That was the most hurtful thing of all, even though he didn’t appear to notice. Dorcas would wager anything that he did, or he had in the past.
Grant spent the evening by her side, ensuring she had everything she needed, seeing to her comfort, as he put it. As if she were physically damaged, too. As if he were setting her up as a rival to his brother for attention. But she didn’t know if he did it on purpose or not.
She wouldn’t learn this family’s ways all at once but, for one evening, she’d made a reasonable start.
People thought, because she was quiet and she concentrated on her interests, that she didn’t notice things. That had always been to her advantage, and she used it again now; answering when she needed to, listening, watching. And always with Grant by her side, silently reminding her of the pleasures to come.
The second day of their marriage should have been spent in marital pleasures, not dressing formally and entertaining people. Now, Dorcas understood why couples retreated from society for a while after their marriage. If it wasn’t for the state of Grant’s house, they’d already have done that. Perhaps they could go back to the mine, and that tent, which now seemed more cozy than basic. They could share that narrow bed.
Eventually, as the light faded and night wore on, the family settled to a friendly game of cards. Silver loo, which could be lethal in the wrong hands, but they played for counters, mother-of-pearl fishes to be precise.
The dowager duchess won, until Grant shook off his habit of gazing at Dorcas like a lovelorn swain and got to his feet. “I have a few business matters to attend to, a letter to write before I can go to bed. May I escort you to your room, my dear?”
Dorcas was growing a little tired of being called somebody’s dear. As they left the room, she muttered, “I’m nobody’s dear.”
When the door to the drawing room had closed, Grant growled, “You’re my dear. Get used to it.”
He pushed her against the wall. Gasping in shock, Dorcas tilted her head back to protest, but instead, responded when he slammed his lips down on hers. Desperation was clear in every action; the way he hadn’t waited for them to be safely behind closed doors, his body pressing against hers, the slap of his hands on the wall either side of her head, pinning her to the wall.
Not that Dorcas cared.
She was panting heavily by the time he lifted his head. He gazed down at her with deep appreciation. “Let’s go to bed,” he growled.
“I thought you said you had a letter to write?”
“Damn the letter!”
When she laughed at his use of the curse word, he kissed the laugh right out of her.
Their bedroom wasn’t far, but he chased her there, forcing giggles as he nearly caught her time and time again. He was playing with her, and she loved it, this playful side of him. She hadn’t thought the dour duke capable of it, but since she’d grown to know him better, she’d recognized her foolishness.
There was nothing dour about her husband.
She raced into her bedroom, and tried to slam the door on him, but he stuck his foot in the opening. Despite his yelp of shock, he kept it levered open. Laughing, she went into his arms.
A rustle of silk told them they weren’t alone. Although Dorcas would have pulled out of his arms, Grant held her tight and finished the kiss. He deepened it, the intimacy making her head swim before he released her. “Half an hour,” he warned her. “That’s all the time you have. Be warned, I’ll be back.”
Stepping back, he left her to the mercies of her maid.
Half an hour later, as the clock on her mantelpiece chimed the hour, a tap sounded on the connecting door between their rooms, followed immediately by the Duke of Blackridge.
“That hardly gave me a chance to say ‘come in’ or ‘go away’,” she complained, but she was smiling when she said it.
“I didn’t want to give you the opportunity.” By the time he’d said that, he was across the room and curving his arms around her. Then his mouth was on hers again, and they continued right where they’d left off.
He made his hands busy at her waist, and she felt her silk robe fall away. Lowering her arms, she let it fall in a whoosh. Unashamed, ready for him. He growled against her lips. His approval hummed through her. Reaching for him, she almost purred when his arm muscles flexed under her hands. He drew her closer, and she felt him, his erection pressing against her stomach. No subterfuge here, no pretense. She loved it.
She loved him.
Time she told him. So when finally, his mouth left hers, she studied his dear face, his lips reddened from their kisses, his brown eyes dark and slumberous. “I love you.”
He gazed at her, and a smile slowly grew. “I love you, too.”
That simple.
He laughed. “My mother would disapprove. Deeply, I should add. Shall we tell her?”
“We don’t have to. I think she knows.”
That deep chuckle warmed her heart. “She will. And she won’t like it, but I don’t really care.” He looped his arm around her waist. “Shall we continue this in bed, or are you feeling adventurous?”
She blinked. “What?”
He smiled. “Maybe another time. I have so much to show you, but there’s no rush. We have the rest of our lives.”
Goodness, he was right. They had a long time together.
“And then I’m sure you’ll be teaching me,” he added.
Guiding her to the bed, he motioned to where her maid had turned down the covers. “After you, your grace.”
“Oh! Yes.”
Climbing into the high bed couldn’t be done gracefully, so she scrambled up as best she could, pivoting so she lay on her back. After unfastening the elaborate frogged toggles that held his robe together, he joined her, effortlessly climbing in and over her.
That was when she discovered that under his banyan, he was naked. The fabric fell on either side of them, creating a kind of tent, reminding her of their trysts at the mine. Except infinitely more luxurious. And of course, they weren’t going to stop, like they did before.
