On his feet again, Gabriel took his engorged length in hand and rubbed it against Lili’s slick folds, smiling when she mewled like an angry kitten. “What is the matter, sweet?” he said, surprisingly evenly considering he would soon lose his mind.
“I told you I’m ready.”
“That you did. Ready to be fucked.”
Lili wriggled against him, going up on her toes as though trying to lure him inside her. “Then do it. Rough and hard. Please, Colonel…oh!”
A roar burst from his lips as he plunged deeply into her cunt. His wife was so wet there was no resistance at all, just a perfect slick, hot glide, and he thrust again and again, in unison with her cries of pleasure. The dressing table creaked with his frenzied movements, but he knew he didn’t have a great deal of time before his foot began to cramp. Panting for breath, he gripped Lili’s hips in his hands and fucked her harder as her inner walls clamped around his cock like a velvet vise. Soon, far too soon he felt that sweet ache, that coiling pressure at the base of his spine indicating he would soon come. Then his balls tightened, and he climaxed hard, his seed erupting inside her pulsing warmth as she screamed his name.
Boneless, he collapsed down onto her back and brushed a kiss against her shoulder. “Sweet Lili.”
“Mmmm,” she mumbled, reaching back to stroke his hand. “I like that.”
And for the first time in forever, a wildly unfamiliar emotion overwhelmed him.
Hope.
* * *
The following morning, Lilian sat in the ducal carriage peering out into the bleak gloom of an overcast London. In truth it was the last place she wanted to be—after visiting Grandmother then yesterday’s fittings, she had been relishing the chance for a day at home to see to her overdue correspondence and spend some time with Gabriel before he left for his meeting at Whitehall—but the scribbled note from Pippa and Georgiana had asked to meet with her urgently. So here she was, cooling her heels on the corner of New Bond and Brook Streets, and getting more impatient by the minute.
Just when she was ready to instruct the driver to move on, a sharp rap came on the window. Swiftly, she opened the door and beckoned her sisters in.
“What is all this about?” she said anxiously. “And where is Xavier?”
Georgiana rolled her eyes as she settled herself on the opposite side of the carriage. “Probably still abed, he only returned home at dawn. We didn’t tell him about our plan. You know he has no resistance to Grandmother’s interrogation stare.”
In fairness, none of them did. “You are all well?”
“Yes,” said Pippa soothingly, pulling her shawl tighter. “And Father.”
“Then why did you need to meet with great urgency? I thought something terrible had happened.”
“We are worried about you.”
Lilian frowned, as the back of her neck tingled a warning. An entirely unpleasant and unwelcome sensation after yesterday afternoon’s honest talk, followed by the glorious excesses in front of the looking glass and bent over her dressing table. Not to mention the wonderful aftermath when Gabriel kissed her tenderly, and stroked her hair for several minutes before he had to depart. “Oh?” she said, as casually as possible.
“Don’t you ‘oh’ us, Lilian,” snapped Georgiana, her green eyes stormy. “What the bloody hell is going on? Fistfights in ballrooms? You’re being beaten?”
“And yesterday at the Howard soiree, Grandmother ignored a compliment about you, instead choosing to praise me to mothers and their ghastly sons. She’s never done that before, and I truly wish she wouldn’t!” added Pippa indignantly.
Shocked, Lilian sat back, thankful for the soft yet sturdy leather squab supporting her. And yet anger bubbled, too. Why had Grandmother felt the need to pass on those tidbits, especially the lie about being beaten? And she always took compliments as the very least due to her. Ignoring one would have positively bellowed to the soiree attendee that all was not well between the dowager countess and her granddaughter, a position that no one in the ton ever wanted to be in. Not when Grandmother held all the clout of an Almack’s patroness.
Gritting her teeth, Lilian exhaled slowly before answering. “It wasn’t a fistfight. That blasted dandy would never have even gotten close to Exton. My husband merely delivered a few most deserved blows for some unforgivable insults toward him, his men, and the British army.”
