by Jane Feather
He seemed determined tonight to render her helpless, Arabella thought fleetingly. There was an unusual intensity about his lovemaking, his gray eyes aglow with an almost fierce light as he watched her while he devoured her, explored her, left no inch of her body untouched, unkissed. And she felt that intensity like a slow burn.
She found herself rising to meet it, her body coiled tight as a spring. She couldn’t have enough of him—with lips and tongue, fingers and toes, she consumed him as he consumed her. She rose above him, straddling his hips, her hands enclosing his penis as she rubbed and stroked him to groans of ecstasy. Then he seized her hips, lifted her, and drove inside her in one throbbing thrust that penetrated to her core and she flung back her head with a climactic cry. She couldn’t count how many times she had scaled the heights since he’d taken her from the bath, each time had been more glorious than the last, but this time she seemed to disintegrate, to break apart in a thousand pieces, tossed to the four winds. He held her backside fiercely as he pressed her hard against his belly and his seed filled her with each pulse of his orgasm.
Finally she fell forward, her head dropping into the sweat-slick hollow of his shoulder. His heart raced against her ribs, matching the headlong speed of her own. Slowly she stretched her legs out until they lay on top of his. He was still inside her, and she tightened her thighs in a sudden need to keep him there for a moment longer. His fingers relaxed their fierce grip on her bottom but he kept his hands where they were, holding her in place, and for a few moments they lapsed into a trance of satiation that was not quite sleep.
Jack moved first, gently disengaging as he rolled her onto her side beside him. He propped himself on an elbow and brushed the damp hair from her brow as he smiled down at her. He shook his head in wordless wonder and smoothed a flat palm down her side, resting in the indentation of her waist.
She smiled weakly but could find no words. He inhaled deeply then exhaled on a vigorous breath. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in need of a dip in the bath.” He swung himself off the bed with an energy that Arabella found incomprehensible and stepped into the copper tub, ducking below the water, bending his knees so that he could slide forward and submerge his head.
He rose from the water, shaking drops from him like a dog emerging from a river, and grabbed the damp towel. From the bed Arabella watched him with a lascivious eye, enjoying the muscular ripples beneath his skin as he dried himself, the hard leanness of his frame, the taut buttocks, the flat belly. His sex was quiescent, and she thought it looked like a sleepy mouse in its nest of dark curly hair. It was hard now to imagine it in the rampant state that had brought them both so much delight. The comparison brought an involuntary chuckle and Jack turned to the bed, his eyes brightly suspicious.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing,” she said with an innocent smile. “Nothing at all.” But she couldn’t somehow tear her gaze from the object of her amusement.
Jack glanced down at himself. “Oh,” he said with a half grin, draping the towel around his loins. “Well, cold water has that effect.”
“Satisfaction too, I’ve noticed,” she said with the same innocent smile. “But I’ve also noticed, your grace, that it doesn’t take you very long to recover.” She reached for her peignoir with its tiny pearl buttons as Jack went into his own bedchamber for his dressing gown.
They went together into the warm, candlelit boudoir, where a gateleg table had been set before the fire. A platter of newly opened oysters was on the table, a soup tureen keeping warm on a trivet in the hearth. A roasted duckling steamed on the sideboard, a bowl of madeira sauce beside it, together with a dish of roasted potatoes and parsnips.
Jack poured wine and held the chair for his wife as she took her seat before the oysters. “Aren’t these supposed to be an aphrodisiac?” she inquired, spearing one of the pearly gray creatures on its opalescent, craggy shell.
“It seems a moot quality in the circumstances,” Jack returned, tipping the contents of a shell down his throat in one swallow.
Arabella chuckled and stretched her bare toes to the fire with a sigh of contentment, her earlier moment of unease forgotten.
It was a week later when the bandboxes and hatboxes began to arrive in a steady stream in Cavendish Square. Hard on their heels came Mesdames Celeste and Elizabeth, accompanied by a bevy of seamstresses bearing armsful of muslins, crapes, taffetas, organdies, hand-painted Chinese silks, and Indian silks.
