The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  Oh, heavens, yes. She had no idea whether she said the words out loud. If she did his only response was to shift her, hiking her higher. Her legs closed and locked around his waist as he drove into her heat again and again, his strokes long and hard.

  She came before he did. She threw her head back, her center so tight against his pumping cock, and shattered. Ah, it had been so very long.

  Then she watched him as he drove toward completion and release. He was not long in coming. A low moan came from his very depths, sounding almost painful in her ears. He shuddered and she felt his seed pump into her. Oh, what a sight! His face so fierce, so beautiful.

  He buried his face in her neck. His body, utterly still after such vigor, seemed frozen to her. She felt wetness on her neck. Olivia wanted to turn to him, to see if he was well, but at the same time, she sensed his need for quiet and stillness. Finally she touched his hair and tried to speak. But he would not allow it. Her movement seemed to bring him out of his trance, and he gently shifted her, his penis, just beginning to soften, slipped out. He carried her to the bed, laying her gently down, and before she could open her mouth to speak, he disappeared out the door and into the fading sunlight.

  ****

  Rhys found himself out in the small yard behind the cottage facing the sea. He took a deep breath, his arms wrapped tightly around his shaking body.

  It had been real.

  Oh, God, he was alive.

  He had waited for the emptiness. His face pressed against her neck and shoulder, he had waited for the loneliness to fill his body, to slam into him with a visceral force, to remind him of the deadness that lay deep within him. He had prepared himself for the feeling, but it had not come. By God, he was alive, filled.

  He dashed the tears that still ran down his cheeks and swiped at his running nose. He had had to leave her to digest this incredible feeling. This wonderful fullness. What must she think of him?

  He had never wanted to kiss a woman before. It was too intimate, too personal. But, God, he could not get enough of her. He could not get enough of her ripe, firm lips, the taste of her tongue and inner flesh of her cheeks, of the edge of her teeth against his own lips and tongue. He wanted her again.

  Rhys returned to find her fully dressed, sitting primly on the edge of one of the stuffed arm chairs. Disappointment pricked like a hard and unexpected frost. He had hoped she would want to repeat the act, at least once more. She watched the dying embers, her hands lying softly curled in her lap. He noted her hair was down, or nearly. Only a few pins held what was left of her chignon. It was glorious. His cock jumped inside his breeches.

  “Your pardon, I cannot stay away. I want you. I want you all the time. I cannot think of anything else but having you, of filling you. I apologize. I have lost all control.”

  She looked away. Her teeth caught her bottom lip. She didn’t seem to be listening to him. But she must understand he was not usually like this. He could be in control. He would try to contain himself for her. But his words died on his lips, as she slowly rose and began to take down the rest of her hair.

  This time it was slower—but not by much.

  Rhys concentrated on the most mundane of things, gathering his shirt, his smalls, his breeches, as if the act of dressing would restore normalcy to his careening emotions. He could not look at her, not yet. It was too soon, too fresh. If he did, he would very likely leap on her again, God help her. He was like a green boy.

  How he got home, he did not know. He recalled they had been very polite with each other, very considered and politic. She had veered off shortly after they set out, and he had made himself not stop to look after her. He made himself go forward. He could see the house before him, yet he did not want to go home.

  Sid jerked to a halt. Startled, Rhys looked down. His hands were twisted in the too short reins.

  “Dolt! Can you not keep more than one thing in your brain at a time?” Sid threw his head as if to concur.

  They had not made another plan. He was so bloody ignorant. When would he see her again? Touch her again? Be alive again?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Apparently the duke did not normally attend the village church. Lady Bainbridge had told Eglantine that Reverend Hargett overlooked this fact due to His Grace’s considerable charitable contributions over the years. The last being a brand new roof and church steeple to replace the crumbling one erected at least seventy years ago which, at the time, was only meant to be temporary.

  So when a hush fell over the entire congregation and all heads turned to fix on this exalted person making his way up the aisle, Olivia had no need to turn her gaze with all the others.

