The Duchess War

by Courtney Milan

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The days until Robert’s wedding sped by all too quickly. Robert didn’t know whether to be excited or apprehensive. He felt both. For one, his mother had taken Minnie under her wing and had sent for a seamstress from London to provide what she said were “basic essentials.”

  When he asked, she brushed him off with a tart, “If you’re going to throw the girl to the wolves, it’s only appropriate to outfit her with a red cloak.”

  Then there were those moments they stole together. He’d had a few kisses to whet his appetite—if you could call it just a kiss when he’d pushed her against the wall and unbuttoned her gown half down her front. By the morning of his wedding, his appetite was sharp indeed.

  In one sense, it was lucky that their ceremony was early. In reality, the extremely early hour had been chosen specifically so that they would be able to make the journey to Paris by the end of the day. If that early-morning mail train was not late into London, if the steamer made it across the Channel in good time…

  But he couldn’t think of any of that as he looked in her eyes and spoke his vows. It wasn’t just physical desire that had him so on edge. When she promised to love him, to comfort him, he felt an electric thrill that ran down his whole body. And when he promised the same, it seemed to seal them together, to bridge the distance between them in a way that even the kiss that followed could not.

  He knew that many of his compatriots avoided marriage at all costs. They saw matrimony as an annoyance, a wife as another person who would nag and prod. But when he repeated his vows, he heard “as long as we both shall live” and he hoped.

  After the ceremony, they separated briefly. Minnie went with her great-aunts to gather up a few things; Robert oversaw the loading of baggage. It was only half an hour later that they met again at the train station. They had no chance to speak as they boarded. Robert shook his brother’s hand and then his cousin’s. Violet gave him an embrace, and his mother… She inclined her head to him. They waved from the window of the car until the station disappeared into the countryside.

  “Whose idea was it,” Robert whispered in her ear, “to put a sixteen-hour journey between the ceremony and the consummation of the marriage?”

  “Mine. I think.” She half-turned to him, and he caught a glimpse of her face. She didn’t look eager for what was to come; she looked unhappy. She glanced back out the window almost longingly, at the silhouettes of the town receding in the distance. All the buildings blurred together into gray stone and a forest of brick chimneys. Not so much to miss, that.

  And then Robert recalled that she had two great-aunts who loved her, and that he was taking her away from them.

  “Give me a moment,” she said. “I’ll be right as rain in a little while. I just thought—I really thought that Lydia would come to my wedding.”

  It took him a moment to remember who Lydia must be—Miss Charingford, the friend who had always been at her side.

  “I sent her a letter telling her everything, absolutely everything about me. I asked her to come. I thought she’d see me off at least,” she said. “But she didn’t even send a note.”

  He’d been about to suggest that they spend the journey readying themselves for their hotel bed in Paris. But there was no place for cheerful lewdness here. Instead, he touched her hand gently, afraid to say anything that might worsen her mood.

  But she hadn’t been lying when she said she’d need only a while to recover. By the time they reached London, she was smiling again. “You know,” she said, “the last time I was in Paris, I was eight. Back then, travel to the Continent took days.” She shook her head. “Days to get anywhere at all.”

  “I didn’t go to the Continent until I reached my majority,” Robert said. “So I’ve only known the days when train and steamer took us everywhere.”

  They reached London by ten thirty, Southampton just after noon, and stood on French soil by three that afternoon. True to Minnie’s word, all hint of her unhappiness had vanished. She watched everything with interest, smiled as if nothing was wrong…and, when they got into the final train car for the day, leaned her head against his shoulder in a display of idle affection that had him holding his breath and thinking of very cold icicles applied directly to his thigh.

  Good thing that he hadn’t suggested they try more. Just the feeling of her hand entwined in his had him wondering if he was going to ravish his wife for the first time while hurtling down the tracks.

  No. He was going to ravish her in a hotel room. On a bed. And it was going to be incredible.

  It was going to be incredible, he repeated to himself when they arrived in Paris.

  He repeated it again, with gritted teeth, when he found out that his mother had arranged a fitting for Minnie upon her arrival—an hour-long delay at nine in the bloody evening, before dinner, on the night of his marriage.