Arabella received the mission in her boudoir and gazed in astonishment at the number of gowns, peignoirs, robes that were laid out for her inspection. There seemed to be a gown for every hour of the day.
“If your grace would be so good as to slip into a negligee . . .” Madame Celeste suggested, hands clasped at her ample bosom. “There may be some little adjustments to be made to the gowns.”
“I have to try on all of them?” Arabella was horrified at the prospect. She could be here for a day at least.
“Your grace, it is necessary to achieve the perfect fit; there will be adjustments to make,” Madame Elizabeth stated, with just a hint of firmness. “And every gown has its own undergown, so you will need to wear only a chemise for each fitting.”
Arabella threw up her hands in resignation and went into her bedchamber to summon Becky, who, all agog, accompanied her partially dressed mistress back to the fitting room.
“Ah, good, you haven’t begun yet.” The duke entered the boudoir just as his wife was divesting herself of the negligee in order to try on the first gown.
“Your grace.” Madame Celeste managed to inject a note of disbelief into her voice. “We must fit each gown correctly.”
“Yes, indeed,” he agreed, taking a seat, crossing one elegantly clad leg over the other, and taking his snuffbox from the pocket of his gold-laced coat. “That’s why I’m here. Pray continue.”
Arabella glanced at him, expecting to see a conspiratorial wink, but realized with something of a shock that her husband was utterly serious. So she stood in her thin shift that left little of her to the imagination while tutting and muttering modistes dropped gown after gown over her head, instructing the group of seamstresses where to pin and then to sew.
An evening gown of ivory organza over a slip of gold silk brought forth the duke’s first comment. “I would have more décolletage,” he said. “Lower the neckline by half an inch and take a tuck in the back.”
“It seems that your grace is an accomplished modiste. It appears there is no end to your talents,” Arabella said tartly as Madame Celeste obediently pinned and tucked.
Jack smiled his lazy smile. “Trust me in this, my dear.”
“As you’ve said before,” she responded. “But I tell you, sir, I am not going into Society worried about my breasts popping up like a well-boiled suet pudding.”
“Such a felicitous turn of phrase,” the duke murmured. “As it happens, your breasts bear no resemblance to suet pudding, well boiled or otherwise.”
Becky swallowed a little shriek; mesdames modistes gazed at each other in transfixed horror; the bevy of seamstresses ceased their stitching. Arabella merely laughed.
It took close to three hours before the fit of every gown had been corrected. Arabella was weary and bored, the dogs were whining at the door, and her orchids urgently required her attention. Her husband, on the other hand, seemed to find the process utterly absorbing.
He dismissed the company only when every garment had been approved and hung in the armoire. Then he said to Becky, “You will dress her grace in the ivory and gold this evening, Becky. Monsieur Christophe will do her grace’s hair, but you may watch and learn for the future.”
Becky curtsied. “Yes, your grace.”
“And now you may go,” the duke said in his gentle fashion. Becky backed out hastily.
“So why am I to be dressed thus?” Arabella inquired casually, taking up a file and attending to her nails.
“I thought we might go to the opera,” he said. �
�My box has been going to waste, it’s time to use it.”
“Ah.” Arabella set aside the nail file. “So this is to be my introduction.”
“Your introduction as the duchess of St. Jules.”
She nodded. “And the opera?”
“One I hope you’ll enjoy. Mozart . . . The Magic Flute. A charming piece, but of course no one will be attending to it,” he said with a derisive shrug. “They’ll be too busy discussing the latest gossip.”
“And I will be the latest gossip,” she said.
He nodded and rose to his feet. “Yes, ma’am. You will indeed. Christophe will come at five to do your hair. Becky must then dress you, and we’ll dine at seven. The opera begins at nine.”
“But of course one must miss the beginning,” Arabella said with a curled lip. “So unfashionable to be on time.”
He inclined his head slightly and said, “On this occasion I would have you make an entrance sometime after our fellow opera lovers, but once that’s done, my sweet, you may be as unusual as you please.” With a slight smile and a sweeping bow, he left her.
