by Hawke, Jessa
“She is my wife’s sister, Turnquist. And if I have to face another breakfast that has both of the ladies upset over one of your remarks, then I promise you, I will not be the only man left dazed. Do we understand each other?”
Young Lord Turnquist’s face underwent a rapid color change and he sat in front of the darker duke quite pink in the face. It seemed several minutes before he collected himself, and when he spoke, all traces of politeness were gone from his voice. “See here, Connols. I will profess to you that I have admired the lady for quite some time. Quite the mind! And attractive, as well, but surely you can understand that given Margaret’s involvement in her sister’s subterfuge, I cannot take the lady for a wife.”
“And why is that?”
“It would not—well, it would not be decent.”
Nicholas took a long, hard look at the man sitting before him, squirming behind the desk. “You are a hypocrite and a half, Thunrow,” he finally said with undisguised distaste. “So it is all right for you to run such a paper and for my wife to publish her work in it, but it is not all right for Margaret to be the messenger? You’re a scoundrel, Turnquist.”
“See here, Connols—”
“No, you see here,” replied Nicholas angrily. “What exactly is it you fear? That the ton will learn of your involvement in the paper? I have some information for you—they already know! And if you would turn that puny brain of yours away from your own skin for just a moment, you would see that in addition to being a lovely woman, Margaret has carefully kept her sister’s secret for quite some time.”
“Then how did you learn of this information?” bit out the other man.
Nicholas paused here and swallowed hard. “My wife has informed me of her pastime.” Seeing the look on Turnquist’s face, he continued on. “If you feel the need to keep your editing under wraps, then you could not choose a better person to have as your partner in this regard than Margaret. She is loyal to a fault.”
Lord Turnquist said nothing for several long minutes. Finally, his face returning to a more normal tone, he looked up at Nicholas. “There are norms, Connols. It may be all right for me to edit such a paper, but to be involved with a lady who writes for it—that is another story altogether.”
At this, Nicholas rose from his place and strode purposefully behind the desk until he and the sniveling lord were at eye level with each other. What did Margaret see in this man? Nicholas wondered, but knew it was not up to him to judge. “Listen, you prig,” he said quite calmly, as if he was merely asking for the state of the weather, “You would not be involving yourself with someone who writes for the paper. I am involved with someone who writes for the paper and it does not bother me one whit how my wife chooses to express herself in her free time. In fact, I admire both her courage and her creativity, and the fact that she has chosen to make her own way in the world. I do not understand why Margaret would want a boy like you, with your backwards ideas about what lords and ladies should not do, but given the lady’s inestimable character, I would count yourself lucky that she holds you in any regard at all, let alone such a high one. Are we clear?”
And with that, Nicholas, Duke of Connols, strode out of the study of his wife’s sister’s lover.
* * *
Ania was indulging in her nightly ritual of brushing out her hair when Nicholas finally returned to her room after almost a week’s absence. Swallowing her surprise, Ania continued on with her mahogany brush as if it was perfectly normal to have your husband run out on you, say nothing, and then with equal suddenness, return to you as if nothing at all had transpired.
“Ania,” she heard behind her, her husband’s voice a deep rumble. She put down the brush.
“Yes, Your Grace?” she asked primly, well aware of how churlish she was being.
Nicholas approached her chair, and it was not long before she felt the tall column of his warm against her back and head. He lowered his hands to her shoulders and kneaded them, unkinking every tight muscle that had managed to stiffen with the weight of his silence over the past week. “Ania,” he said again, nudging her to rise from her chair.
She did, and turned, a ready remark at her lips that died as his mouth closed down on hers. There was a different feeling to this kiss, a kind of hunger that made her feel as if Nicholas wanted to climb inside of her and hide there forever. It was a fierce sort of possessiveness that quite made the blood rush completely from her head, so that when at last he released her, she stumbled and would have fallen if Nicholas had not wrapped his large hands around her waist and was holding her upright.
