His Duchess at Eventide

by Wendy Lacapra

  A benediction.

  He bent his head, kissing the very edge of her cheekbone, just beneath her eyes. He tasted the salt trail of the tears she’d wept.

  Penelope.

  He kissed the outer corner of her eye. Her lashes feathered against his skin. Light and feminine. His lips found her brow, followed its curve. Then, he kissed the center of her forehead.

  Penelope.

  Yearning dipped low in his belly. The kind of yearning that made him believe he would one day be whole.

  Penelope.

  She glistened with need that had sweat through her pores.

  Penelope.

  He moved off the bed, allowing the towel to fall. He was naked. Erect. She wet her lips. Her gaze glazed with heat.

  Penelope.

  “Take off your shift.”

  She stood, too. She withdrew her arms from her shift and then let it drop.

  Nothing remained between them. Nothing but the scars he could ignore.

  Her nipples peaked enticingly. He accepted the invitation.

  With a greedy tongue he laved her breast, delighting in her involuntary moan. He did not notice that her hands had crept back into his hair, not until her fingers tightened into fists and she whimpered.

  A sense of ascendency surged—mutual ascendency.

  He walked her back against the bed. She sank down and parted her legs.

  Penelope.

  His rough, muscled thighs contrasted against her pale ones. He held his cock, positioning it between her legs. He entered her slowly, inch by inch—stopping the sweet torture only when fully inside.

  Penelope.

  She hooked her legs around his back; he bent forward, claiming her proffered lips in a kiss he’d never forget.

  She swathed him with her body, wrapping him up, arms, legs, heat, and heart.

  Penelope.

  He opened his eyes, synchronizing his breath with hers with every captivating thrust.

  Only the two of them existed. Now. Forever.

  Her thighs trembled around his waist, her lips parted, her thighs quivered, and she clenched around him with a vital cry.

  He closed his eyes, covered her mouth with his and kissed her as he broke open, releasing, spilling into her body as if it were the very first time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ONCE AGAIN, PENELOPE could not find words. For thirteen years, she’d given everything she had to Pensteague and to Thaddeus. Tonight, she’d scraped together any remaining courage and poured her all into Cheverley.

  She was exhausted and yet full. Completely drained and yet buoyant and floating on an ocean full of tenderness.

  Her husband’s return to health would not be easy or short, but the connection they’d just shared made her certain they would find a place of happiness—create that new world he’d always promised they would create.

  So long as Chev did not leave her again.

  She glanced over at him. He lay on his back by her side, still breathing deep, his body flushed from exertion. He rested his injured arm over his face so that the crook of his elbow fully covered his eyes.

  Ah, Chev.

  He’d suffered so much in order to survive. Protective, maternal instinct panged in her heart.

  Her husband.

  Her beautiful, injured-but-not-broken husband. She could hurt anyone who’d done or did him wrong. She, who’d never believed in violence.

  “Chev,” she said softly.

  He lifted his arm.

  How different he looked without his beard—the husband she remembered, just older and more weathered.

  But had he become more wise?

  She swallowed roughly. “You’re going to stay, aren’t you?”

  His silence was a scourge. The longer he did not answer, the further up her throat her heart spiraled.

  “You have a plan.” She spoke to reassure them both. “Just as soon as we have proof Anthony is smuggling, you intend to tell everyone who you are.”

  His wide, blue-grey eyes haunted with unending torment. “I don’t have a plan.”

  Chev always had a plan.

  Always.

  She pulled the sheet up over her body and sat up. “But you will. You and Emmaus and I will—”

  “No.” He reached out, expression urgent. “You are not going to stay involved. Whatever happens between Anthony, me, and the smugglers you are going to keep yourself—and Thaddeus—as far away from any danger as possible.”

  He reached out with his injured hand, winced and then slammed down his arm.

