Duchess Decadence

by Wendy Lacapra

  Her jaw dropped. “She did not.”

  “She did! Although I might have insinuated we would be doomed, were she in the right.”

  A rare dimple appeared. “Conversation was never your best suit.”

  “Not with you.”

  She turned thoughtful. “Why is that, Wynchester?”

  Why, indeed. As much as he wished to shrug away her question, if they could not share passion, they could, at least, share honesty.

  He laid his hand over hers. “Unlike all others, you’ve asked nothing of me.”

  “Perhaps I have not asked you for anything.” Her gaze fixed on his hand. One by one, she threaded her fingers into his. “Does it follow that I wanted nothing?

  “No.” He’d known this truth forever, even when he had stubbornly refused its implications. “It follows you wanted everything.”

  She lifted her eyes and studied him in silence. Distant images cascaded through his mind, from the very early—Thea Marie stifling a giggle after he bowed over her hand. Thea Marie passing him on his horse, black braids coming loose and flying in her wake. To the middle, following his father’s hasty-remarriage—she, beset with sympathy, he ashamed and distant. To their wedding night—awkward and silent and yet with a startling, almost alchemical affinity.

  She had wanted what he might have been able to give, had his father’s disgrace not forced a change, of course. When he was Lord Haddon, he might have become her knight errant. Once he became Wynchester, he had more pressing concerns.

  “I was young.” She startled him out of reverie. “I had romantic fancies.”

  He’d smothered those fancies with sanctimonious pride.

  “Have you been cured of your fancies, Duchess Decadence?”

  “I thought so.” Her gaze fell to his lips while hers parted, unconsciously inviting. “Of late, I suspect my inoculation incomplete.”

  Further thought drained with a downward blood-rush, part pain, and part pleasure. Sweet Swithin, he wanted her. She wet her lips. He hallucinated musk. Or, perhaps the scent was real. A rip of the sheet and a tear of her shift and they’d both be on their way to satisfaction long-denied.

  But something more than the potential trouble Eustace implied held him back. They missed a key ingredient to mix mortar strong enough to weather future storms…and there would be storms. Fury and quip lived in both of their natures.

  “Earlier,” he said, “you asked if I truly wished you to behave.”

  That searching look of hers would be his death. “I did.”

  “I don’t believe I have ever misbehaved…not since becoming Wynchester.”

  “What a surprise.” Her unsurprised gaze remained steady.

  “With you,” he adjusted his legs, “I find I very much want to misbehave.”

  Her sly smile noted his discomfort. “You have just told me it cannot be.”

  He groaned again. “It cannot be for now. However, we can discover other things. Things we missed before.”

  “What did we miss?” she asked.

  “Like I said, you missed a proper courtship.”

  Her brows lifted with amusement. “Replete with conversation?”

  He nodded. “Replete with conversation.”

  “You intend to properly court me with conversation,” she said, as if her tongue were rolling over foreign words.

  “Yes,” he said with a certainty he did not feel.

  “Wyn, this cannot turn out well.” The sheet fell away as she stretched. She settled her hand on his mid-thigh. “Are you sure you haven’t a better idea?”

  “Minx.” He cupped her cheeks.

  “Be careful,” she said, all seriousness. “The Duke of Wynchester allows no one to disparage his Duchess.”

  “Thea Marie,” he sighed, “you entice me beyond control.”

  She hummed. “A tolerable start to courtship. Better than minx, anyway.”

  Had he actually thought she would make this easy? “Lady Randolph suggested I stick to weather.”

  She leaned forward. The valley between her breasts begged for his gaze. “It is hot.” Her soft breath fanned his cheeks. “Or, maybe it is your leg which is over-warm.”

  “We are on dangerous ground.”

  “Just a kiss, Wyn.” Her eyelids slid down. “Misbehave for me.”

  Had he said she enticed him? He should have said entranced.

