“So are you.”
They were lying in a room she didn’t know, with a view of a garden, but she could hear the faint echo of carriage wheels on cobbles, and the faint singsong cry of a street vendor. “We’re still at the club?”
“We are, although I mean to take us into the country as soon as you feel better. Which won’t take long, considering your new status.”
Memories circled back, images in her head. She sat bolt upright. “What happened? What am I?”
She glared at Marcus as he lay back against the bank of soft pillows and tucked his hands behind his head. He wore a shirt and breeches and absolutely nothing else. “You’re my wife, you’re the Duchess of Lyndhurst, and you’re an immortal.”
“A god?”
“Not quite. Sweetheart, I meant to wake you with a kiss and a rose, but I was trying out my hearing.”
She swallowed, that particular memory briefly wrenching her. “You can hear?”
“My ears are ringing, but yes, I can hear. D’Argento says I might get my complete hearing back.” He caught her hand. “I don’t care. I would gladly give it up for you.”
A smile curved her lips and she licked the lower one when it stretched uncomfortably. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t stop smiling. “You don’t need to give anything up. That ceremony, it was valid? I’m married to you?”
“Yes, your grace, you are.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“You must become accustomed to it, I’m afraid, sweetheart.” He scanned her from her head to her waist, all he could see because the sheet covered the rest of her.
She was wearing a thin lawn night rail, the finest she’d ever owned. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, unkempt and tangled. Marcus looked at her as if she was a princess, and he a humble petitioner. “It didn’t happen quite how we’d planned, but here we are. You’re mine and I trust you realise I am never letting you go.”
He sat up to join her, but reached for a pitcher on the nightstand, pouring a glass of cloudy liquid into a glass. He gave it to her. “Here, drink.”
“What is it?” She sniffed cautiously. A familiar scent rose up to her. “Lemon barley water?”
“Exactly. Drink it, and then drink another one. D’Argento tasked me with ensuring you drink something. Then you can eat.”
“What day is it?”
“Monday.” He watched her carefully. She had lost three days.
“No wonder I’m thirsty.” She drained the glass with no effort and held it out for more, which he gladly gave to her. She sipped this one more carefully, savouring the fresh citrus flavour.
He would not let her return the glass until she drank that one, too. “You may have more whenever you wish. Food. Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “I should be, shouldn’t I?”
“You haven’t been asleep all the time. I half-roused you to make you eat and drink.”
She didn’t remember. “So you cared for me? And I’m recovered?”
“Nobody touched you but d’Argento and myself. He examined you yesterday, slipped into your mind when I removed the block for him and pronounced you immortal. That is why you healed so fast.” He laughed. “That sounds strange even to me. You haven’t taken much food, but you did drink everything I held to your lips.”
She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees and rested her head on top. “This feels so strange, because it’s real. I dreamed of something like this, but never imagined it would happen.”
A cocky grin wreathed Marcus’s face. “You dreamed of me?”
“Of course. Almost from the first night I spent under your roof.”
“Our roof,” he said. “Where we will be returning as soon as I can arrange it. I want you to myself for a while. I do not intend to remain in solitude. We will open the house again. What do you say?”
Mildly astonished he was deferring to her, but delighted he did so without her prompting, Ruth lost herself smiling back at him. “You’re right. People should see that wonderful hall.”
“Your parents?”
“Ah.” When she thought of them now it was without bitterness. It had gone, all those feelings of resentment and unhappiness. “I will write again. I won’t ignore them.”
“The other business?” He reached out and gathered her into his arms. “You mean me being the god of war, that business?”
Then he kissed her.
She brought her hands up to cradle his face, the stubble of his beard deliciously ticklish. Who knew she could laugh into his mind? She did, and she loved it. Now was not the time for thought or rationalising. Now was the time for love.
No longer hiding from the fact that she adored him, she opened her mind, heart and soul as he rolled over her, and then on to his back, the wide bed allowing them to play. She wanted to sit up, but she did not want to stop kissing him. He was so fine, her man, her husband, her love.
Reading her thoughts, he sat up, lifting her with him, so she must bring her legs forward. That proved no problem since he held her firmly around the waist. He took his own sweet time savouring the kiss, cradling her until she squirmed, pressing her breasts against his hard chest to increase the sensations rolling through her. His cock branded a hard line into her lower belly, and her movements made him groan, but he continued to kiss her.
They kissed and kissed again, open-mouthed and lascivious. She held his face in her hands, greedily taking and giving. Sliding his hands under her backside, he lifted her. His shaft was hard enough to find its way home on its own. He brought her down, impaling her in the most delicious way possible.
They moaned at the same time, but when she tried to move, he held her still. “Let me do the work. I’ve been waiting for this, imagining it, ever since d’Argento told me you’d recover.”
She huffed a laugh, her hot breath coming back to tease her cheeks. “I thought we’d never do this again.”
“We will, sweetheart. Again and again.” He lifted her, bringing her down, sliding into her hot, wet flesh with a steady motion that made her shudder.
“You fill me up.”