  By the time they found themselves seated at an intimate meal together, Minnie in a heavily brocaded robe that covered her from neck to toe, it was eleven at night. He picked moodily at his food; she did the same. They dismissed the servants after the second course; Minnie claimed not to be hungry and set down her silverware.

  She stood.

  It was almost midnight. They’d been traveling most of the day; for most of the day, he’d been on edge thinking of what he would get to do tonight. And now, tonight was here.

  “Minnie,” he said slowly. “After today’s tiring journey, I thought we might—”

  She undid the tie of her robe and let it fall to the ground, and the remainder of his sentence vanished.

  “You thought we might?” she inquired, smiling at him.

  God, that voice. God, that body. She was wearing a gown of sheer white fabric, embroidered in white scrollwork that twined suggestively from her hips to her breasts. Which were unbound. All too visible through the fabric. There was a bit of openwork by her legs; she took a step toward him, and the fabric swirled around her, giving him flashes of bare skin, long legs.

  Had he actually been going to suggest that they put off their wedding night until they’d had some rest?

  “I thought,” he said as his blood rushed south, “that I’d spend the remainder of the evening ravishing you.”

  She smiled. “That’s what I thought you were going to say.”

  “Look at you.” And he could, now. He stood up from the table and circled her. “Just look at you.”

  The fabric molded to the peaks of her nipples. Dreams and fevered imaginings paled before reality. A dream conjured up a perfect half-moon of a breast, but it missed the light smattering of freckles. He might imagine smooth, pale skin. This close, he could see that her skin was pebbled with cold. And it was a smattering of colors—a light overlay of pink, where her blood pounded beneath the skin, hints of tan and white. He could even make out a pale white line along one rib that could have been a scar.

  Those minor imperfections riveted him. This was no painter’s imagination, no unreal fantasy displayed in his mind. This was Minnie, and she was here, real and breathing.

  Red ribbon bows held the gown together at her shoulders. The one over her right arm was loose, and it seemed to taunt him, that half-made knot, not quite pulled firmly together, threatening to loose itself and let the sheer fabric slide down her skin.

  “Do you remember that fundamental physiological flaw?” he muttered.

  “Remember it? I’d hoped to exploit it.”

  “Oh.” He reached for her. “Good. Then assume I said something brilliant.”

  He took hold of her shoulders and pulled her in for a kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss, lips on lips. It wasn’t even just his body, pressing against hers. He could feel her breaths speed up, unbound by a corset. His hands slid up her body. Her breasts were round and firm; her nipples hardened as his fingers brushed them. This was the beginning of everything.

  “Assume I said something bloody brilliant,” he muttered.

  From her breast, it was only a short way to th
at loose ribbon, only a twist of his fingers to undo it and draw the silk down. He found her breast again, this time uncovered. The texture of female skin—so warm and vibrant, soft to the touch and yet firm when caressed—enthralled him.

  But she was even less shy than he. She slid her hands under his coat, around his waist. She kissed him long and slow.

  “Are you afraid?” he whispered, drawing her closer to the bed.

  “I know I’m supposed to be…but no. No.” He’d always found her voice sensual, but now it was downright erotic.

  She sat on the bed and crooked her finger. “I’m not feeling particularly clever myself. I want you.”

  Any hope he’d had of restraining himself evaporated at that. He shed his coat while she undid the buttons of his waistcoat. They pulled off his shirt together, both of them laughing when his hand got stuck in one cuff and she had to turn it inside out on his wrist to pull it off. Her fingers explored his chest, setting him to shivering while he undid his trousers.

  When he’d shed trousers and smallclothes in a great mass on the floor, she pulled him back on the bed and kissed him again. This kiss was even better—skin against skin, her hands brushing his thighs, then gently exploring his organ. He fumbled the other ribbon tie off her shoulder as their tongues met. They were chest to chest, then, as he clumsily extricated her from her gown, bare legs to bare legs. He took hold of her hands in his and pressed them together full-length.

