by Amy Jarecki
Sher blinked. All those years Eleanor had chosen power over love. She’d been swept up in the enterprise and the excitement of it all. Fascinating.
“But being a wife is not insignificant, especially a duchess,” Sher hedged, pushing for more.
Weston shrugged. “I’m not saying I agreed or disagreed. It was just how she saw things. After all, she must have changed her mind. She’s married to you, is she not?”
Yes, under duress.
Sher stood. “This has been a good talk, thank you. Your story has filled in a few gaps and I’m glad of it.”
“I hope you won’t hold any of what I’ve said against Her Grace.”
“Not at all. If nothing else, I might hold her in higher esteem.” Sher chuckled as together they walked out the library door. “She is quite enterprising. I believe it is best to keep her time occupied.”
“It always has been, Your Grace.”
Sher left the butler to his duties and headed for the courtyard where he’d ordered the coach readied at half past one.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sher sat on the settee near the window of the modiste’s shop for an eternity while nearly everyone in Rawcliffe strolled past and waved. He would have been content to sit there on display all afternoon, retuning waves, giving the odd smile, but when Lady Stevens and her daughter happened past, the matron halted directly and came inside.
“My Lord Duke! Whatever are you doing in a modiste’s shop?” asked Her Ladyship.
Danby stood, bowed, and greeted the two ladies. “Her Grace has a fitting for her ballgown and whatnot.”
“Goodness, the ball is only a few days away and the duchess is only now having a fitting?” asked Miss Stevens. “I’ve had my gown for a sennight.”
Sher was a bit puzzled by that. How far in advance did Eleanor need to be? “Ah, well, my wife has been ever so busy with making the arrangements.”
Miss Stevens clasped her hands over her heart. “Arrangements,” she sighed, as if planning a ball was incredibly romantic.
Her Ladyship opened her fan and cooled her face. “I thought I’d step in to ensure you received the invitation to the organ recital. It will be at the cathedral Wednesday next.”
“I did receive it, thank you.” Sher vaguely remembered something or other about a recital, but he wasn’t about to be cornered into making a commitment to attend. He’d best change the subject. “And how is Sir Stevens?”
“He is so looking forward to seeing you and your bride at the ball.”
“I’ll wager he is.”
“Mama, if we do not make haste, all of the bonbons will be gone.”
Her Ladyship snapped her fan shut. “She’s ever so right. The confectioner’s bonbons are not from this world. Have you ever tried them?”
“I have.” Sher escorted them toward the door. “Best I’ve ever tasted.”
After the ladies took their leave, the modiste popped her head out from a screen. Honestly, Sher didn’t understand the need for a screen because behind it was the door to the fitting room. “The duchess is asking for your opinion, Your Grace, if you’d like to come through.”
Sher regarded the forbidden screen. He’d accompanied his mother to this very shop on occasion and had never been invited into the secret chamber. “Gentlemen are allowed into the sanctuary of the female?” he jested.
“Only very special gentlemen, such as yourself. Besides, the duchess said she preferred not to go out there.”
Inside, Eleanor stood on a platform in front of a mirror, wearing a gown with a pink gossamer skirt embroidered with flowers. The bodice was a frilly affair that puffed and flounced in ivory lace, completely hiding Eleanor’s sumptuous figure. It was cute rather than elegant. Youthful rather than sophisticated. Sher winced. No wonder she didn’t want to step into the public part of the shop. He’d seen her wear far lovelier gowns before. The gown she’d worn at the pavilion was considerably more stunning.
Eleanor looked him in the eye before she ticked up her chin. “Exactly what I thought as well.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Thank you, Danby. You may return to the waiting room now. I won’t be but a moment.”
“I do like pink on you,” he said, trying to be encouraging. “The color is very complementary to your complexion.”
“We have great many alterations to make.” The modiste ushered him back out the door. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll have my ladies working day and night. Not to worry, the duchess will have a masterpiece.”
