Sooty eyes stared, glazed with passion, lips swollen, and he walked her backwards until she met the wall, the Cranford-red paper hangings a luscious backdrop to her midnight-clad form.
He envied that mask of silk clinging to her breast and thus yanked at the material until her pert nipple offered itself behind the gossamer band of the night-rail.
Vaguely, his brain implored him to be more circumspect with his innocent wife, that he lay her down and handle her with restraint, but this was Aideen.
His bold, mischievous, passionate Aideen.
And so, holding her gaze, he lowered his head and flicked a tongue over the veiling material. She jolted…and then moaned. So he did it again and fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him close.
Her hips bucked as he sucked silk and skin into his mouth, and gasping pants escaped her. Aideen’s long fingers explored his shirted chest, pulling at the material and creeping into the open neck. The scads of material must have frustrated her because she stole around to his sensitive spine and as her fingers scratched along it, control slipped away; he grunted, tugging her strap down, desperate for naked skin.
So white as to be virtually translucent, that skin heaved, and he slid a palm gently over her breast, not wanting to mark her. But it seemed Aideen desired firmer, thrusting herself into his touch.
Alas, his hands were calloused from fights and so forth, but she didn’t seem to mind; in truth, the wilder he caressed her skin with rough fingers, the louder she moaned.
Fervently, he shoved the silk down, over her hips, heard something tear, and paused.
Control.
Maintain control.
But Aideen took that moment to explore, her fingers sliding past the band of his breeches.
A guttural groan absconded as she brushed his groin, a tender skim, but then she returned, firmer, bolder, moulding her palm to his rigid length.
Rakecombe’s hands shot down to capture her wrists.
“Bed. Now.”
It must be the first time their thoughts had ever concurred, thought Aideen, as the harsh command was growled out.
What he didn’t seem to consider was that she was backed up against the wall and he was gripping her wrists. She couldn’t stir.
Not that she minded her entrapment.
In fact, two hours ago, she’d thought she would be spending her wedding night with the fictional Corsair, as she had done quite a few nights since meeting the duke. A good substitute, she’d thought at the time, but now, gazing at her husband’s handsome face, she much preferred the corporeal.
He’d bathed somehow as she’d heard peculiar sloshings from the master bedchamber next door and his hair was damp. It wasn’t sleeked back as usual and now she could see why he brutally supressed it, as a dark curl dangled over his forehead.
Curls and the Duke of Rakecombe dare not mix.
His breath panted, and his features appeared harsh and unforgiving, but his eyes… They gleamed with want and a wildness that both frightened and excited her.
“I cannot move, Your Grace,” she whispered. He stood fully clothed, and she should have felt intimidated or nervous but instead the sensation of linen against her breast and his breeches rubbing at her thighs caused an awfully strange rumpus within.
He leaned close to her ear, still clutching her wrists, hot breath causing a squirm. “Say my name.”
“The Duke of Rakecombe.”
His lips minutely quirked. “Say it.” And he bit her lobe.
“Alex.”
“My full name… Please.”
“Alexander.”
“Again.”
“Alexand–”
She was grasped from standing, twirled around in sturdy arms and plonked on the soft bed. A tenacious body followed, bracing itself on forearms, before even more tenacious lips claimed any additional words with swirling possession.
The feel of his weight was ravishing. She’d landed with legs a tad splayed and he took full advantage, easing them apart with his feet and thrusting his hips.
That hard, male length she’d tried to explore surged at her core, seeking entry even through the barrier of his silk breeches.
His eternal restraint seemed to have snapped.
Alexander had begun the evening with controlled kisses but now the ferocity that she sometimes glimpsed beneath his meticulous exterior had been unchained…and she loved it.
Aideen pulled at his shirt, endeavouring to haul it over his head, but he took command, throwing it to the floor in a most un-ducal manner.
