Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  Well, she’d be a fool to hope. That was more than plain now.

  I should tell him.

  Before they got to the house, she should tell him what she’d decided. She didn’t want him to be hurt, to feel betrayed—but she also didn’t know if she could stomach arguing with him just yet. Because he would argue, but then he still would not offer her what she really wanted, which was his heart.

  She took a deep breath as the carriage rattled over a stone bridge and into the deep valley of Far Hope. She would do as she’d always done when faced with a painful future––find a way to bear it and bear it gracefully. The tricks were many; it was imperative not to linger on the unpleasantness, to remember the necessity of her actions, to hold on to whatever small pleasures she could reasonably count on.

  At least in that, she was assured some reward. She would make her future life a palace to pleasure, even if that palace were only a mere shadow of what could have been if Jarrell would have opened his heart to her. But at least she’d been completely honest, completely vulnerable.

  Finally, for the first time in twenty years, she’d reached for what she wanted. There would be no wondering what could have been if only she’d been braver, because she had been brave, she had tried her hardest to carve out something for herself that she thought was impossible.

  Now there was nothing left but to face her future.

  Alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jarrell’s entire body hurt as the carriage rolled to the front of Far Hope and stopped.

  His bones ached, his blood simmered. His heart felt like it had been threaded with slivers of glass, and he was hot and brittle everywhere. As if he were not a man, but ashes molded in the shape of a man.

  As if he would crumble into smoldering dust at the slightest touch.

  He hated himself, loathed himself, could not even stand being himself as he’d sat next to Eleanor and watched her look serenely at the hills as they drove back to his cursed ancestral seat. He’d done that, he’d made her put up her shield of placid reserve once again. Last night she’d been avid, curious, unleashed, and he’d stolen that away from her. With his refusals.

  With your cowardice.

  A cowardice he wasn’t even sure kept him safe any longer.

  No, it was better this way. She was better off this way too. He was sure of it, although it was hard to be sure of anything when he could still smell the rain and flowers scent of her, and when he could still vividly recall the way her blond tresses slid like so much teasing silk over the pink points of her nipples.

  There was a moment—a dizzying, disorienting moment—as he handed her out of the carriage and saw her silhouetted against the ancient stone house of his ancestors, when he felt a splinter of what could have been. A future in which everything he’d ever wanted and needed flowered together as one vibrant and sacred bloom.

  And he’d given it up.

  I had no choice, he thought dully. What kind of husband could I be to Eleanor if I’m already willing to let go of Helena’s memory only a week after meeting someone new?

  But the thought no longer felt as true as it had even a few hours ago.

  Your sin is not grief but fear.

  Could it be that easy?

  Could he be more afraid than he was broken?

  The questions dogged him as he escorted Eleanor up the shallow steps and into the main hall where they were greeted by Eleanor’s parents, an impassive butler, and a thin cloud of interested guests, openly gawking at the returned bride on Jarrell’s arm.

  “Eleanor!” Lady Pennard exclaimed, rushing forward to pull her daughter into her arms. “We were so worried, we thought you might have been lost out there, that you might have—”

  She didn’t finish her thought, but it was clear to everyone around her, clear to Jarrell.

  They thought she might have died. And when he thought of how easily she could have, of how cold and limp she was when he first found her last night, the glass splinters in his heart burrowed even deeper.

  How could he have survived if she’d died?

  But he would have to survive without her, wouldn’t he? He’d made sure of that last night when he said he would not marry her; he would have to survive just as he had after Helena had died.

  You could do more than survive. You could start living instead.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Eleanor was insisting, giving her mother’s arms a squeeze before pulling back. “I simply went outdoors for fresh air and got lost on the grounds, that’s all. I’m so grateful to the duke for finding me in time.”

  It was the story they’d agreed on—the story that would be officially circulated—that, not feeling well, Eleanor went outside for the air and had gotten lost. It was ludicrous, since Far Hope’s grounds were all hemmed in by craggy, louring moors, and it was quite difficult to wander off the grounds without being very, very aware of it, even in the dark. The servants and guests would know enough of her disappearance and the ensuing search that gossip spreading to the rest of the ton would be inevitable. But so long as there was an official story, the scandal of her flight would be muffled at least.

  The scandal of an ended engagement, however…

  “I believe we have some matters to discuss,” he told Eleanor’s parents and gestured toward the library. Eleanor’s father seemed to understand immediately, but to Jarrell’s surprise and gratification, he only looked thoughtful, not angry. In fact, her father found Eleanor’s hand and tucked it through his arm, as if wanting to reassure himself that his daughter was here and close and alive.

  “I’m just glad you’re safe,” the Marquess murmured to Eleanor as they walked. “I wish that you’d come to me instead.”

  Perhaps the betrothal would be easier to break than Jarrell had thought, which was a relief. He’d, of course, make sure the Vanes were compensated, but a broken engagement was a difficult thing to recompense for. The social costs would be vast, and no less punishing for how difficult they were to quantify. Jarrell pondered this as they reached the library and he closed the doors behind them.

