by Kim Bowman
“No.” His voice grew louder, infinitely more comforting in the darkness, easing the chaotic beating of her heart.
“I don’t want to be dreaming,” she whispered. “I need you to be real.”
“I assure you, I am real, my gel.”
He was close enough now that a familiar shiver of awareness overwhelmed her, and she longed for his protective embrace. She wanted him to make her forget about her dream, Burton’s ultimatum, and her ever-present weaknesses. She was to be rewarded as a delicious shudder swept over her when Percy stretched out beside her, slipping his hot hands under her bed clothes to remove her shift, inch by tantalizing inch, awakening her as only Thomas had ever been able to do.
“Why do you taunt me? I’m so very sorry—”
His finger put a stop to her voicing her concerns. “Don’t speak. It is done and I am here. You are in my blood,” he insisted huskily, his voice touching her where his hands couldn’t reach. “I should never have left you.”
She sighed, rolling her head back on the pillow, allowing him access to the hollow of her neck. “Now I know this is a dream.”
“I assure you I am here — with you — in this bed. Quite a fine bed it is, too — with you in it.” His lips brushed her forehead. He smoothed hair away from her face. Tingling sensations awakened her nerve endings everywhere his hands crept across her body. He swept her weightlessly toward him and she arched, molding herself to him, wrapping her leg around his waist, aching for him to make her his, to erase the worry that someone might come between them and ruin their union before it had even started.
Was she wrong to think that way? Was she beyond wanton to desire the divine ecstasy he offered? His fingers curled in her hair as his mouth masterfully took hers and he kissed her with a hungry passion she was more than willing to match. His full, smooth, persistent lips urged her to part her teeth, and she did, mating her tongue with his, the dueling clash turning her insides to honey. She squirmed beneath him as his hands traced a path over her skin, exploring her waist, hips, before sliding upward to her breasts and her hardened, expectant nipples. Her tormented groan emboldened him. His lips left hers to trail a path to first one breast, then another, making her drown in the feel of him.
She panted for breath as his touch freed her with a rousing, melting sweetness she couldn’t deny. He was as solid as he was real.
“I prayed you would come,” she whispered on a careening breath. “You don’t know how much I have prayed for it.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, moving up to kiss her lips. “But you could spend a lifetime showing me.”
Oh God, she thought, breathing in soul-stirring drafts of air. Desire threatened to swallow her whole, and she was at a loss as to understand why. Because of it, a burst of decency flooded over her. What she was doing went against everything she believed in. She hated lies as much as she hated being lied to. Though she desperately needed, wanted to make sure Percy consummated their marriage, she couldn’t dupe this wonderful man who’d given her more than she’d ever dared to hope possible by giving her child a name.
“Stop,” she said, wrenching her lips free from his. “There are so many things you don’t know, so many things I must tell you.”
He moaned against her ear, burrowing his head against her neck like a rooting child. “I know all I need to know.”
“Stop,” she pleaded. “You must listen. We cannot do this. I must tell you—”
“Tell me that you enjoy my kisses.”
“I’m not who you think I am,” she said.
She tried to focus on her words, but his persuasive touch, kisses, made her forget everything but him as he pressed his arousal against her, teasing, sliding his silken hot shaft closer to the juncture between her legs. She nearly cried out with anticipation.
“You’re my wife,” he whispered huskily. “That’s enough.”
“Yes. Yes, but…”
She couldn’t think of the words to finish her sentence. He’d entered her, slipping inside her with silky smooth grace, making her arch her hips to meet him. Fire engulfed her, and with each thrust, she moved with him.
“I must tell you…” She moaned again as he rocked slowly, in and out, ratcheting up her need, forcing her to relinquish her body, her will, her spirit, giving everything to Percy; her heart, her soul. Nothing existed but his touch, his voice, his body molding, grinding, satisfying. She thought it odd that he still wore a shirt, but she was out of control as she grabbed him with eager hands and moaned again, aching more than ever for the flood tide of ecstasy he brought her. Together, they were bound by primal elements, man, woman. With each stroke and rhythmic drive of Percy’s hips, Constance shot to the stars, higher than she’d ever dreamed possible.
