Could she ever fall in love with him?
Lizbeth certainly disapproved of him, of that he had little doubt. He tried to surprise Lizbeth with another book only to be thanked with chilly politeness. Given their interactions in London, he assumed she thought him objectionably shallow, especially in contrast to his cousin, but perhaps she would grow to like him as a brother given time. He did suspect some of her prejudice was due to her believing him an unredeemable rake, and he wasn’t altogether sure if Charlotte had said anything to dissuade her, not that Lizbeth would believe her.
What no one knew aside from Lizbeth and himself, or at least he didn’t think anyone else knew of it, was he’d flirted with Liz when they first met at a masquerade. This was before he’d met Charlotte, of course, when he’d become slightly frantic about finding a bride. There had been no attraction between them, and he knew after one conversation they would never suit. Such an encounter shouldn’t be held against him. Lizbeth held it against him, thinking him reprehensible.
If Lizbeth could bring happiness to his reclusive cousin and confidence to his wife, he would do all in his power to welcome her to the family and make her stay comfortable. Unfortunately, he doubted she would be in his camp for winning over Charlotte’s heart. Hazel, on the other hand, would support his pursuit of Charlotte’s love. He was confident of it.
So deep in thought was he that he almost collided with Mary.
“Watch it!” His sister shouted, tugging at her horse’s reins. “Didn’t you see me? I’ve been waving to you, Drake.”
Indeed, he hadn’t. All he had seen since leaving Winston’s estate was Charlotte’s heart-shaped face, chestnut hair, brown eyes, and delectably petite figure.
“Sorry, sis. Tad distracted. Where are you going?” he asked.
She wore one of her nicest riding habits, her hair styled too impeccably for a horse ride, the long black curls pinned behind her head and flowing down her back, all topped with a fashionable bonnet.
“I’m off to see Arabella, of course. Where else would I be going?” she asked defensively, her words clipped, too brusque not to rouse his suspicion.
“Hmm. Seems to me you’re heading in the wrong direction to see Arabella.”
“She’s meeting me by the lake. Is that a crime?” Her horse pranced impatiently, sensing the tension of her mistress.
He tutted. “Let me guess. You’re off for a tryst with the Marquess of Colquhoun. I knew you’d find his aged beard irresistible.”
She wrinkled her nose at him.
“Horrid man. You should have seen his teeth! I don’t know where Mother finds these men. Please, talk to her for me. Make her stop throwing me at them,” she pleaded, expertly veering him away from the original topic of her destination.
“That’s between you and Mother. Leave me out of it. But you know, she does have a point, even if her taste is skewed. You will have to marry someone eventually,” he said.
“And what if I’ve already found someone?” She inquired, testing him.
Ah, so Mary was stepping out with someone, was she? Either this was a new development or all her complaints to Mother about being only sixteen and not ready for marriage were for show. The little sneak!
“I assume the mystery man is meeting you at the lake, not Arabella. I also assume he is someone Mother wouldn’t approve. If I’m right, then I most heartedly do not approve of you meeting him unchaperoned. Regardless of his intentions, it would compromise you to be discovered alone with him. That may very well be his plan if he’s a fortune hunter. They can be persuasive when it moves them and convince you of their deepest love.” Drake turned his horse around and shimmied next to her, deciding to change his plans for the day and follow her instead.
No matter how tired his body or how much he wanted to see Charlotte, he refused to allow Mary to compromise herself because she fancied some rogue.
“You needn’t worry. I won’t be meeting him alone. His father will be there, too,” she replied.
“Oh ho! Is he really? And I’m to take your word for it? Not likely.” Drake thought for a moment, swatting at an onslaught of midges and wishing her words to be true so he could head home and relax. “If you’ll tell me who he is and agree not to meet him alone, I’ll arrange it so the two of you can meet safely without sneaking around. And I won’t tell Mother, at least not until I’ve had a chance to get to know the boy. Agreed?”