  Even the fly hovering in the window above the altar began to buzz with anticipation. When the duke settled, Olivia was situated squarely behind his very large shoulders.

  For her, the service ended at that moment. If someone had quizzed her about Reverend Hargett’s sermon, or the hymns she had only mouthed, she could recount nothing. It was not so much seeing him, for aside from the extraordinary width of his shoulders encased in a coat of the finest coffee-colored wool, the slight curl of his hair as it brushed the coat’s collar, and his left, perfectly shaped ear, there was not much to see. But it was everything. She could observe him, unobserved. She could smell him, but best of all, she could hear him.

  It was another reason she only mouthed the words to one of her favorite hymns. Egg looked at her—Olivia loved to sing—but since she would not meet her friend’s gaze, Olivia could only guess at the bemused surprise on Egg’s face. She turned back to her hymnal.

  Who could sing when the Duke of Roydan was singing?

  She’d never imagined him singing. His voice was a lovely bass, deep and resonant. He even sang a bit of harmony. Olivia stood utterly still, as if any movement might make him stop. She had lain with the man, yet she knew almost nothing of him. What other secrets did he hold?

  “Come along, my dear.” Egg touched her sleeve. “You are very distracted this morn.”

  The duke moved down the aisle followed by Lord Bertram and Sir Everett and Lady Bainbridge. Olivia and Egg followed.

  In the vestibule Reverend Hargett was already addressing His Grace. “Such a fine day and so pleased to have you amongst us this morning. We are most honored.”

  Roydan gave a brief nod and seemed ready to move on but Lady Bainbridge, who apparently could not pass up an opportunity to hold forth with the duke, stopped him.

  “Your Grace,” the lady called, “I could not help but overhear our dear reverend’s remark of the delightful weather we are having. It would be a shame to squander such a gift from God and take our dinner indoors would it not?” She did not pause for his answer. “I have a great notion to have a picnic. My dear Lady Wiggins, what do you think? Is it not the best plan?”

  “It is as fine a day as I have seen, Lady Bainbridge,” agreed Egg.

  “So Roydan, it seems the rest of our day, and I dare say our peace, has been overtaken by the ladies,” said Sir Everett with a chuckle.

  “Your pardon, Lady Bainbridge, Lady Wiggins, but I am very much afraid I will have to forego the pleasure of a picnic as I am promised to Mrs. Weston.” The duke’s gaze bored into hers. “I believe we are to see the Norman abbey this afternoon.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia saw Egg’s mouth pop open to refute the plan. But then just as quickly it clapped shut.

  All gazes now fixed on Olivia. “Yes,” she said, looking at everyone but the duke.

  However the company’s uniform silence seemed to require more of an answer. She cleared her throat. “Yes, His Grace has been most kind to offer to show me the ruins. I have heard they are not to be missed.”

  Lady Bainbridge, clearly disappointed with her thwarted outing, said, “Oh, yes, indeed, they are truly epic.” Then her face brightened. “Perhaps we should all go?”

  “Lady Bainbridge, I hope you will forgive me, but I do not think I am quite up for so long a trek.” It was Egg, bless her
heart.

  “Oh, but of course, Lady Wiggins, how thoughtless of me. We will let the young people scamper about those crumbling ruins, and we civilized folk will proceed with the picnic.”

  There was a flurry of agreement and arranging of carriages, and times, and everything that accompanies an impromptu outing. While this was taking place, the duke found a moment to speak with Olivia.

  “I will call for you at the dower house at three o’clock?”

  “No,” she said, almost cutting him off. He started to speak, but she continued, “I will meet you there. At two o’clock, Your Grace.”

  He nodded. “As you wish. I am solely at your pleasure, Mrs. Weston.” She thought she saw a hint of a smile.

  “Your Grace,” Lady Bainbridge called, “since you have declined to join our feasting in favor of other pursuits, I must insist you give us your opinion of the best spot for our afternoon.”

  Olivia was quite certain His Grace would choose a direction as far away from Sea Cottage as humanly possible.

