by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
Oh Lord, did she like it. She shrieked when he parted the tangled curls and the hidden opening with his thumbs. She moaned when his tongue found the sweet spot and the right rhythm, just as he did with a pair of oars. She called on the Almighty and her duke as strong, even strokes carried her toward a heaven just outside her grasp, until she tumbled into bliss with a divine explosion even more intense than the one his fingers had set off the night before.
For a long moment, or many minutes, she lay supine and boneless. “That was…” She had no words to describe it, so she stroked the dark head resting on her belly and played with one of his ears. “I like your ears,” she said idly as full consciousness returned. “They are just the right size and lie flat against your head, not flapping in the breeze like some men’s.” It was lovely being able to say whatever silly thing entered her head.
“I endeavor not to let anything flap,” he said, resting back on his haunches and offering a fine view of his private parts to her fascinated eyes.
“I wouldn’t call that flapping, but it’s certainly buoyant.”
He held out his hand. “Come to bed with me. You can help me do something about it.”
She went willingly, and to her surprise he settled on his back, propped up against the pillows. His… prick, as she’d heard it called by drunken young men who’d forgotten there were ladies present, appeared well named, straining toward the flat ridges of his stomach. Was he expecting her to reciprocate what he’d done to her with his mouth? She wasn’t reluctant, but she was distinctly nervous. Kneeling beside him, she touched it gingerly, then snatched her hand back when it twitched.
“Like this.” He showed her how to hold it, firmly, and how to move her hand. It felt strange in a wonderful way, both soft and hard, and alive under her fingers. Better still was his gratification, signaled by disjointed approving words. “Like that. Umm. Yes. Aah!”
She explored the slightly bulbous head, marveling that it had been inside her on many occasions and she’d had little idea what it looked like. How could he have kept his wife in ignorance of such an interesting part of him? A drop of fluid seeped from the tip. Dipping her head, she tasted it and found it odd but pleasantly salty.
Linton gazed at her mouth as though he’d discovered the Holy Grail. “You don’t have to do that,” he said huskily.
“Is it one of the duties of a mistress?”
“If the mistress wishes. The mistress should never do anything she finds distasteful.”
She licked her lips. “I think it might make you very grateful.”
“It would. By Jupiter, it would. But not now. I have a different plan.”
“I thought you were lying down to take a nap.”
“Not at all. I have a requirement. I want you on top.”
She thought about it for a moment, then gave a drawn-out oh. “That does sound like fun. Let me see if I can do it without instructions.”
It turned out, she could, quite easily, and it was the most marvelous feeling, taking him deep inside. Holding on to his beautiful broad shoulders—the benefit of regular exercise!—she controlled the pace, adjusting her position and movements to find the angle that pleased her most. His beatific grin told her that she pleased him as much. And when they were both done, ecstatically done, she lay against his chest with his arms around her.
“Linton,” she began.
“What?”
“Do your mistresses call you Linton, or is it always Your Grace?”
“I might invite a mistress of whom I was particularly fond to call me by my given name.”
“Bentinck.” She tested the name on her tongue. “Bentinck.”
“I would be honored if you would use it. No one in my entire life has called me that.”
“I am not at all surprised.” She couldn’t possibly share a bed with a man named Bentinck without laughing. “I shall call you Ben.”
“Ben,” he said. “Ben. Short, undignified, and plebeian. Whoever heard of a duke called Ben?” But he was smiling. “I like it immensely.”
“It shall only be when we are alone. The special name your mistress uses.”
His throat gulped. “Thank you,” he said, and drew her down for a kiss.
*
Linton rose early the next day and went to the kitchen garden where he filled a small basket with strawberries, tied a white rose to the handle, and sent it up on Althea’s chocolate tray with a note. My dear duchess. Please accept my humble offering. Yours etc. Linton.