  “Now,” he said, as the Vanes took seats near the fireplace, looking at him expectantly. “After last night, Eleanor has decided—”

  Eleanor interrupted him. “I’m still marrying Gilbert.”

  The Marquess and the Countess’s mouths dropped in tandem.

  Jarrell’s glass-filled heart stopped beating.

  “Excuse me?” he managed to say.

  “I plan on going through with the wedding,” she explained calmly. Blandly. As if she hadn’t just lit him on fire and kicked him into a pit. “I’ll be his wife.”

  “Like hell you will,” he said, ignoring Lady Pennard’s gasp at his language.

  Something glimmered behind Eleanor’s serene eyes then—something that looked a lot like fury. Good! He wanted her fury; he’d take her hatred. He’d rather have her hissing and spitting and real than acting as if it cost her nothing to marry a man she didn’t love and could never respect.

  “You have no say in the matter, Your Grace,” she said, her eyes flashing and her voice tight. With a deep breath, she seemed to steady herself, and when she spoke again, she was even-tempered Eleanor once more. “I’ve given the matter much thought since last night, and I’ve decided I shall marry Gilbert after all.”

  Over my goddamn dead body, he wanted to yell. But he didn’t.

  It was Eleanor who angled toward her parents and said, “Could the duke and I speak alone for a moment?”

  “It’s hardly proper—” the Countess started, but Eleanor interrupted her.

  “What about anything I’ve done since last night has been proper? A few minutes in a library is hardly going to dent my reputation at this point. Besides, you and Papa owe me the chance to handle my own marriage for once, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The Countess looked very much like she wanted to argue, but the Marquess nodded and then stood, helping his wife to his feet.

  “This once,” he
said. “You have twenty minutes.”

  And then her parents left, closing the library door behind them.

  The moment they were alone, Eleanor set her expression in that resolute mildness that vexed him so much. “My mind is made up, Ajax.”

  He stepped closer to her. She merely lifted her chin.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you over my shoulder and carry you to my bedroom,” he said, roiling with anger and panic and something else he couldn’t name. “You’re lucky I’m not tying you to my bed so I can talk some sense into you!”

  A subtly raised brow. “I think I’ve made it very clear that none of those things would be a deterrent for me.”

  “Eleanor, this is no joking matter.”

  “I’m not joking, Ajax.”

  With a curse, he spun away, raking a hand over his face. When he turned back to her and saw her arms wrapped around herself, saw the smudges under her eyes from her sleepless night, he could hardly breathe or think. He never wanted her sad; he never wanted her lonely. He never wanted her marching bravely into a marriage she would hate.

  And yourself? What do you want for yourself?

  He hadn’t honestly asked himself that question in sixteen years. And now that he asked it, the answer felt obvious.

  He didn’t want to exile himself. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with ghosts.

  He wanted Eleanor and his friends and his life; he wanted to keep loving the people he’d lost while he learned to love new people too. Like this library, where old books were shelved alongside the new—couldn’t he keep the old and the new inside himself too? Couldn’t he have both?

  This was what Eleanor had meant about his sins. He’d known it when she’d said it, but he let himself really know it now.

  He’d been afraid to make new memories alongside the old ones. He’d been afraid of loving someone else only to watch them die again. All this time he’d thought the answer to that fear was to retreat, to find some kind of numb safety far, far away, but he’d been wrong.

  So wrong.

  He scrubbed his hands through his hair and tried to focus on the immediate problem. The problem he’d made.

  “You don’t want to marry my nephew,” Jarrell said, trying to understand. “And this morning, you told me—you said you’d chosen, you said you wanted to come back here so I could help you break the betrothal.”

  “You are correct in that I don’t wish to marry Gilbert,” she said as she stood and moved over to a deep window looking out to the valley. “But I only said I wanted to come back here. Not that I wanted to break the betrothal.”

  I’ll return to Far Hope, Your Grace.

  Why hadn’t he seen it then?

  She’d said it with so much forbearance, with so much tired courage, and he’d attributed that to the imminent headache of killing a betrothal close to the ceremony—but it hadn’t been that, had it? It hadn’t been the understandable apprehension of an aborted wedding, but rather the unhappy nerves of contemplating a consummated one.

  Fury surged at the thought of that consummation; a dark, possessive anger had him striding over to Eleanor and setting her on the high sill of the window. He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned in. “You aren’t marrying him.”

  “I. Am.”

  He was too close to her, too dangerously close. He could see the taut curves of her breasts heaving under the diaphanous drape of her fichu; he could see how wide her pupils had blown at his nearness. He could see how she swallowed and shifted and licked her lower lip.

  “You’re not, Eleanor. Why don’t you raise your skirts for me, hm?”

  That telltale flush bloomed on her cheeks and chest, and she slowly lifted her skirts over her knees as she said, “Making love to me won’t change my mind.”

  He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t even know what he felt in that moment, except an urgency that nearly clawed him apart. He had himself unfastened and freed in a moment, had her moved to the edge of the sill and her thighs parted wide for him to step between. The minute he wedged the wide tip of him against her furrow, she started panting.

  “Don’t make me wait,” she said, bracing herself back on her hands, as if to see his crude invasion better.