  Her mouth was hot against his. His cock was hard against her hip. They kissed, his pelvis grinding into hers, and all his dreams, all his most sordid imaginings, paled before reality. He was going to have her. He was finally, really, truly going to have her. He spread her legs and got on his knees between them.

  When faced with the pretty pink folds of her sex, it was impossible not to touch her. She let out a little gasp when he touched her there—not of shock, but encouragement. She strained against his fingers. Fingers weren’t enough. He came on top of her, careful, so careful with his weight. She moaned when he rubbed the head of his erection against the opening of her passage.

  “Oh, God,” she said, in that so-arousing voice. “Robert…”

  “God. I want you so badly.”

  He pushed an inch inside of her.

  She inhaled and set her hand against his chest—not a caress, but a slight pressure pushing him away, and he stopped. His biceps ached subtly, frozen as he was above her.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “No…” She smiled weakly and then said, in direct contradiction, “Only a little.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pop the bubble of unthinking lust that had taken him so thoroughly. He was making a hash of things. He was forcing himself on her with scarcely a kiss and a fumble to ready her.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, but when he thrust deeper inside, her entire body tensed. The pleasure he felt only magnified his unease. She closed around him—soft and warm, tight, so tight. She felt good. But he could feel her muscles, tense and unyielding beneath his body. Her fingers clenched in the bed sheets. Her jaw was set, as if she managed to grit her teeth only through strength of effort.

  “I’m sorry.” He tried to kiss her. “I’m sorry.”

  She lifted one hand and touched his cheek. “Stop worrying, Robert. I’ll tell you if it becomes unbearable.”

  Bearable. This was bearable for her, when it was good for him.

  Only good.

  Somehow, he had had some notion that sexual intercourse with her would be different. That the complexity of what he felt for Minnie, their rapport… He had imagined that all of that would make this moment different in some way. That somehow, he would slide into her and his world would catch fire.

  Knowing that it was just bearable for her robbed the act of anything but physical pleasure. This was his wedding night. It was supposed to be magical, as stupid and naïve as that sounded.

  When he thrust inside her, it was supposed to feel different. He yearned for something magic to come out of her flesh—some secret thing that would transport them. Something that would make this more than good for him, more than bearable for her. As it was—he tried to suppress the terrible thought with her body so wary under his, but couldn’t quite—he’d have preferred his left fist to this.

  No matter how he took her, whether slow or swift, no matter whether he curled his hands in her hair or set them next to her shoulders, there was no magic in the act. When one made love to a woman one really cared for, it was supposed to feel different.

  If you’re any good in bed, I might fall in love with you.

  She’d said it with a smile, but he hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to love him. He yearned for it, and he felt the possibility drift away with every thrust that was merely bearable.

  He shut his eyes and thought of England, concentrated on the smaller pleasures of the act—the pleasant hum of his body as he slid inside her, the slow burn of his pleasure, gathering at the base of his spine.

  “God, Minnie,” he said, and drove harder into her. It was good. Good was enough. She was enough—her body, tightening around his, her hips, her breasts brushing against his chest with every last thrust. And then it was very good, in those final ragged moments. He came hard inside her, his release catching him up in a moment that was almost as sweet as what he’d wished for.

  When he was finished he disengaged from her and lay down, trailing his fingers along her ribs.

  So. One more romantic, idealized dream, fallen prey to reality. No sense crying over that. And…and it couldn’t always be like that for her, could it? He hoped not. He almost wished he had asked Oliver for advice.

  Beside him, Minnie turned to him. He still couldn’t look her in the eyes. Slowly, she set her hand on his arm. “I don’t wish to alarm you.” Her voice was a little cool; he tipped his head to one side and looked at her as best as he could in the failing light.

  “What is it?”

  “I think we were doing it wrong.”

  His whole body grew tense. If she hadn’t said it, they could have pretended. He pushed subtly away from her. “The first time, I hear, is the worst. For women. It will get…better.” It had to.

  “No,” she repeated more gravely. “We were doing it wrong. I know what it’s supposed to feel like, at the end. And what happened for you? It didn’t happen for me.”

