The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

Just thinking about it made her breath quicken.

  It had been almost a year since the first—and last—time they’d ever made love. That night in Bruges had been terrifying and magical. For years, she had known Edmund was the one for her. That night had been her opportunity to give herself to him.

  Every time she thought back to the feel of hot kisses on her bare skin, she craved to experience it again. To have the sight of his powerful body surging above hers, the scent of sweat and desire intoxicating the air…

  Her nipples tightened and pushed up into her thin linen nightrail. If she were alone with her memories, she might slide her hand down between her legs and dip her fingers where her husband’s shaft had once filled her.

  But she wasn’t alone. She had Edmund.

  She turned slowly, carefully. Just enough to let her knuckles brush against the front of his nightshirt. His skin was hot through the thin linen. His staff, erect.

  Heat flushed her neck and cheeks. She jerked her hand back to her chest, next to her rapidly beating heart. Just because his member was erect did not mean he was dreaming about employing it with her. In Bruges, he had told her that a man’s body often became aroused while he was asleep.

  He had also told her to take full advantage of it.

  Before she could lose her nerve, she turned toward him and touched her hand to his chest. Their thighs now touched, their faces mere inches apart.

  His eyes flew open and he tightened his hold about her waist, pulling her even closer.

  She gasped, but did not pull away. Instead, she clutched his nightshirt in her fist so that if he let her go, she would pull him down with her.

  “Can’t sleep?” he murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

  She blushed, but held his gaze. “Don’t wish to sleep.”

  “Mmm. I can help with that.” A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. His fingertips began to trace lazy patterns up her spine. “Do you have anything particular in mind?”

  “Everything.”

  She sucked in a breath as he slid his fingers into her hair and brought her parted lips to his.

  His mouth was warm and firm. Everything she’d longed for and couldn’t have. Until now. As much as his kisses claimed her, she claimed him, too. He wasn’t just Edmund. He was hers. Her husband. Her soul mate. Her dream come true.

  She ran her fingers up the hard planes of his chest to the wide breadth of his shoulder. His body was leaner than it had once been. Stronger. Harder. The feel of his corded muscles beneath her palms was almost like making love to a different person.

  If he had been a boy then, he was a man now. There was no hesitation in the passion of his kiss, the demands of his tongue. There was no doubt in the possessiveness of the strong hand cradling her head, her hair entwined with his fingers. She could not break the kiss if she wanted to.

  Not that she wished to. She wanted more than mere kisses inflaming her blood. She wanted his big body naked over hers. She wanted to hear him pant with exertion, to feel the sweat on his hot skin as he drove his staff between her legs. She wanted to feel young, and beautiful, and sensuous.

  She wanted to be craved.

  Her body trembled as his hungry kisses lowered to the lobe of her ear, her bare throat. She wanted more. She wanted to feel him everywhere. Already the familiar ache between her legs had her yearning for him to fill her with his shaft.

  She grasped his upper arm. He trapped her hand in his and pushed her wrists back against the pillow. Her heart thundered as his mouth covered the pulse point at the base of her throat and then continued downward toward the loose bodice of her nightrail.

  Instead of releasing her wrists in order to tug the neckline of her nightrail below her breasts, he lowered his open mouth to one of her straining nipples and laved it through the thin fabric. Her back arched at the delicious rasp of soft linen, the wet heat of his mouth.

  When he freed her wrists to slide the hem of her nightrail from her calves to her hips, her blood soared with anticipation. At last, he would bury his shaft within her. At last, he would once again be hers. Heart racing in excitement, she widened her legs to give him easier access.

  Instead of instantly driving within her, he spread her legs with his strong hands and buried his face between them.

  The wicked mouth that had just been on her breast now covered her most private of places. From the first lick of his skilled tongue, pressure began to build within her, demanding release. Each lick, each suckle, had her muscles tensing with desire.

