“Say something.” A little huffiness underlay her words.
“I have wanted to make love to you since we arrived”—he glanced at the clock—“four hours ago. I even sat through that unpleasant visit with your friends without killing anyone. I believe I have been penitent, polite and obliging.” His smile was unutterably sweet. “Have pity, darling.”
She smiled. “You’re begging?”
“I am,” he simply said.
“I have been struggling to curb my obsession with you.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why. But the feeling persists.”
“We are both battling vexatious feelings. I suggest we set them aside and enjoy what we have. You talked about carpe diem pleasures in Simferopol if I recall. I don’t see why Paris should be any different.”
“You are very reasonable.”
“I like to think I am.” And so he had been until Aurore entered his life.
“Very well.”
He laughed. “This is not the guillotine, my dear.”
“I know, but my brain is awash in irksome contradictions.”
He placed the decanter on the floor and rose from his chair, having decided that Aurore would feel better if her brain was awash in the heat of passion instead. And he certainly would be happier. “Tell me what’s first on your list,” he said, lifting her to her feet. “Anything as long as it doesn’t involve animals.”
“I didn’t know you had scruples,” she quipped, amusement in her eyes.
There had been times when he hadn’t, but bringing animals upstairs tonight would have taken too much effort. And he rather doubted Bizot would allow it anyway. “Indeed I do have scruples on occasion,” he lied, turning her around to unhook her gown. “So you needn’t fear for your honor.”
How pleasant it was to let Darley take charge, she decided. How gratifying to know that soon she would be transported to that wonderland of pleasure she only knew with him. And it was infinitely easy. She had only to give herself up to him and he would do all the rest.
Gifted, endowed by nature with distinctive attributes—sizeable attributes—he offered sexual largess and lavish satisfaction beyond what she had formerly known.
Although, initially, that night, he operated without his usual self-control.
After discarding Aurore’s gown, with a rare impatience he ascribed to considerable drink, he murmured, “Forgive me,” and picking her up, walked to the bed, sat her down, and unbuttoned his fly. Without removing her drawers—they were conveniently open at the bottom—he lifted her into his arms again, wrapped her legs around his waist, positioned his throbbing cock against her pulsing slit and thrust upward with hot-headed haste.
He stood perfectly still for a moment, engulfed within Aurore’s steamy heat, ensconced in the exact location he’d most wanted to be all these many hours past. Buried as he was in the sweetest cunt, the tightest, most exquisite, most glorious cunt, he experienced concurrently both a wild arousal and a curious serenity.
Until he suddenly felt Aurore’s hands gripping his shoulders, felt her slide up his erection and was graphically reminded of his companion’s spirited impatience.
He moved then and she did in reply and so it went—but not for long. His lengthy wait had taken its toll.
“Don’t you dare!” he heard her cry as though from a great distance and with considerable effort, he dragged himself back to reality and precipitously curbed his orgasm. Fortunately, his time in India had not been wasted. He refocused his attentions then and once the greedy Miss Clement had had her way with him, he immediately dropped her on the bed and came on her stomach.
“Ick,” she said a moment later, her silk drawers stuck to her skin.
“Consider the alternative, darling,” he calmly said, his orgasm having brought with it a certain tranquility. “I could have come inside you.” He reached for a pillowcase.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she grumbled. Then, she smiled. “I do, actually, thank you most profusely. I always think it can’t get any better and yet, it always does with you. You are truly gifted.”
“And you are temptation itself,” he said, charming and urbane. He’d wiped himself off and was dabbing at her drawers with a clean portion of the pillowcase. “Don’t move. I’ll take these off.”
He was completely unaffected, with an openness about him that belied the seductive genius so much a part of his nature. And he was truly a genius when it came to sexual pleasure. Surely, she would be the greatest fool to question why she was here doing what she was doing.
From that point on, she no longer did, reveling instead in the euphoric rapture he bestowed in limitless measure.
Much later that night, she pettishly wailed, “Wake up! Don’t do this to me!”
Sprawled on his back, his arms over his head, Darley slowly opened his eyes and muttered half-asleep and edgy, “What the fuck…”
“Please, Gazi—I beg of you! Don’t fall asleep!”
He must have dozed off for a minute. Blinking, he tried to focus his gaze—finally succeeded. Aurore was kneeling beside him, her breathing labored, her eyes pleading, her hands clutched between her legs, as though trying to contain the fire within.
Dragging himself awake, he glanced downward, then up again before meeting her gaze. He smiled. “You have to talk to him.”
In her current frenzied state, she was more than willing. Her mouth was immediately inspiring, his fatigue quickly banished. In short order, he chivalrously set about relieving the lady’s sharp-set lust in what turned out to be a long, drawn-out, heart-stirring exercise in prolonged delay.
“Now, now, now,” she’d cry.
“Not yet.” And he’d withdraw until her trembling stopped.
She threatened him and whined, tried artifice and subterfuge.
But he did what he did, intent on amplifying and heightening her resulting orgasm.
