Linnette, The Lioness

by Lavinia Kent

  “In any case . . .” She coughed a little, and he could almost hear her shaking her head to clear it. “I never knew how he felt about becoming the duke. It is hard to catch those nuances in correspondence. I suppose he must have felt strange about it. It was quite unexpected when he inherited. He was the son of my husband’s youngest uncle. It was never thought that he would inherit. Everybody always imagined that Charles and I would . . .”

  “. . . that you would have children. You can say it. I expected it also. It was so unlike Charles to catch a fever and be dead three days later. When I was a boy he seemed invincible.”

  “Yes, I know. I felt the same.” Her soft footsteps moved closer, until he could see the tips of her slippers.

  They were a bright pink. Despite everything, it was enough to make him smile. With hair the color of a copper penny Linnette had never been able to wear pink. He could remember her crying about it as a girl. She must have decided that her feet were far enough from her hair to make the color allowable.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how carefully you changed the subject. I still want to know both why you left England and why you didn’t want to return. Why did you leave me alone for so long after Charles died? If you had come back then, perhaps we could truly have been together—it would have not have seemed so odd. You would not yet have been duke and we could have gone away, quietly.” She took another step toward him, clearly demanding an answer.

  “From what I hear you weren’t always alone. You mentioned Harrington.” He wished he could call back the words the moment they escaped his lips. He kept his eyes focused on those raspberry slippers.

  She stepped back, as if slapped. “That was uncalled for. Do you claim there were no other women the whole time you were away? I would be quite sure that they numbered—numbered far greater than the men I—I kept company with.”

  He lifted his head, finally, and stared into her large, green eyes. “I am sure you are correct, Linnette. I have never claimed to be a saint. It is quite unfair that I would expect differently of you.”

  “I wish that I could say there had only been you, James.” Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it. “When I first gave myself to you I was sure I would never have another lover. You were my one and only—my always.”

  “And then I left.”

  “Yes. Then you left me.”

  Could he tell her why he had gone? That, he did know the answer to. The need for secrecy was long past. Still, was there any purpose in it? It would only hurt her, make her feel betrayed by those she trusted.

  “Did your parents ever speak to you about my leaving?” he asked.

  “No, not that I recall—at least not beyond stating it as a matter of fact. My mother was far too busy planning my coming out and then my betrothal ball to have thoughts of anything else.”

  “And your father?”

  “No.” She looked thoughtful a moment. “Although there was a day a few months after you left, just before my actual coming out, that he pulled me aside and asked me if I needed to contact you. I never did understand why.”

  James understood all too well. Her father had been well aware of the physical nature of their relationship and had certainly been trying to determine if he’d left behind any unwelcome gifts. He was surprised that Linnette had not understood the conversation—if not then, later. She was not a naive or innocent woman any longer.

  “Why are you asking me all these questions? What do my parents have to do with your leaving?”

  Had she truly never understood that either? He would have thought it the most logical of answers. It was part of why he had followed her father’s directions and left such a simple note. He had always imagined that she would figure it out on her own.

  Did she not understand how much her father had wanted her to become a duchess?

  “Oh, what does it matter now?” He said it as a simple fact, with not a trace of avoidance or anger in his voice. “Why do we not go back to what caused this whole mess?” He strode around her and picked up the crumpled paper she’d left sitting on the table.

  He smoothed out the pieces, fitting the halves together.

  “What do we do about this?” he asked.

  He was avoiding her questions—as he always did. No, that was unfair. He had not avoided them these past weeks because she had not asked. She, too, had been happy to deal only with the day-to-day details needed to help him take over the estates, happy to let all else get smothered in the heat of their passion.

  Oh, she had not asked because she too had been content to live only in the present or in the distant past of their joint childhood—the years in between off limits—they had both been afraid of the answers to these questions.

  Suppressing a sigh, Linnette walked over and stared down at the torn sheet of paper. She’d spent so many years being respectable. It was true that she’d had some discreet fun as well, but it had always been discreet. There was not a home in all of Mayfair that was not open to her.

  And now this.

  Two cartoons in just over a week—and this second one she deserved.

  Two cartoons that seemed to have no purpose save to ruin her life.

  She laid her hand on the paper, smoothing it further. Elizabeth. She still did not want to think her long-time friend could be behind this, but who else could it be? She knew Elizabeth believed she had deliberately stolen James from her—although she could not understand the logic behind the thought. Yes, Elizabeth had said she felt ready to take a lover. Yes, Elizabeth had indicated that the new duke just might do. But none of that made James hers—even if she hadn’t known of Linnette’s past with James. And Linnette certainly could not help what had happened between her and James—if she could have she most certainly would have. She did not like feeling she had so little control.

  She shook her head to clear it. Such thought was unproductive.

  Lifting her eyes, she met James’s topaz gaze. “I don’t know what to do. I suppose that is why I am so angry. Denial will only bring more talk.”

