Insatiable, spoken in her dark and throaty tones, sent his blood straight down from his head. “Minx.”
“Minx?” she repeated. “Which definition—pert or wanton?”
“Pert and wanton.”
Of all her names—Thea Marie, Duchess, Her Grace, his darling, even the derided Decadence—he liked minx best. Perhaps because it was of his choosing. And perhaps because she resisted. He traced the outline of her breast, running his knuckle along the under-curve and delighting in the unconscious narrowing of her eyes.
“Yes, pert.” He ducked down and laved her stiffened nipple.
“And wanton,” she sighed. “No use in denying, now. Did you say there were other positions?”
“Did you say,” he trailed a lingering kiss from her breast up to her chin, “you were hungry?”
“I am very hungry,” she said on a devilish note, “just not, right now, for food.”
Her throaty voice was more than enough to fill his already stiffening cock. His groin ached. He tossed a careless elbow over the chaise and leaned back.
“One erect husband, for your consideration.” She was not the only one who could be shockingly lewd. “See anything you like?”
Her cheeks tinted red, though her gaze roamed his body. She may be his minx by nature, but she was not yet wanton with ease.
“Just how,” he asked with lazy carelessness, “accommodating have you been rendered?”
“Astonishingly, you said.” The blush deepened in her cheeks—in contrast to the boldness in her gaze. “May I touch?”
“Gently,” he responded.
Tentatively, she smoothed her hand up his inner thigh. Her lithe fingers came to rest at the apex of his thigh. She studied his cock as if it were a separate being—which he sometimes suspected was true.
Sometimes, but not now. Right now, cock, heart, and mind were one, all reeling with desire. Affection. Disbelief she was his and his alone. He wanted to mark her, to ruin her for all other men but him.
Her bottom lip disappeared underneath her teeth as her hand stretched forward. Her elegant fingers explored his member’s stretched skin. They traveled up, then down his length, first, using the pads, next, her textured knuckles, and finally—delicate torment—the trace-tips of her nails.
“Agony,” he whispered.
Her brow furrowed. “Am I hurting you?”
“In the very best of ways.”
She eased onto her stomach, settling between his legs. Her breasts pressed against his thighs. She sighed and her warm breath tightened the skin beneath his cock.
She traced a long vein, deliberately teasing. “Agony, you say?”
“Torture.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “How can I help?”
His vision darkened, leaving only her face and his member. “Open,” he said.
…
She closed her mouth around his cock—a most awkward sensation—ill-fitting and strange and not at all what she expected. Damp. She took him to the back of her throat. Messy. She concentrated on the tip. Undignified. Back down again with sliding tongue. Debauched.
She traced the tightened, rippled skin between his legs, his hips jerked…helpless supplication. Her head swam—against odds and reason—with a surge of dominance.
He grunted. She grew wet and a responsive groan sounded in the back of her throat. It was all she could do not to knead her breast.
Gingerly, he cupped her cheeks in his hands, his long fingers stretching down the sides of her throat. She glanced up. The shock of his gaze seized her limbs with lurid delight. His eyes were so dark, hawk-like, and beholden, she forgot the ache in her jaw.
She remained shackled to his gaze, unable to look away, until his jerking hips suspended in an arch. He shuttered his gaze while releasing—but all remained plain on his face. Warm life inside her mouth and on his feature, bliss. Adoration. Wonder.
His salty taste dissipated as she swallowed. He drew her up to rest in the sheen of his sweat, tucked carefully under his arm.
Perhaps she drifted to slumber. The light had changed when his movement opened her eyes. She lay on her stomach, with arms tucked beneath her, he crouched on his haunches on the floor beside. He filled a chalice with estate-brewed ale—and she noticed a second, near finished.
She raised her head on her elbow. Wordlessly, he lifted the cup to her lips.
When she’d taken a long, soothing draught, he bid her to dine on what remained of the cheese. Slice after slice, placed directly into her mouth, he refused any effort she attempted. So she relaxed and allowed him to pamper.
Intimacy did make her obliging, so opposite of nature and habit. Did she mind, though? No, not truly. These moments—these precious, sensual moments—were the only moments in which she’d ever felt one with Wyn.
Ah well—she stretched out her arm and slid back onto her stomach—more than once she’d told him to go to the devil when he’d issued imperious commands. She had no doubt she’d do so again…just not while he fed her cheese.
He put the plate and kerchief aside. “Full?”
She nodded.
“Sore?”
She shook her head no.
He sat on the chaise at her side. With the tip of his finger, he traced strange configurations onto her back. She closed her eyes and relished the sensation of his touch. He was writing, she suddenly realized. She concentrated, but could not discern any words. The touch that started between her shoulders ended just below her waist. He signed his invisible charter, his fingers dipping close to her rear.
“If I’d known of this hidden beauty,” his hands ran over her ass, “I’d have done away with the dark.”
She had thought herself spent, but vines of arousal once again crept up her spine.
Insatiable, indeed.
“Wynchester,” she sighed sleepily.
“You’re exhausted,” he said with gruff apology. “I will leave you alone.”
A small sound of protest emanated from deep in her throat. No. She reached around and clamped his hand to her bottom.
