by Liana Lefey
A painful lump formed in her throat. “And what of Arabella? Papa cannot afford to bring her out next year. She cannot live with Cat, nor will Elizabeth take her.” She didn’t know how much Papa had told him regarding how this child had come about, but if he had left out certain damning details she did not want to be the one to reveal them.
“Once she has recovered, she can come and live with us,” he continued. “If she chooses to marry, we will help her find a husband. If she wishes to remain with her child, she will always have a home with us. No one will suspect anything as long as she maintains the guise of a governess. I’ll offer her the choice, of course. She is very young, and she may wish to start anew.”
Harriett felt Arabella was more likely to choose to stay, but one never knew. “But if she married, it would mean the child—”
“Would essentially be ours. Yes, I know.” His amber-gold eyes pierced her. “We would raise it—and the other, should we decide to adopt two—as our own.”
“You are willing to commit to a lifetime of such complication for my sake?”
“I wish you to be happy, Harriett.”
His face blurred as her eyes filled. She had no words. She didn’t need them. Reaching up, she cupped his face and brought his lips down to meet hers in a tender kiss.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Tired as she was, desire began to build within her. Her fingers twined behind his neck, burying themselves in his sandy curls. They had been separated but a day, yet it felt like an eternity. She gave herself entirely to her emotions and to the need awakened by his touch.
A scandalized gasp interrupted them, and Harriett broke away to see that Mrs. Jenkins had returned with Jeremy in tow. A flush heated her face. She hadn’t even heard them coming up the stairs. “More happy news—Lord Manchester and I are engaged to be married,” she announced with a breathless little laugh. “We are to be married tomorrow, provided the weather permits the priest to make the trip from the village.”
Mrs. Jenkins’ hands flew to her ample bosom, her shocked features transforming with delight. “Oh, m’lady! How happy this day is! First a healthy girl born to our Bella, and now this!” She burst into tears.
As Harriett looked at the housekeeper an idea popped into her head—a wonderful, clever idea. “Mrs. Jenkins, I wonder if I might ask you to do me an enormous favor?”
~ * ~
“Before God and these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest intoned.
Happy sighs and scattered clapping sounded behind her as Harriett tilted her face up to receive her first kiss as the Duchess of Manchester. She glanced over to see her smiling sister, who’d been brought downstairs in a chair and swaddled in blankets to hide her matronly figure. With any luck, the priest would tell everyone how poorly Arabella looked. The babe was hidden away upstairs with Mrs. Whipple for the duration of the brief ceremony.
Thanking the priest, Roland sent him away with an extra guinea for the trouble of coming on such short notice. The short celebration that followed was subdued, but happy. All too soon, it was time to go.
Harriett kissed her sister’s cheek. “It will all work out in the end,” she promised. “You’ll see.”
Arabella’s nod of agreement was belied by the tears in her eyes. “I pray it is so.”
Leaving was bittersweet. As Harriett gazed back at the shrinking manor, she knew she’d never see it again. “I dislike departing in such haste,” she murmured to her husband. “I know Mrs. Jenkins will take care of her and the babe as if they were her own, but still...”
“You’ll see her again very soon,” Roland assured her. “You’re certain she will wish to come to Kimbolton?”
“I am. She has no desire to marry. She told me it would require deceit on her part, and she doesn’t wish to live such a life. She wants only to be with Eudora and to live in peace.”
“And so she shall,” he replied. “She’ll always have a home with us.”
“Do you really think it’ll be safe for her to return to London so soon?”
“I do,” he told her. “No one is going to be paying the least bit of mind to a convalescent.” He grimaced. “All eyes will be on us.”
Harriett allowed herself a wry smile. “I cannot say I am looking forward to enduring such scrutiny, but I will gladly bear it for her sake.” Above all, she looked to the completion of all the plans they’d made.
It was all arranged. Arabella would stay in Berkshire for a month and come to London a few days before Cat’s wedding. It would be just long enough for her milk to dry up, according to the midwife. Mrs. Jenkins swore the application of cabbage leaves and drinking copious amounts of peppermint tea would help speed the process. Already she’d found a wet nurse to take over the job of feeding the “foundling.” A woman from the next village had just given birth the week prior. Provided her services could be secured, she and Mrs. Jenkins would leave for London in two weeks to bring the babe to the Hospital.
The trip back to London seemed much shorter than her journey to Berkshire had been. The old adage was true. Time did indeed pass more quickly when one was enjoying oneself, and being with Roland now as his wife was most pleasant. They passed much of the time talking, for the windows of the carriage remained open owing to the warmth of the day and there was little privacy.
Still, the hedgerows bore witness to several stolen kisses along the way.
In spite of her qualms, Harriett found herself quite looking forward to their journey’s end—especially the part that included seeing her new home. According to Roland her things had already been sent ahead in anticipation of their arrival as man and wife. They would visit her father later in the week.
Tired, hungry, and stiff, they at last arrived. Two rows of servants filed out to greet their new mistress. Though she was exhausted, Harriett made sure to greet each one with a genuine smile and thank them for their welcome.