Bewildered, Sher allowed himself to be herded back to the waiting room. When ten minutes later, Eleanor came out looking as fresh as a penny, he puzzled for a moment. “You didn’t care for the dress, did you?”
“It was hideous. But have no fear, she’ll have it set to rights for the ball.”
“If not, then you can always wear that lovely lavender ensemble you wore to the royal dinner in Brighton. It was stunning.”
“Wear an old gown to my first event as Duchess of Danby? It simply isn’t done.”
“How gauche of me.” Together they headed outdoors. “Perish the thought.”
“Did you know Madame Celeste is not French?”
“Come to think of it, she doesn’t sound French.”
Eleanor coughed out a pshaw. “Well, my instructions were very specific—in French, mind you. Now that we have discussed everything in English, and I’ve left her with a sketch, I have no doubt, she’ll come through.”
“No doubt?”
Eleanor’s lips twisted in an adorable cringe as she walked along beside him. “Well, as you said, there is always the lavender.”
They must have taken at least five steps along the footpath, before someone shouted, “Your Graces!”
Sher placed his palm in the small of Eleanor’s back and started for the carriage. “This is why I don’t often come to town.”
They hadn’t made it to the curb when they were surrounded by a mob.
Everyone spoke at once:
“The rumors are true. You have returned before the Season’s end!”
“There’s a country dance next month. I hope we’ll see you.”
“I love country dances,” Eleanor replied.
Truly? Sher had no idea.
“We’d love to see you at church.” Of course, that remark came from the vicar’s wife.
“Are you in town for long?”
As Sher guided Eleanor toward the curb, the footman opened the carriage door. He handed his wife inside, then turned to the crowd. “It is a joy to see you all. And we do hope to be in Rawcliffe for a good long while.”
The questions continued while he climbed inside and tapped the ceiling with his cane, cuing the driver to walk on.
Eleanor looked out the window and then sat back with a chuckle. “My, they are exuberant.”
“Indeed.” Sher glanced down at her gloved hand resting on the bench beside him. She had elegantly long fingers, fine bones. After their tryst in the garden, he’d hoped she might come to him. He’d actually lain awake in bed trying to will it.
But she wasn’t ready yet.
Not quite.
Though by the passion she imparted through her kisses, there was still hope. And now he had her on the hook, he planned to be relentless in his pursuit.
Only when he was convinced of her adoration would he act upon his damned, hot-blooded urges. If the waiting game didn’t kill him first.
But if anyone could make a feline purr, it was Sherborn Price.
Unless I’ve lost my knack after all this time.
He slid his palm under Eleanor’s hand and raised it to his lips. “This.” He kissed the soft kid leather. “Is too exquisite not to be admired.”
“My glove?”
His eyes slid her way as he arched an eyebrow and grinned. Ever so slowly, he tugged each finger until he had it partially removed. “Not the glove,” he said, touching his tongue to the tiny bit of ivory skin exposed just above her wrist.
<
br /> A subtle gasp sounded in her throat as she tugged away. Anticipating her reaction, Sher tightened his grip, keeping her fingers captive. The carriage rocked as he tugged the glove again, finally exposing her flesh. “This.” He applied his lips and savored the scent of her soap, the headiness of woman, warm skin alive with a thrumming pulse. “Is sumptuous, tempting, beguiling.”
“Ah, so the courting continues.”
Sher ignored her remark, trailing kisses up her arm until he reached her neck. “The courting will always continue, my kitten.”
“Kitten?” she asked, inclining slightly parted, moist lips toward him.
“I want to make you purr.”
Without another word, he stared into those deep pools of blue, inching closer, daring her to meet him halfway.
“Mm.” She licked her lips, her gaze dipping to his mouth.
Come to me, lovely.
Hesitating like a timid feline, her breath hitched. Sher lightly stroked the underside of her jaw—ran his finger along the sensitive skin there. As Eleanor’s eyes fluttered shut, she closed the distance and kissed him. Good, merciful God, at last! And once the duchess had given her lips freely, Sher devoured them in a searing kiss.
