The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

Laughing, they tumbled through the splintered wooden door and into the round room of the turret.

  “Well that did not go as I planned,” Clara laughed, shaking her bonnet, water pooling around her boots on the stone floor.

  “Oh, you did not intend for us to get drenched in a storm?” Andrew teased, winking. “I rather thought you were capable of controlling the weather.”

  “No, darling, that was supposed to be in your part of the vows.”

  “Remind me to make note of that,” Andrew replied, bending down near the hearth.

  The room was circular with a set of stairs along the wall spiraling up to the top of the turret where it opened onto nothing. There was no door leading to the roof, though it thankfully did have a roof. It was a most peculiar building, but for now, Andrew was thankful it was here.

  The room contained a table with a long bench and a hearth built into the rock of the wall. The chimney went up the exterior of the turret, and Andrew hoped it was clear, or any fire they would light would surely fill the room with smoke if some bird or varmint had decided to make the chimney its home.

  There was a scattering of hay and wood, though the fireplace had not been used in some time. At the very least the wood was dry, though he did not have anything to light it with.

  “I don’t see a flint rock or anything to strike a flame with,” Andrew said absently, running his hands along the top of the stone fireplace. “I could use my ring, perhaps.” He twisted his signet ring around his finger, wondering if that would produce enough spark to light the bit of hay in the hearth.

  “Andrew, we don’t need a fire,” Clara said.

  “Clara, we do if we do not intend to freeze,” he replied, turning around to regard her with an amused gaze, but the laughter drained from his face as he took her in.

  Her dark gaze was almost predatory, and he saw reflected in the depths of her eyes the same thing that raged through him all day. Lust, pure unadulterated lust.

  “We don’t need a fire to keep up warm,” Clara amended, taking a step closer to him.

  Tilting up on her toes, she pressed a feather light kiss to his neck, under his jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin along his ear.

  Without overthinking it, Andrew met her lips with his, kissing her deeply, tasting her, taking as much as she was giving, and she was apt to comply. She was a quick learner ,and their previous jaunts into indiscretion had proven her a successful study.

  Winding his fingers in her hair, he pulled the pins free, her pale golden tresses falling free like waves of light around her face, its texture smooth and soft. Andrew pulled his lips from hers, leaning back just a fraction to see her beautiful face and inviting eyes. His hands cradled her face and he ran his thumbs over her cheeks and the pads of her full lips. Her gaze was clouded with desire, as lust and wonderment reverberated through him, knowing he could elicit such a response from her. She was his. Somehow the moon and stars had aligned and forever he would have her. No more dark unending moods that threatened to overtake him; no more refraining from joy and laughter. Her light and beauty was his alone.

  With a possessive and rather feral growl, he recaptured her lips with his, claiming her need as his own. His arms wrapped around her, and he found the bench behind him, stumbling as he pulled her down with him. Her own passions were unsurprising, and he welcomed her onto his lap as she climbed atop him, her legs spreading to straddle him, her skirts soaking wet from the rain bunching around her hips. He was rock hard beneath her, straining against the fall of his trousers.

  Her hands deftly undid his cravat and pulled the fabric from his neck before moving her fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, slipping each circle from its loop, her hands roaming over his chest as each layer was removed. It was not easy, as both his garments were soaked through and unwilling to cooperate, stiff and sticking to his skin, and it took both their skill and laughter, to tug his arms loose.

  “Your blouse is next to go,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “I’ve about as many layers as you do,” she admitted, pressing her breasts to his chest as he fumbled with the loops and buttons at the neck of her blouse, loosening them enough for the garment to slip from her shoulders. His fingers pulled the laces from her stays, Clara’s hot mouth moving along his jaw, her hips grinding against his.

  Running his hands down her back, her blouse fell around her as he pushed the fabric from her shoulders and arms, her breasts bared to him. Her nipples had hardened into little peaks in the cold, or in arousal, and Andrew bent to take one in his mouth. Nipping and sucking, he swirled his tongue around the little bud, Clara’s soft moans and gasps echoing off the stone walls of the turret.