Not Ben, but Linton. This was a gift for his wife, not his mistress. He had nothing to complain about having Althea play the strumpet at night, but he’d spoken with complete, if understated, conviction when he’d said he didn’t want a mistress, only the wife he had. He had listened to her pithy enumeration of his shortcomings as a husband and acknowledged their justice.
The first time he set eyes on Althea Maxfield, he had thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, and he had wanted her. Being a duke and well aware of his value on the marriage mart, he had no doubt that he could have her. He went through the formalities of courtship: two dances at every ball, hothouse flowers the next day, a few drives in the park. He’d made no attempt to win her affection; it hadn’t even occurred to him to try. He was Linton, and she would accept him. And so she did. He was gratified, naturally, that this rare beauty would be his. He also felt the enormity of his condescension in selecting her over more eligible debutantes.
Now he must woo her as he’d never troubled to before, in hopes that eventually his wife by day and his mistress by night would become one—one woman who loved him.
The thought of being loved by Althea made him feel soft inside and as mighty as an emperor, or a duke. For her, he’d slay villains and wild beasts or row ten miles. But he knew that he wouldn’t win her love through the exercise of power. He’d tried that before and failed dismally. He had to convince her by gentler means, through skills he’d never had to cultivate.
That afternoon, he asked her to show him the changes she had made to the gardens and praised her plans for the new hothouse. Praise was no hardship: She had a true talent for the possibilities of the landscape. He couldn’t wait to unleash her on Longworth. At every opportunity in the next days, he deferred to her wishes. He sent her flowers, carefully chosen bouquets of her favorite flowers—which he knew from listening to her carefully and remembering what she said—delivered with little handwritten notes. In London, he had had his secretary order something from the flower seller accompanied by his card. The Duke of Linton.
He was Linton by day, but at night, he was Ben. One day, he hoped, she would always call him Ben. Even in public, dignity be damned.
At night, she was his mistress—intemperate, abandoned, catering to his every whim with unfeigned enthusiasm. By day, she was his wife—charming, clever, and joyful, as she had always been, but he hadn’t the wit to recognize it. Also a little cool with him. He looked for new ways to show himself an ideal husband.
When they attended events at the other ducal houses, he wanted everyone to know about their reconciliation. If she’d let him, he’d have sent out cards. “The Duke and Duchess of Linton are pleased to inform you that they are no longer estranged.”
“It’s our secret, Ben,” she said one night in bed when he asked her to reveal the improvement in their marriage. “I enjoy having all those people speculate as to whether we’re about to reconcile or split apart for good.” Then she fell upon him and did delectable things with her mouth, and he’d have agreed to anything.
One evening they dined at the home of the Duke of Oxthorpe, Killhope Castle, whose austere magnificence was tempered by gorgeous floral arrangements. It turned out Oxthorpe was a connoisseur of horticulture and offered to show Althea his conservatory. Jealousy was out of the question—the reserved duke was devoted to his wife. Besides, Linton had conquered such irrational impulses. After half an hour, he sought them in the conservatory because he missed her.
He entered an oval paradise b
ursting with blooms. Exotic vines he couldn’t possibly name scaled marble columns. The riot of color and perfume dazzled his senses. At the far end, peering at a pink flower, stood the somber figure of Oxthorpe, and Althea, perfection in bright green, the fairest bloom of all. He had not previously been given to fanciful metaphor, either in his speech or thought. Althea had made him poetic.
She looked up. “Linton! We are talking about rose blight.”
He half listened to the utilitarian discussion while his mind wandered to matters of an earthy but very different sort. She was dainty in her silks, but he knew and loved the indelicacy she displayed when they were alone. He beat back a vision of raising her skirts and taking her on a bed of rose petals with the first stars of the summer night glowing through the glass ceiling.