The reticent cat melted as he surrounded her with his arms. Becoming a lioness, she matched him lick for lick, caress for caress while his fingers slipped beneath her jacket and loosed the ties on the back of her dress. He reveled in the plundering of her mouth, moving his hand ever so slowly, he released the spencer’s three buttons. Then he slid his fingers inside her bodice, beneath her stays, and exposed the softest, most decadent breast he’d ever had the pleasure of fondling.
“Sher,” she sighed into his mouth. “We’re in public.”
“We’re in a carriage where no one can see us.” Hell, if they were in the town square, he wouldn’t give a damn. Savoring her, he ran kisses along the pillowy mounds of her breasts. “Isn’t it wicked?”
She sighed.
“Purr for me my kitten.” He shifted her nipple out from beneath its cage and suckled her.
“Oh, mmm.”
“That’s it.” He teased the tiny bud with the tip of his tongue while his wife began to come undone. “Purr with delight.”
“Yes, mmm, I’m purring.” She arched into him and dragged her fingers through his hair. “Can you hear me?”
Lord in heaven, the words came out low and sultry and wanton, making his cock so hard it strained in his smalls, oozing a bit of seed.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, showing her exactly how ravenous he’d become.
But all too soon the carriage rattled onto the cobblestones in Rawcliffe Castle’s courtyard.
“Fie,” he cursed, wondering where the time had gone.
Eleanor jolted, tugging her spencer closed and fumbling with the buttons. “What will the driver and footman think?”
Sher tucked a bit of errant hair under her bonnet and tapped her nose. “They’ll be none the wiser, kitten.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The eve of the ball, Eleanor sat at her toilette. In the mirror, she watched Rosie pin a plumage of pink and white ostrich feathers in place. “You’ve done a fine job with my hair this evening.”
“I must say it is beautiful, thanks to your tutelage. Without you, I never would have been able to make perfect corkscrew curls like these.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. You are a fine student. I knew you would be the day I arrived.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I’m ever so glad you chose me to be your lady’s maid.” Rosie patted the feathers. “I think this will last the night.”
Eleanor turned her head and tapped the plumage. “Perfect. I’ll just dab on a bit of perfume, don my gloves, and I’ll be ready.” Eleanor unstoppered the tiny bottle of her favorite French fragrance and applied it to the backs of her wrists and behind her ears. She had purchased the bottle in France years ago, but when she’d tried to buy more, there was none to be had. But she loved the scent, reminiscent of rosewood, jasmine, and narcissus.
Rosie collected her fan from the table. Fringed by pink lace, the center canvas was painted with nymphs dancing among lilacs. “You cannot forget this either. The colors are perfect with your gown, ma’am.”
Standing, Eleanor took the fan and brandished it. “I’m just happy to have a gown to match this.”
The modiste had delivered the dress this morning, after which she stayed to make a few more alterations. But Eleanor’s perseverance had paid dividends. The gown was fitting for a duchess—and it conformed to Eleanor’s form like a glove. If this dress didn’t show Danby that she was ready to begin the process of creating an heir, then she had no idea what would.
She examined the ensemble in the floor mirror. “Well, this will have to do.”
“Do? Your Grace, you will outshine every lady in the ballroom.”
Eleanor tugged her gloves just a bit higher—the only person she wanted to shine for was the man who occupied the adjoining chamber. “I want every woman to sparkle with radiance,” she said resolutely, before checking the clock. “I have just enough time to check on Papa and Margaret.”
“Do have a lovely time, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said as she slipped out into the corridor. Firstly, Eleanor tapped on her father’s door. “May I come in?”
Weston opened it. “Oh, Your Grace, why is it every time you dress in style, I am in awe of your beauty?”
“Perhaps because you always think of me as the gap-toothed little girl to whom you used to tell stories.” She brushed past him. “Should you not be in the vestibule? The guests will be arriving soon.”
“I’m on my way—I just wanted to see to His Lordship’s cravat.”