“You’re certain?” he asked, fingers slyly slipping between her legs.
“Perhaps you’re the one exhausted.” She set her cheek on her folded arm.
“Fading but not soundly defeated.”
“The general orders you on.”
His hands traced her sides, with an artist’s ease and exploration. His thumbs made rough yet soothing circles on the small of her back. Before long she was fully open and willing, but when she would have turned, he pressed down her shoulders and moved to lift her hips.
“Bring your knees to your stomach.” Hot breath against her ass.
She drew her knees in, deliciously exposed. He slid between her legs, and his hair teased her stomach. He showed her what it was to be licked, and ticked, and tongue-plundered, tasted like she were rich cream.
Good heaven, nothing was like this—she rocked against his lips. She pressed her face into the cushions, which muffled her gasps and her moans. His mouth urged her toward release and she came with violent liberation, and her release left her limp, submissive, and undone, draped over the chaise’s arm.
He moved out from beneath. The front of his thighs whispered against the back of hers as his cock met her opening. She spread her knees as he slid inside and leaning over as he thrust, he cupped her swaying breasts.
She barely sucked in when he entered, yet when he simultaneously cupped her breasts and kissed the back of her neck, she mewed in satisfied surrender.
When they’d danced the Allemande less than a week prior, she had called out to his wild. There, in the pillowed comfort of the chaise, with her breasts caught tight in his hands and his groin grinding hard against her ass, his wild answered her call.
He came; she pushed back, savoring the near-painful stretch. His lips grazed the back of her neck.
Had she thought herself debauched before? Now, she was completely corrupted. Taken. Pillaged. Shattered. And gasping for her
breath.
He remained for an intimate moment, as he dropped soft kisses along her spine. When he pulled out, she collapsed and rolled over, receiving him with arms held wide.
She was his, marked…plundered, just as he was hers. Hers. For better. For worse. A signed contract etched onto her skin and stamped with a primal seal.
So much for Eustace’s warning. Wynchester had shown faith in her at last.
…
“I can hardly move,” she said.
“Satiated!” His low laugh earned him a playful whack on his back. “I knew I could do it.”
“Just because you can reduce me to a whimpering fool, does not mean you’ll always get your way.”
“I understand.” He snuggled against her breast. “This changes nothing.”
“This changes,” she replied, “everything.”
Had it? He’d like to think so.
Equally strong strains of hope and fear braided rigging around his heart. He pulled back so he could see her face. Pretty face. Dark lashes, pale skin, lips red and swollen.
“I am,” he swallowed, “happy, Thea Marie.”
Her eyes started to fill. He wanted to reach out and wipe her tears, but, she unceremoniously clutched him against her chest. Her heart’s steady, though slightly speeding, thud was like a beacon.
“All will be well.” He made small, consoling circles on the small of her back. “I swear it.”
“I believe you,” she whispered.
Her confidence that this time he could protect her surged with the power of a charging steed. He flushed, gratified.
“Then let’s go home.”
“Home,” she repeated. “Yes, home.”
She released him and he rose, steady on solid feet. Not quite as steady on her own, he helped her rise. Her shoulders turned in as she surveyed the mess of their clothes. Was her sudden shyness exhausted pleasure or bewildered pride?
He found her shift and shook out the wrinkles. Gently, he dressed her, piece by piece. He’d never thought he’d envy Polly, but he did. Dressing Thea Marie was a pleasure almost as interesting as feeding her cheese.
He fumbled with her laces at first, but once he followed the lines they made sense. For the final touch, he wrapped her fichu around her shoulders and he pulled her, fully clothed, against his naked body. His duchess, one he’d dressed, fed and fuc—no. If he couldn’t say love, he shouldn’t say fucked. Ah, but what a fuck it had been. Swithin, he’d have to be careful. He’d soon be thinking in language no better than a recently docked sailor.
He kissed her lips with tenderness, a faded echo of their former passion.
His sense of perfection was complete. He loved her. And, as sworn, he would make things well. Someday soon, his dammed tongue would untie and he could finally express his affection.
“Will you close the windows while I dress?” he asked.
She nodded and then turned away. She pulled open the inner shutters and closed and locked each window, making a circle around the room. She paused at the final back window, looking into the woods beyond. He secured the last button on his falls, strode to frame her from behind and lean her back against his chest.
A movement through the trees caught his eye. Fox? Dog?
“Someone was there,” he said.
“Are you certain?” She closed the window.
“No.” Perhaps he’d seen a reflection. He wrapped his neck cloth round his collar.
“Good.” She laughed. “I cannot bear the thought of witnesses.”
He grinned while buttoning his waistcoat. “Do you think the servants ignorant of what we’ve been up to all afternoon?”
She lifted her chin. “Nuncheon.”
“Right.” He pulled on each sleeve. She stepped forward and adjusted his collar. “Like as not,” he said, “servants and tenants alike are in happy anticipation of an heir.”
Though the room was not cold, she stepped back and rubbed her shoulders.
“You would be happy if you were expecting.”
She sighed. “Another question spoken as a statement?”
“I will try and mend the habit.”
