Arabella quirked her mouth. “I suppose. I don’t hate her, though. Yet, I cannot say I feel love for her. I have a mother, who in my heart is my true mother, and I love her. And my father. And you.”
She stared expectantly at him, and he shifted, uncomfortable. She wanted the words, but he could not say them. He could not hand over every last bit of control. “Arabella—”
She suddenly grinned as if she knew how uneasy she was making him, the minx.
“Teach me French,” she pleaded. “I have always wanted to learn to speak French. It sounds so very romantic.”
“All right,” he agreed, relieved that she’d willingly changed the subject. “Why don’t we start with—”
“The words I love you,” she inserted with an unmistakably impish smile. “That way I can tell you how I feel in two languages.”
The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he nodded his head. He’d not deny her that. He didn’t want to deny her anything, damn it, and he knew deep within he already was. He took her hand in his and stared into her eyes. “Je t’aime is how one says I love you in French.” He started to pull his trembling hand away, but she gripped it tightly.
“Je t’aime, darling. Now and forever.”
He nodded. “Yes, I know, and I have never felt luckier in my life.” He lowered his head to hers and claimed her mouth with a kiss that he prayed conveyed what was in his heart.
The weeks of recovery flew by at Justin’s house. It seemed to Arabella that the harder he tried to fight saying I love you, the more things he did to show her how he felt. She was determined to break down that small barrier he was trying to keep between them.
They were married a month and a half after the day she’d broken his nose in Madame Sullyard’s brothel. The ceremony was quick but touching, with her father and her mother as her witnesses. Her mother smiled at her, and Arabella’s heart clenched that her mother was finally coming back to herself. Justin’s witnesses were dear Hugh Mumford and the Marquess and Marchioness of Davenport. Arabella liked Lord Davenport’s wife immediately, and afterward, at the wedding breakfast, she’d invited Audrey—as she insisted on being called—to the dinner party she had spontaneously decided to throw. Justin had agreed to it with an obvious amount of discomfort, and Arabella knew it was because having people around who cared for him and demanded he do so in return threatened a bit more of the control he prized.
“I’d love to come to the duke’s home,” Audrey gushed as she eyed Justin with a smirk. “He’s never invited me, though I have hinted many times,” she said in a playful but chiding tone.
Arabella stole a glance at Justin, who was scowling at Audrey. The woman simply winked at him before turning her full attention to Arabella. “I shall stay today and help you make a guest list.”
“No,” Justin replied in such a harsh tone that Arabella frowned at him.
“Whyever not?” she asked.
He leaned toward her and pressed his lips to her ear. “This is our wedding day, my dear. I have definite plans on how I want to spend it.”
Heat singed her cheeks and filled her belly. He’d resisted all the flirtations and silent invitations she’d sent him in the last week, as she’d been feeling better. She’d not been hurt by his caution. She knew him a bit better now and had assumed he feared he could harm her if he bedded her.
“You think me well enough?” she teased under her breath, though conversation had carried on without them between her mother and Lady Audrey.
He frowned. “Of course. I’ve known you were recovered for the past week.”
It was her turn to frown. “Then why did you not bed me?” she whispered fiercely, not caring a bit that she sounded wanton. With him, she was wanton. And now he was her husband.
He gave her a look that smoldered with promise. “Because I did not want to compromise you any more than I already have.”
“What?” She gasped. Too loud apparently because heads swiveled in their direction.
“Excuse us,” Justin clipped. He shoved his chair back and then pulled hers out with her in it.
She blushed as she looked around the table of her family and, she supposed, new friends. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “We’ll be right back.”
“No, we won’t,” Justin announced in matter-of-fact tone. “Thank you for sharing in our celebration, but we are retiring to my chambers for the day.”
Her father frowned, her mother smiled, and Lord Davenport gave what appeared to be a nod of approval while Audrey winked at Justin. “That’s what I like, a husband eager to please his wife.”
Arabella quickly scooted her chair back the rest of the way before Justin commented further. “Enjoy the breakfast and, er, the day,” she said as she twisted around and took her husband’s proffered arm. As they left the dining room, she elbowed him. “You really are bad.”
“I know,” he said on a chuckle, “but you must forgive me.”
“Why must I?” she demanded at the foot of the stairs.
He swept her off her feet and into his arms and gave her a long, toe-curling kiss that stole her breath and her wits. “I’m desperate to be alone with you, and desperate men act without thought.”
She giggled as she nuzzled against his chest. “You are forgiven.”
“Wonderful,” he replied as he carried her up the stairs. “I’d hate for you to be angry when you see your surprise.”
She lifted her head and gazed at his face. “What surprise?”
“This,” he responded as he strode into his bedchamber and shut the door behind him with the heel of his boot.
As he set her on her feet, she gazed around the room in wonder. The once-bare room now contained matching settees, one covered in the palest feminine yellow and the other covered in dark-blue velvet. On the far wall of the bedchamber were two towering wardrobes.
Justin pulled her to him until her back was pressed firmly to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck. “The wardrobe on the right is yours and the one on the left is mine.”
