by Karen Ranney
He was bare-chested and had removed his shoes, but his trousers were still on. She approached him and began to unfasten the placket.
He reached out and smoothed his hands down her arms, and then he pressed his palms to her nipples and cupped her breasts. She had never realized how sensitive her breasts were until Adam touched her. She closed her eyes at the sensation.
She blocked out the past and the future and concentrated only on this, the present with him.
He bent to kiss her, but she shook her head.
“Not until you’re undressed. It’s only fair. If I’m naked, you should be naked.”
She’d always been modest. She hadn’t liked being completely naked even in front of her maid. Why was she being so brazen now? She thought it was because of the look in his eyes again, that same intensity that warmed her from the inside out.
Or could it be that desire was heating her body, turning her into someone else? The Suzanne she’d always wanted to be. The girl who reveled in her freedom. Being naked in front of him, unafraid, untouched by modesty was the greatest demonstration of freedom she could imagine.
They tumbled onto the bed, the mattress sinking in the middle, almost creating a well around them and causing her to laugh. They didn’t wait. Instead, he entered her and she widened her legs, first wrapping her feet around his calves and then his waist. They were so close, so wound together that their heartbeats seemed to match, their breathing in tandem.
This was different from before. Before when he’d loved her, it had been sensual and erotic, then gentle and sweet. This was a maelstrom, fury and fire. She’d wanted wildness and abandon and he gave it to her and demanded, with each movement, that she come with him and experience the wholeness of passion with him.
It was Adam, so she put her trust in him, wrapping her arms around his neck, lost in his kisses. His thrusts and withdrawal teased and pleasured her at the same time. His mouth left hers to gently bite at the base of her neck, a gesture of capture, a demand for surrender. Then his lips were pulling at her nipples, saying her name against her breasts.
Her body shuddered, clamped around him with a demand of its own. She saw darkness and sparkles behind her eyelids as if the heavens had exploded in a black night sky.
For a moment, she wasn’t Suzanne. She was simply a being, a creature of pleasure insensate but for bliss. Her hips thrust up to implore him to return. Her arms clung to him as his back arched.
Her body responded so perfectly to him, with him, as if they were destined to love each other. Nor was it simply her physical body that was involved, but her mind as well. She’d given him trust and he’d returned it. They’d revealed secrets to each other. With him she didn’t have to be anybody but herself. Not a woman with a title. Not the daughter of the fantastically wealthy Edward Hackney.
She held him as he shuddered in her arms a few minutes later, his body reaching completion. She realized that in this, too, they were alike. Each needed the other, not only for pleasure but for holding in the aftermath, to treasure that small window of time when it was acceptable to be so open and vulnerable, to be weak.
She didn’t try to hide her tears. She doubted she could have if she’d wanted to. This weeping came from another place entirely. Not grief exactly, but something similar. Anticipatory loss, perhaps. Seeing something troubling ahead and being unable to stop it.
He collapsed beside her, the sound of her name now coated with wonder.
She wanted him to stay, to remain with her. Sometimes being a duchess didn’t matter at all.
Tomorrow they would go and label a man a traitor.
Yet tonight was hers and she wasn’t going to give a second back to the world.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Suzanne woke at dawn, stretched, and ran the ball of her foot down a masculine, hairy leg. What a delightful pleasure it was to wake up with someone beside you. You began your morning feeling as if you weren’t alone, that whatever happened during the day, their thoughts would occasionally be on you, that they would smile in remembrance. Or that they would hurry to be back in your company.
“I have to leave,” he said.
That simple comment was like a spear to her chest. For a little while she’d pretended that reality wasn’t real, that he didn’t have to assume his rightful place in the world. As did she.
She would miss him. She would miss him much more than she should. But then, she didn’t wake up in the bed of just any man. He was the only man. George’s visits to her bed had been perfunctory things, a few hours here and there and then gone. He’d never slept beside her. She had never awakened with a smile on her face at the sound of his snoring. Not once in the middle of the night had she ever placed her hand on his naked back just to touch him.
“I will have to replace you,” she said, her eyes still closed. There, her voice sounded quite calm, didn’t it? “As the senior footman, Thomas would be next in line for your position, wouldn’t he? Is he up to it?”
“I would take him rather than bringing someone else in, someone new.”
“I think I shall dismiss my solicitor,” she said, blinking open her eyes. “After all, he was the one who recommended you. He did the same with Ella. What do you think his relationship is with your Mr. Mount?”
“He’s not my Mr. Mount,” Adam said, rising up on his forearms. He reached out one hand and trailed a finger down her nose, then pressed it against her lips just once. “I think there is some cooperation going on between them, but I’m not sure why just yet.”
“You’re going to find out, aren’t you?”
“I hate a mystery that hasn’t been solved,” he said.
“That sounds like you still have questions.”
He smiled. “Let’s just say I have a certain degree of curiosity.”