His kiss softened her, and his caresses slowly moved her night-rail up her body, baring her flesh to him. He was forced to stop kissing her long enough to pull the unwanted garment over her head. Dorcas felt no shame revealing her body to him. He smiled down at her, his gaze slowly sweeping down her body, soon joined by his hand, as he warmed her, soothing and stimulating at the same time.
Slow and easy, he took her, caressing her as if she were precious, but not fragile. As their passion increased, as he tasted her, and she lifted her body to him, a fever overtook her. But a good one. A fever that raised her blood, prickled along the whole of her body, and made her yearn for him.
So when he rolled onto his back, she gasped. He grinned, gesturing with one hand the length of his body. “Your turn,” he said. “Help yourself.”
He was already aroused. A person could see that easier in a man than a woman. But yes, she longed to touch him, to own him. Make him hers. “You won’t want anyone else when I’m done with you,” she promised. She had no idea what to do, but like dealing with a new specimen, she let instinct guide her, adding a little knowledge to what she was doing.
Spreading her hand flat on his chest, she moved up to the hard, small nipples, savoring the change in texture. The hair on his chest, sprinkled there rather than a forest, brushed against her hands, adding another sensation. “I’m greedy. I want it all,” she murmured, bending to taste him. His nipples were saltier than his chest, but both tasted of pure man.
“All yours, my love, all yours,” was his response. His back arched when she reached his groin, and he hissed through his teeth. “Be careful.”
She looked up. “Why? We have all night.”
Learning the shape of him, the feel of him, fascinated Dorcas.
She had read literature she should not, giggled with her sisters over French engravings before they tossed them in the fire, lest they be caught looking. Now she could look all she wanted, smell an
d taste, discover what happened if she did this— a wince—or that—a low groan.
She liked the groan best. Even more when he bent to lift her. But she had only just begun to enjoy herself. “No, no! This is all so, so fascinating. Why do you wince when I do this?” She demonstrated.
“Because that is the most delicate part of my anatomy, and you need to treat it with care, if you wish me to give you heirs! Good grief, Dorcas!”
That’s when she tried something else. She was taking great care, but still the twitches and moans gave her little clue, until he said, “Oh, yes, like that, love, please.”
Ah. She saw what he meant. So she did it again, and he rewarded her by covering his eyes with his forearm and groaning. “Have mercy, darling. Come here before I’m completely undone.”
When she reluctantly desisted and slid up the bed to grin wickedly at him, he grabbed her and swung her over him. “If you’re feeling energetic, then let’s see you do some work. You know how to ride, don’t you?”
Dorcas didn’t know how to ride in bed, but she was a fast learner. Grant held her steady, helped her, smiled up at her, and murmured outrageous compliments as she worked, discovering that the description “ride” was a completely apt one.
And tiring, too. As the crescendo of sensation hit her, she became aware that Grant was shuddering under her, his body arching up to lift her, so she had to lean forward and grip his shoulders for balance.
She fell over him, panting from exertion and joy. After who knew how long, he eased her off him, and gently laid her by his side, drawing the covers over them as their bodies chilled. “Well, that was round one,” he murmured in her ear, but Dorcas was too exhausted and happy to respond.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grant gave Dorcas little quarter that night. Another vigorous bout of lovemaking followed in the small hours, and again that heart-wrenching tenderness afterwards, as if she were made of glass. She adored all of it. And she fell asleep again.
Dorcas woke as the birds began their dawn chorus.
She picked out a blackbird, the clear call fluting over the song of thrushes and swifts, their voices soaring up into the sky. Dorcas knew how they felt.
Next to her, her husband stirred, turned and put his arm around her waist. She leaned her head on his shoulder and rested her hand on his chest, savoring the closeness, the newness of the day and her relationship. And her life. Although Lord knew what was ahead for her, because she didn’t.
Her husband grunted, and woke.
“You snore,” she whispered.
“I know.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her palm. “You’ll learn to love it.”
She loved it already, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged that admission out of her. “Absolutely not!”
He rose up, leaned over her and kissed her, but drew back. “I don’t want to wear you out. Perhaps we should make love one time each night.”
“Or whatever we feel like,” she said, but she did feel a little—used. Not sore, precisely, because despite the vigor of their lovemaking, Grant had taken great care with her, but definitely aware of what they’d spent much of the night doing.
He kissed her, but drew away afterwards. His face was limned in new light filtering through the curtains, but she couldn’t see his face clearly. Only his eyes, glittering when he moved his head to glance at the window. “I’ll get up soon and wrap things up. I want a final report, and then I’ll leave matters in your brother’s capable hands.”
“Why?”
“Because, lovely one, I want time with you. I have a neat little manor house in Leicestershire, about thirty miles from here. I want to take you there.”
“But my roses!”
He sighed. “Of course. Your roses.” He bit his lip, deep in thought. Dorcas took the opportunity to graze the stubble on his chin with the palm of her hand. “Your beard grows quickly.”
He nodded. “In town, I have it shaved twice a day sometimes. It grows faster than your seedlings. Dorcas, I want time alone with you.”