She blinked back the tears blurring her vision and twisted around to face her husband. “We will share your bedchamber?” She had worried he might insist on separate chambers.
“Of course,” he responded, kissing her chin, her nose, and her eyelids. “I want to go to sleep with you in my arms and wake up to your beautiful face every day.” He paused for a beat. “Do you mind? I know many married people keep separate chambers, but I thought you would like this as much as I would.”
“I like it very much indeed,” she said past the large lump in her throat. “I love it, just as I love you.” She pressed her mouth to his and felt the moment his control slipped from his grasp. His body hardened all the way down the length of him and he nearly tore the material of both of their clothes while taking off everything as fast as he could. The need she sensed in him thrilled her, and her own need grew from an ache to a living, breathing thing that stole her own control.
He swept kisses down her neck, over her bare chest, down her belly, and back up to her mouth. He took possession of her mouth as if he were possessing her soul. She gave it willingly and with abandon. He suckled one breast and then the other, expertly giving her pleasure and eliciting her moans of delight. She ran her hands up and down his arms, memorizing how he was formed. When he gripped her under her buttocks and commanded she wrap her legs around him, she did so without hesitation.
His gaze locked with hers as he moved them against the wall and then thrust deep within her. It was so exquisite that a cry ripped from her lips, and he immediately froze. “Have I hurt you?”
“No.” She kissed his mouth. “But you’ll kill me if you don’t continue.” And he did, at a frenzied pace of raw need that she reveled in. When they had both reached their climax, she collapsed against his chest, and he carried her to the bed, laid her down, and settled beside her. They lay in the middle of his large bed, now covered with a beautiful blue-and-yellow bedcover and mounds of delicate pillows that
she knew he had purchased so she would feel this was her bedchamber as much as his. She turned onto her side and stared at his profile, so strong and beautiful. He’d still not said the words I love you to her other than in the French lesson, but he said them with everything he did every single day.
An odd trepidation filled her. Surely this could not last. She wanted him to tell her it would. “I’m so happy,” she whispered, placing her hand against his arm.
He turned on his side to face her and frowned. “Why do you say that as if it’s a bad thing?”
“I’m worried it won’t last.”
He pulled her into the crook of his arm and stroked her head. “It will last. I will make it last.”
“You cannot keep all bad things at bay,” she said, his words striking fear in her. She didn’t want him to try to do that. It was futile and would make him crazed.
“Of course I can,” he replied cheekily. “I’m the Duke of Dinnisfree. I can do anything I wish. And at this moment, I wish to take you again, if you desire to be taken.”
“There is nothing I want more,” she replied. This time their lovemaking was slow and sweet, and when she found her release for the second time that day in her husband’s arms, she collapsed onto the bed and fell promptly asleep.
Arabella woke hours later and realized with a start that the room was in shadows and she was under the bedcovers being cradled by Justin. He had one hand wrapped around her waist, and the other rested protectively over her belly. She had yet to tell him she was with child. She had been waiting for today, but he knew. Of course he did. He missed nothing. She smiled in pure happiness as she listened to the easy rhythm of his breath, and eventually, she drifted back to sleep with the thought that if any man could stop bad things from happening it would certainly be her formidable husband.
Their days soon found a pattern of long strolls in the garden, followed by French lessons, poetry readings, and hours of Justin relentlessly practicing throwing daggers, doing target practice with his pistol, and performing sweat-drenching exercise while she watched in utter fascination. Some days they would visit her parents, who were living at their home together again, and once a week, Justin would accompany her to visit Jude, as Arabella would forever think of him. He raved like a lunatic each time, and she learned from his ravings that his life at Madame Sullyard’s brothel had been horrific. Madame Sullyard had allowed men to do despicable things to him for money when he’d only been a child, helpless to defend himself. But when he grew stronger, he had killed a man who dared to touch him and threatened to kill Madame Sullyard if she ever tried to use him again. The revelations were heartbreaking for Arabella, but Justin always listened to her after each visit and helped her work through her sadness for Jude.
Things were wonderful between them, and they seemed to be growing closer. Justin told her of his father’s harsh treatment and relayed many stories of missions he had gone on, but he never discussed how he felt about them, which bothered her. Every time she tried to get him to talk of his feelings, he would change the subject or simply cut her off.
As the weeks passed into months and she increased her efforts to get him to open up, he started to grow distant. Until eventually, he spent more time practicing weapons and exercising and less time with her. Their lovemaking went from several times a day, to a few times a week, to once a month by the time she reached eight months of pregnancy. She was so distraught one day that she burst in on one of his dagger-throwing practices, which he no longer invited her to, with the sole purpose of confronting him.
He stopped immediately upon seeing her and grinned, though a wary look came into his eyes. “Hello, my dear. You look ravishing, as always.”
She glared at him. The words sounded wooden, as if he’d said them just to please her. “If I look so ravishing then why do you not touch me anymore?” Her chest heaved with her question and her cheeks burned, but she was glad she’d asked it.
