The Dream of a Duchess

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Isabella clung to the duke, awareness of her surroundings slowly returning. When Octavius had ordered her to turn over, she had half-expected he would mount her, much like a horse, and take her virtue. That he hadn’t done so made her wonder if he merely thought better of it.

  Or did he no longer desire her?

  That he could create so much desire in her with what he had done with his hands had her wanting more. Wanting to do more. She slid the flat of her hand down his chest and to his curlies, well aware he was about to still it with his free hand when she whispered, “Octavius? If I do the same to you, will you be as pleasured as I was?”

  Octavius took a deep breath. His arousal was evident in how his manhood stood erect from his body. “Possibly,” he hedged, wondering what she had in mind.

  Her hand moved farther down until her fingers wrapped around the base of the velvet-soft, steel-hard rod. It seemed to come alive in her hold, throbbing to the beat of his pulse beneath her ear. “Will you show me what to do?” she asked in a whisper, her grasp moving from the base of his erection to the tip. Her thumb passed over the wet top before sliding off the silky smooth skin. She felt more than heard his inhalation of breath, secretly thrilling at how her simple touch seemed to excite him.

  His larger hand wrapped around the back of her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers, and then he guided her tight hold down his shaft and back up again. When their grip was nearly free of his manhood, he pushed it back down but made sure his thumb guided her thumb over the wet tip. He couldn’t help the groan that suddenly erupted from his throat, but he felt her alarm in how she suddenly stilled her movements. “Just keep doing that,” he whispered, his breaths more like pants for air as he released his hold on her hand. “Hold me as hard as you can manage.”

  Isabella resumed the push-pull motions, speeding them up just a bit with each round as she sensed his breathing quicken and his body stiffening in anticipation of a release it clearly needed.

  Wanting to see him better—to watch as she pleasured him—Isabella slid a leg over both of his and raised up her body to straddle him, her knees tucked into the mattress on either side of his thighs. At the sudden change in how her hands gripped him, in how she held his member so his sac rested against her mons, Octavius opened his eyes. A growl erupted from his throat before the seed spilled from his manhood, the warm, thick liquid spreading over her lower torso.

  Isabella watched in wonder at the change that came over the man beneath her. She felt his body go rigid, stay rigid, and then suddenly go slack. She saw how the cords in his neck strained, saw how his face displayed what looked like pain before he shuddered and then seemed to relax into the mattress. A moment later, his expression was one of peace. Isabella allowed a wan smile as she simply held his manhood and stared at a man who suddenly looked years younger.

  How easy it is to pleasure him! she thought as a frisson passed through her body. The memory of what he had done to her only moments before had a wan smile touching her lips.

  She frowned when she realized he probably wouldn’t remember this time the same way she would. He would no doubt regret what he had done. What they had done. He would try to apologize, she imagined. Claim responsibility and offer for her hand...

  Isabella blinked in the dark, giving her head a quick shake. He wouldn’t propose, she was sure of that. Not that she would accept if he did, she reasoned. He was probably an impossible man to live with. Frowning all the time. Quick to anger.

  Just like Craythorne, she realized, swallowing hard when a sob threatened just then. But he’s not like Craythorne, she argued. He’s merely wounded. A bit broken. Sad.

  Finally letting go her hold on him, Isabella reached for the bath linen at the end of the bed and cleaned herself. Finding the edges of the tangled bed linens—Octavius had thrown them off their bodies at some point—she straightened them as best she could and lowered her body to rest alongside his.

  She was skimming a hand over his chest in an effort to determine where she might best rest it when one of his hands suddenly fell atop hers, pinning it against his sternum. A moment later, a slight snore sounded and then he was silent.

  Isabella allowed a wan smile before she lowered her lips to the corner of his and gave him a gentle kiss. “Good night, Octavius,” she whispered before lowering herself back down to the mattress.

  She couldn’t take back her right hand, though, as the duke seemed to want it to stay right where it was.