“I want time with you, too. But I can’t leave my roses, you must see that.” Were they on the brink of their first argument as a married couple? So soon?
“I do. Those twigs have been halfway across the world.” He sighed. “How long will it take you to prepare them to move?”
“Do you have orangeries?”
“Probably. In my main house in Scotland, I have a glasshouse.”
She caught her breath. “Really?”
“Truly.”
Rapidly, she made calculations. A glasshouse would be perfect. Ideal. She could establish a base there, to develop all the plants she wanted. “I heard the weather is bad in Scotland.”
“My house is sheltered, close to Edinburgh, but further away from the sea. I think you’ll like it. That’s our main seat now but, in the past, we lived in a horribly drafty keep in the Highlands. I still own it, but I rarely go there. It’s damp, inconvenient and primitive. The new house is the one my grandfather built.”
“And you supported the king in the Rebellion,” she said, referring to the recent Jacobite troubles that had culminated in the bloody battle of Culloden Moor.
“Yes, I did. And I would do it again. The Stuarts only love Scotland when it’s convenient to them. Charles Edward Stuart couldn’t wait to knock the dust of my country off his polished boots when he lost the battle. He has never been back. He left my countrymen to suffer the fate dealt out to them. The Georges don’t care about the country, and they’re happy to leave it to its own devices. Only fools would want the Stuarts back.”
Dorcas had lived through that affair, suffered with the Scots, but like many people, she’d only seen the romantic aspects. The Highlanders had suffered the most, and the common people most of all, but that was always the way. The people who had the most to lose, the aristocrats, lost little. The farmer scratching a living lost everything. She had seen it in similar circumstances when the people of London were goaded to anger by some new tax, some law that made their lives more difficult. She’d spent days keeping inside the house when the mob had rampaged abroad. The Jacobite rebellion was little more than a rebellious mob.
Grant laughed and kissed her. “Why are we talking about wars here? We should be celebrating.” He touched her lips, softly tracing their shape. “Why so gloomy? What’s troubling you, Dorcas?”
The problem she’d woken up with, the one in her mind since last night. Since before that. “Grant, tell me about your brother.”
He pulled her tighter, squashing the breath out of her before he released her with a muttered apology. “I thought it might be that. You saw how we are as a family? My mother barely tolerates me, and fawns over David. She has often said that David should have been born first, instead of being three years younger than me.”
He lay on his back, drew her close and stared at the canopy over their heads, as if looking into the past. “I was my father’s favorite, and he made no bones about displaying it. I resemble him most. He ensured I had the best of everything. But David is a tolerant person, and I shared with him what I could. We were close.
“David is three years younger than me. Until I was twelve, we spent a great deal of time together. He took the same lessons as me, we played in the grounds together, shared our dreams.”
He swallowed. “He had a riding accident. He was bold to the point of rashness, adventurous. Rash enough to ride the horse that everybody had told him not to.”
“And he fell.”
“Yes he did.” He bit his lip hard, his sharp, white teeth creating deep indentations. If he’d bitten any harder, he’d have drawn blood. She wanted to kiss it better, but she was afraid that if she interrupted him, he’d never finish his story.
He didn’t look at her as he told his story, but she remained in his arms, lying still, willing him to tell her.
“It was nobody’s fault but his, but he blamed me. When he was lying on the ground, he told the groom that I’d dared him to take the
horse out. I had done no such thing, never told him to do anything so foolish. The horse, Starlight, was the wildest in the stables. A big brute of a stallion that nobody should have been riding. He was nine years old, for God’s sake!”
She heard the frustration in his voice. She didn’t blame him. “And you couldn’t deny it. You’d have put him in the wrong when he could have died.”
He closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. “You understand.”
He opened his eyes. She’d never seen them so dark.
Finally, he looked back down at her. “Yes. It was a month before we knew he turned the corner and began to recover. And of course, I couldn’t deny his accusation when he began to recover. I gladly accepted the blame because he wasn’t going to die. We were just relieved that he was recovering. But his legs were damaged beyond repair.”
“That is so sad.”
Grant shook his head, biting his lip again. “I can’t say that I didn’t dare him. Not in truth. We were always joking, and I can’t remember if I said something about Starlight. The horse fascinated us. But you know stallions are rarely mounted, much less ridden. They’re kept for stud. Most are too fierce and untrustworthy.”
“I’m so sorry your brother did what he did, and then blamed you for it.”
Turning his head, he gazed at her, as if seeing more than she could discern. “Thank you. My mother blames me. She has acceded to David’s request to live privately. I don’t know if he is capable of—marrying or not. His spine was not broken, but his legs were badly crushed.”
At last, she understood. Being blamed for something he didn’t do and being unable to explain himself would sting, especially with someone like Grant, who demanded honest dealing.
She understood. Grant was aware that his joy was out of proportion, but he couldn’t help it. For years, he’d carried his guilty secret, knowing his mother was blaming him. Long enough that he wondered himself. He and David had always joked with each other, challenged each other with foolish dares. But never that foolish. Nobody would have dared a nine-year-old boy to ride that devil. Would they?
A Trace of Roses Page 22