“I aim to.” He laughed shortly. “I—we shouldn’t be doing this. But love, I couldn’t resist you. Let me do the work. Let me make love to you.”
Murmuring encouragement, he showed her the way. Wrapping her legs around him, her heels placed firmly against the mattress, Ruth moved with him in the ultimate dance of love. He drove up, every inch of him hard, masculine goodness and she responded, taking him in, releasing him when they rode together.
Marcus kissed her neck, nipped at her, the sharp sting adding to the prickling pinpoints of sensation arcing through her. When they rose and took her over, she gave way to it, pulling away from their frantic kisses to tip her head back and cry out her pleasure.
Too late, she recalled they were in a public building, but when she gasped, shocked, Marcus gave a devilish laugh and held her closer, supporting her position by opening his hand over her back. “Make all the noise you want to. What’s more natural than a man making love to his wife?”
The activity she had considered forbidden and sinful was suddenly encouraged. Such a turnaround mystified and delighted her. That piece of paper and a few promises she would have made in any case made all the difference in the eyes of the world. They were bound, and never had she been happier about that state of affairs.
Already another peak was coming, rising in her with the inevitability of the tide coming in. Sweeping over, her taking her over.
Marcus slid into her mind, his delight adding to her emotions until tears of sheer happiness escaped from her eyes. He licked them away, then gave the salty taste back to her in a deep, penetrating kiss. “One more time,” he murmured against her lips.
“I can’t.”
“You’ll find you can.” He was as good as his word, surging up inside her unti
l she blossomed for him, watching him this time, riding her release through.
Marcus squeezed his eyes tight shut, then opened them. “Feel me, love. I’m coming.”
His arousal overcame her, taking her in, powerful, driving waves of release swamping them both as he released deep into her and she gasped out her renewed climax. They remained locked together, gazing at each other, their worlds complete.
Chapter Twenty
Two weeks later, the Duke and Duchess of Lyndhurst arrived back at Lyndhurst Abbey, where Ruth was now the mistress. They arrived in fine style, a virtual entourage of three carriages, necessary because of the shopping his grace insisted his wife undergo before they left town. After the first efforts to refuse him, she acceded to his request and subsequently discovered frittering away a great deal of money could on occasion be very enjoyable.
Marcus and Ruth travelled in the first carriage, the one with the softest upholstery in a shade of blue that reflected his grace’s livery colours. They were accompanied in the second coach by his grace’s valet and Ruth’s new lady’s maid, a superior being who took charge of her wardrobe with an efficiency that astounded Ruth.
For their arrival back at the Abbey, Ruth wore her new riding habit in a shade of forest green Marcus declared brought out the colour of her eyes, despite them being a flat, nondescript shade of grey. However, she had learned not to contradict him. He loved to pay her extravagant compliments, and if she protested he only made them more outrageous. She had even met royalty and been described as “my most gracious duchess,” although she still had the horrors of a formal Court Drawing Room presentation to look forward to when they returned to town next year.
For now, she only needed to love her husband and learn her new duties. They were not too different to running a household, but on a much bigger scale. Marcus encouraged her in everything, telling her she was clever, and beautiful, and all kinds of nonsense. He was not besotted, merely a man in love.
Lady Damaris and Lady Nerine travelled part of the way with them, but took their leave at York to travel to their own home in Scarborough. Their oldest brother was on his way home, finally taking his duties seriously. The death of Barnabas marked them badly.
D’Argento took care of the body, transporting it to the club and claiming Mr. Barnabas Carswell had visited London to see his sisters and died in his sleep. Since his body held few marks and nothing that would have caused his death, the coroner was happy to diagnose an apoplexy. The man was so large his body was taxing his general health, he said wisely. However hard Ruth tried, she could not be sorry he died, because otherwise it might have been her beloved husband who met his end.
Shaking the dust of the city off their heels came as a relief, and she and her husband celebrated at every inn they stopped at, and sometimes on the way.
Consequently, a celebration having occurred after they left the last inn on their way to the Abbey, Ruth arrived a little more flustered than a duchess ought to be. Marcus leaped down from the coach before the footman had time to let down the steps, and turned to slide his hands around Ruth’s waist and swing her down to stand by his side.
“Home,” he said, his voice filled with deep satisfaction.
As it should be, Ruth reflected, adjusting the tilt of her hat, considering what he’d coaxed her into doing less than half an hour ago. Not that it was any hardship. Perhaps they could use the fatigues of the journey as an excuse for an early night.
They climbed the steps of the Abbey in perfect accord. The doors were thrown open as they approached it, and Ruth was relieved to discover only Henstall and Mrs. Brindlehurst, who travelled back early in order to inform the house of Ruth’s new status and prepare it for his new duchess. She feared the redoubtable housekeeper might fill the hall with the servants, there to meet their new mistress. That would have been uncomfortable. As it was, she determined to take control and dismiss anyone who offered her any insult. Her husband would probably do worse to them.
Henstall bowed to them both, his obeisance deep. “Your graces, I trust you will find everything in order.”