  His mouth found her other breast, and he bit down on it gently, enjoying the way Clara’s breath caught in her throat before turning into a soft moan of pleasure. He suckled, his tongue loving the peak, again and again, kneading her other breast, plump and heavy in his hand. Arching her back, her breast pressed further into his mouth, the other filling his hand as he fondled, his thumb flicking across her taut nipple.

  She was glorious, this little fiancée of his. Her curiosity and passion had him begging to be inside her, but they shouldn’t do this here, now. Clara deserved something more dignified than a rough tumble in a ramshackle old castle turret.

  “Clara, we need to stop,” Andrew said in a harsh whisper.

  “No,” Clara practically growled.

  Andrew tried to stop her hands to dislodge her, but she was much stronger than he realized.

  “Why must we stop?” Clara asked, pulling back to look into his eyes. Her brown eyes were dark with desire, her pink lips swollen from their kisses. “Why must we always stop?”

  “I don’t want to stop, Clara,” he answered, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against hers. “But I am trying to be a gentleman. You deserve much better than a toss on a stone floor. You deserve a bed and a fire and champagne and flowers and more comforts than this turret can offer.”

  Clara kissed him roughly, and he lost himself for a moment.

  “I don’t care what I deserve, Andrew,” she said, nipping his lip as he had done to her. “I care about what I want, and what I want is you. We have our entire lives to enjoy soft beds and fireplaces but this is how I want you now.”

  The little argument Andrew had remaining vanished, and he gave in, claiming her mouth as hungrily as she was his. Clara rocked her hips over his hard erection, pressing into her soft warm center he wanted to bury himself in. If she wouldn’t believe the declaration of his love, perhaps she would believe him in this way.

  “I need to touch you, Andrew,” she whispered in the wake of a moan. Her hands tugged on his shirt ends, freeing the fabric from where it was tucked into his trousers and pulled it over his head.

  Greedily, her eyes roamed over him, her hands trailing down his chest and torso, the muscles in his chest tightening instinctively as her fingers passed over, leaving trails of spark and sensation as they went. Clara bent her head and licked his nipple before glancing up at him. Andrew nodded, and she did it again. Sparks of energy shot down to his erection, pulsing with need for her, to be buried deep in her depths.

  “Darling,” he said hoarsely, pulling her head up capturing her mouth with hungry urgency. She wound her hands around his neck, pressing her breasts to his chest, skin on skin, and it felt glorious. His hand found her under her mass of skirts, skidding a finger along her opening before slipping his finger inside. She was wet and waiting for him.

  She broke off their kiss and buried her face into his neck, a soft moan escaping from her chest as he stroked her deep inside, faster and faster until he could feel her clenching around him in anticipation before she gasped and cried out his name. He quickly tried to undo the folds of his trousers, not even realizing he was trembling until her hand came over his and took the task over.

  He looked up into her brigh
t brown eyes alight with passion and pleasure.

  She kissed him soundly on the mouth, her hands unlacing the folds, taking him in her hand as he sprung free between them. She guided him to her warm opening, teasing the tip inside just enough to feel her moisture, and he groaned with pleasure. As she removed her hand, Clara slid herself onto him, slowly taking him into her, rocking her hips as she went. He watched the pleasure wash across her face, her mouth open as a moan passed across her lips, her head tilted back in abandon. Just watching her take her pleasure almost made him come.

  In one quick movement, he lifted her into his arms, twisting to lay her down on the table behind them, thrusting into her as her heels came up to rest on the flat of the table.

  Christ, Andrew thought but could not manage a verbal accolade, the angle of her hips pulling him deeper inside her. Aided by the height of the table, he thrust into her again and again and again, slowly at first but soon her breathless moans urged him on, her hips rocking with the him and with her own will.