“And a sense of justice,” she said. “I think it’s probably your quest for justice that fuels most of your actions, Adam.”
“You make me sound much more virtuous than I am.”
“Must you leave?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
What she was really asking—and she couldn’t help but wonder if he knew—was, Must you leave me?
Yesterday, she’d wondered if she was brave enough to love again. Now she knew it didn’t matter what she decided or if she was courageous enough. Love had come to her without her participation, without inviting it into her heart. He might cause her pain. He might grant her anguish. She had no choice in the matter. She loved him and would do anything for him. And to keep him with her she might even beg.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the sheet still draped in front of her. She didn’t want to seem needy or weepy. She wanted to be strong and resolute, someone like Mrs. Armbruster, perhaps. A woman who knew exactly what she wanted from life and had no qualms about demanding it.
Perhaps she should emulate that determined lady.
She stood and gathered up her clothing, wishing she had the courage to ask him not to watch her so closely. Did he expect her to dress in front of him? Evidently, because when she glanced at him he didn’t look away.
Very well, if she was going to be strong and resolute she would begin right this moment. She dropped the sheet and reached for her shift, standing and pulling it on, hoping to appear nonchalant. The truth was she was acutely conscious of his gaze on her.
“You will be dressing in front of me, won’t you?” she asked. “It’s only fair.”
“I’m not nearly as beautiful as you are.”
She pulled the shift into place, pushed her hair back, and looked at him. “You underestimate yourself, Drummond. You’re quite the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
If she’d had the time she would have sat on his chair and watched him for long moments, absolutely fascinated by the fact that his cheeks were turning bronze. Had she embarrassed him? The idea was both charming and amusing.
She pulled on her pantaloons and then her corset, fastening the busk with a little more difficulty
than she’d anticipated. Since she had to go down only one flight of stairs to reach her suite, she decided that it was not sufficiently important to put on her stockings. She slipped her feet inside her shoes and tied the laces before putting on her dress. She was not in any way properly attired, but it would be enough to get to her rooms and slip beneath the covers before Emily arrived.
“You haven’t forgotten, have you?” she asked, standing and grabbing her stockings. “You will let me go with you when you confront him?”
“I’m afraid that will have to wait,” he said. “He won’t be at work today and I don’t think it wise to confront him at his house. I’ll go and see Sir Richard first.”
“No,” she said, reaching into her pocket for the invitation Emily had given her, now a little worse for wear, and handed it to him. “He’ll be at my father’s house.”
One of his eyebrows arched as he read.
“It’s one of my father’s political luncheons.”
“Honoring his protégés?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Your father isn’t going to be pleased if we make a scene. Does that bother you?”
“Not in the least,” she said.
“I’ve never been to a political luncheon. What’s it like?”
“A great many important people commenting on the food and the wine,” she said. “And talking about and over each other. Sometimes they want to be overheard. At other times, not.”
“It sounds like any War Office gathering. Or any social function after I became lieutenant.”
She studied him. “I’ll bet you were exceedingly handsome in your uniform,” she said.
“It was less complicated than what I had to wear as your majordomo.”
“I’ve noticed that you don’t wear a hat, though.”
“I detest them,” he said. “I only wear them when I have to, which isn’t often, thank heavens.”
“I should very much like to dispense with hats. And corsets. And stockings.”
He chuckled. “Why stockings?”
“They’re never seen. You only wear them because of your shoes. But sometimes they are bothersome. If you don’t tie the garter tight enough, they slip down. If you tie the garter too tight, they chafe.”
“But they’re delightful to remove,” he said, smiling.
She hesitated at his door, wanting to say something else but uncertain what it should be. If she said thank you it wouldn’t be just for the pleasure he’d given her last night, but for his kindness and concern, his tenderness and gentleness, as well as the laughter he’d summoned from some dark place. He had been like sunlight in the dark cave in which she’d lived for so long, and she would never forget that. She’d never forget him, either. But she didn’t want to have to remember him. She didn’t want to have to summon memories. She didn’t want him to leave.
How could she say all that in just a few words in parting? She couldn’t. Her plea would have to wait until later. She did have one last question, though.
“Why?” she asked. “Why try to prove that the traitor was George, even after his death? The War Office couldn’t punish him. All that you could do was harm his reputation.”
“I was told that the Foreign Office was trying to make amends in India, making up for the mistakes made during those years, and that they didn’t want any further embarrassments to surface now.” He swung his legs to the side of the bed. “That’s the story I was given. And I took it in, every lying word. The truth? A traitor didn’t want to be discovered.”
They shared a long look before she finally nodded.
“Until noon,” she said before opening the door, looking both ways and slipping out of his room.
Suzanne reached her chambers without being seen—at least, she hoped so. There was a possibility that the footman stationed at the end of the corridor saw her, but he’d been chosen for that duty not only because of his trustworthiness, but his devotion to tact. If he’d seen her, she doubted he would tell the tale of the duchess who crept through Marsley House before dawn with her hair askew and clutching her stockings in one hand.