  Chapter 36

  The Morning After

  Ten o’clock in the morning

  Isabella awoke with a start, well aware she wasn’t in her own bed. Well aware she wore no night clothes. The blanket covering her shoulder was unfamiliar as well. But when she spotted the empty pillow next to hers, the memories of earlier that morning came flooding back.

  “Time to get up, sleepy head,” Octavius said from where he stood looking out one of the bedchamber’s windows.

  Turning her body so she could sit up in the soft mattress, Isabella stared at the duke a moment before blinking away the remnants of the odd dream she had been experiencing. A dream of a huge stables filled with beautiful bay horses of every age.

  All hers.

  “Good morning,” she managed, pushing her sleep tousled curls off of her face. She watched as Octavius pulled on a shirt. He was already wearing breeches, the Nankeen fabric hugging his thighs so close she could make out the shape of his legs without using any of her imagination.

  She didn’t even have to do that, she realized. She had seen those thighs wearing nothing at all. Felt their strength and seen their length when they rested on either side of her hips as they had sat in the bathtub earlier that morning.

  As for the rest of his breeches, the memory of what was behind the placket had her spine tingling. She had held it in her hands. Rubbed it and cradled it and thrilled at how it throbbed in her hold. Was it any wonder her womanhood seemed to throb in response? The memory of how it had felt with the palm of his hand pressed against it—the memory of of the pleasurable waves and sharp darts of delight he had brought forth—sent a tinge of desire coursing through her lower body just then.

  Despite what he had seen of her the night before, Isabella still gripped the bed linens against her bare chest. “It is already nine o’clock?” she wondered, just then remembering his edict that she not wake up before nine.

  “It’s ten, actually.” At her gasp of disbelief, Octavius aimed a wan grin in her direction. “I was just as surprised.” He moved to a tall dresser and removed something white from the top drawer. He tossed it in her direction. “Here. Something to wear until you can get to your bedchamber,” he said before returning his attention to his shirt. He tucked the hem into his breeches, a mumbled curse drawing Isabella’s gaze from the huge nightshirt she had unfolded and spread out on the counterpane before her.

  “What is it?”

  Octavius sighed. “Nothing. Rather nothing a good dousing of cold water wouldn’t cure.” But he was struggling with his shirt, and Isabella soon realized his hardened manhood was the reason. Once again, the memory of the night before came flooding back, and the barest hint of what she had experienced shot through her abdomen in a most pleasant frisson.

  “Is it always like that?” she asked as she pulled on the nightshirt. The voluminous garment settled over her body as she climbed out of the bed, although one shoulder was left bare as the larger neckline shifted to one side.

  Turning to regard her, Octavius was rather stunned at how the sight of her in his far-too-large nightshirt would have him wishing he could simply tumble her right then and there. Her long curls, so messy and in such disarray, perfectly suited her just then. “Not usually, no,” he whispered before he dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder and flicked a thumb over the silhouette of one of her nipples. The erect bud pressed into the fabric of the nightshirt, and he heard her inhalation of breath at the slight contact. “Are these always like this?”

  Isabella shook her head.
“Not usually, no,” she replied, understanding only part of his argument. She seemed perplexed for a moment.

  “What is it?” Octavius wondered, deciding he could at least pull her into a hug. A bit embarrassed at what he had done to her the night before—he’d had no intention of ever sharing a bed with her before he married her—he had thought to simply dismiss her from his bedchamber and make his way to the breakfast parlor.

  “They are when I’m cold,” she replied, one of her hands moving to cover a breast. “Although I certainly wasn’t cold last night.”

  Considering her words, Octavius realized she made an excellent point. Why was it cold water could settle his arousal while it seemed to pucker her nipples was a bit of a quandary. “You were aroused,” he murmured.

  “Were you?” she countered with an arched brow. “Are you now?”

  Octavius straightened before finally admitting, that yes, he was.