She ogled his body: slender but not skinny, firm muscles flexed in arm and chest, a smattering of hair covered his torso, and on his left shoulder, a nasty scar covered with a…
“Is that a tattoo?”
“Hmm,” he growled, as his hand swept over her stomach and hip.
“Of an initial D?” She was trying not to ruin the moment, but really? The erstwhile stuffy duke – although he wasn’t currently being very stuffy – had a tattoo.
She gasped as that hand encroached between her legs, brushing with feathered strokes, then firmer.
“D for Duke?” she enquired, stifling a moan as his fingers caressed with rhythmic need.
No answer was forthcoming, and he continued to rouse, the sweet pleasure building within. His mouth moved to her breast again, laving and sucking with ruthless resolve.
“Demanding?” she queried with a cry. Her hips ground in tandem with his hand, body writhing until she could stand the tautness no longer. Too much. Not enough. “Desperate?”
Alex’s gaze pierced her, those fully lashed green eyes steadfast on her face, his fingers pushing, rubbing. Lips brushed her neck, tasted her skin.
“Darkness,” he whispered. “Destructive darkness.” And he nipped at her neck.
The tightness exploded, gushing through her body. Limbs seized and back arched and all she could hear was his voice.
“Desolate. Dangerous,” he growled, still grinding his hand. “Yes, Aideen. My little fire…Aideen.”
She melted into the rust coverlet, body pliant yet shuddering.
Divine.
Lifting hazy eyes, she expected to see a smug expression on his face but instead saw a man possessed as he ripped at the fall on his breeches.
He didn’t remove them, just shoved the clothing down and nudged her legs wide. She’d felt lax and fulfilled but with his movements, his obvious and overwhelming need, her desire pulsed once more.
Bruising kisses and an abrading thumb at her breast caused her to arch yet again and with a satisfied grunt, he pressed forward, his arousal blunt and solid and thick, surging against her core – not tentative but persistent and adamant and not to be denied.
Gasping, she shoved hips against his, encircling his neck with eager arms, kissing his throat. He strained and she cried out at the sensation.
Unyielding. Stretched.
He reared, sank, took her mouth in a kiss once more and thrust. Deep and hard.
Lips stole her cry, a harsh pinch, but then…
“It’s so…tight,” she whispered against his mouth.
Rigidly shut eyes lifted and he groaned. “Hell, yes.”
“That’s not a good thing,” she stated, but Alex gently rocked his body back and forth, forth and back, face turning.
Clasping her leg, he pulled her thigh about his slender hip, so she did the same with the other and a growl rumbled from him as he slipped deeper, the fit eased, and he brushed something deliciously pleasurable.
“Alexander,” she murmured, and he twisted, eyes meeting hers.
His features were a mask, severe and cruel in the candlelight, but his lips were tender, his hands supple as they stroked over her skin.
And then he thrust in earnest.
Steadied on forearms, he began a rugged heavy rhythm. It obliterated all thought, all speech, as searing aching need spread throughout.
She scratched that need into his back and he bucked under her touch, acceding to her wishes and po
unding with unrelenting pace.
Pleasure engulfed her once more, but this time ecstasy rippled in long waves, endless as he continued his raw act of possession. She cried his name, sensation hurtling through bone, blood and skin, feeling turned inside out.
A kiss took her, a rough ferocity, but no sooner was her mouth captured, it ended and fierce eyes stared down, his movements wild and relentless.
“Aideen, I need…”
His jaw gritted, and cursing, he buried his face in her neck, hips now driving in savage short jabs. A guttural roar echoed the room as he convulsed, body heaving and slick. Aideen scraped her fingers down over his buttocks and another low moan left his throat.
She wished she’d been able to see his face as he’d found his pleasure but would be content with his shaking body and coarse whispers of passion.
Her own body felt so wonderfully malleable and floppy beneath his, as though made of dough, and when he finally rolled, she made no fuss as he hauled her close, stroking her hair.