Yes, she thought. This is a dream. It had to be. Only a duke wasn’t normally part of her dreams, but a rogue who’d taken her heart and soul by night.
~~~~
Dull clanking and scraping interrupted her sleep. Morning light flickered through the drawn curtains, forcing Constance to open her eyes, however much it pained her. A movement caught her attention. Seeing she’d finally awakened, Mrs. Mortimer stood over her, arms crossed, brows arching quizzically.
“You’re a lazy one this fine morning. I thought I’d never get you up in time to break fast with your husband.”
Constance bolted upward. “My husband?”
“Lord Stanton, of course. I mean, His Grace.”
“His Grace?”
Morty covered her mouth. “Oh, dear! Your head is muddled this morning. You don’t remember, do you?”
Eyes blurry, her head throbbed as she remembered vaguely the dream that wasn’t a dream and the reasons Percy would have risen to his current status. Constance’s attention riveted to Mrs. Mortimer. “Percy’s father is dead.” It was a statement, not a question.
Fluffing up the pillows behind her, Morty answered, “‘Tis a sad state of affairs, Constance. Jeffers informed me about His Grace’s passing. He also told me the duke returned during the night and wishes for you to join him posthaste.”
“He wishes to see me?” she exclaimed, laughing at the absurdity. He’d done more than see her. He’d spent the entire night exploring her body and soul.
“You are the parrot today, my dear. I would think a smile might suggest in some small way you’re excited to see the man you married. After all, he’s going to be the father of your children,” she emphasized, a smile tugging the corner of her lips.
“Children?” Lord, she was going to be sick. Her morning sickness had subsided somewhat, but guilt, or was it exhaustion, seemed to bring everything up. She rushed to the sideboard and splashed cold water over her face. She toweled her face and then looked in the mirror, noting the rings framing her eyes. Dissatisfied, she frowned, appalled with her image. She wanted to look as beautiful as possible for her husband today. Perhaps then, when she told him about the baby, he would find a way to forgive her.
“You look a fright, Constance. Didn’t you get any sleep?”
She prayed Mrs. Mortimer couldn’t read her thoughts but that was always a vain hope. “Why do you ask?”
Morty laid her hands on Constance’s shoulders, and Constance turned to face her dearest confidant. “The truth is under your eyes, my pet.”
“I must admit, I didn’t sleep much at all.”
“At least we agree on something this morning.”
Would it hurt to tell Morty the truth? She would be overjoyed to know that their futures were secure. Wouldn’t she?
“Well,” she clucked, “let’s put a cool compress over your eyes.” Morty guided her toward the bed. “Lie back and lay still. I’ll see you to rights soon enough. You’ll want to impress your husband, not depress him after all he’s been through.” She chortled and hummed as she moved about the room.
No. It was better not to burden Morty with the truth. Percy had suffered enough. The death of his father, and his new duties as the seventh Duke of Blendingham, were burdensome in and
of themselves. Not to mention strapping himself to a wife on the cusp of scandal.
Constance placed a trembling hand over her heart. Once, she had led an irreproachable life, sheltered by a man afraid to let her out of his sight. No more. In just a few weeks, she’d become unrecognizable.
Mrs. Mortimer sat down beside her and placed a cool compress over her eyes. “Darling, what has happened?”
Constance removed the cloth and stared into the woman’s middle-aged eyes, noting a mixture of genuine love, admiration, and curiosity reflected there. “How many years have we known each other, Morty?”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather not count. But every one of them has been the best years of my life.”
“I think of our first meeting often. You were wearing a gray gown, which completely hardened your eyes and soured your skin.” She couldn’t help but giggle.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “The styles I was forced to wear while in mourning.” With a wink, she added, “They were not fashionable or flattering, to say the least.”
