“Don’t tease. You are the last person in the world to utter such nonsense and I am the last person in the world to believe it.”
He grinned. “I don’t know about you—although I daresay your swoon may have been an indication of some powerful feelings—but personally, I saw nirvana. So don’t discard love-love out of hand, darling.”
If she weren’t who she was, and if Duff wasn’t who he was, and if she wasn’t once more in a cooler frame of mind, she might have been inclined to consider the possibility. Under the circumstances, however, any question of love was ludicrous and impossible. “Very well, I shan’t,” she replied, rather than argue about something so ridiculous.
“Does this mean we’re betrothed?” he inquired blithely.
“It means you may give me another orgasm when you feel up to it again.”
“Better yet,” he noted sportively. “Although,” Duff added, running a fingertip lightly down her wet cleft. “We should wipe you up.” Grabbing a handful of sheet, he began swabbing at the fusion of semen and her pearly dew.
She clutched his wrist. “Wait!” Taking a shallow breath, she exhaled before giving him leave to continue with a nod. “Carefully, if you please,” she murmured.
“I did hurt you, didn’t I?” he said, looking distressed. “I’m so sorry—I was afraid something like that might—”
“I’m fine,” she interrupted. “More than fine,” she added with a smile.
He looked puzzled. “You’re not hurt?”
“On the contrary. I am, shall we say, hypersensitive, in a very nice but rather overcharged way.”
His mouth slowly lifted into a smile.
She put up her hand. “We should wait just a moment, if you please.”
“Are you sure?” He bent low so his eyes were at a level with hers. “It’s always better the second time and you needn’t worry, I’ll be ever so careful.”
“If you don’t mind,” she said, when it was clear from her tone that she did. “I don’t care to be instructed any more than you do.” Whatever his methodology for second times, she didn’t care to hear about it when she was desperately jealous already—a sensation so outré for her, she couldn’t quite grasp the notion.
“I understand,” he said with excessive tact, responding to the pique in her tone.
“You needn’t be so conciliatory, either,” she replied testily.
He’d obviously said something wrong. “We’ll just wait, then.”
“I don’t suppose you have any wine. I’d like some.” Sulky and peevish, she was not above the pettiness of exerting her authority. As if by casting him in the mold of the biddable men she knew, she would be free of her outrageous jealousy.
“Will this do?” Obliging, he plucked a decanter from the bedside table.
She should have known. Why was she only gullible with Darley? “You planned all this today, didn’t you?” she said, her voice acerbic. “Wine at the ready. Eddie strangely absent. That little doubtful pose downstairs.”
“No, I didn’t.” This time his voice was sulky. “The decanter is always there.”
“Oh,” she said in a very tiny voice.
“Would you like some wine?” Insulted by her accusation when his feelings for her were intemperate, perhaps even extreme, his voice was very close to a growl.
She nodded, unable to conjure up a smooth apology with him scowling at her, when she was obviously in the wrong, when her brain was in tumult. She wanted him, knew she shouldn’t, but wanted him anyway, the unresolved litany obstinately looping through her mind. How could she be so foolish? she chided herself. Everyone knew Duff was notorious for the brevity of his affairs.
Setting the decanter on the bed, Duff picked up a glass from the table, handed it to her, and taking out the stopper from the decanter, commenced to pour the glass full. “I’ll drink some, too,” he muttered to her questioning look.
They shared the glass of wine in silence as though neither was quite capable of reasonableness, and in lieu of saying something objectionable, they chose not to speak.
When the glass was empty, he didn’t ask her if she wished more wine, apparently immune to her venture as autocrat. Setting aside the glass, he glanced back, and said with punctilious restraint, “You’re dripping on my leg. Would you mind if I wiped it away?”
She would have preferred throwing her arms around his neck and telling him how he captivated her beyond reason and prudence and maybe love-love wasn’t out of the question after all. “No, I don’t mind,” she said instead, as dispassionately as he.