Georgiana’s jaw dropped. “In the Castlereagh’s ballroom! Everyone in London has heard the story, including the family of the man I hope one day to marry. He tolerates my riding astride and blunt speech, but this…this is different. Too scandalous. If your husband ruins my chances, I’ll never forgive you. Ever. I will only marry for love and that is that. With my pitiful dowry, it will have to be love.”
“Dearest, never worry about money,” said Lilian quickly, leaning forward to take her hand. “I know if I asked him, Exton would ensure you both have generous dowries—”
“I think I’ve made it quite clear I’m not getting married,” said Pippa, making a face before turning to the carriage window to watch two gentlemen in a bright yellow phaeton race by. “Bad enough I get dragged to soirees when I’d rather read. Gentlemen are far more interesting in books. Ton men are twits.”
“You like talking to Lord Knighton well enough, and he’s a ton man,” pointed out Georgiana archly.
Pippa sniffed, and removed her spectacles to clean them with a handkerchief. “We’ve known each other forever. He’s my best friend, not a man man.”
Lilian exchanged a glance with Georgiana. No doubt poor Finlay Knighton, the dashing and exceedingly handsome heir to a marquessate, would be delighted to hear that. “Every other woman in the ton might beg to differ, Pippa. He is never short of feminine company.”
“I know. I tease him about it all the time.”
“Anyway,” said Georgiana. “You bloody well are getting married to someone. And I don’t want Exton’s money. My future husband doesn’t need it. But he does need a well-connected bride from the heart of the ton. And if Grandmother is cross and we are pariahs because of gossip about Lilian and Exton…”
Guilt twisted Lilian’s stomach and she looked away. It would probably take a while for the Castlereagh ball tale to die down. And it wasn’t like she could promise that nothing like that would ever happen again; Gabriel’s horrific experiences in France were clearly still very raw, and with Napoleon’s return to Paris in every newspaper, her husband would be a prime target for those with a malicious bent like Sir Roger. After her talk to the servants in the entrance hall, she hoped the gossip would significantly decrease, but there was no way to stop it entirely. Some people just loved to chatter.
“Lilian?” said Pippa.
“Are you even listening?” demanded Georgiana, folding her arms and glaring.
She sighed, wanting to leave the carriage and take some air more than anything. Even if the odor made her want to retch. “Of course I’m listening. I just don’t know what to say. The ball story is true, and the damned gossips will continue on until something else happens.”
Pippa gasped. “Did you just say damned?”
“Wait,” said Georgiana, an expression of actual alarm on her face, “who are you, and what have you done with Lilian? Our real sister hasn’t said that word in years.”
Heat swept across Lilian’s cheeks. Considering all the words that Gabriel had taught her, and insisted she say, damned was rather mild. And in all honesty, there were occasions requiring something far stronger than ‘blast’. “Well, I said it. And I may say it again, so I do hope you have your hartshorn at the ready.”
“You’ve changed,” said Pippa, tilting her head and resting it on the carriage window. “Marriage has changed you back. You seem…I don’t know. Bold again.”
“Reckless, you mean,” muttered Georgiana. “My older sister is supposed to be above reproach and responsible. I don’t know this Lilian. I’m not sure I want to, either.”
That struck like a blow, but somehow she
managed to keep her composure. “I’m not sure a woman can wed and not be changed, even in small ways. Marriage brings with it joys and sorrows and difficulties, no matter who your husband. And Exton is…”
Complex. Very, very complex. A man who can punch another in a ballroom, and yet kiss me so tenderly. Who has introduced me to pleasures I never dreamed imaginable. Who rarely sleeps, and sometimes looks as though he carries all the burdens in the world on his shoulders. Who holds secrets I might never know, no matter how much I want to. Who might well be the man who holds my heart forever.
“Exton is what?” said Pippa, her face bright with curiosity.
“A man like most others,” she lied at last, forcing a calm smile reminiscent of the Lilian of old, and both her sisters visibly relaxed.
In itself, rather troubling, as a woman could only play so many roles to please others.