  Her parted pink mouth sent a plea he could not ignore. He lowered his lips to hers—one, long kiss formed of the sum of several lazed caresses. He savored her taste, while gently granting his own. She was ripe-cherry sweet. In the end, he caught her bottom lip lightly in his teeth, just enough to revel in her texture and softness. Reluctantly, he moved away, though he continued to hold her face. With his thumbs, he traced her cheek bones as he dropped a second kiss atop her slim, aristocratic nose.

  This sentiment was something infinitely more dangerous than the frustrated fury that had carried him drunkenly to her side. The sentiment was—sweet bloody Swithin—ardor.

  Misbehave, indeed. He was heading hell-bent for destruction. And he was happier than he’d been since his days as Haddon. And like his nights as Haddon, he must return to his chamber and use the time-honored, lusty-youth stroke before he could find sleep.

  “Good night, Thea Marie,” he said, placing a final kiss to her forehead.

  “Goodnight, Wyn.” Her private name wrapped him up and added a bow.

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his banyan as he rose. At the door, he turned back.

  “Your dress—and you in it—were perfection.”

  She beamed. A heady rush filled his veins.

  He could get used to that feeling.

  …

  Thea slept late and awoke to rare rays of London light tripping across her face. She massaged an ache in her right shoulder with her left hand, and the evening came flooding back—the dress, the insufferable Marchioness, her dance with Wynchester, Eustace’s warning and, finally, Wynchester’s visit.

  She must have slept without moving, because the place he’d sat bore a faint depression. She bent forward and laid her cheek on the sheet. Warm hands, sweet kisses, tender words—the sum of which was reason to hope, could she be free of the ever-looming shadow cast by Eustace.

  A light knock sounded on the door to the corridor and she sat straight.

  “Good morning, Ma’am,” Polly said as she entered, “or rather, a good afternoon.”

  Thea smiled, the rough edge of Polly’s accent had been steadily fading in the past few weeks. “Good day, Polly.”

  “Mr. Bates sent a message,” the maid continued. “The duke and his brother wish to ride in Hyde Park and if you…” She paused, rocked back on her heels, and winced. “I’ve forgotten the rest.”

  “That is all right. London ways are not yet familiar. Let me guess—the duke will delay, if I wish to join them for the fashionable hour.”

  “Yes,” Polly brightened. “Aren’t you clever?”

  If only she were. “Simple tradition, I am afraid. Ladies are somewhat scarce before five.”

  “How shall I reply?” Polly asked primly.

  She was touched by his offer, truly so…but she had good reason to decline, and what harm could Eustace do amid the crowds in Hyde Park? “Tell Bates to convey my thanks, but I have a prior engagement.”

  Polly looked between the door and her mistress. “You’ll want to be dressed, then.”

  “First, deliver the message, then return and help me dress.”

  “Right,” Polly gave a quick curtsey and was gone.

  There was something about Polly that Thea liked. An all-too-familiar pluck, she supposed…And, of course, she had sympathy for the coming child.

  When the Furies lived together, they had economized by sharing a Lady’s maid. But Polly had helped Sophia out of a rough bit of trouble and, in return, Sophia had asked Emma to find the girl a position. Knowing no one would have taken a maid in Polly’s condition—especially after learning the source—Th
ea interceded. Inwardly, she cursed the libertine who had left the young woman without a farthing and swore to make arrangements when Polly’s time came.

  On the maid’s return, she made quick work of Thea’s hair. Thea chose a blue block-print gown dotted with lovely red roses. Polly draped a sheer eyelet fichu over her shoulders, and crossed it over her gown.

  Feeling the wisps of what she had once heard a French doctor call nostalgia—Thea chose a broach depicting Wynterhill to pin the covering below her breasts. She asked Polly how she looked.

  “Coo,” Polly breathed. “You are lovely when you’re fancy, ma’am, but this is so much better.”

  “Really?” Thea asked.

  Polly nodded. “You look…” she shrugged, “fresh.”

  Fresh. She checked her reflection. A certain brightness did light her features—a result of the challenge in her veins, she decided.

  Eustace had threatened her, but instead of driving his intended wedge, his warning had brought her and Wynchester close. How to increase that intimacy without breaking Wynchester’s rule was foremost in her mind. She needed the Furies.