He grimaced, blew out a breath, then smiled tightly—or perhaps it was another grimace. “You are an annoying little vixen,” he muttered, speaking with discernable reluctance. “But I still want you beyond all comprehension.”
“You are a hellishly troublesome man,” she answered, her reply equally tentative. “But, regardless, I find you tempting beyond all belief.”
He swore softly.
It was not the sound of high favor or endorsement. “I should go home,” Annabelle murmured.
When presented with that option, Duff’s answer was swift. “No.”
“You can’t say that to me.”
Who could do what to whom was not a reasonable debate, he thought, when she was in his home and his bed and he not only outweighed her, but perhaps had fewer scruples. Well-mannered, however, he said instead, “Please don’t go.”
She sighed. “I don’t like feeling this way.”
Her tone gave him hope, nor had she tried to leave. “Nor do I—yet I am bewitched by you, and am”—he almost said half in love, but caught himself in time—”going mad for want of you. So please stay and I will be gallant to a fault.”
She smiled. “And you know exactly how, I expect.”
“Consider me at your disposal, ma’am,” he murmured silkily, further encouraged by her smile.
“In all things?” A seductive whisper of a query.
“Without question,” he replied unequivocally.
“Very well.”
Neither was capable of giving up the pleasure. He understood. And to that purpose, he didn’t question her further, he merely nodded downward, wanting to move past this hindered conversation. “You’re still dripping. May I take care of that now?”
“Yes, I would greatly appreciate it,” she said, overpolite, like she might have been at a royal reception.
He tried to suppress his smile. “Such unctuousness, darling.”
“It’s merely courtesy,” she retorted primly, her feelings still in flux.
“Do let’s not fight again.”
She looked at him from under her lashes. “I am simply agreeing with you and being accommodating.”
There was something too sweetly obliging in her tone, a practiced appeasement that grated on his nerves. “And you know how to accommodate men,” he drawled.
“What do you mean by that?” Her voice remained neutral only with effort.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t say you’re jealous,” she murmured archly.
“Fuck, no.”
Her brows rose. “Then I fail to see what’s at issue.”
“Perhaps what’s at issue,” he said, his resentment flaring despite his attempt to curb it, “is that this hot little cunt”—his hand swept over her cleft—”has been accommodating to far too many men.” And as though pointedly taking possession of that particular part of her anatomy, he precipitously shoved two fingers palm-deep up her vagina.
She tensed against the harsh pressure of his fingers. “You didn’t even know who you were with a few moments ago,” she said on a suffocated breath. “Don’t berate me about exclusivity. You could have been in bed with anyone. It wouldn’t have mattered one whit to you.”
“But it wasn’t anyone, was it? It was the beautiful Miss Foster who has every man in London panting after her. What the fuck is this?” Jerking out his fingers, he held up a piece of sponge.
“You’re no novice. What does it lo
ok like?”
“So you were planning for this little rendezvous,” he growled, tossing away the sponge.
“No, I was simply protecting myself against your advances, which, as you see, occurred,” she said, haughty and righteous, lifting her chin contentiously. “I was correct in not trusting you.”
“I didn’t hear you saying no,” he returned brutally, blind with jealousy, begrudging her every suitor she’d ever had.
“I doubt you were listening—like all men.”
“For God’s sake, don’t put me in the same category as fucking Walingame.”
“I wish you good day,” she said coolly, beginning to slide off his lap. She wasn’t about to argue the inarguable or debate the age-old question of double standards apropos male and female sexual amusements.
“Not yet,” he retorted sourly, his fingers leaving marks on her arms.
“Yes, now,” she said, heated and low, trying to shake him off. “You’ve taken out my sponge and I have no intention of getting pregnant.”
“For your information, I never climax in a woman.”
“Except me,” she retorted with testy sarcasm. “How fortunate I am.” Her gaze suddenly narrowed and she looked at him askance. “What do you mean, you never climax in a woman?”