One of his omissions as a husband, according to Althea, had been compliments and flirtation. He’d done his best, but elegant trifling did not come to him easily. He had to rack his brain to rise above the pedestrian. When a footman demanded Oxthorpe’s attention, Linton stole closer to Althea, placed his hand on her slender, silken-clad shoulder, breathed in her scent, headier than any flower, leaned in to whisper in her perfect pink ear, and… nothing. So he did what he wanted and kissed her there. She did not pull away, but shivered in the way that signaled her arousal and curved her bottom into his breeches. He had to step back before Oxthorpe noticed.
“Excuse me, Duchess,” the other duke said. “I must postpone our interesting talk, for my duchess requires my presence in the drawing room.”
“I will look forward to it,” Althea replied, cool as sherbet, with no sign that her own husband had put his tongue in her ear seconds earlier. “If you don’t mind, I will remain awhile and show Linton your orchids.”
Once alone, she turned to him with a quizzical look. “Well, Ben?”
Ben! He knew what that meant.
“Someone may come in.”
“I must confess I found it strangely stimulating to be kissed when Oxthorpe and his servant might turn our way.”
A lifetime of discretion fought a moment of searing desire and lost. “Over there. Behind that curtain of vines.”
“Mimosas.”
“I don’t care what they are called.”
They found a marble shelf, warm from a day of sunshine through the roof. Ruthlessly removing some pots, he raised her skirts while she fumbled with his buttons. He swung her onto the convenient ledge and checked her for readiness, but she was having none of it and pushed away his hand. “Now, Ben,” she said, low and urgent. “I want you now, hard and fast.”
He might not be capable of a graceful compliment, but hard and fast he could manage. Too fast, he feared. Encased in her heat, he was ready to explode in seconds. A brutal thrust, another, a dozen more, and her head fell back on a cry that shattered his tenuous control. They clung to each other, panting hard, forehead to forehead, until they burst out laughing.
“We’re mad,” she said.
“Someone could have come in.”
“Maybe someone did,” she chortled.
He just didn’t care.
He fastened his breeches; she smoothed her skirts; he offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the drawing room?”
“Oxthorpe has given me some fine ideas for the hothouse at The Chimneys,” she said languorously. “I hope you will approve of them, Linton.”
He was Linton again, but he wanted to be Ben, all day and all night, every minute. He cursed the hours he devoted each day on the lake. But when he steered Nick to victory, Althea would be grateful, and he’d wave her brother off to London, or somewhere else far, far away. Then he’d have all the time in the world to convince his wife that they belonged together always, day and night.
Chapter Eleven
‡
On the eve of the race, they retired early. Linton always wanted to retire early these days, and he told Nick sternly that he needed sleep.
“I want a breath of fresh air first,” Nick said.
“Make it quick.” Nick hadn’t touched a drop of wine for a week and Linton trusted him to be sensible. He didn’t want to waste any more time getting to the mistress portion of the evening.
Valets and maids could be a confounded nuisance. He and Althea would be able to shed their clothes much faster without the help of servants. He was almost bursting with impatience by the time they were alone together in her room.
“Now,” he said, ready to scoop her up and throw her into bed.
There was a knock at the door and, damn it, without waiting for an answer, Nick crashed in. Displaying not the least surprise at finding Linton in Althea’s room, he burst into speech. “I can’t row tomorrow.”
What bee had got into the boy’s head? “Last-minute nerves are to be expected, Nick,” Linton said with as much tolerance as he could muster. “You are going to win.”
“I have to withdraw.”
“Dozens of people have laid bets on you. I wagered one hundred guineas with Sedgemere at evens. The honor of the house rests on your shoulders.”
Althea approached her twin and examined his face carefully. “What is it? This is more than a case of nerves.”
Nick sighed. “I’ve been a fool.”
“Probably.” Linton wished Nick would get on with it and go away.
The younger man slumped onto the settee at the end of the bed and hung his head. Then he swallowed hard and met Linton’s critical eye. “I don’t know if Althea told you, but I brought Nigel Speck down to The Chimneys because I owe him money.”