Alexander’s chest heaved, and she drew a finger down the line of hair, delighting in the tremor it produced.
Closing her eyes, she wondered how she would feel seeing his face on the pillow tomorrow morning?
Tenderness? Contentment… Love?
But her exhausted body didn’t care for such fanciful sentiment and her thoughts drifted away as she fell into slumber.
∞∞∞
The leaden dawn awoke Rakecombe, and he peered at the shutterless window with annoyance.
Where the blazes–
A soft breathing stirred the air and he realised his shoulder was numb. Not unusual as his old wound still gave him gyp, but this time, the cause was a dark-haired siren.
He swiped a hand over his face. Hell, and he thought himself a master of control. All had been well until he’d heard his name on her lips.
The slow lilt had sent desire streaking throughout, including the portion of his brain responsible for restraint, and if she ever found out what that lilt did to him, it didn’t bear thinking about. She’d have him twisted around her little finger.
Murmuring from the corridor distracted him: the maids beginning their duties. He had to leave. If he stayed, he would take her again.
It had happened once more in the night. He’d awoken to soft buttocks brushing his groin, his hand on her breast, her breathing fast, and he hadn’t been able to resist. Caresses had become secondary as he’d plunged his body into hers, and she’d been so ready…
But that was yesterday.
Today, he had to implement the plan and although they would be required to meet for the procreation of an heir, it would be better to keep some distance for a while, to let the blood cool. One night was all he would allow himself for a period of time.
And without doubt, he did need to double his efforts to find this traitor. Informants’ lives depended on it.
Aideen Quinl– Or rather the Duchess of Rakecombe was a distraction he must avoid – for everyone’s safety.
Briefly, he wondered what his sister would have made of his new wife. He had a feeling she would have approved, would have liked Aideen’s boldness and total disdain for his arrogant ways.
But his sister wasn’t here. Her joy silenced forever. And whose fault was that?
No one’s but his.
Honesty, he’d decided all those years ago, was the better option with his family, so they could be aware and alert to the dangers which followed men such as himself. Additional guards for the house, vigilance with strangers and caution in speech would keep everyone safe. But he hadn’t counted on Gwen’s–
Aideen snuffled, and he gently shifted her from his shoulder, denying the possessive thrill as he noticed ruby marks on the curve of her neck and breast. She mumbled into the pillow, something about thighs, but he thinned his lips, forcing the smile away.
Warmth evaporated as he wrenched himself to stand.
Strewn on the floor were his breeches but his shirt had disappeared, and nude, he walked to their adjoining door.
Fleetingly, he recollected that moment of heady carnality when they’d been merged so very deeply. He’d lost his wits, groaned her name, and said he needed…
Needed what exactly?
Stepping through to his bedchamber, he closed the door behind him.
And turned the key.
Chapter Twelve
What can one expect from a pig but a grunt.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, dear? I hope you’re not unhappy?”
Aideen stabbed her liver-tinged sausage and wrinkled her nose.
Unhappy.
That was the understatement of 1815. No, she wasn’t unhappy. She was utterly fuming.
Five days ago, she may have answered Meghan differently. Indeed, she may have even simpered that she was stupendously ecstatic. Now she didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the wrongdoings of her husband. She severed her stringy bacon ruthlessly.
But for starters…
He never dined with her.
He was always out.
He’d spoken to her exactly once.
Bleary-eyed, she had awoken after the wedding night to a stern dictate about bolting her shutters at dusk.
Not being her sharpest at first light, she’d had no witty retorts or scowling reproofs. She’d simply gawked at him, as he’d stood there, all tidily dressed for the day in deepest black, with eyes as aloof and unblinking as a lizard’s.
She recognised such tactics – use dictates to undermine one’s foe. Or wife.
Onto other misconducts…
He’d not visited her bed again.
Deuced man, he’d even locked their adjoining door. A trifling endeavour, of course, as Uncle Seamus had gifted her with a lock-picking device, but it was the intention that mattered.