“I just never do. I’m disinclined to have children of mine scattered about the world.”
“But you came in me.” Her voice had gone quiet, and even she wasn’t sure why she was asking the question.
He shrugged. “I have no explanation.”
“How typically nonchalant,” she said with withering contempt. “I could have been left pregnant because of your casual disregard.”
“Don’t say this has never happened to you before,” he said, clipped and cool.
“I set the rules, Duff.”
“Don’t tell me about your rules.” His voice was sharp.
“I have had no rules for a very long time, until,” she added caustically, “you came along and disrupted my life.”
His smile was instant; it was as if the sun had come out after a storm. “And you succumbed to my charms.”
“Maybe I just wanted sex, like you,” she said, thin-skinned and touchy.
“I’ll settle for that. I’ll settle for anything, so long as you stay. I don’t care what your reasons are—just don’t go.” He spoke without hesitation or doubt, unlike the man who had left London for the Peninsula—the man who had perfected suave flattery to a fine art.
Annabelle hesitated, or tried to, while a little voice inside her head screamed, Yes, yes, yes, yes, stay! Attempting to ignore the strident, wholly impractical voice and her own heady longings, she managed to withstand their inducements for perhaps ten seconds at most. “You cannot come in me,” she said then, as though that simple dictate would absolve her of responsibility. “I mean it absolutely or I’ll leave this instant.”
“You could try and leave, you mean.” The marquis was not beset by the weighty issues of responsibility. His cheerful grin indicated as much.
“Duff, don’t make jest of this. I will not become pregnant on someone’s whim.”
“There must be some sponges in the kitchen. Is that better?” He shifted her slightly in his arms, so he could meet her serious gaze squarely. “I will be your remedy in all things. Don’t worry.” He patted her arm in assurance. “And at the risk of possibly angering you again, I shall also mention that I intend to pay my forfeit on our wager. No, don’t protest. I was the one who asked. There was no question. And if you don’t want the money, give it to Molly and Tom.” As she opened her mouth to speak, he put up his hand. “One more thing. If I ever go crazy, like I recently did”—he folded her fingers into a fist—”just hit me hard.” He brought her hand to his mouth and rapped it. “Like that.”
She felt tears brimming in her eyes. He was so serious. “I don’t want to hit you when you’re already miserable.” She touched the sabre scar on his shoulder and the one on his chest and the terrible wound on his hip where Eddie had done rough field surgery and dug out the musket ball.
Duff moved her hand from his hip and clasped it gently. “I’m getting better. Wait and see.” He smiled. “Because of you. Because of us. Because of this.” Leaning over, he kissed her, sweetly and then not so sweetly. And when his mouth finally lifted from hers, he said, “I’d better go and find some sponges.”
He came up after a time with sponges and a picnic basket. “I’ll feed you afterward,” he said with a grin, tossing two large sponges on the bed.
Annabelle glanced at the sponges and smiled. “You must have outrageous expectations.”
He looked back from setting the basket on a table. “Why run out?”
“That won’t be possible in the time we have,” she countered drolly, the two sponges enough for countless sexual engagements. “And I hope you have scissors.”
“In the desk.” Two strides later, he’d pulled them from the drawer. “There now,” he said, bringing them over to her. “I am at your command, Miss Foster.”
And he was, but no more than she was for him.
It turned out to be a day of such inexpressible pleasure that both of them knew such joyous rapture could not be duplicated beyond the vulnerable purlieu of their warm embrace. Deeply touched as they were by both the desperation of their desire and the boundless delight in yielding to it, they were not so lost to reason that either expected this fever pitch of rapture and sweet surfeit to last.
But for now—for these summer days—they had breathlessly agreed, between fond kisses and explosive orgasms, between amorous words and soft laughter, that they would explore these newfound, gladsome shores of love.
Chapter 17
Late that afternoon, as Duff turned his phaeton into the lane bordering Annabelle’s cottage, she gasped.
Duff shot her a glance. “Walingame?” A black traveling chaise was at the gate.