When he finally allowed her to climax, she was visibly shaken.
Pale and overwrought, drained.
He drew her close then and she curled up against him and slept.
Wide awake now, disquieted when he shouldn’t be, he watched over her as a formless confusion filled his brain. He shouldn’t be here. Perhaps he’d known that from the first. Sex aside, of course.
But there was always sex somewhere else.
And he had known that too from the first.
Chapter 27
He was gone when she woke in the morning, which turned out to be fortunate since the moment she rose from bed nausea overwhelmed her.
She raced for the bathroom and reached it just in time.
Lying on the Punjabi bed afterward, she scanned the room for any sign of Darley’s things, although she’d known last night he wouldn’t be here in the morning.
He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t had to.
She’d known. He’d made love to her with an unusual solicitude, kissed her with great tenderness, indulged her every whim. Always gallant, he’d been even more unselfish last night, taking great pains to please her and succeeding masterfully.
But beyond the sensual euphoria and enchantment, the playfulness and soft caresses, had been the unspoken, inevitable good-bye.
Realistically, she had never assumed he’d stay, nor had that ever been her intent. This was a love affaire, after all—by definition a fleeting thing. And yet…Aurore sighed and smiled at the same time. Darley was not the sort of man easily forgotten.
Which brought to mind affairs of another kind—a delicate little affair in this case. She made a small moue. One could only postpone and procrastinate for so long, she ruefully mused. The time had come, perhaps, to confront a significant consequence of the pleasure Darley so charmingly dispensed.
While her stomach upset last night could have been explained by fatigue, lengthy travel, strange odors, this morning’s recent bout of nausea could not be so easily dismissed. She was not obtuse, nor ignorant of the principles of reproduction. She had also known friends with this common complaint. Mo
st incontrovertible, however, in terms of confirming any suspicion she might have had was the fact that she had not had her menses since she’d met Darley.
Six weeks ago.
She wasn’t blaming him. He’d always been careful. Not that she expected anything different—a gentleman knew better than to come in a woman. But however cautious their efforts, with unremitting sex the risk of failure increased.
Seminal residue occasionally intruded and infiltrated where it shouldn’t.
In this case, into her womb.
In a way, she was grateful that he’d left. The situation would have been awkward this morning—an excuse for her bout of morning sickness wouldn’t have been convincing. They both would have been embarrassed by the disclosure. She felt a hot flush warm her cheeks just thinking of the floundering conversation that would have ensued. Thankfully, the need for clumsy excuses, tactful politesse or perhaps—wrathful displeasure—had been avoided.
Although she rather doubted Darley would be so scurrilous as to reproach her. On the other hand, he had chosen not to marry for whatever reasons—although a dearth of women pursuing him was not one of them, she suspected. He very well may have faced such a situation before. If he had, apparently he’d avoided any repercussions. She was not inclined to attempt to coerce a man into marriage in any event. The thought was repugnant. And she rather doubted Darley would yield to coercion anyway.
They would be in agreement there, she decided.
So now—she was here, he was not and there was a child to consider.
What to do first?
It was opportune that she was in Paris, far from anyone who might have known that she was previously unmarried and unattached. When it became necessary, she would fabricate a story about a husband killed in the war and assume the role of widow. A familiar-enough ploy. Although, since Philip and Bertrand had seen her with Darley, she would have to take them into her confidence; but they could be trusted.
As for the aristocratic world, overlooking little imbroglios or delicate situations was normal. Discretion was a prevailing principle and not just in terms of pregnancies. In the haut monde, everything from mistresses to political graft was countenanced with politesse and tact, subterfuge and illusion—overlooking indiscretions not only de rigeur but a sign of good breeding.
And there was no need to tell Etienne or anyone until absolutely necessary. Her brother would only feel obliged to interfere and she was determined to avoid his meddling. What he would consider an honorable solution would not suit her. Nor did principles of male affront have anything to do with her or her child. She wasn’t particularly worried about Etienne, however. She could handle him. She always had.
She stretched lazily, all the pertinent issues nicely arranged in an orderly format that would unfold in time. And in truth, the thought of a child—Darley’s child—warmed her heart. Would it be a boy—a girl…perhaps both, she mused, smiling faintly at the notion. A boy would look like Darley, of course, although what if a girl looked like Darley—very large and strong…or if a boy were fair like her and not large at all. She giggled softly, knowing it mattered not at all—large, small, fair, dark—as long as the child was theirs.
She had never allowed herself to think of her relationship with Darley in terms of love. Such a notion would have been beyond the pale of rational thought. But she was not inhibited by similar restrictions when it came to her child, and she would love and hold dear this child they had created together. She would be outrageously doting, she decided with a grin.
Which meant a certain attention to detail soon must be considered. She would need a layette prepared, and the nursery freshened and decorated, a nurse employed—several would be better, she reflected. Was it too early to interview tutors and buy ponies? Don’t forget a doctor would be required. She would ask her friends and find out who was best. Or maybe a midwife would be more useful, she thought in the next second. Another question to ask her friends—when the time was appropriate. Heavens, so much to do and for such a lovely purpose.