“Nick,” she gasped, and with some careful angling, their mouths closed again.
They scrambled at each other, releasing folds of clothes and hardly noticing as the garments began to sink to the ground around them. Nicholas was quickly divested of his shirt, allowing Ania to delight in exploring the broad expanse of his muscular chest with her hands. He caught her mouth again and again, and she wound her arms around his neck, drawing him closer and deeper, allowing her tongue to slip into his mouth. She hardly noticed as she did this, but when she did, the fissure of excitement at her own boldness expanded, and she was suddenly filled with the incredible knowledge that Nicholas enjoyed her ministrations as much as she did his. She flicked her tongue against him once, then twice, and heard his sharp intake of breath as his own tongue tangled with hers in an instinctive dance.
She was divested of her chemise soon enough, and as he gazed down at her nude body, Ania was caught somewhere between unbearable shyness and wanton desire. Under his eyes, her body felt beautiful; as he lowered a palm to stroke her from collarbone to nipple, her breasts plumped and her head fell back, exposing a white morsel of throat that Nicholas took advantage of. She gasped as his tongue parried with the tender flesh there, flicked against it, inflaming her and causing her head to positively swim. With one miniscule step, she pressed her bare chest against his and felt him fully nude against her. She could sense his excitement from the low rumble in his throat as she repeated his actions back to him, catching his earlobe in her teeth and, having cloaked her teeth with her lips, bit him gently.
Nicholas shuddered. Where had his wife learned all this? But he knew. He knew that he knew, that her explorations were sourced by naught but her own imagination, which he had come to speak to her about. But having seen her so lusciously righteous before the vanity mirror, he had been unable to help himself. Now, as she pressed her thigh against his arousal, Nicholas lost his train of thought completely yet again, and relied instead on pure instinct to guide him.
He almost bent her body in twain as he leaned in to drink the next kiss from her lips. Responding to him and the position of their hungry bodies, Ania wrapped her arms around his neck and hooked each of her legs around his hips; when he straightened, he lifted her, and she felt the softness of her sex brush against his, leaving her shivering, wanting more. He supported her lower back with his arms and carried her over to the lush bed, setting her down as carefully as a package to be opened on a holiday morning, unwrapping her hands from his neck and looking down into the wide expanse of her green eyes as one looks into the hearth of the home, understanding it is the place where one wants to be most of all.
He saw a thought pass through her mind and saw the expression in her eyes change as he bent over her body. “Nick,” she said, her voice delightfully hoarse from arousal, “Margaret came to me today.”
Nicholas stilled.
Ania lifted one hand to his face and he wanted to close his eyes against it as she stroked his cheek gently, but the nervousness he felt peeled his lids open. “She said that Turnquist proposed marriage to her last night.”
Nicholas smiled and Ania went visibly lax.
“Was it your doing?” she asked wonderingly.
Nicholas shifted so that he laid sidelong his deliciously naked wife. Running a hand down the smooth skin of her stomach, he felt something swell inside of his chest that he had never felt before. It was possibly because
he had never felt quite this way about another woman. Looking at her small form and trusting eyes, a surge of protectiveness filled him, and he knew that this was a moment that could make or break the future of his relationship with his wife. His wife, who he had looked for such a long time, his wife, who had stumbled into his life by some lucky accident, becoming his family at a time when his own had managed to fall apart so spectacularly.
“Margaret being unhappy made you unhappy. Myself, I think Thunrow is a right arse, but for better or worse, he is your sister’s choice,” said Nicholas finally, fingers inching towards Ania’s hand. Intertwining his digits with hers, he lifted her hand to his lips to plant a soft kiss there, feeling her eyes follow his every motion. “So I simply explained to him that if I could be married to the Illustrated Lady herself, surely he should have no objection to being wed to her sister.”
He saw Ania’s body go rigid and realized he had forgotten the most important part. Locking his dark eyes with her green ones, he continued. “As for me, Duchess Connols, I want you to know something. I have been a right boorish pig this past week. I do not care what you do.”
