by Lynn Kerstan
“I don’t like the taste,” she said after a moment. “But I rather like the feeling. Hot, and then numb. If I drink a good deal more, will I become numb all over?”
“That’s the general idea. But it affects people in different ways.”
“What do you like about it, then? You drink more than anyone I’ve ever known.”
She had made herself so vulnerable to him that he felt obliged to be a little honest in return. But only a little. “I always think it will help,” he said. “It never does.”
“You must be taking lessons in obscurity from Mr. Singh.” Another swallow of cognac. “Perhaps it would taste better if I’d eaten something. I could not, all day, except the bit of toast at breakfast.”
“In that case,” he said, reclaiming the glass, “you need to go easy.”
“If you say so. But I remember one of the historians who stayed with us for a summer got foxed one morning, and he was not a gentleman who often tippled. He said he wished to dull his sensations because he was on his way to have a tooth drawn.”
The lady knew how to put him in his place, Michael thought, distantly aware that she’d snatched back the glass. “I told you it never works,” he said.
“But it might put me to sleep. And then you could do it, and I wouldn’t mind, and it would be done with.”
“No.” With effort, he kept his voice level. “Even if you prefer it that way, I draw the line at bedding an unconscious female.”
“I suppose you are right,” she said with patent regret. “If I didn’t remember, I might feel compelled to do it all again. For the first time, I mean. Not for the only time. This won’t be a token gesture, you understand. No matter what, I mean to soldier on.”
She was taking him near the end of his endurance. The moon, conspiring with her on its skyward course, had sent its light all the way to the bed. Heated by the cognac, she’d let the covers fall from her head and shoulders. Her hair, her glorious hair, begged his fingers to slip through it, to draw her face to him for a kiss. But kisses were forbidden. And passion. Pleasure. Every expression of love and trust and true union. All was forbidden him except the penetration of her unwilling body.
“I wish you had known my father before his illness,” she said, dashing cold water on his painful fantasy. “Our home was always filled with his protégés, the new untried ones and those who had fulfilled the promise he saw in them. He had the gift of making everyone feel important, even when they were perfectly silly, like Lord Galworth, who wrote poetry about pigs. His family raised them, and had got rich on them, so he thought they ought to be celebrated. ‘No pig so fine as a Hampshire swine.’ Really!”
The last of the cognac went down her throat. She coughed, gave him the glass, and smiled. Within half an hour, he judged with an expert eye, she would be cheerfully senseless. Ought he to take action? But she was already babbling again—
“. . . interested in too many things to make a reputation for himself, but in his way, my father was a great scholar. Of course, he could never remember where he left anything. One evening he came downstairs to dinner in full dress, except for his pantaloons. He even had his shoes on. All the guests were standing in the foyer when he made his grand entrance. I thought Mother would choke.”
“The prime minister was there, and it was his first visit so everyone was out to impress him. Father gave one of his better bows, but his bony knees stuck out and his white legs positively shone against the black marble staircase. I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”
“His bow took him over far enough to see what everyone else was gaping at, and he stared at his bare legs as if he didn’t know what they were doing there. His mind was always miles ahead of his body.”
“‘Dear me, I seem to have forgot my trousers,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back directly.’ And up he went, cool as lemonade, to finish dressing. He really thought nothing about it, and by the time he returned, no one else did either.”
“Is there supposed to be a lesson in this for me?” Michael said. “A ‘Buddha Holcombe’ story?”
She gave the question some thought. “Not when I started. But I may have stumbled across a truth of sorts. Or not. Everything feels strange now, and all my ideas have fuzzy edges. I was thinking that when I was growing up, I adored my father and wanted someday to marry a man just like him. But here I am, married to you.”
“And I am nothing at all like your father.”
“I was thinking that as well, and then I realized that in rather a lot of ways, you have the qualities in him I most admire.”
It seemed the wrong time to correct her. To do anything but proceed before she became insensible. But that she believed him to be a finer man than he was touched him deeply. It was the one moment of this night he would not try to forget. He reached over to set the glass beside the bed, and when he sat back up, she had drawn closer, her gaze riveted to a spot below his neck.
He glanced down. The motion had pulled the banyon apart, baring an expanse of chest. She was regarding it with a look of befuddled curiosity.
“Such an odd place for hair to grow,” she said. “May I touch it?”
“You may always do so.” He felt a little breathless at the prospect. Altogether breathless when her pale hand crossed the gulf between then and gingerly stroked the sprinkle of hair, and the flesh beneath.
“You’re very hard,” she said.
Indeed he was. A good thing the folded bedcovers concealed the evidence, which would frighten her to see.
She had turned her attention to his arm, pushing the wide silk sleeve up to his shoulder and examining his biceps with flattering amazement. Then she shrugged out of her robe and raised her pale, sleeveless arm next to his, measuring them side by side. “Just look at that. We might be two entirely different species. Mine is a . . . a noodle, and yours is a mahogany log.”