  Eyes shut tight to better experience the onslaught of sensation, she reached down to grasp a handful of his tousled hair. Not to stop him, not to pull him up, but to ensure he stayed right where he was, because the pressure was growing growing growing and her legs were already beginning to quiver with anticipation.

  As his tongue continued its intoxicating pattern, he slipped two of his fingers into her tight sheath, thrusting with every lick.

  She gasped as delirious waves of pleasure rocked through her, clenching her muscles and her toes and leaving her insensate.

  When at last he lifted his mouth from her body, she raised her head to bid him do the same with his rod—and saw that the entire front of her bodice was soaking wet. Mortification flushed her cheeks. Had she been spurting breastmilk while her husband pleasured her?

  With his gaze still focused between her legs, Edmund started to push her nightrail higher.

  She scrambled backward toward the headboard, covering her leaking breasts with one arm as she shoved down the hem of her nightrail with the other. Embarrassment paralyzed her. She couldn’t possibly make love to him like this.

  What had she been thinking? Worse yet would have been the shame if he had divested her of her nightrail. In the past seven weeks, she’d managed to lose most of her excess weight… but her stomach was now flabby, and crisscrossed with white stretch lines. What man would be attracted to that?

  Brow furrowed, he pulled himself into a sitting position. “Is something the matter?”

  She gulped. What wasn’t the matter? She might as well admit it. Theirs was a romance built on physical desire, and her new body was far from desirable. Even to her. She couldn’t bear to disappoint her husband. Not when she wanted his desire so much.

  He tilted his head, his expression confused. “Sarah?”

  A baby’s shrill cry sounded from the nursery.

  “I have to tend to the children.” She scrambled from the bed with alacrity, pausing only to snatch a clean robe from the back of a chair before she flew out the door.

  The white scars striping her belly would never go away, but she couldn’t make love to him like this. A smart woman would wait until the moment was right. Until her body was as close to what it had once been as possible. A smart woman would dress in a provocative gown. Set the scene for a romantic evening. A smart woman would not take the risk of having him turn from her in repulsion. Perhaps extinguish the fire altogether so he could not see what she had become.

  Her hands shook as she clutched the robe to her swollen breasts. She wanted him so much and loved him so deeply. If she bared her soul and he no longer wanted her, her heart would break forever.

  Chapter 17

  Edmund shoved boxes out from under the stairwell until he finally unearthed his missing bottle of cognac.

  He slumped against one of the dusty walls, propped his booted feet atop the closest crate, and uncorked the last few inches of golden liquid. The bottle predated his commission into the army, but a sniff of its contents indicated the contents were just as sweet and fragrant as ever.

  With a sigh, he recorked the bottle and put it back into the box.

  To him, spirits were a celebration. A toast to a new life or a tribute to a job well done. He had a new life, all right, but he didn’t deserve commendation. He deserved castigation. He had pushed Sarah before she was ready.

  The back of his head thunked against the stairwell. Damn it all. He had sworn to himself he would give her time to ad
just to her new home, her new children, her new husband, everything. He had seen what she’d had to suffer to give birth and had no doubt it would take time to recover. She was as beautiful today as the day they’d met, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t still healing. Even if she had reached for him first.

  A distant knock rapped against the front door and Edmund’s body tensed. He supposed that was an improvement. Until recently, his normal reaction to startling noises had become diving for cover lest he be shot in the chest.

  His footman materialized outside the open stairwell door.

  “Don’t tell me.” Edmund pushed to his feet and ducked out of the low cubby. “My parents are back.”

  The footman smiled. “Major Bartholomew Blackpool to see you, sir.”

  Edmund’s twin came into view wearing champagne-shined Hessians, spotless buckskin breeches, an exquisitely carved walking stick, a sapphire blue tailcoat with sparkling gold buttons, a coal black top hat, and an explosion of starched white linen protruding from his neck.

  Bartholomew grinned and affected a formal bow. “Brother.”