  ****

  He tied Sid next to her mount, his hands fumbling to make a loop with the reins. By God, she had arrived before him.

  Her hair was already partly loose and flowing down her back, tied with a dark red ribbon. He drank her in as she turned at the sound of the cottage door closing behind him.

  Like an arrow from a long-stretched bow, he was so ready to be inside her warmth. To feel that fullness again. To make sure he was not dreaming that incredible feeling.

  He began to open his falls even as he moved to her. She, likewise, raised her skirts. They met, mouths clashing, hands tearing at stubborn buttons and yards of gauzy fabric. She grabbed the length of his cock, her hands so cool against his hot flesh, and guided him into her wet center.

  He sank into her sweetness. The tension in his face releasing, eyes closed to blackness, every part of him centered on their joining. His mouth found her mouth, then her cheeks, ears, and the soft, downy hairs at her temples. He returned again to her mouth as if she was breathing for the both of them—she was his air—his life. And finally, blessed relief.

  He wanted her again right away. It frightened him, the power she had over him. Like nothing he had experienced before, his control in tatters. Yet he could not, would not deny himself this woman. This joy.

  They made it to the edge of the bed this time. He pushed her legs up to loop over his shoulders and watched her come—the bliss cracking sharply over her. Only then did he allow himself to explode, spilling into her core. As she received his seed, he held her firmly. He did not want it to dribble down her legs to be dabbed away like some mess. He wanted a part of him to take root within her, for him to be a part of this beautiful woman.

  After a time, she rose and went to the basin next to the fireplace. Taking up a bit of linen toweling, she dipped it into the water and then wrung it out, the trickle of water in the basin, like music. She turned and walked to him bending to wash his penis. He should have stopped her, but could not. She was so gentle, so careful and attentive. He stood there like a dumb beast, hands dangling by his sides, watching her, feeling her.

  She smiled at him then. It was the first time she had ever truly smiled at him. Well, there had been that time when they had waltzed at the Parkington mask, but half her face had been covered. He clenched his jaw.

  Her smile was an aria soaring to an impossibly high note of such depth and clarity he almost could not stand its brilliance. This smile was for him. That he could possibly deserve this gift was impossible. But he was selfish and starved enough to pretend he was worthy. He wanted to be worthy of that smile. Of her.

  “Would you like wine? Or perhaps some bread and cheese?” she said, as if blinding him with her considerable light was an everyday occurrence in his world. She deposited the wet linen next to the bowl and then moved to the table that held a basket of food. He instinctively reached out for her retreating figure. He clenched his hand, and then dropped it to his side.

  “Some wine, yes.” He began to put himself to rights. It was not easy because his damn cock was already at half mast. Stupid.

  She made a kind of picnic on a blanket that she lay before the fire. They ate and drank in silence. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing as he; what a different sort of picnic they were experiencing than the one proposed by Lady Bainbridge.

  “I did not know you sang.”

  Apparently her thoughts were not of comparisons and picnics. He shifted and sat up straighter. “There are many things you do not know about me.” Did she recall she had said the very same thing to him not two days ago in regard to her painting?

  “Touché.”

  Ah, she did remember.

  They remained silent, but it was not stiff and uncomfortable; they were simply quiet.

  When they finished she gathered the odd bits of food together in a napkin and moved them to the table and began to tidy the cottage.

  He watched her from the blanket in awe of her littlest movement. The way she frowned slightly as she brushed crumbs from the table into her hand and tossed them in the fire. How she grasped the poker and prodded a log that threatened to roll out onto the hearth, and then used a small broom to sweep up the ash. So tidy…so sweet. Her bum…so utterly perfect.

  He drained the wine in his glass and licked his lips. Rhys had not seen the female body completely unclothed for a long time. It must be years now.

  Daria, for the past two or more years, insisted on wearing a corset of some sort and often a peignoir as well when they met. It was always some cunning contraption likely fashioned to minimize her growing waistline and shore up her sagging curves. She might as well have left them off and been comfortable. It had been ages since her body held any interest for him.

