“Lucien?”
He ran his hands over her buttocks soothingly, calming her as he would a nervous mare.
“I don’t think I can …” she began in a whisper.
“Shh. I know, angel.” His hands worked their way beneath her skirts. One trailed up between her legs to stroke her inner thigh while the other gently massaged the taut muscles of her backside. Using his middle finger to brush her damp curls, he then explored further to find her soft folds already slick with desire. His thumb found and delicately circled her swollen clitoris. When his exploring finger stroked her tight opening, she jumped and tried to pull away.
“No, love. Stay with me. You are sore here, are you not?”
Her eyes tightly shut and a fierce frown on her face, she bit her lower lip and nodded emphatically.
“And do you know why?”
She hesitated before nodding again, this time less assuredly.
“It is because I was deep inside you so many times I lost count, stretching this secret place over and over. I could not help myself, Victoria. I could not stop.”
He had intended the words as seduction, but they were nothing more than the raw, unvarnished truth. The effect they had on her was instant and galvanizing. She squirmed against his thumb, grasped at his shoulders and leaned into him, whimpering in desire.
“Now, what is a husband to do after he has been such a brute?” he rasped, nuzzling her breast with his cheek. “It is his duty to soothe his bride, to ease her.”
Leaving his hand in its warm nest between her thighs, he removed the other from beneath her skirts to push all the dishes from his side of the table. The clinking and rattling of china, crystal, and silver being shoved aside startled open her glorious, sea-blue eyes. He wrapped his arm about her waist and lifted her bottom onto the edge of the table, pressing her to lie back.
She panted and looked at him uncertainly but did not resist.
He quickly slid her skirts over her knees and up her thighs to rest above her waist, then grasped her legs and spread them wide, falling to his knees to worship at her altar. And the masterpiece that was her feminine core deserved to receive his tribute, he thought. Golden curls served more as a frame than a mask for dark pink folds, ripe and juicy-sweet. At the center, her hard little bud, swollen and straining after the dance of his thumb, begged to be caressed.
He lightly ran two fingers from her clitoris to where she parted at the entrance of her channel, flushed an angry red and weeping for him. Barely pausing to spread her lips for his kiss, he stroked his tongue over that hard little bud, and immediately trailed down to where she was so tender, repeating the journey several times.
She moaned his name and clutched at his hair, writhing against the hard surface of the table. Lapping at her delicately, he bathed and soothed her with his tongue, letting his fingers lightly squeeze and tug at her sweet bud. As a reward for his efforts, he inhaled her scent—wildflowers and a storm at sea—and consumed her honeyed nectar until he was drunk on it. The finest ambrosia, it was.
As he felt her climax draw closer, he thrust his tongue deep inside the tightly clenching little mouth, giving her needy sheath what it demanded—a firm presence to cling to. She exploded and rippled around his tongue, arching up against his mouth and hands while yanking at his hair.
And she screamed. She screamed his name. No one else’s.
No other man would ever see her like this, eyes hooded, expression dreamy and replete, skin misted and blushing. No other would ever taste her the way he had. The way he could whenever he desired. Which would be often.
It was almost as good as coming himself.
Suddenly, the ragingly hard cock he had managed to ignore while tending to Victoria decided to make its demands known. Vociferously.
He groaned as he rose between her legs, bracing his fists next to her hips and dropping his head as he leaned over her. Teeth clenched against the need to take her fully, he drew shuddering breaths and tried to think of terribly unarousing things. Like the Prime Minister. Or coal dust. Anything, for the love of God.
A small, gentle hand stroked his forearm. “Lucien, you can … I mean, I want you to …”
He laughed humorlessly and shook his head. “No, angel. You are too tender. I must give you a day or two to recuperate.”
In a swift, unexpected motion, Victoria shifted and pushed herself up to sit before him, her eyes meeting his, her hands cupping either side of his neck, and her knees straddling his hips.
“But, I want you to be fulfilled, as well. It is not enough for me to experience such pleasure alone. You must be with me.” She kissed him passionately, tenderly, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.