“She didn’t, but I guessed as much. Why else would any of us put up with a weasel who cheats at cards? Is that what happened?”
“Perhaps,” Nick said, the light dawning. “But it doesn’t matter. Althea wouldn’t give me the money this time and suggested I enter the race. The prize is enough to pay off Speck. Tonight he sent me a note asking me to meet him outside. He has been staying at the inn, waiting for me to pay him. He asked me to lose, on purpose. He’s bet a lot of money on Lord William Besett at very good odds. He said if Lord William wins, he’ll forgive my debt and give me a portion of his winnings.”
“Nick! You didn’t,” Althea cried.
“Of course he didn’t,” Linton said. “You said no. You can win on your own merits and be rid of the man.”
“I can’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. When I refused, Speck said some things that made me so furious I hit him. I think I’ve broken my hand.”
“What did he say?” Linton now noticed that Nick was cradling his right hand on his lap.
Althea tugged at his arm. “That’s not important. Poor Nick. Does it hurt dreadfully? Show me.”
Nick’s hand was swollen and turning black. Linton was inclined to think it wasn’t broken, but there could be no question of rowing the next day. “I’m letting all those people down. Their wagers will be forfeit if The Chimneys doesn’t field an oarsman.”
“You said The Chimneys,” Althea said. “Do you mean they were betting on the house, not on you?”
“What’s the difference?”
“By tradition, all bets are on the house,” Linton explained, “whoever is competing.”
“If someone else rows for us, will the bets stand?”
A wild thought entered Linton’s mind to be instantly dismissed. Apparently, he was not alone. Althea and Nick looked at him with pleading in their identical-twin eyes. “You can enter, Linton,” Nick said.
“Of course he can,” Althea said. “I’ve watched you, and your times are almost as good as Nick’s.”
“No one knows the strategy of the race better than you.”
“You’ll win, and that disgusting pig Speck will lose a fortune.” She held his shoulders and regarded him with faith, and pride, and love. “Please, Ben.”
What could he say but yes?
While Althea took Nick off to get his hand bandaged by the housekeeper, Linton returned to his room and got into bed. Mentally, he prepared himself. He
knew he had the stamina, but could he summon the speed under competitive conditions? Could his thirty-five-year-old body outstrip the younger muscles of Lord William Besett? He closed his eyes and rowed the course in his mind, noting the crosscurrents, the bends in the serpentine lake, the tricky turns. If he couldn’t win, he’d give it his best shot.
Althea interrupted his planning with a soft kiss. “Move forward. I’m going to rub your shoulders. We need you in prime condition.”
“How’s Nick’s hand?” he asked, while her fingers performed their magic.
“He’ll mend.” She worked the muscles of his arms for a while. “Linton,” she began. “Ben. Nick told me what Speck said. It was about me. You are not going to be pleased.”
“Hush,” he said, reaching back to clasp the hand that was kneading a sore spot in his neck. “I’ll deal with Speck later. As you said, I must be in prime condition for tomorrow.”
Leaning against his back, she crossed her arms over his chest and kissed his neck. “Whatever happens, I shall be proud and so very grateful. What else can I do to help?”
“There is one thing, alas, you can’t do.”
“Oh?”
“There are lots of different opinions about the best way to train for a race, but one thing is almost universally agreed on. No sexual intercourse the night before. I must conserve every ounce of strength.”
“I could do all the work,” whispered Eve’s serpent in his ear.
“Go to bed, baggage. Or better yet, lie down with me and sing me a lullaby.”
“Yes, Ben.”
*
The lake at Teversault had been formed by damming the River Lyft in the middle of the last century. In recent decades, when the present duke’s father instituted the annual race, extensive excavations had been undertaken to improve the course. The middle section of the lake, where the race began and ended, was the broadest, wide enough for all the competitors to line up without danger of jostling oars. The shoreline curved sharply on either side, and the earth removed to create that expanse of water was mounded up to form a small hill in the S of the curve.