Even the perfect duchess.
Chapter 16
“Thank you for coming, Exton. I know these matters are, hmmm, unpleasant for you.”
A rather gross understatement, but Gabriel inclined his head at Robert Castlereagh as he took a seat in the secure upstairs room at Whitehall. Under different circumstances he probably wouldn’t have agreed to meet with the Foreign Secretary, plus Lord Liverpool, and a few other select high-ranking government officials. But after the ball debacle, he did owe the viscount a favor. And no matter what he felt personally, he remained far too much a soldier not to do his duty when it came to protection of the realm. The dark shadow of Napoleon’s return to power might be the greatest threat England had ever faced.
“Shall we begin?” he said politely, ignoring the final part of Robert’s statement.
Liverpool nodded brusquely from across the long wooden table. “I must also add my thanks, Exton. Written reports are one thing, but firsthand accounts from a man who has seen years and years of some of the bloodiest land battles in modern history are invaluable. And you stayed with your men even after reaching the rank of colonel. Not many do.”
Gabriel shrugged at the Prime Minister’s words. “I preferred to lead from the front. Although I also appreciated…the opportunities given to…speak to parliament about pay…and supplies. Those who control the purse strings…and those in the field…don’t often see eye to eye.”
Castlereagh barked out a laugh. “Truer words have never been spoken. Which is why we need your experience of both now. We’ve received reports ranging from detailed to damned sketchy at best from our exploring officers about activities occurring in Paris since the Corsican returned. I’d like to know more firsthand field accounts. How Napoleon’s influence filters down through the ranks and so forth. He is brazen and persuasive, we know that much. But anything further could help what we and our Seventh Coalition allies are about to face.”
Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in the high backed chair, his gaze traveling around the room. Even thinking about Napoleon and his generals gave him a cold sweat, and it felt like every scar on his body prickled as a reminder of what he’d suffered at the hands of the French. As though he needed a reminder. Although his body’s reaction could also be attributed to the fact that tomorrow was the first anniversary of Bayonne. April 14. A date that would live in infamy for its brutality, stupidity, and utter waste of good men.
“There are those who mock Napoleon…because of his short stature,” said Gabriel slowly, as his facial scar tugged unmercifully. “That is a mistake. Height matters little when one possesses…a sharp intelligence. Also an inspirational gift for oratory, both of which he has. The emperor is determined. Highly innovative. Ruthlessly ambitious. Do not underestimate, even for a moment…the loyalty he commands. And receives. Or how much Frenchmen despise the English…”
His throat closed over, and Gabriel paused and coughed, just to regain his composure. This was far more difficult and wrenching than he’d thought. Even now, he could recall with great clarity all those blue coats storming toward him, faces twisted with a rage and hate that looked even more demonic in the light of burning torches, as they’d done their best to cut him to pieces with their swords.
“Don’t just stand there,” snapped Castlereagh to a clerk. “Can you not see that His Grace has a mild cold and requires water at once? Fetch a glass!”
Gabriel met the viscount’s gaze and inclined his head in gratitude as he sipped the cool water provided. Castlereagh knew damned well a cold wasn’t the issue. “Forgive me. As I was saying…a need for vengeance will keep men marching…long after their limbs tire. I’d wager men from all corners of France…are flocking to his banner in Paris?”
Castlereagh sighed and rapped his fingertips on the table. “Correct. The numbers are far greater than we feared. Tens of thousands already.”
“Indeed. Then I’ll also say this…don’t think for a moment that any great numbers…will fight Napoleon on behalf of the Bourbons. They are not well liked over there.”
Liverpool snorted. “Louis has already fled. Tell me, Exton. If you were the Corsican, what would you do next?”
Gabriel leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his jaw. To another observer it might sound like an idle question, but the Prime Minister had an air of grave tension about him that spoke of many sleepless nights. Which to be fair was probably the case after Napoleon had simply sailed away from the Mediterranean island of Elba aboard the brig Inconstant with seven hundred men. Allowing him the privilege of sovereignty, to keep his title of Emperor, and to build a small army and navy had been a terrible error in judgement, no matter what treaties were signed. Give a man like Napoleon an inch, and he would take a thousand miles.