She nodded, her worst fears suddenly realized.
“I’ll come in with you. You needn’t concern yourself.”
“I’m not sure that would be wise.”
“Nevertheless, I shall. You’re frightened.”
“I’m afraid of what he may have said to Mother—of my life in London.” She’d long dreaded this moment—rather, she’d hoped it would never come.
“Whatever he might have said can be refuted. His word isn’t believed, even by his closest acquaintances. Nor has it ever been. And I’ll tell your mother as much. Once I see him on his way,” Duff added, his voice chill.
“Please, Duff. I don’t wish an altercation.” But even as she spoke, a small flutter of hope stirred inside her. Could Walingame be sent away peacefully?
“Rest assured, I shall be civil,” he promised, pulling his team to a halt behind the chaise.
“Oh, dear,” Annabelle murmured softly, beginning to tremble. “Just when everything was… so pleasant… and agreeable.”
Quickly tying the reins to the brake, he took her hands in his, and dipping his head enough to meet her gaze, said, “Everything will be agreeable once again, just as soon as I send Walingame back to London.”
Her mouth quivered. “He won’t go,” she whispered.
Lifting her hands to his mouth, he lightly kissed her fingers. “Darling, you fret unnecessarily,” he murmured, placing her hands back in her lap. “He’ll go. I guarantee it.”
There was something unequivocal in his tone that bolstered her flagging spirits. “I do apologize for putting you in the middle of this contretemps. Do you actually think he might be civil?”
“I’m certain of it. He only wishes to woo you back,” Duff replied, his aspect and address completely unruffled, as though Walingame’s presence was of no consequence. “I expect he’ll say his piece and then be on his way,” he added, perjuring himself without a qualm.
Annabelle’s expression brightened, even while she knew she was grasping at straws. “I hope you’re right. I hope he hasn’t alarmed Mother. I dearly hope he hasn’t seen Cricket o
r frightened Molly.” She half smiled. “I might as well hope for an end to poverty as well while I’m engaged in such wistful fantasies.”
“Come, now, no fantasies are required to solve this dilemma,” he said with the assurance great wealth and privilege had conveyed on him. “We’ll go inside, see that your mother is faring well, make our bows to Walingame, and then send him on his way.” He grinned. “Politely, of course.”
“How chivalrous you are,” she murmured. “If only Walingame had even a fraction of your graciousness, I wouldn’t be in such a stew.”
“Nor should you be because of him,” Duff murmured brusquely. “If nothing else, he understands force, although— don’t worry,” he amended at her sudden alarm. “I shan’t embarrass you in front of your mother. I shall be all tact and diplomacy.”
“Much as I dislike falling into the role of female in distress, I confess I’m vastly pleased that you’re here,” Annabelle said with feeling.
“As am I. You shouldn’t have to deal with him.” Nor did he want Walingame anywhere near Annabelle for any number of reasons, jealousy most prominent. “Smile row,” he said, focusing on the task at hand rather than on more difficult issues. “We are about to walk on stage.”
———
As they entered the parlor short moments later, Mrs. Foster offered Annabelle a bewildered look, Innes casually raised his hand in greeting from a chair in the corner, and Walingame immediately came to his feet and bowed punctiliously. “Your mother informed us you were riding with Darley,” he said with a silky, unctuous smile. “Did you enjoy your ride?”
If it were possible to feel relief with Walingame in her home, she did briefly on hearing his greeting. Was it possible he would be well mannered?
“It was a lovely day for a ride,” Duff answered, although he hadn’t been addressed. “What brings you to Shoreham?”
Walingame visibly bristled at Duff interjecting himself into the conversation, but his reply was couched in the same patently false amiability. “We found ourselves in the neighborhood. Innes has a family connection not far from here.” He gave Annabelle a sly glance. “Since I hadn’t seen Miss Foster for some time,” he murmured, innuendo in every word, “I thought, why not stop by?”
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