  Edmund wiped stairwell dust from his hands to his wrinkled trousers. “Please tell me you’ve come because you’ve missed me, and not because Mother has been overstaying her welcome in London and you want me to do something about it.”

  Bartholomew’s eyes widened. “Did she truly leave Maidstone? I had no idea.”

  Edmund squinted at him. “They were here not a fortnight ago, and I could swear she intended to pay a long visit to you.”

  “Well, she might have intended such, but Daphne and I were in South Tyneside with the miners, then over to Littleport to see about the wheat farmers, and then of course there’s the situation brewing in Manchester…” Bartholomew lifted a shoulder. “Truth be told, we just got back to London this afternoon.”

  Edmund motioned for his brother to follow him to the sitting room. “And your first act upon returning to Town was to visit me? I’m flattered, brother, but should you not be relaxing at home?”

  Bartholomew burst out laughing. “Have you met my wife? Daphne has no idea what relaxing means. ’Twas all I could do to talk her out of inspecting every weaving loom in Lancashire. Now that we’re home, she’s decided we ought to go to Vauxhall to see the orchestra and the fireworks. Any chance you two would like to join us?”

  Edmund’s stomach clenched. “None. I doubt Sarah could bear to be more than a few feet from the twins.”

  Bartholomew flopped into one of the wingback chairs. “I presumed as much.”

  Edmund, on the other hand, was having a moment of doubt. He couldn’t think of anything less relaxing than standing amongst a teeming crush of people while loud explosions sounded overhead.

  Sarah, on the other hand, might find the pleasure gardens a welcome distraction.

  She hadn’t been more than a few feet from the twins since the moment of their birth. Constant proximity had been as much Edmund’s design as any particular requirement of the babies’. They needed to be fed every few hours, but that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t keep a watchful eye on them while she and Edmund took a turn about the park or did a bit of shopping.

  She’d as much as begged him for just such a brief respite and he had refused out of hand. Repeatedly. The streets were dangerous, unpredictable… but to Sarah, they were home.

  Bartholomew leaned forward, frowning. “Is something amiss, brother?”

  Edmund shook his head. Nothing at all was amiss, other than his realization that his wife’s rejection of further advances might not have had anything to do with her physical recovery. After all, she was the one who had initiated the lovemaking. She would not have done so if her body were not ready.

  Thus the problem didn’t lie with her, but with him. Could he blame her? He wasn’t the same man as when he’d first left, or even the same man who’d thought nothing of meeting a lover in Bruges. He was a man who wouldn’t let his wife or children leave their minuscule townhouse. Perhaps Sarah had simply wished to make love to a husband, not a gaoler.

  The staircase creaked.

  Edmund glanced up to see his wife descending the stairs. His jaw tightened. She hadn’t spoken to him since the previous night. She’d waited until he was asleep before returning to the bedchamber, then feigned sleep of her own until he’d quit the room in the morning.

  He hoped this wouldn’t become their new routine. He loved her too much to live like that. But if she was waiting for him to rent a phaeton to go racing on Rotten Row… well, she’d be waiting a long time.

  “Bartholomew!” Sarah’s warm voice was filled with genuine pleasure. “What a lovely surprise. I’ll ring for tea.”

  Edmund’s eyes met Bartholomew’s over the empty table and they both hid smiles. Edmund supposed he couldn’t feel slighted that Sarah hadn’t bothered to ask if he’d already rung for tea… because, of course, he hadn’t. He’d been thinking of her, not his brother.

  “What are you doing in London?” Sarah asked Bartholomew after joining Edmund on the sofa. “I thought Daphne didn’t expect to be back home until late June.”

  She hadn’t? Edmund cast his wife an inquiring glance. Her gaze was fixed on Bartholomew. Edmund frowned and tried not to feel left out. If Sarah wished to correspond with Daphne, she had every right to do so. They had been acquainted for years, and even if they hadn’t, writing letters was likely the sole source of non-baby entertainment to be found inside the townhouse.