She lifted her brows. “I am not certain you could.”
“Do not worry.” He straightened the chaise. “You no longer need to be concerned about Eustace’s insinuations.”
“I never was.” She tidied the pillows.
“Well,” he said. “I’m to have an affidavit from the doctor.”
She turned back with a frown. “Pardon?”
“An affidavit, saying you were not with child when he examined you after the accident.”
“I see.” She looked away. “How…enterprising.”
Why did she look as if she’d been slapped? “Darling,” He took hold of her shoulders, “you know I believe you were chaste.”
She looked up. “Do I?”
“Of course you do.” Feminine dribble. Could he have made his devotion plainer than he had this afternoon? She was exhausted, like as not. That was the trouble’s source.
“Of course I do,” she echoed, tucking her hair up under her hat.
She collected the plates and cups in the basket and picked it up. She gazed up at him in clouded silence and then nodded as if to a question he had not asked.
“I would welcome such news, no matter.”
He touched her cheek. “As would I.”
She smiled, though not as warmly.
“Well now,” he checked her hair, “you look tolerably innocent.”
“And you, quite odd without wig or long hair.”
He tucked his strands behind his ear. “Do you like it?”
A flicker of humor returned. “Tolerable, I suppose.”
“Devilish convenient,” he sighed, “but my valet is counting down the days until it grows back.”
Her gaze was admonishing. “You know you are very fine—with and without hair powder.”
“Did you just issue a question as a statement?”
“I would never be so certain of your thoughts.”
“Right,” he said again. He stepped outside, reached into the basket and used what remained of the melted ice to wipe his face and neck. Then, with his damp hands, he smoothed back his hair.
“Much better,” she said.
“Her Grace approves!” He held out his arm. “I am honored.”
She blinked as she joined him outside the folly, her eyes adjusting to the afternoon light. They headed back to the manor, she with an expression he’d call neutral, and he with a confident set of his jaw.
Chapter Thirteen
As they entered the manor, Mrs. Wheaton informed Wynchester both the Doctors Smith awaited him in the library. Wynchester directed Wheaton to say he’d be but a moment, and escorted Thea to her door. He gave his exhausted wife a brief cheek-kiss, chucked her beneath her chin, and sent her to her chamber to rest.
After the awkwardly silent quarter-hour home, he was almost relieved to have a reprieve. He rang for his valet, who made clucking sounds of disapproval while righting Wynchester’s appearance, and arranging a wig.
As his valet poked and prodded and fluffed and sprayed, he pondered Thea Marie’s change of mood. She had not approved of the affidavit, though certainly, once she reflected, she would see he had done what he thought would be best for their child. Wouldn’t she? His motive could seem suspect, he supposed. What trusting man required a doctor’s written word? He did trust her. She had been, if anything, honest. Now, he would have to trust her to understand…eventually.
Father and son rose as he entered the library. The elder doctor removed his glasses and he bowed. Following formal greetings, they settled into chairs.
“You’ve brought the affidavit?” He asked the younger.
“Just as you asked.” He exchanged a look with his father. “It states I am reasonably certain the duchess was not with child, though such things are not always certain.”
Wynchester leveled his gaze. “Reasonably will do.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” the young doctor cleared his throat, “but should I be called to testify—”
“Called to testify?” Wynchester lifted his brows and the doctor fell silent.
“With due respect, Your Grace,” the older Dr. Smith interjected, “One reads how suits of Criminal Conversation have become almost common.”
“Common,” his alternate use of the word was plain, “is exactly the word to describe those who would subject themselves to such trials.”
Both father and son settled back in their seats.
Wynchester sighed. “I merely seek to inure Her Grace against slander.” He held the elder’s gaze squarely. “I have no cause to question her good name.”
“Quite so,” the man said. “I am much relieved.” The elder doctor moved to the edge of his seat. “Your Grace, my son tells me you wish to discuss your brother’s illness, and I am happy to do so, however a greater problem has arisen.”
Wynchester leaned back and crossed his legs. “Problem, you say?”
A troubled expression rested in the old man’s wrinkles. “I am acting magistrate in the village…” He hesitated.
“You may speak plain,” Wynchester encouraged.
“Your father,” he continued, “had my deepest respect.”
Even after he brought home his madam? Wynchester hid the thought behind a neutral expression.
“The duke,” the doctor continued, “weighed the good of his country in every decision he made.”
“I am heartened to hear you think so.” Wynchester kept his voice bland.
“A doctor and a magistrate must keep careful watch, especially when the source of an affliction is uncertain.” The doctor patted two piles of bound papers at his side. “Careful records, steady hand. This I learned from your father.”
Listening to the elder Dr. Smith, one could almost imagine his father hadn’t been a man ruled by his cock. Although—Wynchester inwardly winced—who was he to criticize?
“Perhaps,” Wynchester said, “you had better explain.”
“Earlier this summer,” the younger doctor started, “a young woman, wishing to be rid of a bastard babe, drank a potion consisting mainly of juniper. She very nearly died. Judging from her manner and knowledge, the girl could not have concocted the thing on her own.”
Duchess Decadence Page 18