When she stepped over the threshold into the rooms Roland told her belonged to the duchess, she was met with elegant furnishings decorated in cream and cool greens with accents of lavender and violet. “How lovely,” she murmured, running a hand over the coverlet on the bed. Each puffed square of cream silk was embroidered with clusters of violets.
“I’m glad you like it,” said her husband, who’d come in with her. “I had it decorated with you in mind.”
She blinked in surprise. “Me?”
Laughing, he took her face between his hands. “Harriett, don’t you know by now that I love you?”
Her heart gave a great leap. “You do? But I thought—”
“I know what you thought. I was a damned fool. I tried my best to push you away because of my guilt over wanting you for my own. Though it consign me to the eternal fire to admit it, I believe I’ve loved you since the moment you knocked me onto my arse in that cemetery,” he said with a sheepish laugh. His manner became serious again. “I know I’m not William. I’m not perfect, and I probably never will be—but I love you, and I will always do my best to be whatever it is you need most.”
Harriett answered him by kissing him with all the passion she possessed.
~ * ~
All at once, the restraints Roland had placed on his mounting desire dissolved. She was his now, in every aspect. And she wanted him.
The first time they’d come together, he’d not been himself. He remembered there had been plenty of passion, but not much tenderness. He’d caused her pain. This time, there was no maidenhead to cause concern. This time, it would be different.
He held back, gentling his embrace. It was difficult not to be overcome by lust, but he wanted to do this—for her. With slow hands, he began to disassemble her gown piece by piece, pausing here and there to kiss each bit of creamy flesh bared. When at long last she stood before him in naked glory, he began to disrobe.
Lady Manchester, however, was not content to stand idly by. Reaching out, she brushed his hands away and returned the favor, disrobing him. Pleased by her bold
ness, he let her. Remaining motionless, he gave her license to explore him. Her hands moved over him, learning his shape and texture.
Roland knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. Father had always insisted upon his sons training hard and keeping fit. It was a difficult habit to break, and one of the few things his father had instilled in him that he felt had any merit. He exercised daily, practiced his fencing with the best opponents available, and even occasionally boxed when the mood took him.
Her delicate touch sank into his skin, leaving behind a tightness of wanting. He gritted his teeth as she began to unbutton his breeches, her feather-light hands causing him sweet agony as she freed him. His eager arousal jutted out, and for a moment he worried she might be afraid.
But his fears were soon allayed. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and grasped him. Smoothing up and down his thickening length with her palms, she explored it. He shuddered as she ran a curious fingertip around his sensitive rim.
Enough was enough. Pulling her close, he reveled in her naked softness. He ran his hands down her back, over skin like warm silk. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
Reaching up, she pulled the pins from her hair, releasing it from its confines. His eyes feasted upon her pert breasts as she did so, until she leaned forward and the dark mass tumbled free, covering them.
“Woman, you are beyond magnificent,” he breathed in awe.
“Every kitchen maid has her moments,” she teased, looking up at him from beneath her lashes.
Bending, he placed a smiling kiss on one shoulder and then forged a trail of kisses up her neck. “And you are certainly no kitchen maid,” he whispered at her ear. “If anything, you are a goddess. A goddess to whom I feel very much like paying homage.”
He knelt at her feet to begin his worship. Her eyes widened as with firm hands he spread her thighs and began to caress her nether folds. Little by little, she relaxed, permitting him to touch her more fully. He waited until her eyes drifted shut before shifting forward to replace his hands with his mouth.
Her gasp of shock became a low moan, and her hands buried themselves in his hair.
He used all of his skill to give her pleasure, and it wasn’t long before she staggered against him, weak-kneed and panting. Smiling, he stood and led her to the waiting bed. His need was urgent, but his desire to bring her to a state of bliss was greater. Spreading her knees, he again knelt and kissed his wife in that most intimate way. Now that he had better access to the jewel of her womanhood, he could pay it proper tribute.
Her soft moans were a siren’s call, her writhing movements a temptation beyond compare. Still, he held back. When at last he tasted a fresh burst of dewy sweetness on his tongue, he again rose. She was ready—and so was he. More than ready. His cock was like stone. Guiding himself to her honeyed entrance, he entered her with all the restraint he could muster.
A long, shuddering sigh issued from his wife’s parted lips as he buried himself in her inch by inch. She was so tight the pleasure of it was almost unbearable. He stilled for a moment to regain self-control. Her throbbing heat pressed in around him, urging him to release. It was only with the utmost willpower that he did not climax then and there, but he was determined she should come first.
She lay beneath him, clasping him with her legs. Arching and pulling back, he bent and focused on the tempting, rosy peaks she presented for his delectation. Her broken voice cried out as he drew first upon one and then the other, licking, nipping, suckling until her hands fisted the sheets at her sides. When he paused, they rose and her fingers threaded through his hair.
Her feral growl of protest as she dragged him down again made him shake with barely suppressed laughter. To say he was surprised by the violence of her ardor was to put it mildly. He shifted up—despite her objection—to look at his wife. God, he’d never seen anything like her in all his years of living as a dedicated rakehell. She was as glorious and untamed a wanton as any he’d ever met—and far, far more desirable, for her heart belonged to him.