Arabella sat in frowning silence. She had every intention of setting Society by the heels, but she hadn’t expected the duke to encourage her. Now it felt as if she was dancing to Jack’s tune rather than her own.
She turned towards the door at a knock that she recognized as Becky’s. “What is it, Becky?”
“A letter for you, madam.” Becky proffered the silver tray.
Arabella recognized Meg’s decisive handwriting. She took the letter eagerly with a word of thanks and a slight gesture of dismissal. Becky curtsied and departed and Arabella slit the wax seal and opened the letter. She could hear her friend’s voice leaping off the crossed and recrossed page.
Dearest Bella, I am tearing my hair out with boredom. I didn’t think it would be possible to miss anyone as much as I miss you. Even Mother and Father are dismal, and all the dogs are quite hangdog without Boris and Oscar. Whenever we go into what constitutes our little society here, Lavinia is the only amusement. She ties herself into veritable knots while she attempts to cast aspersions on the morals of a fully-fledged duchess whilst trying to imply that she enjoys the intimate confidences of said duchess. All the while the dead birds in her various hats have gone toes-up and the fruit and flowers are definitely withering on the branch. David has taken to giving sermons on the evils of gossip and hubris, which Lavinia of course fails to understand. Anyway, my dear Bella, if I don’t get some relief soon, I shall retire to the attic like a madwoman and spin cloth out of spiders’ webs. Do you remember we talked of how I might come to London and stay with you? I wasn’t sure I could face a reprise of that miserable first Season, but a cooler head prevails. Apart from the fact that I miss you as I would a limb, I need some respite from this dreary round. And some more interesting male prospects than linger in the hedgerows. Of course I wouldn’t for the world intrude on conjugal happiness or interrupt the blissful progress of early matrimony, but a marriage of convenience might have space for a close friend’s company. Nothing you’ve said in your epistles has implied that your arrangement with the duke is anything other. And I know you would tell me . . .
Write soon, dearest. I would hear of your orchids, of the dogs, and, most particularly, more of your new life and your ducal debut. Every last detail, remember. My love as always. M.
Arabella smiled over the letter, hearing her friend’s stringently dry tones. She couldn’t think of anything she would enjoy more than Meg’s company. Jack was too much in charge and she often felt deprived of the opportunity to take her own initiatives. She was accustomed to running her life as she chose, not according to the plans and precepts of a husband. She could use reinforcements. And Meg, for all her caustic wit, had a delicacy that would ensure she didn’t intrude on a couple’s privacy. Besides, she thought, Meg would have her own schemes to pursue. If she was going to look for a husband, or, knowing Meg, perhaps just a lover, she’d be busy on her own behalf. But she’d welcome Arabella’s assistance and opinions.
Her smile broadened as she folded the parchment and tucked it into a drawer of the secretaire. They could amuse themselves rather well finding Meg a partner.
She went downstairs to the conservatory, where a new shipment of orchids awaited her.
The library door stood open and as she passed she saw Jack sitting behind the desk, a strongbox opened beside him, a quill in hand, a sheet of vellum in front of him. Now might be a good moment to plant a few seeds, she thought, her mind making the easy move from orchids.
“Jack?” She hovered in the doorway.
He rose swiftly. “Come in.”
She entered the room, closing the door behind her, and approached the desk. He remained standing behind it, regarding her speculatively.
She perched on the corner of the desk and her eye fell on the opened strongbox. For a moment all thought went out of her head as she recognized the handwriting on an envelope that lay uppermost on the papers in the box. It was her letter to Cornwall. She had been more than puzzled by her relatives’ lack of response, but now she understood. Jack had never sent her letter.
It was such an astounding deception that for a moment she was tongue-tied. Jack said into the sudden silence, “You had something you wanted to talk about . . . ?”
“Oh, yes.” She picked up the ivory-handled knife he used to sharpen his pens and idly turned it in her hands, examining it with all the close attention she would devote to a speck of mold on an orchid. “I was wondering if you would mind if I invited Meg to pay a visit.”
Jack frowned slightly. “Now?”
“Not now precisely,” she said, still not raising her eyes from the knife. “But quite soon.”