She didn’t know the half of it. How to deal with this? Unless he moved quickly now, it would all be over . . . without her. What had it been? Eight months? Ten? Too long for a man of his sort, and the last weeks of it wrung out with desire for this remarkable woman.
He slipped his arm around her waist, put his other hand on her shoulder, and drew her to him. He felt her trying not to resist him, trying to cooperate even though she was taut as a gazelle scenting danger.
Her arm was bent up between them, her hand on his chest as if she’d push him away. And yet, she lowered her head to his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his neck. “Is it time?” she said.
“Yes. It has to be. Unless you wish to call this off.”
“Oh, no. I’ve got this far. But I do not know how I shall react from here on out. You must finish. No matter what I say or do, sir, you must finish.”
“I understand that you may be resistant, physically, and not mean it. But if you tell me ‘no,’ if you tell me to stop, I will. You must be complicit. I won’t take the choice from your hands.”
She looked up at him, her eyes full of sadness. “Might I at least put a handkerchief in my mouth? I do want this. I will it. But my body may have other ideas. And that includes what I say.”
He thought, then, that he could seduce her, and considered it as she relaxed slightly in his arms. But that wasn’t what she’d asked of him, and they had conducted too many negotiations already. This time, never mind she was wrong, he would do precisely what she thought she wanted.
He slid down the bank of pillows, taking her with him, until they lay together side by side, her head resting on his outflung arm. “I desire you,” he said quietly. “Will you let me lead your body to accept mine?”
He felt her nod against his arm, decided she had sealed her lips to prevent an inadvertent protest. He brought his hand to her slim waist, rubbed her back until the tightness left it, and then found the swell of her breast. Only the side of it, swathed with silk, unt
il he was sure she would accept a more intimate touch. A light touch, not at all threatening. With his fingers he shaped the soft, feminine mound, letting his thumb brush over the nipple once, and again, and again. It tightened in response. Her head inclined closer to his, a secretive female demand for a kiss she would not permit him.
She had been, yes, very wrong. Her mind had decided to have him. Her body, she must be realizing, wanted him. But the great barrier, unspoken between them, could only be overcome when she trusted him with the truth. Perhaps not even then. He’d built walls around himself as well.
When her leg moved against his, he recognized the unconscious signal, her invitation to the place he most wanted to be. He was ready, too ready, had been for too long.
He sent his hand along her flank, around to the irresistible curves of her buttocks, down to where the silk left off and silky leg began. He glided upward, hand under the nightgown, up the dip behind her knee and the back of the thigh until he reached the place where her legs joined and where his fingers could enter between them.
They did, and she went stiff. Squeezed her thighs together. He paused, felt the act of will by which she pulled herself past resistance and gradually moved her legs a little apart.
“Like this,” he whispered, lifting her knee, bending it, and bringing it to rest over his side. Better this way, he had decided early on. Better that he not climb on top of her, large and dark and powerful, while she was so afraid.
Now she was open to him, the scent of cognac and female desire hovering in the air around them. From behind her, he let one finger begin a gentle exploration of the soft folds and dark mysteries at the center of her, a little moist already with instinctive welcome.
She moved restlessly against him. He would have to hurry now. But she wasn’t quite ready. Not for his size, not for the depth in her he would reach if he could not help himself. His fingertip moved back and forth lightly near her opening, coaxing the filmy moisture to flow in her. He came to the little valley, and to the slope that led upward to her hooded nib, swollen just enough to tell him what he needed to know. He pressed, rubbed, remembered she would resent taking pleasure after all her certainty that she could do no more than endure.
He drew his finger back to her damp core, welling with female recognition of what belonged there. What he was about to put there. He brought his hips forward, placing a wide-spread hand on her buttock to hold her in place. She gave a little moan of dread.
His cock slid between her thighs, engorged with his passion for her, found her opening and homed in on it, pushed inside.
Immediately she froze. Her hand, that had somehow got inside his banyon to rest against the scars on his back, seized up. Her nails dug into his skin.
He went still, waiting for her to speak, to say “No!” To cast him away.
Instead, she gave a little sigh. Loosened her death grip on his back. Tightened her knee on his waist to keep him inside her. He went deeper, and deeper still. He heard his own breathing, like that of a panting animal. She enclosed him. Gripped him inside her, the pleasure now so intense he nearly broke with it.
Mira. He might have said her name. Beyond control, he felt his whole self rush to his loins, to the heated, throbbing staff moving inside her, and too soon, the pulsations began, one after the other. Mindless as he climaxed, he held her close and poured himself into her.
After a time, she stirred restlessly against him. He realized he was still clasping her against him, that he was still inside her. Carefully he slid away, put some distance between them, and propped himself up on his elbow.
She was looking at him, wide-eyed. “Is that all, then? Are you finished?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh.” Relief bloomed on her face. “Well. That wasn’t so bad.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“If only you knew what I’d been imagining! I was sure it would take a great deal longer.”
“It sometimes does.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or beat his head against a heavy piece of furniture. “That’s not altogether a bad thing.”