  “In fact,” he continued, “you should take Thaddeus and leave at daylight tomorrow.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll travel with you to Ashbey’s—if we leave early enough and use post horses, we’ll be able to get there in a day and a half. Ashbey will make sure you both stay safe.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Do you actually think I would leave you?” Didn’t he know her at all? “I will not allow you to take on Anthony and Thomas and the smugglers alone.”

  And Thaddeus... Good Lord. Even if she resolved to go, she’d not be able to tear Thaddeus away.

  She suspected Thaddeus, too, had known his father from the start, even if Thaddeus hadn’t fully acknowledged the realization.

  She shook her head no. “Thaddeus would never leave his home to the mercy of his enemies.”

  Chev cocked his head, eyes slightly narrowed.

  She frowned. And then gasped. “I wasn’t comparing him leaving now to you leaving then.”

  “Weren’t you?” he asked quietly.

  Not consciously. “I meant that he is protective—just as protective as you. You can’t expect us to go.”

  Didn’t Chev understand? Pensteague was hers to defend. Chev was hers to defend.

  A light rap sounded against the door. “My lady?” Mrs. Renton called.

  Penelope exchanged an ominous glance with Cheverley. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Anthony, Lord Thomas, and their friends have returned. They request your presence in the library.” Mrs. Renton paused. “I would not have disturbed you, but you know how Mr. Anthony gets when he’s been kept waiting.”

  “I understand,” Penelope replied. She searched Cheverley’s blank gaze, unable to read his response. “Thank you, Mrs. Renton. Tell Mr. Anthony I took an early afternoon rest, but I will come down as soon as I am dressed.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Renton’s footsteps withdrew from the closed door.

  Again, Chev hit the bed. “Must you go just because Anthony beckons?”

  She lifted a brow. “Going down is the most reasonable choice. Anthony’s rage is much easier to prevent than restrain. He throws things when angered—he threw a chair at you in the courtyard, remember?”

  “Anthony’s trained you to prevent his rage.”

  She stared for a long, hot moment. “Trained me?”

  “Yes, trained you.”

  She whipped aside the sheet, slammed her feet to the floor, swiped up and then pulled on her shift.

  “Trust me,” he said through his teeth. “I know something about being trained.”

  A terrible ache weighted her limbs. She glanced up as she tightened her front-lacing bodice.

  She sat down on the bed and spoke in a more tender voice. “Perhaps it would be better if we speak about this after I return.”

  “I cannot stay,” Chev gritted. “I promised Emmaus I would see him off—and he plans to depart just before dusk.”

  “Where is Emmaus going?”

  He sent her a warning glance. “He’s going to attempt to take a privateer.”

  “What?”

  “Shh,” Chev replied. “There has to be a connection between that ship and the delivery we saw last night. If Emmaus is successful, it will help our cause.”

  “And if not?” she asked.

  He pursed his lips. “That’s why I must see him before he goes.”

  She nodded slowly. “Send him my prayers.”

  “You can deliver them yourself. I am
going to go down with you and I’m going to tell Anthony to go to the devil. Then, you and Thaddeus will come with me to the cottage. We’ll leave for Ashbey’s tonight.”

  She froze as her simplest muslin dress settled around her legs. She searched Cheverley’s gaze—still raw, still vulnerable.

  She’d longed for him to claim his place, dreamed of having him return.

  But to confront Anthony now felt...wrong.

  Chev wasn’t ready. And there was no way she was going to allow him to take her to Ashbey.

  He stood up from the bed.

  “Wait,” she pleaded. “You’re in no condition to go downstairs.”

  “I’m in no condition?” he asked. “Your lips are swollen, and you look like—”

  “I look like what?”

  He softened his voice. “Like you’ve just been thoroughly pleasured.”

  For a moment, the heat flared between them.

  “I have just been thoroughly pleasured. But Anthony won’t see that. He’ll see exhaustion. Worry. And he’ll simply believe he’s pushed me further under his thumb.”

  Cheverley flattened his lips. “I’m taking you away.”