A small crease of concern made its presence known on Ania’s forehead.
Nicholas shook his head. “I spoke out of turn. What I mean is, I was bowled over! The Illustrated Lady herself revealed—what a revelation! I did not know whether to laugh or weep; I had always pictured her as a slightly bored matron with quite the imagination, but here she was, accomplished and sharing my bed. Mine!” he cried, and laughed after all.
“Nick,” breathed Ania, and the look in her eyes melted him entirely.
He gathered her up so that her pale curves swayed attractively over the slenderness of her delicate waist. Cupping her breasts in his hands, he lifted each one to his mouth, enveloping each of the rosy nipples in his mouth and tugging gently there. As he felt Ania rake her fingers through his hair in response, the tugging grew more urgent, and he flickered his tongue against the growing thickness of the tissue that signified her arousal until the moans that were coming from her throat were consistent and unceasing.
He released her breast from his mouth with a satisfactory pop and watched it spring back, shining, wet, and significantly pinker than before. The flush that she had over her breasts spread appealingly over her neck and face, and Nicholas lowered her against the bed again. As he scattered kisses all over her stomach, his hand crept to possess her breastbone and neck, knocking the wind out of her wonderfully and anchoring her in place as his other hand fingered the curls between her legs.
“Mmm,” she said, and the little noise almost upset his self-control entirely. He found the folds of flesh between the dark, soft curls and spread her gently open, the rosebud of her most intimate flesh now accessible for viewing. He bent his head to lick her once, twice, and then felt her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Nick.”
He smiled into the valley of her sex.
Then again, more urgently still. “Nick!”
He rose up over her like the sun over the horizon. Wrapping his hand over hers and holding it over her head, Nicholas used his other hand to ease himself into her body, feeling her stretch full as he brushed against the barrier of her virginity.
“Trust me,” he said, and with one quick motion, the pain had subsided, and he moved not an inch, allowing her to become accustomed to the feel of him in her body. When she finally met his eyes, he knew that she was ready. The parry and thrust of him into her crevice was accompanied by her soft gasps as she bucked her body, trying to match his rhythm. They moved together, with a rising in tempo that made them lose all sense of the boundaries of their bodies until all there was was the crush of her breasts against his chest and the sharp whiteness of her teeth against the blush of her lips as her mouth parted to match her exertions.
Nicholas could feel himself losing control as the sensations whirled around him with increasing force. The softness of her body, the rise and fall of her hips against him, it all swirled into one great feeling until he felt surely he could take it no longer. But no, she had to be first. It was her right.
Counting backwards from twenty, his cock found the ridge inside of her above which a hot little button laid. Fifteen, he nudged against it, hearing her cry out once. Ten, he rubbed her from the inside out, watching her squeeze those incredible eyes shut as the blood roared inside of her. Five, her body began to shake against him and her legs rose up to lock behind his hips and draw him in deeper and faster. One, Ania exploded over him, calling out his name like a prayer to the deity above, over and over, senseless and lost in her own newfound pleasure.
Moments later, Nicholas joined her, allowing himself a release he had staved off for a very long time. As he shuddered into her body, she kissed him, welcoming him into every opening of her body as willingly as a blind man drinks water. Collapsing against her body, Nicholas realized that in his daze, he had still not spoken aloud the words that had plagued him since he realized their truth just about a week before. Rolling off of her, but pulling his wife close to him with his arm, he said:
“I just want you to know, Ania; I want you to know that I love your stories. They make you who you are, and I have looked too long for someone just like you to be put off by some nonsensical notion of what is right and wrong in this uptight society. Your secret will always be safe with me.”
Ania felt her eyes fill with tears. Sitting up so that she could look her husband full in the face, she said, “Oh Nicholas! What a big heart you have!”
“All the better to love you with,” replied the Duke of Connols and kissed his duchess so passionately that all rational thought fled from them both quite willingly, for the next several hours, at least.