  Andrew was lost. Her glorious release of inhibitions empowered him, and he was no longer in possession of his own actions. He held her hips, delving deeper into her with each rhythmic thrust. With each invasion came a little breathless moan from Clara as she lost herself in their lovemaking. He watched her find her release, her muscles clenching around him, pulsing with ecstasy. He came a moment later, the sight of her pleasure sending him over the edge, his last few thrusts sending his seed deep inside.

  Andrew slumped against her, her arms wound around his neck, holding him close to her heart. He could feel her heart thumping against her ribcage, matched beat for beat by his own.

  Pulling himself from her and tucking himself back into his trousers, he lifted her from the table, her limbs limp in the aftermath of her release, and settled on the floor, leaning against the wall. Clara’s eyes fluttered open, still stormy with their passion and found his, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. Andrew leaned forward to press a soft kiss onto her forehead. She smiled softly and closed her eyes again, curling up beside him.

  Andrew leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head, but he was still stimulated and pulsing from their lovemaking. Their first time had not been an anomaly, as he had feared. His desire for her had not waned, even the slightest. Never had he experienced anything quite like what he did with Clara. Perhaps it was the love and care he felt for this woman, but there was something about her that made him pause and forget himself. Glancing at Clara’s face awash with peace, it made him warm, but not aroused. He never thought he would care this much for another person, never thought he could love someone as he did her.

  “What was this Clara?” he asked, hesitantly, worried his query would break the spell cast over the turret ruins. “What was today?”

  Clara sighed softly. “A reminder, I think,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of what it felt like to be loved. A chance to trust it is all real.”

  “It is real for me,” he whispered. Andrew wrapped an arm around her and rested his head atop hers, breathing in her lovely rosewater scent.

  If today did not convince her that his feelings were true, he did not know what more he could do.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The following morning Andrew stood with Clara and Patrick just outside the parsonage adjacent to the parish church in Petersfield, a two-hour drive west from Foley Cottage. The dwelling was not in the best repair and looked as though it needed a new roof, at the very least.

  Andrew rapped his knuckles on the weathered wooden door and took a step back, smiling encouragingly at Clara. She took a deep steadying breath, attempting to wrangle control of her nerves.

  A plump older woman opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron and blinked up at them. She looked from Clara to Andrew, then past him to where his carriage stood at the end of the drive.

  “May I help you?” she asked, holding her hand to shield her face from the sun.

  “Yes, madam, I wonder if perchance you could be of assistance?” Clara asked sweetly. “We are in search of someone, and were told they might have lived here in the recent past.”

  The woman looked back and forth between the two gentleman and Clara before opening the door wider. “Please come in, and we can see if we can find who you are in search of.”

  “Thank you,” Clara said and stepped inside, followed by Patrick. Andrew nodded to the woman before ducking inside after Clara. They were led to a drawing room that looked as though it also doubled as a music room. It was a small room, and the large pianoforte made it a tight fit but Clara and Patrick took a seat on a worn, rose-print embroidered sofa. Andrew chose to remain standing.

  “Who would you be looking for?” the woman asked.

  “Our sister, Lady Christina Masson,” Clara replied.

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she nodded, her eyes misting. “Yes, of course, I should have known. You look just like her. Let me fetch the missus.”

  Clara turned to look at Andrew, her blond eyebrow rising above her eye.

  “At least we know we’re in the correct place,” Patrick said.

  “Indeed,” Andrew replied and set his arm against the mantle. It wobbled a bit and Andrew removed his arm, worried the whole thing might fall.

  A few moments later a gentle looking woman came bustling in, hair loosely tied back in a bun, and more grey hair than there was brown. She was an older woman, but her face was kind and tired. She smiled warmly at them.