  “Why can’t you work with me?” she asked. “Must you always forge forth on your own to set things right in some grandiose spectacle?”

  His cheeks darkened. His arms fell limp at his sides. “Is that what you believe?” He prowled toward her. “That I have no control? That I’m weak? Nothing?”

  “That is not what I said!” she exclaimed.

  What was happening? It was as if they weren’t speaking the same language. She pressed her fingers to her temples.

  “Cheverley, Thomas warned me a storm was coming. And last night, we heard the smugglers talking about transporting people. We cannot possibly leave.”

  “You cannot possibly stay,” he replied.

  “It’s rash—can’t you see? If you go down now just because you think I cannot handle Anthony, we may never be able to fully oust the danger.”

  “I’m being rash? You’re the one insisting you must go down.”

  “Because I know from experience that if I don’t, Anthony will come up, and whatever his mood, it will be far worse.”

  Devil take Anthony, he had trained her, hadn’t he?

  But just because Chev had been right on that point, didn’t mean her decision to go down alone was wrong.

  “Chev,” she said, “we must be smart. Patient. Anthony may well have murdered Piers—do you think he’d hesitate to kill you?”

  “You don’t believe I can defeat Anthony, do you?”

  “Neither of us can—not alone.” Her eyes burned. “Please, Chev. Don’t go down now. You aren’t ready.”

  “You made your feelings about that quite clear.”

  “I can’t lose you,” her voice cracked.

  Chev squeezed his eyes closed and pinched his jaw with tight fingers, as if he were trying to shut something out.

  Her?

  She went to him, grasped and then lifted his left hand. “I’ve been delaying Anthony for months...just let me handle him one, last time.” She pressed her lips to his knuckles and then held his hand against her cheek. “We can win, but only together. And only when we’ve properly prepared. You always told me never to accept a challenge you did not define.”

  He sighed roughly. “What would you have me do?”

  “Listen in from the servants’ stair. If there is any problem at all, you can come in.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “No reckless gestures. Let us be wise.”

  He nodded. “I will wait,” he replied. “But if he so much as raises his voice—”

  “He won’t.” She exhaled. “Help me dress, would you?”

  Cheverley assisted with the ties as she wound her hair back into a knot. When she was ready, she turned.

  “Thank you.” She placed a quick kiss on his lips. “I will see you soon.”

  “Be careful.”

  She gazed at him with a long, frustrated glance. “I promise I will. I am always careful.” She had to be.

  She left the chamber.

  She’d upset him when all she’d been attempting to do was protect them—and their son. And he’d been doing the same.

  She turned to make her way down to the library.

  She’d won the skirmish, but the larger battle loomed. There must be some way to show him they worked better together.

  At least he’d listened, for now.

  The old Cheverley would have swept past her and entered the library with sword raised. And what would bloodshed have solved?

  She adjusted her dress before opening the library door.

  For now, she’d use the single tactic she’d successfully employed—delay.

  She entered.

  Anthony and his coterie lounged about the room sprawled across chaises and chairs, and, though this was the library, not one held a book. Every single one of them held a glass of deep red liquid.

  “Ah, Penelope,” Lord Thomas dangled his glass by his side, “you have deigned to join us after all.”

  Anthony’s cold gaze met hers. “Penelope likes to do things on her own terms, in her own time. The right husband could solve that, I wager.”

  A snicker passed amongst the gentlemen.

  “It is not the time to discuss marriage,” Penelope replied calmly.

  “Isn’t it?” Anthony asked. “The duke’s condition has worsened, I hear.”

  “How bad is he?” Thomas asked.

  “His Grace is weak,” Penelope answered honestly. “He is confused and prone to vomiting.”

  Anthony mock-toasted with his glass. “What dreams may come, eh, sweet?”

  She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “His Grace is a ruthless whoreson,” Thomas replied, not without a hint of his usual awed respect. “If he’s tortured by the loss of his wife and his sons, he has no one but himself to blame.”

  Penelope censured Thomas with a look. “His Grace needs rest.”