  Isabella smoothed a hand over her breast again, her brows furrowing as she attempted to sort something.

  The simple gesture had Octavius squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to cast the image from his mind, but his mind’s eye soon replaced it with images of her whilst they shared his bed. Of how erotic her bottom and thighs had appeared as he pleasured her with his hand. Of how erotic she looked as she sat atop him, holding his turgid manhood with both hands, her perfect breasts tipped with the nipples he had briefly suckled.

  The nipples that now stood out in stark relief against his nightshirt. A nightshirt that looked as if it might be large enough to accommodate both of them at the same time. The thought of shedding his clothes and joining her in it came to mind, and a grin appeared to lighten his face.

  He felt her lips kiss the corner of his mouth, and he opened his eyes to find her regarding him with the oddest expression. “What is it?”

  Isabella allowed a wan smile. “You looked so young just then,” she murmured. “You still do,” she added as she lifted a hand to the side of his face. Her thumb brushed over a cheekbone, and her gaze followed it as she traced the space below one eye until it reached his temple.

  His lips covered hers then, the kiss at first hard but then less so as he started to pull away and then thought better of it. What would it hurt to simply kiss her like this every time we’re together? he wondered when he finally pulled away completely. He left his forehead pressed against hers for a moment. “I have to go back to London today,” he whispered before taking a labored breath. He found he welcomed her mewl of disappointment when he recalled being annoyed by that same sound when his mistress of years ago employed it on him. “But I shall return. Probably within a week,” he murmured.

  “You will come out to the stables before you go? To check on your newest racers?” she half-asked, watching him attempt to fold a silk cravat. She took the ends from him and wrapped them around the back of his neck.

  “Of course,” he replied, watching as she took one end of the cravat and walked around him until she faced him again. Then she took the other end and walked around him in the other direction until she once again faced him. “Whatever are you doing?” he asked with a hint of amusement.

  “Keeping it from twisting, of course,” she replied as she took the now much shorter ends and tied them into a simple square knot.

  “And how, pray tell, did you know how to do that?” The cravat wasn’t nearly as tight as he usually preferred it, but then it didn’t feel as if it would choke him when he bent his head, either. He gazed at his reflection in the cheval mirror, noting how her knot was nothing like the tiny one his valet usually created.

  “Watching my father’s valet do it,” she murmured. She suddenly blinked before she allowed a sigh. “My late father, I should say.”

  Octavius grimaced, his youthened features returning to that of an older man. “Do you wish to return to Craythorne Castle?” he asked carefully. “I rather imagine a funeral has already taken place, of course, but...”

  “No,” she said as she gave her head a shake. “There’s nothing there for me. I rather doubt my clothes are even still there.” There was something rather odd about learning she had been declared dead. That she wasn’t just missing. At some point, she would write her brother to let him know why she had disappeared, but then she remembered the duke’s recommendation to wait until after John had petitioned the Lord Chancellor for a writ of summons to the House of Lords. “Although...” She allowed the word to trail off as she realized there would be no dowry, no inheritance set aside for her.

  “What is it?”

  She swallowed. “Do you suppose my brother will restore my dowry? My inheritance?” she asked as she raised her eyes to meet his. “When he learns I am still alive?”

  Octavius gave a shrug, hiding the fact that her sudden concern for a dowry bothered him. She wouldn’t have a need for the money. “Do not concern yourself with it just now.”

  “But I could use that money to build my own stables,” she argued. “To buy some breeding mares, and a stud, and...”

  Her words were cut short when he placed a finger against her lips. “Do not fash yourself,” he whispered. “You won’t be five-and-twenty for, what? Five years?”

  “Less than four,” she murmured.

  He blinked and then he attempted to do the math in his head. “You’re past twenty?”

  “I am one-and-twenty,” she replied with an arched eyebrow, wondering at his ability to do simple arithmetic.