Breathing heavily and feeling the blood pulsing in his cock, he wrapped his arms tightly around his wife and let himself savor her kiss, her soft lips, her slick tongue.
She broke away and drew his forehead down to touch hers. “Is there not some way I can do for you what you have done for me?”
He stared into her eyes, telling himself she deserved so much better than someone like him. She deserved to be cosseted and pampered, handled gently and treated with reverence. Not reduced to servicing his uncontrollable lust.
But right then, the darkness beckoned, proving irresistible.
He nodded, swallowed hard, and took her hands in his. “I’ll show you,” he whispered.
And then he did.
~~*
Chapter Eleven
“Just when you begin to think a man worthy of admiration, he suffers a moment of candor, and your misapprehension is corrected at once.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham upon overhearing the Prince Regent’s marital advice to the Duke of Wellington.
“Trifle, my lady?” Mrs. Garner exclaimed. “Twice a week, you say?”
Victoria nodded, still perusing the list of servants the good-natured housekeeper had provided a week ago. A few of them would travel to Thornbridge Park with her and Lucien when the season ended, but she was still debating over the precise number. Since she was not familiar with Lucien’s country estate, she could only make an educated guess. Her new lady’s maid, Emily, was a delight and would certainly be among them.
She tapped a finger against her lips absently. Oh, bother. Did Thornbridge already have a full contingent of footmen? Perhaps she should leave most of them here.
“Cook is known to say she’s better with savory than sweet. Jes’ yesterday, she says, ‘Mrs. Garner, now, ye knows I’m a mite better with ham than honey cakes.’ Tha’s true enough, my lady. But if ye wants trifle, twice a week no less, Mrs. Garner will make certain-sure it gets served.”
Victoria turned to the housekeeper with a wide smile. “Of course you will, Mrs. Garner. No doubt you can persuade Cook to create trifle that will cause Lady Reedham’s new French cook to weep with envy.”
The ruddy-faced woman stood taller with each word, her gap-toothed smile beaming with pride. “Consider it done, my lady.”
Victoria nodded. “Now,” she said, folding her list and slipping it inside her sleeve. She glanced around the sitting room, her eyes landing on the trunk near the window. “Let’s discuss my painting studio.”
The ruffled edge of Mrs. Garner’s white cap fluttered as she bobbed her head. “Ye mentioned ye might need furniture moved about, so I told Geoffrey and Donald to be prepared.”
“Excellent. I will need a room with the best possible light.”
“Aye, my lady. The yellow room on the second floor is quite nice—”
“Oh, but I was thinking the one at the front of the house.”
Mrs. Garner’s face froze, her expression bordering on horror. “The—the blue room, my lady?”
“Yes. I noticed it is already cleared of furniture. And the windows face south, which allows much better light throughout the day. London has little enough as it is.” Noting that the normally animated servant had gone pale and terribly still, Victoria asked, “What is it, Mrs. Garner?”
The woman shuddered as
though a ghost had passed through her. “P-perhaps ye should speak wif Lord Atherbourne first, my lady.”
Victoria blinked in puzzlement. “He has given me leave to choose any room in the house.”
“He—he did? Any room?”
“Is there a problem with the blue room?”
“Ah, no, my lady. It’s been cleaned, top to bottom.”
Baffled by the housekeeper’s bizarre reaction, Victoria gave the woman a confused smile. “Of course it has. The whole of Wyatt House is pristine.”
“I jes’ meant …” She swallowed visibly and took a deep breath. “Pay no mind to silly old Mrs. Garner, my lady. If it’s the blue room ye be wantin’ for yer studio, tha’s the one ye shall have. Geoffrey and Donald will move yer easel and supplies within the hour.”