  “His Grace”—Anthony leaned forward—“needs the future of Ithwick secured. Ithwick and Pensteague flounder on their own. The estates must be reunited. And you, unfortunately, are the key to making that happen. You had best resign yourself, my sweet. I asked the vicar to read the first banns on Sunday.”

  Thomas raised his brows. “Didn’t I tell you the storm would come? If resignation does not appeal, my offer still stands.

  Anthony’s gaze snapped to Thomas. “Don’t tell me you’ve been courting Penelope.”

  Penelope glanced between the men. If Anthony and Thomas were not in league with one another, what the devil was going on?

  “Stop,” she said with a shake of her head, “both of you. I’m not marrying again. Thaddeus is heir to both Ithwick and Pensteague. Whether or not the estates are reunited will be up to him.”

  “Penelope,” Anthony spoke with exaggerated patience, “do you understand how a title is passed from one generation to another?”

  “Of course,” she said, though she did not.

  “Birth and marriage records must be submitted, reviewed,” Anthony continued. “An easy enough process in most cases”—he swirled the liquid in his glass—“but everything becomes much more fun when things are...murky.”

  “What do you mean murky? The line is clear.” Pen stiffened. “My marriage was witnessed. Thaddeus’s birth was attended by Her Grace and Mrs. Renton.”

  “You mean Thaddeus’s early birth?” Anthony asked. “And remember, the duke never actually gave his consent, not before your marriage.”

  Penelope clenched both fists at her sides.

  “Anthony is correct, I’m afraid.” Thomas sighed. “Were he to submit a claim, it could take years for the dispute to be resolved.”

  “Despite your efforts,” Penelope said, “I am not without friends.”

  “Hurtheven and Ashbey?” Anthony asked. “Even if you were to enlist them, there is still so much for the courts to review. Thaddeus, for instance, was bor
n after Cheverley went to sea.”

  “We were legally wed,” she argued. “Any child born of—”

  “And then,” Anthony interrupted, “there is Cheverley himself. He never did actually see the child, did he?” He shook his head as if sad. “Seven years and Cheverley never took leave. My guess is that he was ashamed he had to raise your bastard.”

  She stared at Anthony and the lines of his face became ugly.

  He’d played his final card, and the deck had been stacked from the start.

  If Cheverley were not alive, her hands would be well and truly tied.

  The laws were against her.

  The courts were against her.

  Even Society would offer little support.

  But Cheverley was alive, and with luck, he was still listening.

  Cheverley hadn’t answered when she’d asked him if he intended to claim his place.

  Unfortunately, she would have to force his hand.

  He wants this. He needs this.

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “I have delayed too long in making a choice to wed.”

  Anthony sighed. “That’s better, sweet.”

  “Sweet,” she repeated. He had no idea what a lioness she really was, did he?

  His loss.

  She was a lioness. She had wit, courage, determination, and the wonderful, awesome power of love.

  Lord Thomas rose from his chair, went to the sideboard, and poured Penelope a glass of wine. He gave her the drink.

  “Here’s to choice, Lady Chev.”

  “Indeed.” She took a sip. The rich, spicy liquid calmed as she looked up into his strange expression “Mr. Anthony,” she said, “both you and Lord Thomas have expressed interest in my hand.”

  She strolled closer to the panel concealing the servants’ stair.

  “You have been living in my father-in-law’s house, eating his food”—she lifted her glass—“drinking his wine.” She met Anthony’s gaze. “And you’ve been waiting for me to come to you. Does that sound like proper courtship to you? You’ve been taking. A proper suitor gives.”

  “Gifts?” Thomas grinned. “You want gifts?”

  “What kind of gifts?” Anthony asked.

  She thought of those men. Of the cargo they secreted up the side of the mountain. “A lady loves lace.” Belgian in particular. “Perfume.” Say, from Cologne. “And, of course”—she sipped from her glass—“a fine, red burgundy.” From France.