Eleanor stopped in front of her father. “Oh my, Papa, you are dapper this evening.” He wore new suit clothes with a perfectly cut velvet coat and satin knee breeches. And Weston had seen to a pristine ballroom knotted neckcloth. “The ladies will be doting on you for certain.”
The viscount grinned like a schoolboy. “I hope so,” he said so assuredly, he almost sounded as if he’d been completely cured. Aside from the invalid chair.
A pair of footmen arrived to take him below stairs, and wheeled him out to the corridor.
Weston grasped her hands. “I haven’t had a chance to ask…” He glanced over his shoulder as he often did in London when they spoke of business matters. “Have your plans changed?”
“Changed?”
“Ah…are you still planning to return to Kingston Manor?”
“I wish I had the answer.” She lowered her voice. “It seems Danby has different ideas.”
“And are you amenable to his point of view?”
“Undecided.”
“Well, if I may add my vote, I rather do like Rawcliffe.”
“You? But you’ve been at loggerheads with Mrs. Temperance ever since you arrived.”
He batted his hand through the air. “She adores the attention, mark me.”
Eleanor quirked her eyebrow. If the housekeeper enjoyed sparring with Weston, she surely had an odd way of showing it. With no time to discuss the matter, she kissed the butler’s cheek. “Whatever you say. Now haste. You wouldn’t want Mrs. Temperance stepping on your toes and answering the door, would you?”
She shook her head as she tiptoed up to the nursery, though tiptoeing was completely unnecessary. From two floors down, Margaret could be heard crying as if the world were about to end.
“My, my, what is all this fuss?” Eleanor asked when she found Miss Repast pacing the floor with the babe in her arms.
“She’s been like this ever since she ate her supper. Perhaps it was the parsnips.”
Eleanor reached out. “Come here, princess.”
Miss Repast hesitated. “Oh, no, Your Grace. I wouldn’t want her to soil that beautiful gown.”
Dropping her arms, Eleanor huffed. “Very well. Please do try to settle, sweeting.” She took off her glove and caressed th
e crying baby’s cheek. “Hmm. I think she feels a tad overwarm.”
“Most likely because she has been carrying on three quarters of an hour.”
“Perhaps try some cod liver oil.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Miss Repast placed Margaret in her cot. “Please don’t worry about us. I hope you have a lovely time tonight.”
Reluctantly, Eleanor headed for the vestibule. Though she shouldn’t be reluctant at all. This ball had been weeks in the planning. She’d seen to every detail and the spectacle was sure to be a headline in the Yorkshire papers—perhaps the news would even make its way to London. The guests would be arriving soon and she absolutely must be on hand to welcome every last one of them.
The tenor of Weston’s voice caused her to stop on the grand staircase’s landing and peek around the corner. Though she couldn’t hear what was being said, the butler was in conversation with Danby. Good heavens, he posed a sight. To keep herself from swooning, she grasped the rail and inhaled as deeply as her stays allowed.
Yes, no matter the situation, the duke always managed to take her breath away. But tonight, he embodied magnificence. A good head taller than Weston, back straight, hair tossed in a wild, yet fashionable mess, he stood alert like a prized stallion before a race. His every gesture was practiced and calculated—refined and exact. His double-breasted coat fit like a glove—bold and strong at the shoulders, tapering to a slim waist, supported by hips and thighs encased in white silk so snug, the definition of his physique made her pulse quicken.
If only I knew how to make him love me.
“I last saw Her Grace in the viscount’s chamber,” said Weston. The guests had not yet begun arriving and he was already wiping his brow with a kerchief. “I’m certain she’ll be down anon. I’ll wager she just went to give Margaret a kiss goodnight.”
Sher gave the butler a nod. Bless it, he knew she should have worn the lavender. True, the modiste in Rawcliffe knew his mother’s tastes, but Eleanor was nothing like Mama. Mama was rather petite in stature where Eleanor was tall and built like an Amazon. The woman had curves in all the right places…especially… His gaze meandered. Sher adored her breasts. But then there were the curves of her hips. He, too, adored the arc leading to the flair of hips not ashamed to be womanly.