  She was still wondering how to raise the topic when she settled down with the Furies inside the afternoon sitting room. Bates departed, closing the door to prying ears, and Lavinia obliged them both by leaning forward.

  “So?” Lavinia asked, “Are you going to tell us about last night?”

  “There have been,” Thea tapped her fingers on the table, “complications.”

  “I do not understand,” Lavinia said.

  Sophia, always direct, asked, “Wynchester came to your bed, didn’t he? After your dance, I thought it certain.”

  “He came,” Thea said. “But he insisted the time was not right to…act as man and wife.”

  Lavinia and Sophia tilted their heads in unison while Thea sought an appropriate method of steering the conversation. She eyed Lavinia with searching interest.

  “Lavinia, when you use the passage from the dowager’s house to Max’s bed chamber, do you and Mr. Harrison…?”

  Lavinia raised her brows. “Act as man and wife?”

  Thea nodded.

  “Of course we do.”

  The secret cabinet had been the reason Thea asked Wynchester to allow the Furies to take refuge with his mother-in-law. That Lavinia used it on a nightly basis was no secret—at least between The Furies. Lavinia’s estranged husband had been recently murdered, and, while still technically in mourning, she and Mr. Harrison could not wed. Lavinia had no other way to meet with her love. Thea had never considered unintended consequences of such meetings. Until now.

  “Aren’t you concerned about,” Thea swallowed, “the possible effects of your meetings?”

  “Emma is discreet,” Lavinia replied. “And only my maid, Max’s valet, and the butler are aware.”

  “I speak,” Thea lowered her voice to a whisper, “of pregnancy.”

  “I take care, of course.” A light blush dusted Lavinia’s cheeks. “And should an accident occur, we have decided on a remedy: we will abandon our mothers’ joint wish for a spring wedding and obtain a special license.”

  “One can reduce the risk, Thea,” Sophia added.

  “How?” Thea asked.

  “For one,” Lavinia said, “A man can withdraw before he releases his seed.”

  “Inadvisable.” Sophia said. “One cannot always depend on a man’s control.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ve heard tell of the use of sheep guts to prevent the seed from entering.”

  All three ladies’ mouths puckered with revulsion.

  “Control Wyn has,” Thea said, “but he was clear. He will not take the risk.”

  “What risk?” Lavinia and Sophia asked in unison.

  She sighed. “For the sake of my honor, Wynchester has declared he will not come to my bed until enough time has passed to prove that any child is his.”

  “Children come early.” Lavinia frowned. “Is he suggesting months of celibacy?”

  Thea nodded. “And worse, in the interim he intends to take up someone’s suggestion,” she flashed Sophia a reproving look, “that he court me with conversation.”

  Sophia covered her mouth, but did not quite stifle her laugh.

  “That,” Thea continued, “I cannot survive.”

  “Well,” Lavinia supplied helpfully, “Just because you cannot—” she halted and frowned. “Goodness there are inconvenient limitations to a lady’s vocabulary.”

  “The word you are looking for,” Sophia leaned in, “is fuck.”

  “Really, Sophia,” Lavinia scolded.

  “It’s a fine word. A solid word.” Sophia inhaled. “A manly and hard—”

  “Stop!” Thea said, laughing.

  “Very well, my prudish dears,” Sophia said. “May I suggest using ‘coupling’ as an alternative?”

  “Much better,” Lavinia said primly. “As I was saying, just because you do not intend to couple, does not mean you need to deny all pleasures.”

  Thea warmed from toes to cheeks. “Can you describe these other pleasures?”

  Lavinia and Sophia exchanged a significant glance.

  “You lived with Wynchester for years,” Sophia said. “Please tell me you have experience with such things.”

  “Wynchester and I…” Thea lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug, “…we acted as he thought was proper.”

  Sophia raised her right brow and said in a dry voice, “You said his charms were not the problem.”

  “They aren’t,” Thea insisted. “Our coupling was pleasant enough. Well, after the first time.” She hit the table hard enough for the teacups to rattle. “Truly. I did look forward to his visits.”

  “Very well, dearest,” Sophia soothed. “Then, what is the matter?”