A thrill of anticipation ran through her at the thought of having a brush in her hand again. Standing before a fresh canvas was like being washed clean, the world newly born. At Clyde-Lacey House, she had set up her studio in a guest bedchamber, but the eastern light had meant fewer hours to paint. While in London, social demands did not allow much time for solitude, but ah, those few stolen hours when she was alone with her art. To savor a swirling stroke of crimson or bold slash of ochre, to witness the vision only she could see, now pouring through her mind, down her arm, out her fingers, and onto cloth. Becoming real. It was almost mystical, a conjuring of powerful sorcery.
“… empty the chamber pots three times a day instead of four. Well, I can tell ye right now, Mrs. Garner will not tolerate such laziness.” Focusing on the housekeeper’s voice, Victoria realized she hadn’t a clue what the woman was talking about.
“So, now Agnes is back in the kitchen helpin’ Cook.”
Ah, yes. Agnes, the troublesome chambermaid. Victoria recalled Mrs. Garner mentioning her yesterday. Mrs. Garner was fond of informing Victoria about every detail of household happenings. Very, very fond.
“Mrs. Garner, have we a spare table somewhere in the house? I would like one for my studio. A simple work table should suffice.”
“Yes, my lady. Saw one in the attic jes’ last week. The maids and I—”
“Excellent! What a marvelous memory you have. Please ask Donald and Geoffrey to place it beneath the windows furthest from the fireplace. Also, I should have more supplies later this week, as I will be visiting my former home and believe there are some items I left there.”
Mrs. Garner went silent. Her keys jangled as she folded her hands at her waist, tense and uncomfortable. How odd, Victoria thought. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well.
“My lady,” Billings bellowed from the open doorway.
Victoria smiled and called out, “Yes, Billings, please come in.”
He shuffled forward bearing a silver tray upon which lay a paltry stack of papers. Thanks to the scandal, invitations and correspondence had been quite sparse.
“Your correspondence, my lady.” Billings bowed and held out the tray.
Victoria quickly thumbed through the stack. Three envelopes, none of them from her brother. She frowned. “Billings, is this all the correspondence? Did we not receive anything from the Duke of Blackmore?”
Billings did not answer, instead standing solemnly, his mouth pursed as though in deep thought. Or tasting something bitter that should not have been. Victoria wondered if perhaps he had fallen asleep or simply hadn’t heard her.
She tried again, louder this time. “Billings?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Have we received any letters from the Duke of Blackmore? Is this”—she held up the stack—“all that has come?”
He was silent again for a few seconds, then replied, “That is all the correspondence for my lady today.”
Victoria slumped a bit and sighed deeply. She looked down at the stack in her hands. Was Harrison angry with her? True, she had disgraced herself and, by extension, the duke. But she had thought marrying Lucien and working to restore her reputation largely resolved the matter. Harrison did not often demonstrate warmer emotions, but Victoria had never doubted his affection. Surely, he must forgive her. But, then, why has he not at least written? It has been ten days since the wedding. And I have written him twice.
She looked up at Billings and Mrs. Garner, who both still stood before her, shifting uncomfortably. “Thank you, Billings. Mrs. Garner. You may be about your duties.”
Once they departed, Victoria distracted herself from thoughts of a possible rift with Harrison by opening her correspondence. The first letter was from Great Aunt Muriel, congratulating her on her marriage; the second was a rather staggering bill from Mrs. Bowman. Oh, my, she thought, eyes flaring at the number on the final page. Perhaps I should have exercised greater restraint. Until now, Lucien had been a kind and indulgent husband, but that did not mean his goodwill was endless. In truth, Victoria could not be certain how he might react. She had married him. They shared a bed. But try as she might, she could not say that she knew him. Well, biblically speaking, you know him spectacularly well. A faint smile touched her lips and a small shiver climbed her spine. However, if asked to predict his behavior or to understand his decisions, she found herself quite at a loss.
She bit her lip and set the bill aside. Better not to think of it now. Besides, the third letter most interested Victoria. It came from Lady Berne, inviting Victoria and Lucien to dinner next week with the intent to “discuss a stratagem whereby matters might be restored to their proper order.”
