by Karen Ranney
He took another sip of his wine. “Answer a question for me. Why demonstrate such loyalty to him now?”
Her faint smile surprised him, as did her next words. “George considered himself a great shot, but he was abysmal at hunting. He thought he was a marvelous equestrian, but he had a very poor seat. He believed himself quite well versed in the amatory arts, as he called it, but the truth was . . .” Her voice trailed off and her blush intensified. “I had thought that being in the army, commanding men, was the one skill he possessed in truth. I never heard different from anyone. I thought in this thing, alone, he might have been adept.”
Standing, she went to one of the windows overlooking the garden, taking the same pose Adam had earlier.
The wind had calmed, preparing for nightfall. The glow cast by the setting sun made the plants appear touched by gold. The sky was indigo, that shade just before darkness.
The air was sweet here in this secluded garden in the middle of London. Instead of a hint of the odiferous Thames, there was the scent of grass and soon-to-go-dormant riotous plants. He always felt at peace looking at Mrs. Ross’s garden.
“After Georgie died, I hated this time of day,” she said. “It always reminded me of when I joined Georgie’s nurse and we’d ready him for bed.” She took a deep breath. “He fussed about it. I used to sit in his room and rock him until he fell asleep.” She placed her fingertips on the window as if wanting to touch the plants in the garden before the shadows obscured them. “I can still feel the linen of his nightshirt against my fingers.”
He understood, perhaps more than she knew.
“My roughest time was morning. Rebecca was an early riser and loved to greet the dawn. I hated mornings for a long time.”
“How did the feeling go away?” she asked, turning.
“It’s been replaced. I deliberately changed my life so that I wouldn’t be reminded of things I couldn’t alter. I came back to England. I became a member of the Silent Service. I obtained new lodgings.” He met her gaze. “You live in the same house. You see the same people you used to see when Georgie was alive. You visit his room. No wonder you’re still in pain.”
She looked taken aback, almost as if he’d insulted her.
“Do you think going to Georgie’s nursery is a terrible thing for me to do?”
He thought about the best way to say the words. “I think that we hold on to pain as a way of keeping those we lost close. If we suffer it means we care more. That isn’t really true, but it’s what we feel.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, merely studied him in that way of hers.
“So you think I should raze Marsley House,” she said. “And dismiss all the staff.”
He shook his head. “I think you should move from Marsley House,” he said. “Take the staff with you, but find a new home.”
She looked startled.
“Or, if you won’t do that, get rid of Georgie’s nursery. It serves him no purpose and it only keeps your heart bleeding. You don’t need physical things around you to remind you of your son.”
She blinked several times, and he was prepared for her tears. When they came, he reached for the handkerchief she’d left on the table and took it to her.
“You are forever doing things like that, Drummond.”
“Yes, I know, Your Grace.”
“I do dislike you intensely at times.”
“The feeling has been mutual, Your Grace.”
She surprised him by smiling through her tears. All he could do was answer her smile with one of his own.
“Do you hate me?” he asked.
She sighed. “No.”
“Do you still want to?”
“No.”
He stood close, too close for propriety, but when had that ever mattered to him, especially around her?
He smoothed his fingers over her cheek, feeling the warm softness of her skin. A blush followed his touch, almost as if he had the power to summon her embarrassment. Tenderness was not something he felt often, but Suzanne had always drawn emotion from him in ways that no other woman had, even Rebecca.
In the next moments it felt as if his heart slowed, each beat important, profound in a way he couldn’t explain.
They were united in loss. With each other they’d shared both their greatest sorrows and their most touching recollections.
Grief, however strong, however powerful, was not their foundation. Life connected him to Suzanne. He knew her as he’d known no other person. He accepted her, expecting her to be nothing more than what she was, because that was enough.
He bent down, brushed a kiss against her forehead, ridiculing himself as he did so. He was acting like he’d never touched a woman or kissed one. She was not a saint and yet he didn’t feel unlike a supplicant. The room was silent, only the breeze outside blowing the green fronds of one of Mrs. Ross’s plants against the window. A gentle tap, then another, as if to recall him to himself.
He felt more himself than he had for years.
He grinned at her. “If the cat is away, the mice play.”
She looked startled. He only gave her a second to think about what he said before he took her hand and led her into his bedroom.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Adam held her hand as they entered his bedroom. She could have easily pulled away. When he dropped her hand to close the door behind them, she could have turned and demanded that he let her out. At any moment she could have demurred, claiming propriety, or a fear of scandal, or a half dozen other excuses.
She didn’t have to stand there mute and still.
The room was shadowed, the pieces of furniture gray squares or rectangles except for the bed with its pale spread.
He came to stand in front of her and unfastened the cameo at her neck. When he was done he handed it to her, almost as if it were a gesture of sorts. The brooch represented her status, her title, perhaps even her persona, the Duchess of Marsley, the role she’d held for the past six years.