And in truth, it was much better that she was dealing with this child alone. Darley might have proved difficult in any number of ways.
For instance, neither England nor France were particularly amenable to mother’s rights, and should Darley decide to lay claim to this child, the courts would likely allow his claim. That was a fight she preferred avoiding.
She would have to make that clear to Etienne when she spoke to him; Darley should not be told about the child for practical reasons.
Although, in her current blissful mood, even thoughts of paternity claims could not curb her good humor.
And she was feeling just a little bit hungry too.
Why not, though? She had just thrown up.
Mmmm—what did she want for breakfast?
Chapter 28
Darley reached London that same evening, the train to Calais and the trip on the channel packet testimony to the efficiency of the transportation system. Hiring a coach at Dover rather than take the train, he seized the opportunity to doze on the last leg of the journey. His sleep the night before had been nonexistent.
Westerlands House in Portman Square was open, although the entire family was not yet come down for the Season. The social festivities would not commence until late April—the first to arrive in town, those mamas most anxious to marry off their daughters.
Darley was welcomed home with great warmth, the butler and two flunkys on duty in the front hall delighted to see the prodigal son returned.
“His Grace is just back from Brooks, sir,” the butler, Simpson, said. “He will be most happy to see you.”
Following Simpson down the hall, Darley inquired of his family. His mother, sisters and nieces were in Paris, he was told—a mild shock hearing that. Fortunately, he’d not stayed long enough to run into them with Aurore at some entertainment. The others in his sisters’ families were planning on coming to town in a fortnight—no, there were no new additions to his siblings’ families since last he’d visited. His brother and his household were in residence at Oak Hill. They had no plans to come down ’til the Season was well underway. Stopping before the library door, Simpson smiled at Darley. “This will be a most pleasant surprise for His Grace.” Opening the door, he announced with relish, “The marquis is come home, Your Grace.”
The duke was up out of his chair before Simpson finished speaking. “Welcome, welcome home, son! What a bloody delight to have you back!” Smiling broadly, the Duke of Westerlands advanced on Darley, arms open wide.
“It’s good to be home,” Hugh replied, his smile very like his father’s.
As the men hugged, Simpson delicately shut the door and proceeded briskly down the corridor. Everyone below stairs must be apprised of the marquis’s arrival, his suite must be quickly aired and readied; the cook would want to make something special in honor of Darley’s wondrous appearance. He had last been home two years ago, and then only briefly for a nephew’s baptism.
Young Hugh as he was still referred to, although he had long been a grown man, had always been a favorite of the servants. He’d always made it a point to know every servant’s name from the lowliest scullery maid to the august steward, had taken time to chat with them all, knew their families and friends, and as a child, he was more apt to be found in the kitchen than anywhere else.
“Sit, I’ll get you a cognac,” the duke cheerfully declared. “And tell me to what do we owe this surprise visit? I thought you’d be up to your ears with Cattley’s work for some time yet.”
Dropping into a wing chair by the fire, Darley slid into a weary sprawl. “Lord, it feels prodigious good to be home,” he said with feeling, stretching his legs out before him. Paradise took many forms. “As to my work in the Crimea”—he grimaced faintly—“we were caught in the act as it were at the Russian governor’s house in Simferopol and had to run for our lives. It’s a little too hot there right now with the Third Section on the prowl for us.”
“You and whom? Anyone
I know?” Returning with their drinks, Duff handed Darley his and took the matching wing chair across from his son.
“A French spy. She came into the governor’s study while I was pilfering his desk. With the same object in mind. We barely escaped.”
“She?” The duke arched one brow. “That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”
“Her family has diplomatic ties with France going back several centuries. Her brother had enlisted in the French army and she became involved as a result.” Raising his glass to his mouth, he drank half the cognac in one draught.
“A French woman in the field. That still must be rare.”
“Her family has lived in the Crimea for some time. Fifty years or more—something like that. I’m not entirely sure.” He purposely spoke in vague terms.
“She must be at risk from the Third Section as well.”
“I dropped her off in Paris. She has a home there.”
“I see. Well”—the duke smiled—“fortunately you are here safe and sound and for that we are grateful. Will you stay for some time now that you are persona non grata in that part of the world?”
Hugh shrugged. “For a while. I’m never sure.”
“We must see that you are entertained then, so you will be inclined to extend your stay,” Duff replied warmly. “Your maman will be ecstatic that you have arrived. She and your sisters are scheduled to return in a few days. They’re shopping for the Season so one never knows precisely how long fittings and such will take, but I’ll see that a telegram is sent to your mother immediately. She’ll be anxious to see you, I know.”
Darley smiled. “And I her—and everyone else. The family has not expanded, Simpson tells me, since last I was here.”
“No, but the children are all growing like grass. In only two years, Emma’s oldest will be coming out.”
Darley’s eyes flared wide for a transient moment. “Good Lord. It can’t be true.” Emma was two years younger than he.
At Her Service Page 23