  “That does seem to be the same the world over.”

  She stepped further away. There really was only one answer. It was the one that she had been considering all morning, the one she wanted. So why was it so hard to say the words? “The best answer may be for us to stay apart. It is time for you to move into this house. It is the duke’s residence. You have lodged at the hotel long enough.”

  “That, I will agree with. It does seem reasonable for me to move in. If I am going to be the duke, I should start living as one.”

  “And I will move out. Perhaps I will return to Dovecroft Court and begin to move my belongings to the dower house. If I leave during the season, it will be very clear there is nothing between us.”

  “You cannot leave.” He stepped forward, following her, his presence fanning the flames she was fighting to keep banked. “If you leave Town, everyone will wonder if you are hiding.”

  “Perhaps, but it is the best solution. I will have to be seen again in a few months so that all can see my waistline is still slender—or perhaps I’ll invite guests to come to the country with me. I’ll choose a gossiping old biddy and then everyone will know that there was nothing to the cartoon.”

  “You can’t leave.” He moved again, gaze locked on her, his eyes telling a story all their own.

  She held her ground. “It is the most sensible thing. I certainly cannot stay in this house with you. That would be beyond adding fuel to the fire. It would be adding gunpowder.”

  He took one more step, but then stopped. “I don’t care—and neither should you. We will know the truth.”

  “And the truth will be that they are all correct. We were lovers—we have sex—frequently.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand. You may have lived in the wilds for years, but you were not raised by wolves.”

  “No, I was raised by my stepfather, a vicar who never looked beyond the walls of his library, and
my older sister, who has never once been ten miles from the town where she was born. I think wolves might have cared more about society.” He was glaring at her now, the muscles in his cheek clenched tight.

  Her own temper rose again in response, her whole body readying for the fight. She felt the heat growing within her, demanding a release, any release. At least with a fight she felt some control, some power. “You still know exactly what I mean.”

  “You are right. I do know. I just do not care. Why be a duke if I can’t bloody well do what I want?”

  Had he grown taller? It certainly seemed that way.

  Linnette would not be cowed. She tilted her chin up and narrowed her eyes. “What do you bloody want?”

  His eyes dropped to her breasts, which she could feel heaving against her simple gown.

  “Besides that?” she said, forcing her voice to remain quiet.

  “What if I just want you and I don’t care who knows it?” He stepped even closer, the buttons of his shirt almost brushing against her.

  “You’ve already had me—and left me. I promise that I am not worth the scandal.” Her breath caused the loops of his cravat to ripple.

  “And if I think you are? That we are?”

  “Then what are you proposing—marriage? Should I take this as a true proposal? Last time you got down on bended knee.”

  She could feel the breath leave him.

  “And if I am?”

  And then it happened—she did not mean it to—she tried to suppress it—but still it came. Laughter bubbled up out of her, hard, frantic, uncontrollable laughter that cost too much to be suppressed and hurt too much to be stopped.

  She could not control it, could not breath through the feelings that bubbled from within. The force of emotions that had been held in check for the morning, for the last weeks, for the eight years since he left, all took hold of her at once, bending her forward, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Me, marry you?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  She was laughing at him. He’d proposed, something he’d done but once before in his entire life, and she laughed—she actually giggled and tittered—and something else that sounded rather like the braying of a donkey.

  She was laughing at him.

  He’d never stood much on masculine pride, but hurt and anger were rapidly replacing what little control he had left. The pain and desire of nearly a decade coalesced in a single moment.

  He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her forward, pressing her breasts tight against his chest.

  He stared down at her—at the laughter still tumbling from her.

  And he kissed her, giving in to the desire that had been plaguing him all morning, that inability to keep his hands off her.

  What else was a man to do?

  His lips met hers, hard, determined, engulfing. Holding her even tighter he ground his mouth down upon hers. This was for him. She was his and it was bloody well time she knew it.

  Her hands came up, pressing upon his chest, scratching his neck, and he didn’t care.

  Better a lioness, a hellcat, than a laughing shrew.

  She bit him.

  He nipped back, catching her lush lower lip between his teeth and exerting just enough pressure to hold her captive.

  Oh, she was not laughing now.

  She twisted, trying to catch his lip. He held her back. He was the master now. This time it was not a game. She was his.

  Her shoulders pulled back, her knee came up—he pulled her tighter. Then slid his arms lower, settled them about her well-rounded ass and lifted her off her feet, drawing her legs about his hips, settling her just where he wanted her.

  She bit at him again. He tasted blood. Hers? His? It did not matter.

  He slid his tongue into her mouth, daring her to bite him harder.

  Her head pulled back again, but only enough that she could stare into his eyes. He could see passions of all kinds kindled there.

  And then flames took over both of them.

  Lips pressed to lips, tongues danced.