  “I know,” he snapped. “God. You don’t have to tell me that. You could barely tolerate the act. You don’t need to rub in the fact that I couldn’t bring my wife to orgasm. I’m well aware of the truth.”

  This outburst was met with silence, and Robert let out a shaky breath.

  “I’m not trying to criticize,” she finally said. She sounded astoundingly reasonable, under the circumstances, and that made him want to snap at her more. “It’s just—the way we were doing it, it wasn’t ever going to happen for me. And…well, I had rather hoped that it would.”

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t going to happen? How would you know?”

  She simply looked at him, and he realized he was snapping at his wife because he’d not brought her to ecstasy. Because he’d had a better time of it than she had.

  Excellent work, Robert.

  “I’m sorry.” He let out a sigh. “I shouldn’t yell at you. It’s not your fault.” He took a deep breath.

  Minnie took his arm. “We’re intelligent. We’ll figure it out. We have ten days in Paris to get it right.”

  Hell. Ten nights like this one? He really would beg off first.

  “Nine,” he corrected. “One down.”

  “This one isn’t over.” Minnie bit her lip. “I have no experience with men, but… Do you want me to show you?”

  “Show me?”

  Her cheeks went slightly pink. “You know. Show you what I would do on my own.”

  After the debacle he’d made of the night, it was impossible that he should want her again. And yet those words set in motion a tickle at the back of his mind, a hint of interest
. He cleared his throat. “I don’t have anything else planned for the evening.”

  She let out a little laugh. “I suppose. It starts here.” Her hand crept between her thighs.

  “I started there.”

  “A little higher up.” She did something with her hand—something he couldn’t see until he sat up and focused on her fingers. They slid, not into her passage, but higher, focusing on the glistening nub between her legs. Her strokes were light and swift. Her breath caught once and then evened out.

  So did his. “What are you thinking about?”

  She met his eyes. “You. Do you remember when you threw the paste at me?”

  “Mmm.”

  “That night, I went home and thought of you taking off my gown.”

  He’d just spilled his seed in her. He shouldn’t have been capable of an erection for a good long while. But blood was flowing to his cock. “Funny,” he said hoarsely. “I thought something similar that night.”

  “I thought about you a lot at night,” Minnie said. “It was…embarrassing.”

  “There was a point, there, where I thought my left hand had your name branded on it. All I had to do was touch my cock and think of you…”

  Her body was spread before him, her hair a great mass on the pillow.

  He nudged her knees apart so he could see what she was doing. As he did, his throat grew dry. Her skin appeared to soften as she touched herself. She was a deep pink between her legs, her nether lips unfolding like a flower in the rosy lamplight. That dark rose beckoned him in, inviting his touch.

  Her hands pressed into her flesh in a smooth, practiced motion, and he could see her passage glisten. He could smell the difference in the air—the scent of her growing arousal.

  “All I had to do,” he said fiercely, “was think of you, and I’d be hard as a rock. God, Minnie, keep doing that.” He’d never thought of her doing this—pleasuring herself—but it was by far more arousing than any of the scenarios he’d dreamed up.

  “I need a little more.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “Would you like to help?”

  His throat was dry. “I’d love to. How?”

  “Touch me.” She curved her hand around one breast. “Here.”

  He leaned down and cupped her breast, slid his finger along the curve of it.

  “More. Harder,” she urged him.

  So he took the coral bud of her nipple in his mouth. She let out a little moan as he did so, her whole body arching next to his. That moan—that brought his arousal roaring back to life. His cock went from mildly interested to fully engaged.

  “Yes,” she moaned. “Please. Just like that.”

  He licked her first and then nibbled lightly at her. Her moans grew louder.

  He set his other hand over hers, on her sex. He could feel her touching herself, could feel the bed swaying with the rhythm of her fingers. She’d been lightly moist when he entered her; she was wildly slick now. Slick and glorious. Her fingers were pushing harder; harder; his own played alongside hers, glorying in the smooth silkiness.

  “Do you want to know the first time I thought about you?” he asked. “That first night we met. God, that encounter played out so differently when I imagined it again. A woman with a voice like yours, a figure like yours, encounters me alone behind a davenport? I thought about you on your knees, fastening those clever lips of yours around my cock. And I wanted you.”