“I would attack,” he said bluntly. “And soon. There are no doubt French spies everywhere…the emperor will be aware of all chess pieces. As we are.”
“He hasn’t been so aware in the past,” protested Liverpool. “Look how many ignoble defeats he suffered in Russia and Spain.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, swallowing hard as memories of Spain, not the lighthearted ones he’d shared with Hobbs and Aggie, but brutal, bloodthirsty ones began to pound his mind. “But these are different times. The best British soldiers of the Peninsular War…are dead, medically unable, or still over in the colonies. Nursing their wounds…after being soundly defeated…by the Americans. Our armies, and those of our allies, are scattered across Europe. Soon Napoleon will have countless eager, experienced men. Willing to fight and die for him. They won’t stop until they’ve conquered…the damned continent.”
The Prime Minister shuddered and threw his quill down, splattering the table with black ink. “Damn it, Exton. Could you not at least offer a little hope or false cheer?”
He smiled grimly. “Wellington is our hope. I’ve never known…a more brilliant mind or strategist…than the Field Marshal. If he can retain enough green lads…and receive sufficient supplies. If our allies arrive in time, wherever the battles are. If he wears every lucky charm…ever bloody made…”
“Fuck,” said Castlereagh wearily, putting his head in his hands, and silence descended on the room like a death shroud.
In truth, no other word summarized the situation, really. A reckoning fast approached, and could well decide the future of the continent. Wellington and his generals had hauled England through twenty years of warfare so far, but even great men tasted bitter defeat as the pages of history often told.
With these odds, and with so many variables and risks, victory would take a bloody goddamned miracle.
* * *
Lilian stared at her looking glass, smoothing her dressing gown and unbound hair for the hundredth time.
It felt like she’d been pacing her bedchamber for hours waiting for Gabriel to return from Whitehall, and now she could hear him in his own chamber having some sort of argument with Hobbs. Hopefully the valet would finish his duties soon so she could go in, and see how her husband fared after his meeting. Today’s date had been nagging at her, but it wasn’t until she had searched through several newspapers that she
had found why. Tomorrow was the first anniversary of Bayonne.
Of course she understood the critical nature of government business, but it seemed excessively cruel that the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary had called Gabriel on the eve of the battle anniversary that had so dramatically changed his life. If he wanted to talk, she would listen. If he wanted no more than companionable silence, she would sit with him. Whatever he wanted, she would provide.
At last there was silence on the other side of the door, and she hurried to it, knocked, then entered her husband’s chamber. Gabriel wasn’t in bed, or even sitting in either of his new chairs, but had made a pile of cushions in front of the fire, and lay sprawled on them. “Good evening.”
“Good evening,” Gabriel replied. He smiled faintly, but his face was drawn, his eyes heavy lidded as if weary to the bone, and his shoulders were rigid with tension. “Hobbs was fussing. He wanted to stay. But it wasn’t his company…I needed. Told him to go visit Mrs. Taylor.”
Her heart lifted. “May I sit?”
“Please do.”
Lilian settled on a cushion opposite him. A cozy spot, so warm from the fire, and the cushions were half as long as a person and soft as a pillow. Even better, they were satin-covered rather than embroidered, so nothing rough to scratch the skin. Gabriel tilted his head and rubbed the back of his neck, and she practically had to sit on her hands to stop herself touching him. The urge to hug, to stroke his hair, to offer some sort of physical comfort almost overwhelmed her. She was desperately curious to know what had happened at Whitehall, but had no idea how to broach the topic the right way. Would he even want to discuss it with her? Many husbands thought anything more than the weather or children or household matters to be too much for a lady’s sensibilities. “You look, ah, very tired. Such a terribly long meeting today.”
Duke in Darkness: Wickedly Wed, Book 1 Page 21