  “Yes, well, that was the idea, but…” Bartholomew took a deep breath. “Daphne is going to be a mother.”

  Sarah gasped and clapped her hands together. “That’s splendid!”

  Edmund grinned. “Congratulations, brother.”

  “I’m scared out of my skull.” Bartholomew dropped his head into his hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Edmund arched a brow. “You’re worried it’ll be twins?”

  “I’m worried they’ll be girls,” Bartholomew confessed in terror. “How the devil will I ever keep up with three Daphnes?”

  Sarah laughed. “Well, the first thing to know—”

  “—is that you’re going to do everything wrong,” Edmund finished wryly. “But it will end up just fine.”

  The blood drained from Bartholomew’s face. “Wrong? Like what? Perhaps I can avoid the same mistakes.”

  “Little things. The first time I burped the baby, I had just donned fresh clothes.” Sarah smiled at the memory. “He spit up all over me and I didn’t have another chance to bathe for an hour.”

  Bartholomew recoiled in horror. “He spit up on your clothes?”

  Sarah made a face. “After that, I learned to keep clean rags on my shoulders.”

  “Their drool gets everywhere,” Edmund said with a shake of his head. “They like to gnaw my fingers, my cravat…”

  “My hair, my cheek… One time, even my nose.” Sarah laughed.

  Bartholomew looked appalled. “I will let someone else burp them. Thank you for the sound advice.”

  “And then there’s the baths,” Edmund said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t wear white to—”

  “Hire a nanny.” Sarah made eyes at her husband to leave his dandy brother in peace. Bartholomew would not be able to handle the bath stories. “The biggest difference in our lives was the constant exhaustion. The first few weeks are definitely the most difficult.”

  “I don’t think we slept,” Edmund agreed.

  “I know we didn’t. Remember the time the twins were fussing to be fed, and you accidentally brought me the same one twice?”

  “Or the time you went to put Noah in his cradle and got confused because he was already in there sleeping?”

  “It was Timothy!” She gasped with laughter at the memory and touched her head briefly to Edmund’s shoulder. “How about the time you were so wet with bathwater that you took off your ruined shirt and Noah tried to suckle your nipple?”

  “Or the time you lifted Timothy from the bath and suffered an attack of hyste
ria because you thought his bollocks were missing?”

  “They vanished!” she protested, her face flaming red. “How was I to know cold water has such an effect on young boys?”

  “Tea?” said the footman as he placed the tray on the table with an impressively expressionless face.

  “Have you anything stronger?” Bartholomew asked weakly.

  Edmund smiled. “Old cognac.”

  “Under the stairwell,” Sarah clarified.

  Bartholomew glanced at the open stairwell then back at Edmund’s dusty breeches. “Tea will do.”

  Edmund cocked his head. “I thought you gave up spirits.”

  “I thought this was a fine time to start anew.” Bartholomew accepted a freshly poured cup from Sarah. “How have you managed it?”

  She cast Edmund a tentative smile. “Together, my husband and I can do anything.”

  He reached for her hand before responding to his brother. “At first, I felt like a total failure. I was constantly trying to keep up, trying to guess what the twins needed, trying to recall what I’d already done. I couldn’t keep track of what day it was, much less anything else. But then we got into a routine and things went smoother. The twins were calmer, happier. Even started sleeping longer.”

  “The first time they slept through the night, I panicked,” Sarah admitted. “I was convinced if they weren’t crying, it was because they’d stopped breathing, or that something was wrong. Edmund had to practically shake me out of my hysteria to get me to see they were breathing just fine and had fallen asleep.” She held his hand to her face. “By then, I’d woken them up and they did start crying.”

  “They quieted down right away.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, then turned to his brother. “The point is, people have been having babies for thousands of years. There will be frightening moments and exhausting moments, but more than anything—”

  “—there will just be love,” Sarah finished. “More than your heart can handle. There are no words to describe the awe of holding your newborn infant in your arms.”

  “…or their tiny fist closing about your finger…”