  “You’re not wet enough.”

  “I’ll get there,” she said impatiently. “But I can’t wait another sec—ohhh.”

  In his prime, the Duke of Jarrell had been able to divest a woman of a robe a l’anglaise—with its assorted pins, paddings, petticoats, and stays—within a swift two minutes. But the new, simpler fashions meant that he’d unlaced the top of Eleanor’s gown and liberated her breasts from her chemise within seconds. He had a nipple captured in his mouth and his thumb on the bundle of nerves at the top of her sex so quickly that she was struck speechless, her hand flying to the back of his head to push his mouth harder against her.

  She’s mine, Ajax thought as his tongue lashed short, hot stripes across her nipple. Fucking mine.

  She gasped his name as he sucked and stroked her, arching hard against him. “Please,” she begged. “If this is going to be the last time, then—”

  “This is not the last time,” he vowed. “You won’t be his. You can’t be his.”

  Because you’re mine.

  She found his hip with her free hand, still clutching his head to her breast as she urged him closer. “I’m going to marry your nephew,” she said breathlessly. “And I’m going to reassure him of that fact right after you’re done fucking me.”

  The filthy word on her lips robbed him of reason—not that he had much left to rob by now. He finally gave into the need burning in him and began to fit himself inside her opening. She was wet now—so wet that her arousal was anointing even his knuckles where they brushed against her—but she was still tight enough to necessitate two or three strokes to bury himself fully. Tight enough that once he was completely seated, they both had to breathe for several seconds before he could start moving in earnest.

  Once he did, he lifted his head to bite her neck and growl against her throat. “You belong to me.”

  “I do not,” she said, her eyes fluttering when he pulled back to look at her face. “You made that clear, Ajax. Very clear.”

  Pain ripped at him from the inside, and he rode her harder, as if the pleasure could drown out his guilt and regret. “Eleanor,” he said, holding her close so he could bury his face in her hair. Between her thighs, his hips churned. Nothing could ever feel as good as fucking Eleanor Vane—nothing other than holding her, that was.

  Nothing other than making her smile. Making her every dream come true.

  Giving her a life of ease and satisfaction to replace a life of tasks and obligation.

  Nothing other than loving her.

  He loved her. He loved her. And he was going to give her everything.

  “Tell me why you’ll marry him,” he said, teeth gritted with determination and the gorgeous sensation of his cock gloved inside her. “Is it for the Kingdom?”

  Her gaze when it met his was no longer serene—but neither was it anguished or turbulent. Those spring-green eyes were brimming with determination and pride.

  “Maybe I can’t have you, Ajax, but I can resurrect the world you left behind, and that would be something. It would be worth it.”

  She could have him.

  She already had him.

  All along the answer had been right here, in this petite warrior of a girl. Your sin wasn’t grief, but fear.

  It was the truth. Fear of loving again, of losing again. Of losing the memories of the people he’d lost.

  What could he have if he weren’t afraid now?

  He could have a wife, one whom he loved and who loved him, and he could have the world left to him by his ancestors. He could have Eleanor and Far Hope both.

  “Marry me,” he said abruptly, looking down into those wonderful eyes, into that sweet, strong, hungry face. “Be my wife. Not Gilbert’s, but mine, and I will give you everythin
g, everything you want.”

  She stared up at him. “Are you lying to me?”

  She had every right to ask, but he knew the answer now. Maybe he’d known it hours ago. Days ago, when he first saw her. He was ready to live again. “No.”

  “Are you lying to yourself?”

  He cradled her face with his hands; the movement had him sliding inside her and she let out a low noise that made him shiver. “No, little blossom.”

  “I want to believe you,” she whispered. “Ever since I saw you, I felt—I knew—” She seemed to struggle for words.

  He kissed her gently on the mouth. “I know, Eleanor. I know. I felt it too.”

  “But you were so adamant last night. All your plans…and…” She pressed her forehead to his. “Ajax, I’m not Helena.”

  “And I don’t want you to be,” he said, closing his eyes. “I loved Helena sixteen years ago, and while I’ll treasure the time I had with her, I am ready to treasure other things too. Other people.”

  He opened his eyes, studying her. His little blossom, his firmly rooted tree.

  He’d been living like a ghost for years, thinking it would keep him closer to the ones he lost. But it hadn’t. In the end, he’d only lost himself too. And then she’d come along and found him, reminded him that he was flesh and blood still, with a heart that hadn’t yet quit beating.

  “It wasn’t until I met you, someone I wanted to live for, that I realized I could still live at all,” he tried to explain. “You were right about me and you were right about my fear. It felt safer than feeling anything else. Because at least in fear, I already expected the worst. But in love—well, in love, I would have to hope for the best. And I didn’t think I could bear it.”

  “But you will bear it for me?” she whispered, her eyes searching his.

  “For the rest of our lives, Eleanor. Beginning now.”

  He drove his hips forward enough that his idea of now would be more than clear. She whimpered and laced her arms around her neck.

  “If you marry me, then you must stay.”

  “Yes, Eleanor.”

  “Remain the duke.”

  “Yes.”