not to look on you? Ever?’

  ‘Yes!’ There was definitely a note of hysteria in her voice—and determination. ‘Promise me, Dom. You—we—will do it—in the dark.’

  Her chest was heaving in her agitation and he thought of her iceberg reputation. Could there be some truth in it after all? But no. Frigidity was not her problem. Excessive shyness maybe. Fuck! Did he have the patience? Did he care enough to be that patient? Should he have left her to Bax after all?

  Never! He’d kill the bastard! Even now with her almost hysterical in his arms, he wanted her. The pain at his groin hadn’t abated. He considered taking what he knew she’d be powerless to deny him, here now, under cover of darkness as she demanded, and instantly discarded the notion. She’d come to him willingly and if he were ever to take her using the techniques of the Master, it would only be once she’d granted him the right.

  He drew her stiff body into his arms and close against his chest. He wanted her touch on his cock again, but managed to restrain the urge to press her hand there. He’d established beyond any doubt she was not frigid. He would be content with that for now and trust in his considerable experience with virgins to overcome any other maidenly scruples she had.

  ‘Relax, Sher,’ he growled softly against her hair. ‘Whatever thoughts are going through your head it had better not be crying off. The notices will be in the papers in the morning. We’ll be married five weeks from now at Wolverton Minster. We have agreed on this. You are mine.’

  He was a little disturbed at the vehemence of his feelings. In the space of a few days Sherida Dearing had become essential to his future happiness. Not a thought he wanted to dwell on right now. The important thing to do at this moment was calm Sheri’s fears; give her the promise she wanted. Once they were wed would be soon enough to press his sensory demands.

  And he would look upon the perfection of his wife’s body.

  ‘All right, Sher. It shall be as you wish,’ he said, carefully eschewing any use of the word ‘promise’. ‘And I’ll try and restrain myself until we’re married. It’s perhaps as well that I’ve a missing person to find. I’d like to get that cleared up before the wedding. To that end I’ll be out of town for a while, but I’ll be here for Prinny’s ball—a week before the wedding. We’ll attend that, then I’ll go down to Wolverton to await you.—Better now?’

  She pulled away from his chest and began gathering her hair into a coil.

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sorry—I—oh, I can’t find the pins for my hair. I can’t go home looking like—like—’

  ‘Like you’ve been ravished? You have. Tell me you didn’t enjoy what we did,’ he whispered, taking her hair from her hands and pulling her face up to his. ‘Can you honestly say you didn’t enjoy what I did to you?’

  ‘No,’ she breathed.

  He lowered his head and all else was forgotten as their lips came together and she opened for him, inviting him in.

  Chapter 7

  It was a long time since the need for any woman other than Jassie had kept him awake until the dawn chorus began in the trees beneath his window. Nor was there any reason to now be pacing the carpet in his study when he should already have left for the long trek north in search of Sylvaine Walsingham.

  But he kept hearing the panic in Sheri’s voice when she’d demanded his promise he’d not look upon her nakedness. She’d always projected an air of coolness and aloof serenity. He’d never have thought her shy or even particularly prudish, the only hint being her preference for high-necked gowns. From what had that panic stemmed? Was she afraid of intimacy? Of ceding control of her body to another? That he could understand; he understood the need for control.

  Was he losing his edge? Even around Jassie he’d been able to maintain his self-command. That one time when he’d kissed her to prove a point, deeply arousing and poignant as it had been, he’d retained mastery of his desires; remained in control. Even during that one night he’d shared with her and Windermere after their marriage he’d not lost awareness of the reason for his presence.

  But he was beginning to suspect Lady Sherida Dearing would challenge every level of his hard-learned self-mastery.

  His pacing led him to the trio of portraits arrayed on the mantelpiece. Hoping there’d be more for the set, he’d not yet decided where to hang them; fancied he’d ultimately hang them in his study at Wolverton Castle. For some reason he was loath to share them, perhaps because, in a way, they could have represented Sheri; quite prudish and chaste in the way she presented herself to the world and yet alluringly sensuous for all that. Who was S. P. R. Woods—?

  A brief knock at the door interrupted his reverie and Grigg looked in.

  ‘Lord Baxendene to see you, Your Grace. Shall I send him in?’

  ‘Of course. Thanks, Grigg.’

  If it was an apology his cousin was after he should know better. Resting his backside against the desk, he picked up the ivory handled letter opener and balanced it across one finger as if there was nothing more important he should be doing.