By handing it to her it felt almost as if he was giving her a choice, a final option. She walked a few feet away to the table beside his bed and gently placed it there before returning once more to him.
If she were castigated for this moment then let it be for the truth of it. She had not been overpowered. Nor had she been convinced. She was in his bedroom of her own free will. It was her choice fueled by the emotions racing through her. This was passion. This was desire. This was tenderness. This heat that felt like hot oil flowing through her body was caused by the way he touched her and kissed her and looked at her.
She reached out and flattened her hands against his chest. Not to push him away, but simply to feel him. He placed his hands on her upper arms, drawing her closer. Time crawled, slowing almost to a stop. Each separate movement they made felt as if it had happened before, that they had practiced on endless occasions for just this moment. How else could he so perfectly unfasten all the buttons on her bodice, help her to remove her dress, her hoop, the corset, until she stood there in front of him attired in only her shift and stockings?
She stripped him of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, before unbuttoning the placket of his trousers. Never before had she thought to undress a man and yet her fingers worked with expert precision.
Pressing her palms against his skin she marveled at the feel of him. Everything was firm and warm. Her fingers stroked over his chest, through the hair and down to the open waistband of his trousers. The heels of her hands measured the shape of the muscles of his stomach.
“Suzanne.”
She even liked his voice, low and holding the first hint of urgency.
The rhythm of her breathing increased as if to keep pace.
She had never felt like this before, growing heated with a heavy feeling deep in the core of her, as if her body knew that something wonderful, different, and amazing was about to happen. If they stopped right now, if she donned all her clothes and escaped from this lovely home, she would still not forget t
his day or the promise of this night. Or the sheer joy of this moment standing before him exposed and vulnerable yet not feeling either.
She had the curious notion that she was supposed to be here. In this exact spot with her hands exploring the body of a man who’d touched her heart. It was right and fitting that she offered her body to him not in sacrifice, but in wonder.
He toed off his shoes and then his trousers. In seconds, the rest of his clothing was gone and he stood before her, naked in the gray shadows. What a pity there wasn’t sunlight to see him.
He lifted the hem of her shift. She stood silently as he pulled the garment up and off. He surprised her by kneeling, helping her remove her shoes and then rolling down her stockings one by one.
A voice that sounded too much like her governess made its way to the forefront of her mind. You should be embarrassed. Or ashamed. Or certainly you should be feeling fear. What would the world say to see you here, Suzanne Hackney Whitcomb?
The world would be scandalized. No doubt everyone she knew would be horrified. She would certainly be pilloried. Why should she listen to anyone? She was strong enough and brave enough to choose her own path, even if the world decried it. And the path she chose at the moment was to be with Adam, the one man who could break her heart, spur her to rage, and then drive her to passion.
He stood, dropping her stockings on the same chair where the rest of her clothing lay.
Wordlessly, he put his hands on her waist and gently pulled her forward until her breasts grazed his chest, her nipples sensitive against the soft hair there, the rigid part of him insistent and startlingly impressive against her.
“I want to light a lamp to see you,” he said, mirroring her earlier thought. “Or maybe study you by firelight. I knew you would be as beautiful as you are.”
She was filled with so much happiness, almost as if she were a sparkling wine. She wound her arms up and around his neck.
“How can you tell?” she asked, a smile in her voice.
“I can feel you,” he said.
Both his hands palmed her breasts, his thumbs gently flicking her nipples. He bent his head and mouthed one, sucking gently. She could feel the sensation deep inside her.
Her hands cupped the back of his head as he lifted her, carrying her to his bed.
At another time she might’ve felt the chill in the air, but not now. His body warmed her, covered her, and sheltered her. His hands stroked over her skin, memorizing the shape of her legs, the curve of her hips, the indentation of her waist. Then they were back at her breasts, measuring them, holding them for his lips. His fingers were teasing and tender, gentle and exploring. One hand went to cup her derriere, turning her slightly toward him. He inserted a leg between both of hers, his thigh pressing up against her. She responded by undulating against him, wanting the touch.
His fingers were suddenly there, stroking through the moisture. He made a sound in the back of his throat. A hungry growl that echoed her own sudden ferocious need.
The serenity she’d felt earlier was abruptly gone, replaced by her body’s dictates. Sliding out from under him she rose up, demanding in a way she had never been. She wanted to feel him. Her abdomen rode against his hip, slid down to his upper thigh and over the rigid tumescence jutting out like a sword.
A friendly sword, one that responded to her hand. She had never touched a man there, never felt curiosity or compulsion. Never wanted to make him groan as Adam did when her fingers slid over that intriguing shaft.
When had she become so adventurous? When had this act become so imbued with joy?
She didn’t have time to wonder because she was suddenly tumbled onto her back.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Adam entered her slowly, conscious of the fact that it had been a while for her, as well as for him.