To think he’d once worried that a proper wife would be a disappointment! Harriett was the embodiment of everything he’d ever wanted and more. A surge of fierce, tender possessiveness arose in him as he gazed down at her. Her clear hazel eyes opened, and the love he saw in them bound him more tightly than any silken scarf or promise of carnal pleasure.
“Roland?”
He lay against her and closed his eyes as she wrapped her arms around him. “Say it again,” he whispered.
“Roland,” she answered, his name a caress that sent shivers across his flesh, across his very soul.
“My Harriett,” he murmured into her neck, giving the sensitive flesh at her shoulder a little nip that made her suck in a quick breath. The sound was more erotic than anything he’d ever heard, and it made him ache anew. “My fierce, passionate Harriett—tell me you belong to me and that this is not a dream.”
“I am yours, as you are mine,” she husked against the corner of his mouth. “Now make love to me, husband.”
Her throaty command inspired an unparalleled rush of desire. Unable to contain his passion any longer, he abandoned himself to it. Withdrawing almost completely, he sank back into her with uninhibited joy. Again and again, he buried himself in her.
“I love you,” she gasped at his ear, just as her passage clenched around him.
Shuddering, he pressed into her to the root of his shaft, her words along with her complete embrace bringing a profound stillness to his entire being. Over and over, she convulsed beneath him, her sheath spasming in time with the climax that robbed her of breath and coherence. He savored her release along with her surrender.
While her body was yet in the throes of pleasure, he again began to move, and this time he held nothing back. All too soon, his crisis came over him, drawing upon his vitals in a sudden, unendurable tightening before releasing that tension in a blinding wave of pleasure. Over and over again, it blazed through him as his hot seed burst forth.
The woman in his arms was his, now and forever.
But then, she had been for some time now, he realized as his breathing finally slowed. That night at the Hospital, she’d chosen to give him her heart along with her body. Him. No one else. Not William, not Russell. Him. He was the one she wanted.
An anxiety he hadn’t realized he had vanished. For the first time in his life, true contentment filled him. He’d been searching for something, and now he knew what it was. He’d never been wanted, had never really belonged anywhere. He looked down at Harriett, his Harriett, who still drifted on the tides of pleasure, pleasure he had brought to her.
Now he knew. Right here was where he belonged.
Twenty Three
Accustomed to rising early, Harriett awoke as dawn’s rose-tinted light began to seep in around the edges of the heavy drapes covering the windows of her new bedchamber. The contentment that suffused her was such that it was hard to even imagine moving. She lay there for a while, staring at the room her husband had so thoughtfully appointed to suit her taste, drinking in the warmth and security of his embrace.
His arm lay across her waist, its corded strength a lure for her palm. As she indulged herself, his hand moved to cup her breast, startling her.
“You rise early, Lady Manchester.”
The gravelly quality of his voice coupled with his gentle touch elicited a sharp pang of want. Turning in his arms, she looked into his smiling eyes. He was so handsome all tousled and unshaven like this. “And here I thought you a lazy aristocrat who never deigned to rise before the noon hour,” she teased, stroking the sandpaper roughness of his cheek with a fingertip.
Without warning he shifted, pulling her atop him. “As you can see, I am no such creature. You’ve taught me the merits of being an early riser.”
His wicked chuckle made her ears grow hot. The rest of her heated, too, as the hard, silken column of his manhood pressed against her belly. Her embarrassment, however, was quickly forgotten in the wake of desir
e.
“Rising early has its rewards, my lord husband,” she replied, levering up onto her knees to straddle him and put his errant member in its proper place.
Later as they breakfasted, a servant entered bearing a tray of messages. One was an urgent missive from her father.
“Not even a single day’s peace before it begins,” she muttered, breaking the seal. Her brows rose as she read. “Ours is not the only scandalbroth brewing. Nanette’s eavesdropping has already borne fruit.” Roland had told her of the incident on the way back to London. “According to Papa, she wasted no time in bringing Russell news of my defection.”
“And?”
Irony lifted the corners of her mouth. “Apparently, he was so greatly distressed that she was obliged to take rather drastic measures to prevent him taking himself off to the nearest bridge and diving off it. They were caught in the act by several witnesses.”
“No doubt by her specific design.”
“No doubt whatsoever,” she agreed. “Their wedding is in two weeks.” She tossed the letter aside with a satisfied sigh. “With that to look forward to in addition to our elopement and Cat’s wedding, no one will even notice Arabella’s return. We should send our congratulations to the happy couple.”
“Mm. We should. But before we do, I should like to place a wager at White’s—in your favor, of course.”
She laughed and continued to peruse the pile of letters. To her surprise, Elizabeth, too, had sent felicitations. She was in London to help Cat prepare for the wedding and had heard the news from Papa. That she did not inquire after Arabella’s health or whereabouts was a mark of her continued resentment. Presumably, Elizabeth preferred to pretend their errant sister no longer existed.
The only thing that really worried Harriett was the possibility of a confrontation between the two before she could spirit Arabella and Eudora away. Kimbolton was in Cambridgeshire, far removed from London and even farther from Kent where Elizabeth lived. She hoped the distance would be enough to prevent their ever meeting.