“Tired of my company already?” he inquired with a quizzical smile.
“No, of course not.” She refused to respond to the teasing note. “But I miss Meg. Forgive me for saying so, but a husband doesn’t fulfill the role of a close female friend.”
“For which I can only be grateful,” he said wryly. He wasn’t sure what he thought of having Meg Barratt under his roof. “I would prefer you to wait until the spring . . . when you’ll have established yourself in London. You’ll be more use to Meg then anyway.”
He leaned forward to cup her chin, offering a conciliatory smile to soften this semirefusal. “I’m not ready to share you yet, my sweet.”
Arabella forced a responding smile even as her blood ran hot with anger. Why had he not sent the letter? He had prevented her from making her own choice about this marriage. Why?
“In a couple of months, then,” she said, turning her head aside so that his hand fell from her chin. “I’ll write to Meg and suggest it.” She slipped off the desk. “I’m going to the conservatory. I’m very excited about some new arrivals. Jewel orchids and Queen of the Night.” She was aware, however, that the excitement was conspicuously absent from her tone as she hurried to the door.
Chapter 13
When Monsieur Christophe arrived punctually at four o’clock, Arabella still had not decided how to deal with her knowledge of her husband’s deception.
“If your grace would tilt ze ’ead a little,” the coiffeur murmured, as he twisted ringlets around the wand of a curling iron.
Arabella, sitting in a loose peignoir, obliged, watching in the mirror as her hair was clipped and teased, curled and pomaded. “Did you come from Paris, Monsieur Christophe?” she inquired.
“Ah, mais oui, milady. Ah, pauvre Paris.” He sighed heavily.
“Yes, indeed,” Arabella agreed with sympathy. “There are many émigrés in London, I believe.”
“Many of us, yes, milady,” the man agreed with another sigh. “We try to make a living . . . to ’elp each other where we can, but it is not always easy. We must depend so much on ze generosity of your countrymen and women, your grace.”
Arabella regarded him gravely in the mirror. “If there is anything I can do, monsieur, you need only ask. I don’t know many people
as yet, but soon perhaps I shall be in a position to make recommendations. In the meantime, I would be happy to patronize your fellow artistes.”
The coiffeur gave her a grateful smile. “Your grace is too kind. But I will remember your offer.”
The door opened behind them and the duke came in, dressed for the evening in a coat of sapphire blue velvet, a waistcoat edged in silver lace, knee britches, and a froth of lace at his throat and wrists. A ribbon of the same velvet confined his hair at his nape, a sapphire winked in the foaming ruffles at his throat, and diamonds glittered on his fingers. The silver blade of his rapier was sheathed at his side and he carried a jewel box.
He was magnificent. Deceitful, arbitrary, manipulative, passionate, and ultimately magnificent. Arabella gazed at his reflection in the mirror as he came up behind her, a smile on his full, sensual mouth. The white streak running back from his brow was in startling contrast to the glossy black of the rest of his hair, and the eyes assessing her were the pewter color of water at sunset.
“Good evening, your grace.” The hairdresser bowed in his direction.
Jack nodded at him and placed the jewel box on a piecrust table. “Would you arrange this in her grace’s coiffure?” He opened the box and took out a diamond horseshoe tiara.
“Oh, yes, your grace. Lovely.” Christophe took the jewel reverently. “Her grace’s hair cries out for diamonds, it will be the perfect framework.”
“The St. Jules’s diamonds,” Jack said to Arabella as he withdrew a necklace from the box.
He moved behind her and fastened the string of perfectly matched gems around her neck. They lay heavy and cold on her breast.
“I’m not dressed yet,” she pointed out, unsure how to respond to this splendor.
“I wanted to see if they became you,” Jack said. “They do.” He took from the box a pair of diamond drops and handed them to her. “Put those on.”
She obeyed, tying the thin threads around her ears so that the sparkling drops lay against the slender column of her neck. Monsieur Christophe fussed for a few more minutes with the tiara, then declared, “C’est fini. Magnifique, n’est-ce pas, milord?”