“Would you really?” Mary’s eyes lit with excitement. “I promise! May I go to him now and tell him?”
“Cheeky, but no. I’m not as cavalier as you take me, at least not with your safety. You can send a groom to tell him after we return home. Now, who’s the lucky fellow?”
“Duncan. And he’s in the army. Isn’t that grand?” She beamed.
“Duncan Starrett, eh? A finer lad you couldn’t have chosen. Mother would never approve, of course, but I like him well enough.” True words, but Drake felt unnerved nonetheless.
He didn’t care for Duncan’s disrespect. The boy should have come to him first to ask permission to court Mary, not gallivant with her behind his back.
The greater concern was the boy’s father. Drake had little doubt the father, Colonel Starrett, would be waiting by the lake with his son, but that didn’t fill Drake with the confidence it should. The colonel had confessed his desire for Duncan to beget an heir before heading to the army. Drake could only imagine the colonel wanting to compromise the two rather than chaperone. Not that he thought poorly of the colonel, but wealth and ducal connections did funny things to people.
“When you send word to young Starrett, tell him I’ll arrange for the two of you to meet under my ever-watchful eye. Take heed, Mary. If I find out you’ve met with him alone, you’ll never again think Mother is the wrathful member of the family.” He warned. “And if he tries so much as a stolen kiss, he will find himself at the bottom of the lake, and you’ll be sent to the marquess as a blushing bride.”
“You’re my favorite brother!” With that, she clucked her horse to move past him to the manor.
“I’m your only brother, cheeky monkey!” he shouted after her before spurring his own horse to follow her, eager to get away from the outdoors and the hoard of midges.
He thought about Mary and Duncan, but mostly he thought about his mother for the remainder of the ride to the stables. Mary was the second woman in a month to ask him to stand up to his mother. He’d left the matchmaking to his mother, but he realized now the importance of taking a greater part. Should Mary not find a suitable husband, she would remain at the manor for life, completely supported by him, not that he minded, but he doubted she would want to live at Lyonn Manor forever.
The crux was that Mother would marry Mary to a marquess or even a duke, while he would likely approve her marriage to someone like Duncan Starrett, hardly a fitting person for a duke’s daughter. All the same, he had no qualms with the boy or his family and would prefer his sister marry for love than duty. Yet another reason he needed to steel himself against a coming battle with his mother. This would take far more armor than he possessed.
When he arrived home, he left his horse to a groom and headed inside, sweaty, fatigued, and ready for a hot bath. The fencing workout had been good but exhausting, and the thought of facing his mother took its toll on his remaining stamina. Drake shambled through the gallery to the stairs.
With a hand on the railing, he paused. He wasn’t entirely confident of the household’s plans for the day, but it was about time for Lizbeth’s afternoon constitutional and Hazel’s tea with Mother, which would leave Charlotte alone for another hour or thereabouts.
Renewed with purpose, he decided to snag the newest sonata he sketched, still largely unfinished, and slip it onto the pianoforte in the drawing room for Charlotte to find. That would delight her while he bathed. Turning from the stairs, he stepped into his study, hesitated to dig out his snuffbox
for an invigorating pinch, and then continued to the bookshelf.
The study filled with the sound of music when he cracked the bookshelf ajar. He held the door partially gaped, hoping to remain unnoticed. Charlotte was there. Alone. Playing the sonata he had intended for her.
The bath forgotten, he leaned his shoulder against the study wall and listened. The sonata in question turned the montage of sensual moments with Charlotte into musical form, capturing the newness with which he now saw her, a confident woman who enchanted him. He didn’t know if she would recognize the piece as written about her and for her, but as long as she enjoyed it, that was all that mattered.
Listening to her play brought pure elation. His wife. His music. The two loves of his life together in one sound. His body responded along with his heart. He stood at the doorway, overcome with passion, love, and lust. As she reached the last movement, he swept the bookshelf over the rug and entered, making quick strides to the bench where a surprised Charlotte gasped at the intrusion.