He didn’t want completion as much as he wanted to indulge in the act of love with Suzanne. He wanted to feel her around him and to bring her pleasure. Above all, he wanted to ensure that she would remember this, remember them, of all the memories she held in her heart.
His movements were slow, deliberate, elongating the seconds as he gently pulled out of her.
He propped himself up on his arms, brushed light kisses across her mouth until her hands reached out, locked at the back of his head, and pulled him down for a deeper kiss.
If he was mutely counseling himself to slow the moments, she was doing the exact opposite. Her heart beat so rapidly it was like a frightened bird’s.
His lips traced a path between her breasts and to each nipple in turn. Her hands slid to his neck and then to his shoulders, her nails gripping him, commanding without words.
He smiled as he sucked on a nipple. A moment later he kissed his way down to her abdomen. Her indrawn breath gave him a clue that she’d never been touched like this before.
He’d learned some things in India and he was all for using his education.
Sitting in front of her, he pulled her up to her knees and then moved her so that she sat on his lap. Her eyes were wide, her mouth curved.
“Adam?”
“You’re not a duchess here. Not in my bed.”
She only shook her head. He wished he had lit the lamp to see her.
He sat cross-legged, placed each of her legs on either side of his waist and then lifted her derriere into position. Her eyes widened even further as he entered her again.
Passion could be fun and experimental, engrossing and stirring. Passion could make you feel as if you were turned inside out, like you had never truly lived until that moment of bliss. He had the feeling that Suzanne had never felt that, never been powerless and adrift in wonder.
He bent his head and bit at her neck where it joined her shoulder. She gasped.
“Drummond.”
“How very duchess-like you sound,” he said. “If I were truly your servant I would be quivering in my boots.”
“If you were truly my servant I would dismiss you right now.”
“Would you?”
He moved one of his hands from her bottom to her breast, his thumb flicking an erect nipple, then lifting it for his mouth. He paid attention to that one nipple, and when he raised his eyes to her, Suzanne’s head was back, her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lip.
“I am so very sorry, Your Grace. I will never do it again.”
Her eyes flew open. “Now that’s a pity, Drummond.”
“I wouldn’t want to be dismissed.”
“I shall take your employment under advisement,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I may reconsider, but only if you promise to be very, very good. But it shall be on a probationary basis only.”
“How can I possibly convince you of my rehabilitation?” he asked, returning both hands to her derriere, lifting her up a little and then letting her slide back down on him.
She was biting her lip again.
He reached out and with his thumb pulled her lip free. If anyone was going to bite her mouth, it was going to be him. He matched the action to the thought, and would have smiled at the sound she made, helpless and needy, had he not been caught up in the same sensation.
It felt as if they were in the middle of a vortex, some wild waterspout of feeling. He wanted to laugh and bring her pleasure right then and there. He wanted to end it yet elongate the moments. His breath was harsh and fast. His heart was beating like he was running a race, and perhaps he was.
He put his hands on her waist, placed his cheek against hers and forced himself to take several deep breaths.
It didn’t work. He still wanted her. He still wanted to feel her shudder around him. He wanted to taste her and mouth her and teach her all those things he knew, but he hadn’t counted on his own weakness and need.
“Adam.”
When had his name become an aphrodisiac? Or was it her voice, soft and tremulous?
He lowered his mouth over hers.
“Suzanne,” he said softly. Had anyone ever felt free enough to call her som
ething different? A derivative of Suzanne or some sweet nickname?
He wanted to light the lamp again to see her. Was her face rosy? Did her eyes glitter with passion? Were the centers of them black and deep like an ocean whirlpool?
He lifted her up again and lowered her once more before placing one hand on the small of her back and the other behind him to give him leverage. He raised his hips.
“Oh, Adam.”
“Am I doing something wrong again?”
This time she didn’t answer him, only moaned.
He couldn’t wait. He wanted her to come in his arms. He wanted to feel her gripping him.
Moving his hand, he trailed his fingers through her soft folds, down to where they joined. She gasped again and the sound spurred him on.
He wanted her. He didn’t think he’d ever desired anything more than Suzanne finding pleasure in his arms. He lifted her up and when she opened her eyes and would’ve protested further, he merely kissed her silent.
“In a moment,” he said, rolling her to her stomach and pulling her up to her knees.
He entered her quickly, so deep inside he almost came right at that moment. She gripped the sheets with both hands. She might have been unfamiliar with this position, but she acclimated herself in mere seconds, pushing back against him with her beautiful derriere.
He slid his hands up to her waist then to her breasts.
She pushed back against him again, impatient and autocratic once more.
“In a moment, duchess,” he said, his voice sounding harsh.
“Now, Drummond.”
The one thing bad about this position was that he couldn’t kiss her, couldn’t nibble on those full lips.
He pulled back until he was nearly out of her and then slid back in again, slowly. She pushed back against him as if encouraging him or demanding him to finish.
“In good time, duchess,” he said.
He pulled at her nipples, then trapped each one between his fingers, palming her breasts.