  She came with a fevered cry. Her whole body shuddered in waves of pleasure. For a moment, it felt as if those waves were traveling through him, too. When she was done, he could hardly think. His entire body screamed in demand. He didn’t ask. He didn’t talk. He simply spread her legs farther apart and pushed inside her.

  This time, he sank into her depths in one solid thrust. This time, he could feel the difference in her body. The little shuddering waves that still traveled through her clutched at his cock. She was slick from want.

  He pressed her hand back into place. “Don’t stop,” he said hoarsely. “Keep doing that.”

  Her hips rose to his. Her hand continued its motion, an added stimulation at the base of his cock. He could feel her pleasure all around him, first ebbing, and then gathering again as he took her. And as if the dam had been broken to bits with her first orgasm, this time she came quickly—in scarcely a minute, her release a scalding hot wash of pure lust that had her clamping down on him.

  He couldn’t have enough of her. He pounded into her again and again, each thrust better than the last, each one building, building to a crescendo that washed over him in fierce waves. It was almost painful, his second release. It was messy and slippery and wrong, and it felt so, so damned right.

  He’d had no intention of taking his virgin wife twice in one night—especially not after that disastrous first time. He’d lost all control the moment he’d watch her touch herself between the legs. There had been something about that, something that had touched a deep and primal urge inside him. He’d stopped thinking altogether.

  The second time had been everything he’d hoped for and more.

  Afterward, he kissed her and she kissed him back. She was all softness around him, melting into him. This was what he’d wanted—this joining.

  “Robert,” she said eventually, “I had rather assumed that…being what you were, that you were fairly experienced. Are you?”

  “It depends what you mean by experience,” he said carefully.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “By the time I was old enough to get experience, I had some notion what my father was like. I didn’t want to be like him. So I had to be certain—absolutely certain—that I wasn’t forcing anyone into anything.” He felt his face burn. “And then I also had to be sure that I wasn’t like my father, led only by my cock. Lust makes me stupid. I had to be sure it wouldn’t make me selfish, too.”

  Still she didn’t say anything.

  “There were a few house parties where…matters were quite close, and would have come to the point, had I allowed things to run their natural course. But I always came up with a reason not to. She was interested in my fortune, not myself. She thought she might get an offer of marriage out of it. It never seemed honest, to take a woman who wanted a duke, when I was just me.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, felt her hand on his body, and shrugged.

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that given the amount of use I put my left hand to, I really shouldn’t qualify as a virgin. I’ve had scores of sexual experiences. Just…not with other people. I wasn’t saving myself for marriage.”

  Just for you.

  He didn’t say it. It seemed too raw, too close to the heat of intercourse to share.

  Sex with Minnie wasn’t what he had imagined intercourse would be like in his romantic daydreams. That had been too much of flowers and moonbeams, cold and perfect and clean.

  This…this was warm and messy, and he wanted it again and again and again with a ferocity that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Did we do it right that time?”

  She snuggled against him. “Oh, yes,” she said dreamily. “Very right.”

  He made a note: If she yawned in his arms afterward, he’d done a good job. A nice goal to have, wearing out his wife. Her eyelids drooped, and he felt a fierce sense of pride wash over him.

  He’d told her that he had no expectation of love.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love. The thought of love was like water in the desert. Now there was a stupid cliché, one that made him think of a man in ragged clothing staggering through the Sahara, searching for an oasis among the sand dunes.

  But the Antarctic was a desert, too—a cold desert, one made dry because water there turned to ice the instant it hit the air.

  So he believed in love. He’d always believed in love. He’d been surrounded by water all his life; it had simply been frozen solid. He’d loved as hard as he dared and watched it freeze before his face. It was no surprise now when he checked his feelings and discovered that h
e loved her. The surprise was that this time, when he dared to take a sip, he found water instead of ice.

  He could have wept.

  “That,” he said to Minnie, “was really…honestly…the most awe-inspiring event that I have ever taken part in. And I want to do it again.”

  “Tomorrow,” she murmured. “We have nine more days, after all.”