THE END
The Honored Bride
ONE
"Head up, Charlotte."
Charlotte lifted her chin while her Mama tied the silky green bow snugly against her head. The soft straw hat sat precariously perched on her vibrant red curls, threatening to shirk the pins keeping it secured to her head. Her dress was hot, but that was her fault; she'd opted for long sleeves instead of sleeves capped at the elbow, and the extra few inches made a difference. But the dress was a deep green that flattered her delicate complexion and the ringlets of hair that curled around her face like a magical fire. Most of all, it matched her eyes, like a soft field dusted with dew in the morning. They were the reason Charlotte was being carted off to the West, her Pa said: not her slim waist and impeccable style, or even the generous hips she inherited from her Mama.
"Eyes like a glistening emerald, glowing with warmth, love, and wit" the letter read. Her brother Ned, who had been to college, penned these words of description to hand over to Ellis Ward, who ran the personal advertisements in their own newspaper, and sent ads out to other territories. Ellis, a short, rotund man of about 40, arranged many of the marriages for the young (and not so young) women of Virginia Beach, and seemed certain that Charlotte would be placed in no time.
"Good family, no prior arrangements," he squeaked, spectacles sliding down his generous nose as he rambled excitedly. The tip of his clefted chin had a spot of ink covering it, giving him a funny little goatee. "No health problems---and those eyes!" he crowed, cupping her shapely face between two chubby hands. He smelled like musty paper and apples, a by product of staying cooped up in a one room building and always taking your meals inside.
The bubble of doubt that had begun to blossom in her chest eventually turned to dread as letters began pouring in. A successful tailor wanted her to join him at his shop, and she could take up sewing and become his seamstress (she couldn't bear to sit still that long); a miner who was a widower, had his own spacious property, and wasn't much to look at, but he was a romantic, (he promised); and a fisherman who used to be a lawyer, but who abandoned his trade after the gold rush, and who had a baby boy he was raising after his sister died. Charlotte's stomach turned as her Mama read her these letters and handed over small, grainy photos whenever the men were able
to send them. They all looked the same to her, even though they were all so different. Pale skin, browned, self-made, born with a silver spoon in their mouth, it made no difference---every face was a threat to her way of life, promising to tug her away from her comfortable, familiar homestead and plunge her into a life of dizzying newness that would strip her of all she was. .
Then Pa had found Douglass, a doctor who lived alone on a small farm in California. When Pa read Douglass' letters aloud, Charlotte saw vivid landscapes and brilliant colors depicting every word he put down on paper. She could see the golden fields of wheat, picture the fat sheep with their soft curls of white fur like clouds, running between the sturdy legs of the creamy brown-and white cows they had for milking. The bright butter yellow of the sun as it kissed the earth and painted the rose garden a dusky red became an image so familiar it was almost a memory. Douglass himself, although his pictures were as grainy as the rest of them, grew more detailed in her mind: A square head topped with a black hat became a chiseled face with a strong nose and chin, soft blue eyes like the noon sky, and lips so full they used to get him teased in school. She knew his hands were roughened from years of farm work that paid for his schooling, and that he was tall, taller than Charlotte by about eight inches. He favored blue suits and simple black shoes, although he often wore a heavy white coat buttoned over his clothing to protect it. And she knew that he was lonely: a profound, breathtaking loneliness that lifted, he said, when he laid eyes on Charlotte.
"I dunno," Her Pa said one evening after folding up the latest letter thoughtfully. Charlotte was on her bed, eyes closed, a blissful smile glued to her face. Douglass had told her about his first time treating someone with heart disease. It sounded so risky, so difficult, but he didn't boast or brag. He stated everything matter-of-factly but with a very keen insight on morality and human frailty.
Her Pa had different ideas. "Seems...too flowery. Girly, like. You sure this the kinda gentleman you want to buckle down with? And are you sure he's telling all? "