Justin, who always went bare-chested when practicing daggers, shrugged into his shirt as her hungry eyes drank in his beauty. He regarded her for a long moment. “I’ve simply been preoccupied,” he finally answered, but his words did not sound truthful. He was pulling away from her, and she didn’t know why. She was desperate to reach him before he retreated completely behind his cold barrier once again.
She rushed toward him and raised her hand to cup his face, but he flinched and she stilled in horror. “Do you no longer like my touch?”
He reached out as if to touch her and then pulled back. A pained expression crossed his face. “God, yes,” he said, his voice ragged. “Too much. I crave it night and day. Do you understand?” he pleaded.
She didn’t understand at all, and she was done being accommodating. The problem, she decided angrily, was that Justin had been going through life without really living it. He had managed to strip emotions away and replace them with cold order. She prayed that what he was facing now was the struggle to maintain the coldness he had made a part of him. And she prayed what she was about to do would shove him toward her and not away. “I need you to tell me you love me. I need you to say the words or…or—”
“Or what?” he demanded, his voice razor edged.
Or what, indeed… She didn’t want to say she’d leave because she knew she wouldn’t. Not yet anyway. Maybe never, she loved him that much. She had to say something. She inhaled sharply. “Or I will remove all my belongings from your bedchamber and deny you entrance to my bed. If you cannot say you love me and mean it, then you can no longer have me.” Dear Heavenly Father above. What if he simply agreed? She’d die. Yet she’d die if the wall he was trying to keep between them stayed. Oh the death would be slow and emotional, but all the same it would be the death of her soul.
His eyes widened in a completely uncharacteristic display of emotion. He opened and shut his mouth several times as if he were going to speak. Her hopes rose and fell each time she thought he might say the words, and then a mutinous look crossed his face and his nostrils flared. “You agreed that what I could give you was enough. Do you remember?”
She heated with guilt. “Yes,” she whispered. “I remember, and I’m sorry. Truly I am, because I know how hard this is for you, but it is not enough. I want all of your heart, and instead of softening toward me as I hoped, you seem to be growing more distant. As if the closeness we have gained scares you. I want you to relinquish control of your heart to me. Trust me as I have trusted you.”
He flinched and drew back a step. “I have business in Town,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ll be home late, but I pray you are still in our bedchamber. You belong there with me.”
Angry tears burned her eyes as he turned and disappeared out of the room.
After he left, she paced the house for hours before finally deciding she needed the advice of a woman who had been married longer than she had. She needed a friend, and the only person she knew that came remotely close to filling that requirement was Audrey. Arabella asked Hugh to get the coachman to ready the carriage, and she went to visit Audrey.
She was shown in immediately to the marchioness, who was in her drawing room. Audrey rose upon Arabella’s entrance and met her with outstretched hands. Her green eyes crinkled at the edges with her large smile. “I’m so glad you called! I’m bored to death with trying to embroider, and Sin has gone into Town with your husband to box, but of course, you know that.”
Boxing? Arabella frowned as she sat in an overstuffed chair. “I know nothing,” she said grouchily. “I don’t even know who Sin is.”
Audrey grinned and waved her hand. “Sin is a moniker only a very few people call my husband. You must forgive the slip.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she replied, feeling sorry for herself. “I wish I had a moniker for Justin. I wish I knew him so well as that!” She sighed and rubbed her aching back.
Audrey frowned. “Sit here instead. It’s the most comfortable and will support your back.”
Arabella nodded gratefu
lly and moved chairs.
Audrey took the seat opposite her and then raised a bell and rang for tea. A servant immediately appeared, forcing Arabella to hold her tongue. Audrey gave her an understanding look but launched into a diatribe against the king, who had fallen from grace—and rightfully so—as far as the man could possibly fall with the good people of England. As the maid poured the tea and served the scones, Audrey and Arabella spoke of the queen and how she had fared very well in the trial and how beloved she was.
Arabella’s thoughts drifted a bit as Audrey spoke about fashion next. Her mind was on the queen; and truly, no matter how hard Arabella tried, she could never think of her as anything other than the queen. She was not her mother, despite their shared blood. The sound of the door shutting drew Arabella’s thoughts back to Audrey. She realized with chagrin that the marchioness was studying her.
Slowly, Audrey tilted her head. “I recognize that look on your face.”
Arabella frowned. “You do?”
The woman nodded and curled a very freckled nose. “I had hoped you were here to finally plan your dinner party.”
Arabella pressed a hand to her cheek. “I need to do that, but I’ve been so consumed with—”
“Your husband,” the woman said with a knowing look. “It’s perfectly normal. Has he been equally as consumed with you?”
Arabella plucked at a nonexistent string on her gown. “He was. Until the last few months. It seems the more advanced my pregnancy becomes and the more I say I love him, the more he pulls away. He does not—” She swallowed her embarrassment. “He does not touch me anymore. I had thought I could get him to admit his love for me, but now I simply do not know. The situation is intolerable.”
Audrey came out of her seat and sat on the arm of Arabella’s chair. She leaned down and hugged her. Arabella gave a loud sniff. “He’s never told me he loves me. Perhaps he never did.” She groaned, doubt flooding her mind. “Perhaps I only believed what I wanted to.”
The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree Page 21