  Feeling as if he had been punched in the gut, Octavius gave his head a shake. “How... how did I...?” He suddenly moved to his dresser again, pulling open one of the drawers. He withdrew a small pasteboard box and offered it to her. “This was supposed to be for your twentieth birthday.”

  Blinking, Isabella took the box, a bit hesitant as she did so. “Octavius,” she murmured. “What’s in it?”

  “Open it,” he urged.

  Pulling the top off, she gazed inside and then angled her head. A gold chain made up of tiny links held a gold charm in the shape of a running horse. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she breathed. She glanced up at the duke. “This is from you?”

  Octavius nodded. “Yes. I apologize for its late delivery. I obviously lost track of time.”

  Stunned that he would have thought of her birthday, Isabella stared at the charm for several seconds. “May I wear it?”

  “Of course. As often as you’d like,” he replied. “Here. Let me help.” He pulled the chain from its velvet bed and strung it around her neck, moving around Isabella much like she had done around him until he could fasten the catch at the back.

  Her fingers moved to the charm as she made her way to stand before the cheval mirror. “Oh, I look a sight. You must have mistaken me for Medusa when you first saw me this morning,” she complained when she noticed her hair’s reflection in the looking glass. She turned her attention to the horse charm and bit her lip, noticing how it rested in the hollow of her throat. When she swallowed, the horse seemed to move, and she grinned.

  Behind her, Octavius regarded the mirror’s reflection and allowed a sigh. Medusa was the very last goddess he would have thought of that morning when he watched her emerge from his bed.

  What would it be like to watch her do that every morning?

  He had to quell the thought, aware of how his manhood wanted to escape his breeches in favor of a more hospitable environment.

  That of Isabella.

  She is one-and-twenty now.

  How had he lost track of the time? Why hadn’t Norwick mentioned it when he came with the news about Craythorne? Well, he had managed to extract the comment that Octavius intended to marry Isabella in exchange for assurances Norwick would tell Clarinda about Isabella.

  The cur. Norwick probably expected he was proposing this very moment. But Octavius had no intention of proposing until he had a ring.

  He suddenly wondered what had happened to the box he had delivered on Norwick’s behalf. The box with the ring. He couldn’t remember Isabella taking it with
her when they went up to the salon the day before.

  Isabella suddenly straightened and turned, her attention aimed at his bedchamber door. “They’re looking for me,” she whispered.

  Octavius gave a start as he cocked his head to one side and listened. He had been completely unaware of footsteps in the hallway, of muted voices of concern passing by the door. How could I have been so oblivious? he wondered as he gave a nod and stepped back. He glanced around, realizing he had to find a way to get her out of the bedchamber without being seen.

  “It’s all well. I know a way through the adjoining rooms,” Isabella whispered as she dipped a curtsy. “And the hallway behind the parlor. I’ll just fetch my night rail from the bathing chamber on the way.” Before she could take another step, though, Octavius stopped her with a hand. When she turned to face him, he pulled the loose ties at the top of the nightshirt and quickly pulled them into a bow, her bare shoulder disappearing beneath the fine lawn. “Oh. Thank you, Octavius.”

  He kissed the back of her hand and gave a nod. A moment later, he watched as she left his suite by way of the bathing chamber door.

  Isabella regarded the mess in the mistress suite bathing chamber for a moment, rather dismayed at the condition of her night rail. She rolled it into a ball and tucked it under one arm before gathering the duke’s few pieces of clothing and his boots and placing them on the room’s only chair. With one last glance around the bathing chamber, she went through the door to the mistress suite. She passed completely through the darkened room—the drapes were never opened—and into a private salon. There, the curtains had been left open, and the light helped her find the hidden door in the room’s paneling. On the other side, a thin hallway to the left led to the main hall while another to the right continued behind the first floor’s parlor. Wide enough for a tea cart, it allowed a servant to deliver tea from the back of the parlor instead of having to use the main door into the room.