  ‘I’m unarmed,’ Bax said from the doorway, one eyebrow cocked and his eye on the letter opener.

  ‘To what do I owe the dubious honor of this visit?’ Dom demanded, dropping the thing on the desk and stepping away to the window. Leaning against the sash he turned his moody gaze down to the street. He was in no mind to tangle with his cousin this morning. The man was never serious about anything, except seducing women, and he wasn’t sure when he himself had been in a more somber mood. He had much to think about including how he would go about seducing his own wife.

  One couldn’t be in control of one’s emotions and actions if one was uncertain of the emotions and motivations of the protagonist.

  Sheri. His betrothed. He needed to understand her.

  Despite Dom’s surly mood and lack of welcome, Bax entered and crossed the room to stand beside his cousin at the window.

  ‘You pack a mean right fist, Your Grace.’

  Dom finally turned to face Bax and peruse the results of his fury of a couple of nights ago.

  ‘Nice color. Suits you.’

  ‘Mama is not inclined to agree.’

  ‘Would never have thought she would.’ Aunt Georgiana had very little sense of humor when it came to her son. ‘What brings you out this early?’

  ‘Paying my debt. Zeus awaits you below.’

  Bax’s smiling countenance had darkened and his words were bitten off with annoyance. Suddenly he appeared every bit as moody as Dom had been feeling a moment earlier.

  He couldn’t keep a small smile of satisfaction from his lips. Not only had he protected Sheri’s honor but he’d bested his cousin—and acquired a prime piece of horseflesh in the bargain.

  The odd feeling of disquiet lifted from him entirely and for the first time in days he felt a modicum of charity towards his cousin, who’d picked up one of the small paintings on the mantel to study closely.

  ‘He’ll make a great wedding gift for my wife.’

  ‘Dammit all, Wolf!’ Bax exploded, replacing the painting on the mantel. ‘If you give him to Sheri how can I ever win him back?’

  ‘You wouldn’t get the chance either way. I’d not be such a dunderhead as to risk a valuable animal on a wager I didn’t have a prayer of winning,’ Dom snapped.

  ‘Not very gentlemanly!’

  ‘I’m not feeling particularly gentlemanly.’

  Bax waved a hand to dismiss the whole argument.

  ‘It’s done. I’m short a horse—a damn fine horse and you’ve gained a wife.—And a damned fine wife, I might add.’

  He reached for the second painting and subjected it to the same close scrutiny he’d given the first.

  ‘Who is S. P. R. Woods?’

  ‘I was wondering if it was you!’r />
  ‘Me? Hah! Not my style. Besides, I’d stake my life these were painted by a woman.’

  ‘A woman? You think S. P. R. Woods is female?’

  ‘Yes. And talented. Delicate brushstrokes and layering of color. Subtle tints—in essence, there’s nothing erotic in a woman presenting you her naked back and yet every line and curve, every nuance of shade, each subsequent loosening of the hair style and easing of the robe down her back—is eroticism incarnate. Would you sell them? Why haven’t you hung them?’

  ‘Not for sale,’ Dom said tersely, ‘and I’ve requested three more to complete the set. I’m waiting to see if I get them.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘Puttick’s Gallery on Bond Street.’

  ‘Can’t Puttick tell you who the artist is?’

  ‘Says he doesn’t know. An agent brings them in to him, a Mr. Wilson. Which makes sense if it’s a woman. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Replacing the third painting with obvious reluctance, Bax turned quite suddenly and said, ‘I’m heading out of town for a few days. Not sure when I’ll be back.—When’s the wedding?’

  ‘Twenty-second of July at the Castle.’

  Bax jerked his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he growled, and strode from the room.

  Dom turned back to study the triptych on the mantel and the intriguing question of the true identity of S. P. R. Woods.

  …

  Sheri was over herself. Two separate and quite different people inhabited her skin. There was the one who loved Dominic Beresford and hungered for every crumb of attention he would pay her; shameless, almost wanton in her desire to please him and be pleased by him. The one who was so easily seduced by his touch, his words of appreciation for her beauty and perfection. She was beautiful, he said.

  She was not! And it was probably inevitable he’d discover that. Just thinking about the moment when he would look upon the ugliness of her naked breasts brought her out in a cold sweat. If he was to survey her with that freezing scorn of which she knew him capable, if he was to turn from her, reject her, accuse her of deceiving him—because she was—her heart, that foolish organ that had dared to hope, dared to accept, would shrivel and leave her a lifeless shell.