Charlotte looked up, startled, her fingers halting mid chord. Drake swaggered into the room, drenching the space into momentary sunlight from the study before he closed the door. Her smile faltered when he headed towards her, a frisson of masculinity.
Between this moment and her exploration two weeks prior, her embarrassment had gradually dissolved. She felt empowered more than embarrassed. She had the upper hand. She controlled their romantic liaisons. Drake’s behavior after her exploration proved him a patient and understanding man, not to mention a ready receiver of her attentions.
His expression at this moment, however, alarmed her. In the short space between the door and harpsichord bench, she read in his face the same look as the night she had tasted him. His blue eyes were the color of the deepest chasm in the ocean, darkened by desire, his smile revealing his dimples, and his presence exuding sexual awareness. Today was not on her agenda for seduction. Then again, neither had the evening of discovery, and that turned out better than she could have planned.
She froze on the bench, watching wide eyed as he swung around the harpsichord and knelt behind the bench, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“You’re perfect, Charlotte. Positively perfect,” he pronounced.
She swiveled against his embrace so she could face him kneeling before her. When she did, he quickly resumed his embrace, laying his head in her lap. What a silly man!
“Don’t be absurd. No one is perfect!” She bit her lip as she realized how many times she wished to be perfect. The perfect duchess. The perfect wife. The perfect lover. Did he know how much her heart ached to embody perfection?
He looked up, deepening his dimples with a broad smile, then glided his hands from around her waist to her hips and down to her thighs, massaging her legs through the fabric of her dress. She tensed.
“How long until you need to return to the parlor?” he asked, sliding his hands all the way down to her ankles, and then up under her dress to cradle her calves.
He hooked a finger over her stockings and rolled them down her legs.
“We have all day. We are alone, it would seem.” Blast! Why did she admit that?
Did she want to leave herself so exposed? Was she giving away her upper hand with such an admission, allowing him an opportunity to seduce her when she wanted to be the one saying what and when? Oh, but his hands on her bare legs were so warm and strong.
Drake raised his eyebrows and lifted her leg to kiss her feet, then her ankle, and finally to rest her foot on his shoulder. The moist lips against her bare skin thrilled her. She made no move to stop him, but she remained tense. His touch physically shocked her, a sharp pulse from the point of contact up to her womb.
She wanted him to touch her. She wanted him. It was that simple, yet it was that complicated. Would he respect her if she allowed him to do whatever he wanted, imposing his dominance, taking the control she had only just established?
Oh, but his touch. Charlotte closed her eyes and lost herself for a moment as he kissed her calf, pushing her dress higher in the wake of his lips.
He mumbled against her skin, “All alone?”
She clenched her jaw, opening her eyes to see him looking up at her. “Lizbeth and Hazel have gone for a tour of Sebastian’s castle. Mary left to visit Arabella. Mama Catherine is paying a call to, oh, I can’t recall who, oh….” The words drifted as he pushed the dress over her knees.
Charlotte pressed her legs tightly together, uncertain of his intention and still uncertain how to receive his attention. How could she resist, in truth, when he intoxicated her? His hair was wet with sweat, his hands strong but gentle, the calluses on his left hand tickling her skin where he stroked, and his scent—oh, his scent.
She had never smelled anything so masculine. His usual almond aroma was replaced with a strong fragrance of sweat, horse, and him. When she had kissed him below his waist, there had been a musky bouquet new to her, a scent that excited her, made her ache for him. Today, his entire body tantalized her with that musky cologne of him.
Drake placed both hands on her hips and scooted her to the edge of the bench. “Relax,” he murmured, the word spoken so deeply the tone resonated through her knees and up between her legs to the throbbing apex of her womanhood.
She didn’t relax. In fact, she stiffened more rigidly than before, clamping her legs together.