Constance giggled. “But they enabled me to see you for who you were.”
“A bothersome nosey body?” she asked, slinging Constance’s words back at her.
“No.” She sighed. “Never that.”
Silence drifted between them. Mrs. Mortimer had never really spoken of her husband openly, unless it was to discuss the merits of marriage. She’d never had any children, which had made her a perfect candidate to raise Constance after her mother’s death. But Mrs. Mortimer had dealt her a firm hand, sparing the rod, lavishing her with love and reassurance when her father had recoiled from life. Throughout every nuance of her upbringing, Morty had been by her side. Morty had been there when nightmares had awakened her during the night. The woman had been a Godsend, and Constance had been humbled beyond measure when Morty had agreed to accompany her to Spain.
Constance hesitated to speak into the great pause that seized the space between them. “The day I met you was a momentous day, Morty. You taught me that no matter what fate places in your path, life goes on. While you mourned your husband, you found the courage to live. You helped me accept the pain of my mother’s death and my father’s estrangement. You passed onto me a strength that will guide me as I mother my own children.”
Mrs. Mortimer stroked her hair, her eyes brimming with tears. “You were as skittish as a mouse, all ears, unkempt hair, quick to take flight at the slightest provocation. I thought I’d never make a lady out of you.” Her laughter made Constance giggle. “Of course, I never expected to be with you this long, either. Now look at the two of us. You’re married and expecting your first child.” She sniffled. “I couldn’t be prouder than if I was your real mother.”
“You are my mother,” she admitted, closing her hand over Mrs. Mortimer’s. “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.”
A tear slipped down Morty’s cheek and her lip quivered slightly. She rose from the bed. “It’s been ages since you’ve been this insufferable, Constance. What are you trying to do? Distract me?”
Good God! Was she that transparent? Constance sat up and rose from the bed, suddenly bearing the weight of every woman ever born. She dragged her finger along the tightly woven yellow muslin dress Morty selected and worried her lower lip before disappearing behind a screen to change.
She’d made a horrible mess of her life; deserting her father and running away to Spain only to be captured by cutthroats. Falling in love with her captor and then marrying a wealthy gentleman —one who offered nothing but fealty, trust, and protection — to cover up her pregnancy.
“Dearest,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed. “Do wear the yellow ribbons that match your dress when you break your fast. The color will lighten up your face and buoy your spirits. To be sure, His Grace will be your slave ‘ere long.”
“My slave? I cannot imagine Percy being anyone’s slave.” Nor can I imagine he will believe my sudden support of Burton, should I do as the bastard commands.
“Well, slave or free man, he will take one look at you and fall to his knees. Yes,” she said, pleased with her choice of words. “It’s a grand day, a day to make a new start. And no finer time to begin winning your husband’s heart than the present.”
Constance’s spirits soared. “Indeed. I have but one goal in mind,” she said honestly. “The happiness of my child.”
~~~~
“What has my wife been up to, Jeffers?”
“I prefer not to gossip, Your Grace. That does not suit.”
Percy harrumphed. “Must you adhere to protocol at all times? I do not want to be reminded that I’m not worthy to eat your bannocks.”
“Old habits die hard, Your Grace.”
Percy folded the Gazette and placed it near his plate. He had no interest in the news. Jeffers’ attempts at humor thwarted his concentration, and he grew sour with impatience. He was eager to see Constance. Heaven help him, he couldn’t get enough of the woman. What was taking her so long?
Plagued by thoughts of his father’s death and his pleasurable night in Constance’s bed, he brooded over her new status as the Duchess of Blendingham and what that would entail. He walked a tight rope where she was concerned, risking a legacy hundreds of years in the making.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she’d said.
Those seven words were ingrained into his mind. But what had she really been trying to tell him? Was she going to admit she was pregnant with a pirate’s baby, his baby? The idea was ludicrous. Had she been prepared to admit she was an informant? That she was, in fact, in cahoots with Josiah Cane and Frink? Improbable. He doubted there could be any involvement with Frink. He’d been aboard the Octavia and witnessed her violent interaction with the captain.