  “Hello,” she said politely and Clara rose from her chair. “I am Mrs. Roberta Willis, the reverend’s wife.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Willis,” Clara said and dipped into a slight curtsy. “I am Lady Clara Masson. My brother Lieutenant Patrick Masson. My fiancé, the Duke of Bradstone.”

  Mrs. Willis, to her credit, did not miss a beat. She curtsied, wincing as though it hurt her joints to do so. “It is a pleasure, your grace. Welcome to Petersfield. My housekeeper tells me you are looking for someone?”

  Clara nodded. “Yes, our sister in fact. We were informed she may have resided here?”

  The housekeeper came in with a tray of tea, setting it down nervously down on the table, the porcelain clinking.

  “Will you take tea?” Mrs. Willis asked.

  “That would be lovely,” Clara said. Andrew and Patrick declined.

  Preparing their tea allowed for Mrs. Willis to gather her thoughts, Andrew realized, watching her hand shake as she poured the heavy pot of tea in an attempt at civility, not looking up at either one until she had finished. After handing Clara her cup, the reverend’s wife sat back in her chair and Andrew reassessed his assumptions. The woman looked exhausted, he realized. And she was much older than he had originally guessed, putting her age closer to his grandmother than his aunts’. Her dress was tidy, simple brown for day wear, but it hung heavily on her thin frame.

  “I knew your sister, my lady,” the reverend’s wife said softly and looked down sadly into her tea cup.

  “We truly mean her no harm, madam,” Clara said. “We only wanted to inquire about her wellbeing.”

  “I’m afraid that is not possible,” Mrs. Willis said. “She has passed on.”

  Clara set her cup down. “Yes, we were informed. But recently we have learned she did not die when we were told she had.”

  “Yes, but since then she has, in fact, died.”

  Clara’s brow furrowed, and Andrew could sense her frustration.

  “Perhaps if you told us what happened, we might better understand,” Patrick suggested.

  The older woman nodded, taking another sip of her tea, the cup clattering on the saucer as she replaced it before setting it on the table.

  “When we first met Christina, she told us her name was Tilly,” Mrs. Willis began. “That was just over three years ago. As good Christians, we could not in good heart leave her on
the street. From what I understand she was trying to get to Portsmouth and from there I have no idea what she planned. We could tell Tilly was a young girl in trouble, so we brought her here and bathed her and it was that night she birthed her daughter. Tilly barely gave us any information about herself and we let her keep her peace, knowing she was running from someone. It was not our place to force her to tell us. She stayed with us for a few months, she and her sweet baby girl, but Tilly never fully recovered from childbirth, physically or mentally. She was sad and broken and there was nothing we could do for her. We prayed, hoping she would find salvation, find purpose and meaning for her life.” Mrs. Willis paused and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, sighing as she continued. “Tilly had a difficult time with the rain in the spring and fell ill one day and never recovered from the fever.”

  “When did she pass?” Andrew asked, handing her his handkerchief as hers was running out of dry corners.

  “A year ago, this past March,” Mrs. Willis replied. “Seeing you is like seeing her here once again.”

  “And what of her daughter?” Clara asked. “Do you know where we could find her?”

  Mrs. Willis nodded. “She went into town with the reverend. They should return any moment.”

  Clara sat up straighter. “She’s here?”

  “Of course she’s here,” Mrs. Willis said. “We could not bear to send the child away after her mother passed, and we’ve come to love her as our own. It is just . . .” Mrs. Willis paused again, wringing her hands in Andrew’s handkerchief.

  “Just what, Mrs. Willis?” Andrew prompted.

  The reverend’s wife dabbed at her eyes again. “You see, the reverend and I are getting on in years. Sometimes it is difficult to keep up with a three-year-old. She has a tremendous amount of energy.” Even as she chastised the young girl her eyes were filled with warmth and adoration. “And this . . . this is not the place for a young girl. We have not the funds to pay for an education, and she’s a bright little thing. One of the women in town offered to teach her with her own children, but we worry that will not be enough for the young girl.”