“Charlotte,” he hummed, pressing his lips against her knee in a succession of kisses. “I want to love you. Let me love you.” He drew circles on her left knee with his thumb and moved to kiss her right knee. “If you relax, I’ll continue. If you’re uneasy, we can play a duet instead. Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do.”
He looked up at her, all dimples, all musky male, all composer. Charlotte breathed him in, feeding on his ardor.
“Command me, Charlotte. Tell me what you want.” Sinking to the floor, he encircled her ankles with his fingertips.
“Love me,” she ordered before she could talk herself out of the temptation.
Without awaiting further instruction, he rose from his haunches, still kneeling. He pushed her dress up her thighs with one hand and spread her legs with his other hand, then dove beneath the hem between her legs to shock her with a long, hard lick to her core.
So shocked was she that she threw her hands behind her to brace against the harpsichord, the notes crying discordantly as her arms met the unsuspecting keys. The sensation below her dress and the sound of the harpsichord sent her in a whirl of panic. She clenched her legs around his head.
The muffled protest, which sounded more like laughter than a cry for help, sent shivers of pleasure through her. She relaxed before she suffocated her husband.
“I’m sor—.” She gasped mid apology when he buried his mouth against her body, his tongue plunging inside her.
The muscle invaded her most private area, exploring. She ought to be humiliated. She ought to be angry. Instead she cried out with pleasure. Was this what she had avoided for so many months? How foolish she had been! If she had known it would be like this….
A throbbing ache scorched through her. She wanted to get closer, but there was no way to get closer. She wanted him deeper inside of her.
Her hips began to rock against his mouth as he wrapped his lips around her, licking and suckling rhythmically, as though she were a peach. She only knew sensation, not how he caused it. When an anxious pulse thrummed inside her, she grasped a handful of his hair to press him more firmly against her body.
Molten heat seeped through her, moving from her apex to spread to her limbs and up to her chest. When it reached her head, she thought she would burst. The sensation mounted until it exploded in a shower of flickering lights and tingles, jolting her body against the keyboard, the keys playing a beautifully dissonant piece.
Her body relaxed as the lights and tingles faded. It took several minutes before she realized sh
e was panting and that Drake was no longer between her legs, rather sitting on the bench next to her, one arm propped up against the keyboard, a dimply smile welcoming her back to reality.
Oh, his smile. She had begun to catalogue his smiles, and this one was her favorite. The genuine smile of the composer.
She reached over to touch a dimple. “Is it always like that?”
Drake chuckled, leaning in to kiss her. A chaste kiss, tender with affection. His lips tasted sweet from her nectar. She cupped his cheek with her palm and returned the kiss.
“If I do it right, yes,” he murmured against her mouth.
She released him, loving his eyes so full of humor and happiness.
“What if I want more?” she asked tentatively.
For a moment, he furrowed his brows in confusion. Hesitantly, she touched the fall flap of his buckskins. His confusion gave way to a sharp intake of breath as she chafed her hand against his hardness.
He choked on the words, hoarse with desire, “What more do you want?”
“I want you,” Charlotte said, spurred into bravery by the returning ache between her legs.
He had her figured out.
And if he was right, she couldn’t possibly imagine how perfectly suited they were for each other. As pushy as he acted when they first married, he preferred to be dominated, preferred for the woman to be in charge. He had only exerted himself on Charlotte at first because she was young and inexperienced, and he assumed she wouldn’t want to be in control, much less know how to control.
How wrong he had been. She was perfect.
Drake lured her to the floor, laying himself on the rug and allowing her to remain above him in the semblance of superiority. He rested his hands behind his head and looked up at her kneeling over him.
“What would you like to do to me?” he questioned, admiring the disarray of her hair.
She sat on her haunches, tracing the buttons of his waistcoat.
“I want you,” she repeated. “I want all of you, but you’ll have to tell me what to do.” She slipped a button through the buttonhole, then moved to the next one.
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