Relief flooded her; the countess intended to help with the scandal. Lady Berne was a godsend, constant and generous where others would unquestionably abandon her. Having such a well-respected matron on her side would make her reentry into society significantly easier.
Warm lips caressed the nape of her neck.
“Lucien!” she yelped. “You startled me.” Indeed, her heart hammered away at her breastbone. Or perhaps that was the effect of his tongue stroking along the side of her neck.
“Sorry, love. Too tempting, you know.”
His voice, low and smooth, echoed down her back, becoming warm tendrils of need that wrapped around her womb. His strong arms curled around her shoulders from behind, and he whispered in her ear, “What are you reading?”
“Hmm?”
He chuckled sensually and kissed the shell of her ear. “The note you are holding. What is it?”
She glanced down, surprised to find the invitation still clutched in her hand. “Oh! Lady Berne would like us to join her and Lord Berne for dinner on Tuesday next.”
He froze, slowly withdrawing his arms and straightening behind her. She turned sideways in the chair to glance up at him. His face was dark and taciturn, his posture stiff. “For what purpose?”
His tone sent a chill over her skin. She blinked up at him. “I believe she wishes to help with the scandal.”
Stepping back, Lucien crossed his arms over his chest. “Who else will be there?”
Victoria shrugged. “She did not say. Is it important?” He did not reply, his gaze moving through her without stopping. A strange reaction, indeed. “Lucien?”
His smile returned, but this time it felt detached, as though she were a casual acquaintance, not the woman he had made love to less than four hours earlier. “Only insofar as those present can be trusted.”
Frowning, she stood and set the letter upon her desk, then pivoted to face her husband—who now felt very much a stranger. Cold settled over her like a cloak. “Lady Berne has been a true friend to me,” she said softly. “I believe she feels responsible for my current predicament and wishes to rectify the situation. I have every reason to trust her.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” she replied, her temper beginning to rise. “She has always had my best interests in mind.”
“Your best interests. Stickley, for example.”
The mention of the man she had betrayed—especially coming from the cause of that betrayal—sent resentment and shame knifing through her. “I will not discuss Stickley with you. Pr
ay, do not speak of him again.”
Lucien lowered his chin and gave her a burning glare. “My point is that Lady Berne—and others who should have known better—steered you toward a man as ill-suited for you as a boar for a goose.”
“Others …?” She frowned, then realized to whom he was referring. “You mean Harrison.” Stiffening in outrage, she retorted, “Frankly, my lord, the only one who has demonstrated ill intentions toward me is you.”
If his expression was anything to judge by, Lucien was most displeased with her candor. “Careful, my darling,” he said. “You do still require my cooperation to regain your place in society, yes?”
A ripple of shock rolled through her at the implication. “Are you threatening to withdraw it?”
“Depends.”
“Upon?”
He smiled at her, not one of his oh-so-charming, devil-may-care smiles. This one had menace in it. “How well you comport yourself as my wife.”
Backing up until she felt the edge of the desk behind her hips, she shook her head. “What does that mean?”
He moved closer, now mere inches away. Betraying shivers of remembered pleasure rippled over her skin. “A good wife would understand that I want nothing to do with the man who shot my brother.”
Her eyes had dropped to his lips while he was speaking, but then quickly flew up to meet his flat gaze. “I do understand. Still, you cannot think to avoid him forever.”
“Can’t I?”
Surely he could not mean … “Lucien,” she said, her voice hoarse with disbelief. “He is my brother. And a duke.”
“And a murderer.”
She swallowed hard against the accusation. She did not know what the duel had been about, but she did know Gregory Wyatt had been the one to issue the challenge. “That is deeply unfair.”
“I owe him nothing, least of all fairness.”
Searching his face for signs of the man he had been only that morning, she found only deadly determination, hard bitterness, and old rage. Inside, a part of her that had begun to hope, perhaps even to love, shriveled and bled. But years of being the Duchess of Blackmore’s daughter occasionally came in handy, and she quickly composed herself. “Fine. You do not wish to see Harrison. But surely you do not intend to prevent me from doing so.”
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