  His neckwear was gone. Her dress gaped open, tempting him.

  He tore his mouth from hers, and bent awkwardly, burying his face there, in her breasts, thinking he could die in this moment and not regret it.

  Damn, her dress was still too tight. He wanted to work it free, but his hands were well filled with squirming, wiggling woman, woman pressing tight exactly where he wanted to be pressed. He thrust his hips forward and felt the response run through her. He thrust again.

  The table. That heavy table that had held his weight without a creak.

  He turned, settling her upon it. Her legs were still tight about his hips and he leaned forward just enough to secure her to the surface. One of his hands slipped forward, pulled at the lacings of her dress until all was bare before him.

  Her nipples stood proud, her full breasts rising and falling with speed. What more could a man want, need?

  He bent, catching one of those darkened peaks between his teeth, and then drew it deep into his mouth, feasting, devouring, claiming.

  She was his. He hoped he marked her, hoped that his claim would be as visible as it was real.

  Panting, her head thrown back, she lay spread before him. It was a matter of seconds to push her skirts high, to unfasten the fall of his pants—one further thrust—and heaven. She was so ready for him, her hot, wet body closing about him, drawing him in. Nothing had ever felt so good, so needed.

  He moved, back and forth, fast and slow, enjoying the sounds of their bodies, the sigh of lips, the slap of flesh.

  Harder and harder.

  He opened eyes he had not realized he had closed and found her staring up at him, her eyes almost black with want. She braced her arms behind her and thrust up with her hips—driving him for her own pleasure, her own desires.

  And then she tensed, her head thrown back again even as her body lifted—and clenched, and clenched again. She was biting her own lips, hard, in an attempt not to cry out.

  That would not do. He ground harder, added the twist that he knew she could not resist—and listened as his name echoed through the room.

  And then it was all about him. He closed his eyes and let everything go but sensation.

  Again and again he moved—blocking out all but his pleasure, the driving need.

  And then it came—the world spreading and then tightening to that one pinpoint before it all burst free.

  He felt her name rise within him, but he held it back—not now—not—

  A last single burst—and then collapse.

  He lay upon her, his chest heaving with the desire for air. The soft breeze of her breaths blew across him, cooling him.

  He drew himself up, stared down at her as she lay more beautiful than he’d ever seen her—her passion spent, only softness remaining.

  He wanted to ask again—but masculine pride would not allow it.

  Laughter echoed through his mind.

  Bloody hell.

  He quickly fastened himself up, pulled off his ruined cravat, stuffed it in a pocket—and turned away.

  He did not look back until he’d slammed the door behind him.

  He was gone. Linnette knew it before his weight left her, before he stayed silent, before the door slammed behind him.

  Her laughter had brought them to this, to the mindless release of the passion that lay between them.

  And she had nothing to say. How could she call back words she had not said? How could she make him listen to words he would not want to hear?

  She’d agreed to marry him once—almost nine years ago.

  She’d let her heart fill with joy until it almost burst within her chest.

  She’d let her world be perfect—and then he’d left.

  Left with only a few words scribbled on a piece of paper—left without a care or a thought.

  She’d said “yes” once. She never would again.

  The cost was just too high.

  She slid down the table until he
r feet found purchase on the floor. She shook out her skirts, while trying to shake sense into herself. She’d done the right thing. It might have been unintentional, but she’d sent James away. She hadn’t meant to hurt him in the process, but perhaps there had been no other way.

  She shoved her breasts into place, rapidly refastening her laces. She’d put on this gown this morning simply because it was fast and comfortable and she’d been unable to bear stillness. Now, she could only be glad she did not require help. James had certainly not bothered to wait and see if she did.

  A tear formed at the corner of her eye and she brushed it away, wishing she could pretend that it was left over from her mindless laughter. It was not.

  James always waited to see if she needed help. He brought her damp cloths and wiped her clean. He lay sweet kisses upon her back as he fastened her up or—on those few occasions that he’d slipped in after dark—he smoothed her pillows and shook the sheets to grant her a comfortable night’s sleep.

  He always showed her every care and consideration.

  Not this time.

  This time she could have been a dockside doxy for all the attention he showed.

  Another tear. This one slipping down her cheek before she could stop it.

  This was what she wanted, what she needed.

  She could not have him, therefore she must be free of him.

  She would have the maids pack her things and then leave. Leave James to this grand house and—and to everything. Her whole life was here—and now she didn’t know what she had.

  She sniveled.

  And that was enough to stop her.

  She was Linnette Sharpeton, the Dowager Duchess of Doveshire.

  She did not snivel and certainly not over a man.

  Yes, she would go to the country and retire for a while, but she would not do it with undo haste or hurry. A few more days in Town would help ensure that nobody paid any attention to these vile comics. She would walk in the park, buy herself a new ball gown—as slimly cut as fashion would allow—and she would show them all that nothing had changed.