Mrs. Brindlehurst was twiddling her thumbs in what appeared to be an agitated manner. “Madam, you received some unexpected visitors—”
Before she could say any more, a voice Ruth knew well echoed off the walls. “Ruth! What have you been up to?”
Her mother scrambled down the great staircase. Ruth’s father followed at a more sedate pace, and Ruth’s two unmarried sisters trailed behind. Lady Simpson patted her hair and swept forward, making her curtsey. She came up from it to meet Marcus’s gaze. One did not meet a duke’s direct gaze unless he invited it, but she probably didn’t know that. Not that Ruth took any notice of such foolish strictures.
Marcus had gone stiff, standing by her side with a rigidity that warned Ruth he might not entirely welcome her parents. Be good, she warned him.
She received an unconvincing, Aren’t I always?
Before her eyes, Marcus turned into the Duke of Lyndhurst, stately and imposing. He drew her closer to his side. “Ruth has been gracious enough to become my duchess,” he said.
Her mother shot her an “aren’t you clever?” look, the first time she’d sent one of those in Ruth’s direction. A pity it came after Ruth stopped caring. “We arrived to see that our precious grandchildren were well.”
“Not to collect your daughter?” Marcus asked, brow slightly raised.
“That as well, should she wish to come,” her mother said grudgingly. “As soon as we saw the announcement in the paper, I said to my husband we must put all other considerations aside to come here. Indeed, when we sent Ruth here we had not the slightest idea you would take a fancy to her!”
“More than that,” Marcus said without emphasis, but Ruth’s mother, always insensitive to other’s feelings, rattled on.
“We ordered tea laid out for you in the blue parlour.” Behind her, Sir Samuel shrugged and raised his brows. Her sisters stood to one side, their faces tight. Either they disapproved or they were jealous. Ruth suspected the latter and tried very hard indeed not to be glad of it.
She failed. They had never shown her any compassion or kindness, only disparaged her looks and her height.
Next to Marcus Ruth appeared elegant, not gangling. She’d learned so much in her short time as duchess. He gave her the confidence to reclaim her true height, instead of stooping. The London modiste had not tried to give her curves she did not possess, but fashioned garments that emphasised Ruth’s small waist and the elegant lines of her figure.
“You are a very naughty girl, but of course I will forgive you,” her mother said. She walked away without looking back, confident Ruth would follow her, as she always had in the past.
“Did you say you had come to see your daughter’s children?” Ruth asked.
Turning, her mother stared at her, frozen, her mouth half-open. “Naturally,” she said.
Ruth refused to rest until she’d heard the name on her mother’s lips. “We will not forget her,” she said. “The boys will always know that their mother was my beloved sister.”
Her father cleared his throat. Marcus stood by, not interfering, but there should she need him. “Ah yes. Rhea was a sad loss.”
At last her father had spoken for himself. Her mother would speak Rhea’s name before the visit was done, Ruth was determined on it.
Marcus let the others precede him into the great painted hall, and then walked towards the stairs with her. At the last moment, he ducked into a side door, one Ruth had hardly noticed. Seizing her hand, he quickened his step so she was forced to run next to him, but she did not mind that in the least. Laughing, Marcus took her through another narrow corridor, and then a door with an arched top, through to another part of the Abbey she’d never seen before where a flight of spiral steps led up.
By the time she found her bearings, they were outside the old library. Pausing
to smile at her, he led the way through the door.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
“You do not object to what I said?”
“About your sister? I commend it. Indeed, we will not forget poor Rhea.”
They paused, giving Rhea a moment of their time. For all her feckless, impulsive ways, Rhea deserved better than she had received from life. Ruth had already asked for a memorial in the chapel, just a small plaque, somewhere she could show the boys and visit for herself from time to time.
Marcus’s lifted her hands and kissed them, one after the other. “I have a plan.”
“Do tell me, sir.”
He grimaced. “I should ask you first if you wish your family here. If you do, then I will tolerate them. I will be good, if you wish it so.”
She didn’t hesitate to tell him the truth. He was the one person she trusted more than anyone else. “They were not kind to me. I was the unpaid drudge. That was my reason for leaving home. But if they had not refused to acknowledge them, I would not have come here to care for the boys. I would not have met you.”
“I refuse to thank them for that,” he said, tight-lipped.
“Neither will I.” It would be perverse to do so. “I would like to see the boys as soon as we may do so. We’ve been away too long. They could even be walking by now.”
“We will,” he promised. “I will send your family away.”
“How will you do that?”
“We will tolerate them for a day or two, make them meet the children and acknowledge them. Then I’ll order the coach made ready, and the maids will pack their belongings for them. They can hardly refuse, can they?”
Ruth caught her breath. “They will return home and tell the neighbours how I have changed, that I think myself too good for them.”
His laugh rang around the room. “They will not. If I don’t mistake the matter, your mother will pepper her sentences with ‘my daughter the duchess’.”
Ruth joined in his laughter, because the truth of what he said echoed through her. “Yes, she will. We will take dinner with them later, though.”
War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 Page 27