  Thursday would come and they would simply lie down, he on top of her. She would then make the appropriate sounds of pleasure, which for the last few years had become less and less, and he would plunge inside her, pumping with fierce precision and then, at the last moment, he would pull himself out to spill in his waiting hand.

  And then he would wait for the emptiness. And it always came, always.

  He had once thought of replacing Daria, but he supposed he had got complacent as well. Why risk another woman who would likely produce the same feeling? Besides, no other woman had caught his fancy, though plenty had tried.

  “Some more wine, Your Grace?” She was holding out the flagon.

  Rhys jerked out of his memories.

  Your Grace?

  After what they had done? After what she had done to him? Did she not see he was laid open and totally exposed to her? Your Grace?

  He wanted to be more than a bloody title. He wanted to be more than a rutting beast. This woman made him want more but he didn’t know how…how to make her see…To see him. To see him as…Rhys.

  Oh God, what a fool he was. Simply because he had been transformed did not mean she was on a similar path. Clearly she was not. What a stupid clod. He should take his leave. He had had his pleasure. God knows he did not want to frighten her with his enormous need of her.

  A muscle jerked in his jaw line. Olivia was used to reading all kinds of men, having spent much of her adult life following the drum, surrounded by scores of Wes’s fellow soldiers. She knew bravado and swagger. Certainly knew hurt and grief and the myriad of ways men dealt with these unwelcome emotions. She sensed his disquiet and more importantly his readiness for flight.

  She did not want him to go.

  Finally he answered, “Wine is not what I want.” He rose from the blanket to take the decanter from her and set it on the nearby table, but then he seemed at a loss as to what to do next. He stood mutely, staring at the table.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  His shoulders twitched, but he said nothing.

  She finally said, “Tell me—what you need.”

  His shoulders bunched. A long moment passed, and she sighed. He would not answer.

  “I want to have you again an
d then again after that,” he finally barked, whirling around to face her.

  He might as well have slapped her. “Ah, the ‘duke’ speaks.”

  Rhys felt as if he’d entered a game and did not know the rules; only that he wanted to win. He would not stay to suffer her rejection. He was at the door when she called his name. Not Your Grace, not even Roydan, but—

  “Rhys,” she repeated. “Rhys, what do you want?”

  He could feel her just behind him.

  If he’d been standing on the precipice of some cliff he could not have felt more danger than the act of answering her simple question. “I want—” His vision narrowed. What he wanted? To have his heart’s desire? To have—her? He strained toward that thought like a muscle that had been long unused.

  “I want—what I want is to look at you,” he whispered. Then he turned to her, his voice stronger. “I want to look at your body.”

  She smiled.

  “Yes, Rhys, I would like that as well.”

  She reached for him. His huge hand encompassed hers, and she pulled him gently back into the room.

  “Would you put another log on the fire while I undress?”

  “No.”

  She turned at the sharpness in his voice.

  “I meant I would like to undress you, if I may?” he amended. “Will you wait till I return?”

  She nodded. He dashed out the door, afraid if he was too long she would have a chance to change her mind.

  When he returned she was pulling all of the pillows off the bed and chairs, heaping them on the rug before the fire, making a kind of bower for them.

  He settled the logs into the hearth, wiped his hands on a napkin, and turned to her.

  Rhys had never undressed a woman before. It was impossible, yet true. He looked at this woman standing before him, and he wanted it to last forever. Slowly, like a boy coaxing his first bird to sit in his hand, he touched the ribbon in her hair, pulled it, and watched it snake across her neck and shoulder to be discarded on the floor.

  Next came the few pins holding up the rest of her hair. He spent an infinite amount of time just caressing the locks that settled around her shoulders, back, and breasts. How could hair be liquid silk? He was fascinated to see how it flowed endlessly over his hands, occasionally catching on a rough callus, but then slipping free to lick his wrists and forearms. His thumb inadvertently brushed her nipple. She gasped. Had he done something wrong? One look at her face told him she was…well.