  Thea flashed her a dark look. “His visits were restricted to coupling.”

  “Just coupling?” Lavinia asked. “No kisses?”

  “A few,” Thea said weakly.

  “No caresses?” Sophia asked.

  “He held,” she blushed, “my hips.”

  “Oh dear,” Lavinia said.

  “I would have thought,” Sophia said, “I mean, from the way his eyes were devouring you last night…”

  “That’s just it,” Thea said. “I think, no I know, he wants more, too. Perhaps he believes there are ways he should not act with a lady. Or, perhaps he does not have the skill.” She set her elbow on the table and her chin on her wrist. “How does a man become a rakehell, anyway?”

  “I am not sure,” doubt weighted Lavinia’s voice, “you wish Wynchester to become a rakehell.”

  Thea glared. “Well, rake is the only word I know for that sort of talent. I’m not concerned with the breadth of a rake’s experience but of the level of his skill. How does a man acquire such skill?”

  Lavinia shrugged. “I never considered.”

  “Yes,” Thea said dully, “the two of you need not consider, happily paired as you are.”

  “We can figure out the answer.” Sophia patted the table. “Experience, perhaps?”

  Thea shook her head no. “Experience cannot be right. Wyn must have come to my bed a hundred times. Each equally pleasant, all vaguely unsatisfying.”

  “Variety, then.” Sophia suggested.

  Lavinia hummed a note a disagreement. “Max hasn’t a wide range, and,” she sent Thea an apologetic look, “his skill is very fine.”

  “Randolph had the reputation of a rakehell,” Thea said. “What is his secret?”

  “I asked.” Sophia’s cheeks darkened in a rare blush. “He would not answer.”

  Thea narrowed her eyes. “What did Randolph say, Sophia?”

  Her blush deepened. “He would say only that he expected to hone his talents to a very specific end.”

  “How fortunate for you,” Thea said in a distinctly uncharitable tone.

  “Wait!” Lavinia held up her finger and closed her eyes. “Maybe, Randolph gave us our answer.” Her secret little smile spoke
volumes about the images playing in her mind.

  “Stop that,” Thea said jealously.

  Lavinia raised her brows. “I am trying to help.”

  “And?” Sophia promoted.

  “Well, Randolph implied the skills for one are not necessarily the skills for another. So,” Lavinia grinned in self-satisfied fashion, “the key could be the exploration of a lover’s likes, dislikes, and desires.”

  “Randolph sometimes tells me about his desires.” Sophia bit her lip. “I rather enjoy listening.”

  “See?” Lavinia said.

  Thea harrumphed. “Sounds suspiciously like we are back to conversation.”

  “Not the kind of conversation men abhor,” Lavinia said.

  Thea considered the former night’s banter and the indulgent kiss that followed. Perhaps there was something to Lavinia’s insight.

  “I have an idea!” Sophia sat forward. “We should put your question to Emma. She was a madam…who better to know?”

  Thea shook her head no. “I feel bad enough discussing this with the two of you. Wynchester would be beyond mortified if I spoke to Emma.” She chewed on her smallest fingernail. “Besides, if the key is likes, dislikes, and desires, I grow more certain the answer lies in me.”

  “Well,” Sophia smiled, “if Wynchester’s father could please a world-weary madam, potential skill is likely present in your Wyn.”

  “Don’t jest,” Thea quipped. Yet Sophia’s assertion had comforting merit.

  “So,” Lavinia said, “the question becomes how to set the stage.”

  Thea thought for a moment. “Does it matter what is on the bed?”

  At once, Lavinia said, “Yes,” and Sophia, “No.”

  “I see,” Thea murmured. “Does it matter what you wear?”

  This time, Sophia said, “yes,” and Lavinia, “no.”

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  “I suppose,” Sophia wiped her eyes, “it depends on the woman.”

  “And the man,” Lavinia added.

  “And so,” Thea scrunched her nose, “we are back to conversation.”

  Sophia reached out and touched Thea’s arm. “I suggest you forget everything and play.”

  Thea blinked. “Play?”