He ignored her.
And even if they did happen to pass in a hallway, he treated her as if an inanimate object. She’d tried to speak but he’d hurried on, feigned deafness or glared – sometimes all three. She had no wish to live in his pocket, but a “Good Morning, my duchess” might be appreciated once in a while.
He had a man following her.
“Meghan, have you noticed a young, well-built chap lurking around?”
Her mother-in-law helped herself to an extremely runny egg – even the white dashed around.
“Oh, you’ll get used to that. Alex has had a guard trailing me for years. I pretend not to notice the poor fellow, but I often wish to invite him in for tea, especially when it’s raining.”
Aideen harrumphed. She didn’t actually mind the guard – a useful precaution with her husband’s work, but he hadn’t even asked.
Narrowing her eyes, she glared at a portrait of the duke high on the wall, which equally returned her scowl to the breakfast table.
Each night, she’d heard him enter his room extremely late, and then there’d followed all that sloshing noise. It wasn’t a bath – wrong splash – and it wasn’t merely some ewer and basin. It sounded as though he had a personal raincloud in his chambers.
But he never came near her door.
How could she speak to him if he was never here? Ask him if they could possibly attend an event together? Or dine together? Or read? Anything really…
Of course, she knew he was busy spying on people and dealing with matters for the Crown, and that had consoled her until she’d learned from Jack that her husband had attended Lady Rowe’s ball on Tuesday…alone.
Why hadn’t he invited her?
And where were all the other society invites? Post seemed to disappear before she arose.
Was he…ashamed of being seen with an Irish upstart?
The duke had also informed the butler to refuse all house calls until “the duchess had settled in.” But she didn’t feel the need to settle in. The Quinlan household in Ireland was on the large size and she’d been organising that well enough since she’d been old enough to give orders – so around eight years of age, she recalled. In ad
dition, the dowager duchess had been a wonder, calling in for breakfast and chatting about duties and so forth.
Boredom was not the problem as Meghan also had a surprising amount of charities which she patronised, and Aideen was only too happy to help, especially as they focused on hospitals in deprived areas rather than ladies sewing blankets.
No, she was…lonely, used to a busy home full of Uncle’s hounds and relations popping in for home-distilled whisky.
The one caller had been Jack, whom she’d seen more than her husband in the last week. He’d been for tea, for a sherry and taken her to Gunter’s.
She glowered. Perhaps a duchess’s married life was supposed to be like this.
Separate. Cold. Unaffectionate. Lonely…
“Meghan? Did you and your late husband spend much time together?”
“Gracious, yes. He was quite modern and liked to involve me in the accounts and so forth. And we always dined together. And walked together. And rode together. And then the evenings…”
“Oh.”
A caring sage-green gaze drifted her way. “He’s acting a bacon-brained buffoon, isn’t he?”
Spluttering coffee, she nodded.
“Hmm. Plunkett, his man of affairs, will be arriving for their meeting at five today – happens every Thursday. Alex then has a brandy to recover. I suggest you corner him then, when he’s mellowed.”
“But…” Aideen hesitated.
Beneath the fuming was a deep sadness. Now he’d sated his lust, he didn’t want anything to do with her. Bored with his wife after one night – it didn’t say much for her attractions.
Maybe her father was right: her unladylike conduct gave a disgust, her boldness a repellence.
Meghan stood, sauntered over and then leaned on the table in a very un-duchess-like manner. “Aideen, you are beautiful, warm-hearted and such delightful company. It is Alex that is the dullard. And if it is any consolation, he is being a monster to all and sundry. I heard tell he even lost his temper with Lord Winterbourne at Lady Rowe’s ball. He also cut Lady Lucas in the street for waving at him, and apparently his response to Lord Studland when the poor man queried after his welfare in White’s was most ill-mannered. It’s all the gossip.”
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 10