Still, something wasn’t quite right.
For nigh on a week, he’d watched her toss and turn in her sleep. Last night he hadn’t meant to wake her, but she’d seen him. His father’s death, the heavy weight the duchy placed on him, and questions about her loyalties had driven him to her side. That he’d needed her more than anything else in the world jolted him. He’d never needed anyone like he needed, wanted Constance. But burdensome complexities arose from that admission.
He was playing a game that might destroy her.
She had feelings for another man. To add to his dismay, he also had two buffoons seeking their marital demise, Burton and Frink.
His fingers played with the evidence in his pocket, tracing the engravings as if he knew each curve by heart. As well he should after spending a week pondering how the trinket had gotten into the wrong hands. Retrieving the silver locket, he glanced down at the polished surface, engraved with the initials OD and caught his reflection. His powdered skin and hawkish eyes condemned him for being false. He was a fool to expect a woman to fall in love with a popinjay. Constance wasn’t a fool. She was very much like the sparkling silver between his fingers, a polished embellishment, providing a gentleman distinguished swagger, making him the envy of every other male in Town.
Burton wanted Constance, badly enough to threaten her. Frink sought to kill her. Guffald desired her, but Percy discounted his friend, knowing he would sidestep if Percy demanded it. What about Thomas Sexton? Making love to his wife was a difficult if not satisfying affair. In her arms, he could neither be a duke by light of day or a pirate by night.
Voices carried down the stairs, alerting him that he would no longer be alone. Setting aside his concerns, he was eager to share Constance’s company, to gauge whether or not she still had that same passionate glow in the wake of their lovemaking. He placed the locket back in his banyan.
“Good morning, Jeffers,” her melodic voice sang. Her skirts swished and he could hear the tap, tap, tap, of her slippered feet on the marble floor.
“You’ll find a vast array of delicacies to sample this morning, Your Grace. His Grace is already seated. Ring if you need me. I shall not be far.”
“Thank you, Jeffers. You’re most accommodating.”
Percy closed his eyes and listened to her gentile voice — wonderfully light, soft, and clear — and then opened them to watch her round the corner with Mrs. Mortimer at her side. The two women who stood before him couldn’t have been more different. Mrs. Mortimer, with unruly graying hair and dour skin, paled beside his lovely wife whose blonde hair had been arranged in looped braids. Spiraled curls fit for a Grecian goddess added a halo around her head. And her sunny disposition was a boon to his spirits.
Mrs. Mortimer glared at him strangely, making his gut tighten with apprehension. Lies and secrets had been forced on more than one soul at his table.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Constance said, her green eyes softening.
“My gel.” He stood and bowed. “Mrs. Mortimer,” he offered with a polite nod from the head of the table.
Constance curtsied. “Mrs. Mortimer told me the terrible news about your father. Please accept my heartfelt condolences,” she said, reaching for him.
He accepted her hand. “Thank you, madam, for your concern.”
Constance responded so quickly he couldn’t keep up. “I hope your father did not suffer. Were you able to attend his funeral? Did any of your relatives join you? I am heartily sorry that I couldn’t attend. A wife ought to be with her husband during times like these. Why didn’t you send for me?”
“Odd’s fish, madam,” he exclaimed, trying to remember everything she’d just said. “I have only just returned and you waylay me with questions like an experienced constable.”
“How am I supposed to react?” she asked, her gentle, contemplative eyes searching his. “My heart aches for you, Your Grace.”
“You are overly generous,” he said. “Were I a wiser man and you any other woman, I’d suggest you had your mind set on a bauble or some trifle to go along with your new position.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I prefer your happiness, Your Grace. If you loved your father half as much as I love mine, I understand how greatly affected you must be by his death.”
He nodded, placing his hand over his heart. “I accept.”