She opened her sitting room door and, relieved, leaned back against it.
At least until Emily stood, scaring her into a gasp.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I was worried about you and decided to check on you early.”
How very commendable of Emily. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a thing to say to her maid.
“He’s a very attractive man, Your Grace,” Emily said.
There was no unkindness in the remark. No cruelty in Emily’s eyes. Instead, there was only a slight bit of humor, if she wasn’t mistaken. All in all, it seemed as if she had an ally in her maid.
Suzanne didn’t quite know how to respond. She could, of course, retreat behind the icy demeanor that kept people away. They didn’t bother her when she was being the Duchess of Marsley. They didn’t intrude. They wouldn’t even think of asking her a personal question or being brash.
Emily was new to the position and no doubt would understand being chastised for her impudence. Yet something stopped Suzanne. The younger her, the person she longed to be, stepped forward and said, “Emily, I have been very sinful. I know I should feel terrible, but I don’t. Is that horrible?”
Emily waved one hand in the air. “The minister would say yes, Your Grace, but the rest of us would understand. I guess that’s why sin is sin, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. If it didn’t feel good, why would we do it?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Emily was going to be good for her, she could tell.
“Then if you don’t mind,” she said, “it will be our secret.”
“I’ll paint my lips blue if I say something bad about you.”
Suzanne smiled. “What’s that from?”
“It’s what my brothers and sisters say. It’s almost a family vow.”
She found herself interested in Emily’s family, questioning how many brothers and sisters she had—five—where they lived and what her parents were like. From the girl’s conversation, it was evident that Emily had been one of the fortunate ones, growing up in a family that truly loved each other, even as adults.
“Help me dress,” she said striding toward the bedroom and one of her two armoires. “I need to look very much like a duchess today,” she added, glancing at Emily over her shoulder. “And I will need your talents with my hair.”
Neither of them mentioned that she hadn’t worn a braid the night before and that it would take some time to brush her hair free of tangles and tame it into shape.
That was the price one paid for love and perhaps even lust.
But, oh, it was worth it.
Chapter Forty-Eight
They didn’t speak for long moments after leaving Marsley House. Adam’s two valises were in the back of the carriage. He’d said his goodbyes to those friends he’d made, a little surprised at how many there were. Even those members of staff with whom he’d had disagreements or issues came to wish him well and see him off.
Mrs. Thigpen—Olivia—had been the more difficult of partings. He’d wanted to explain to her why he’d engaged in deception, but found that the words wouldn’t come. He hadn’t wanted to take advantage of her. He had genuinely appreciated their friendship. At least he got that part out.
“I understand, Adam. Truly I do. It’s the rest that flummoxes me.”
“The rest?”
“It’s Her Grace, Adam. She’s not the type to trifle with, and it’s sad I am that you’ve taken advantage of her.”
He hadn’t said anything in response. Not one word had come to mind.
“You aren’t wearing mourning,” he said to Suzanne now.
He’d never seen Suzanne wearing anything but black. The color had suited her, but this lavender shade was even more attractive. It made her blue-gray eyes appear more piercing, and enhanced her creamy complexion. He admitted to himself that he could spend a great deal of time simply looking at Suzanne. Her
beauty was understated, elegant, and everything about her made you want to study her more.
“It’s half mourning,” she said.
There was something about her voice, too. Low-pitched, it seemed to travel up and down his spine. It was a hell of a thing to find himself aroused by the sound of her voice. She could recite the list of the scullery maids’ duties and he’d still find himself captivated.
He wanted to ask her if there was a reason why she had gone to half mourning now. He wasn’t all that versed on society and every one of its rules, especially the ones about grieving. Had she done it because of him? The arrogance of that thought kept him silent.
“Does it matter what color clothing you wear?” she asked after a moment. “You don’t wear a black armband, but it doesn’t dictate your thoughts or the feelings in your heart.”
He’d never talked about how he felt about Rebecca. Yet he found himself doing so often with Suzanne. It was a strange catharsis, discussing his lost wife with a woman who’d gone through her own anguish. Another point of comparison: she’d made no secret of the fact that she hadn’t loved George. Nor had he been reticent about telling her that Rebecca had become his wife more out of convenience than emotion.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you wear. Nothing will change what you think or feel. Time numbs the pain a little, but it never changes the facts.”
“Do you ever get used to that? Or the bitterness?”
He smiled at her. “Bitterness is only anger unvoiced, I think. You can rid yourself of anger by expressing it in some way.”
“Most people don’t want to hear what you feel,” she said.
He nodded. “You can tell me, Suzanne.”
How long had he lived without love? Seven years? He could manage as long as he had a task, a goal, something to accomplish. He’d kept frenetically busy, one of the few operatives who could be put to work without regard to family obligations, holidays, or a personal life, for that matter. He didn’t have people pulling on him, demanding that he share his attention with them. Damn it.