“If you say so,” she said doubtfully. “But it’s better to proceed slowly, I believe, as I did when I began to ride the horse. This was something like it, really, like riding around the paddock. A bit unnerving at first, but after a time, of very little consequence at all. In fact, I believe that in the future, and without requiring brandy to lend me courage, I shall be able to ride around the paddock again.”
“You’ll let me know when I’m to saddle up.”
“Yes. Well, not . . . Oh.” An entirely uncharacteristic giggle. “You’re making fun of me. But I don’t mind. I’m feeling quite full of my success, actually.”
Full of brandy, Duchess, and full of my seed. But he knew better than to say it. “Teasing a little, perhaps.”
“I deserve it.” A frown knitted her brow. “Why is it my tongue has grown so large? And my head is packed with feathers. I’d better get on with this while I still feel brave and self-satisfied. Might I request another favor?”
“Of course.”
“I should like you to come with me to Seacrest. Papa will wish to stay there, and the house is in poor repair. I must make it ready for him.”
He winced. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but it kept slipping my mind. The men in Birindar’s family, most of them, are builders. Under Hari’s supervision, they have already completed the major repairs . . . roof, pipes, that sort of thing. Local laborers will be hired to finish the work. We can go see what progress has been made, if you like. And you’ll want to decide about paint and furnishings. My brother left very little intact, although the books were still there, crated up. I expect he meant to cart them to London for auction.”
Her eyes lit up. “I never dreamed Papa would see his library again. It’s something for us both to look forward to.” Then, as if it had never been there, the light in her eyes was gone. “There is another place I want to take you first. It’s a little out of the way. I’ve been there only once before, but I think I can find it. Will you accompany me? Tomorrow?”
“You’re apt to have a headache tomorrow, Duchess. And a few other symptoms of overindulgence.”
“You would know,” she said. “But if we don’t do this straightaway, I’ll probably change my mind. Decide to put it off. And once I do that, I’ll keep putting it off. It’s better that I commit to a firm plan and a deadline, Your Grace. Please. Give me tomorrow.”
He recognized another act of courage, another gauntlet she must run. “As you wish. I’ll need to make an early call, to cancel other arrangements I’ve made, but then we can be on our way.”
“Thank you.” She sat up and begun rummaging through the twisted covers. “Where is that dressing gown?”
“Must you go?”
She glanced up in surprise. “Aren’t I supposed to?”
He wasn’t used to asking anything for himself. He felt a little sick doing it, dizzy because he wanted it so much. “I’d rather you stayed.” He sounded curt, as if snapping an order to one of his mercenaries.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought—” She regarded him warily. “You won’t do anything?”
“I will never do anything, until you ask it of me.” He laid himself down, his head on the pillow, still a distance from her. “Will you stay? Will you give me tonight?”
Without seeming to move, she drew closer and laid her head on his outstretched arm. Her hand went to his chest in a familiar gesture, an intimate touch that at the same time held him away. She didn’t seem to mind, though, when his other arm wrapped around her. “It seems only fair,” she whispered sleepily.
He didn’t think he could sleep at all. He didn’t want to miss out on a moment of this night, the night she trusted him with her body, the night she admitted, without knowing he understood what she was doing, that she
now felt safe enough with him to reveal her deepest secrets.
But those hardships were for tomorrow. For tonight, there was only Mira in his arms, and the stirring of what must be happiness in his heart.
Chapter 31
Mira watched Cory’s arrow fall short and wide of its target, joining half a dozen arrows scattered around the archery butt.
“I have no talent for this,” Cory said with characteristic Keynes impatience, striding forward to reclaim the fallen arrows.
Mira went to retrieve her own arrows from the target. “You’re not as bad with a bow and arrow as I am with a pistol,” she said. They had decided to instruct each other, usually during the first hour after dawn while the duke was out riding with Cat.
She had awakened that morning alone in her husband’s bed, just as sunlight began to steal through the windows. He’d drawn open all the curtains, built up the fire, and left a lit candle on a table to mark his scrawled note—Back at nine o’clock. The rest of the day is yours.
Porridge for breakfast had helped dispatch her headache, but no amount of tea quenched her raging thirst or moistened her parched mouth for longer than a few minutes. New item for her list—no more overindulgence in spirits.
As for the other sensations, the oddly pleasant ache between her legs and the echo of his hard body against hers, well, she didn’t mind them. Rather the contrary, she had to admit, plucking the last arrow from the bull’s-eye.
“My father didn’t touch Cat,” said Cory from just behind her. “I’ve meant to tell you, but kept waiting until there could be no doubt.”
Arrested, Mira turned. “Did you ask her, then?”
“I didn’t need to. Do you think I could not tell, looking into her eyes? But I thought she might suspect how he’d dealt with me, and if she did, I would be forced to speak of it with her. Otherwise, it would lie between us always, and I do need her friendship, annoying as she is. But she doesn’t know, and if my mother does, she will never acknowledge it, even to herself. So now, we proceed from here.”
