The Duchess Diaries: The Bridal Pleasures Series

by Jillian Hunter

  “For what?” Gideon demanded.

  “A person of Your Grace’s lineage must appreciate the importance of recording the daily minutiae of the elegant life in a collection of well-kept diaries.”

  “A collection?”

  Sir Godfrey’s voice rose. “History should be recorded for posterity. Imagine the thrill of your descendants when a hundred years hence they read the musings of ancestors who might otherwise be nothing more than portraits collecting dust on the wall.”

  Gideon stared at Charlotte. If posterity read her musings, a hundred years would not give them enough time to recover from the shock. “What a fascinating thought,” Gideon said. “Kindly put the fans on my account. The diaries can wait for another day.”

  Sir Godfrey beamed. “One trembles in anticipation at the prospect of a ducal wedding.”

  “Doesn’t one?” Gideon said, clasping Charlotte by the hand to drag her away from the counter. From the corner of his eye he noticed Miss Peppertree and two young ladies listening avidly to this exchange. “Good day, Sir Godfrey—”

  “I don’t suppose I could interest you in a tric-trac table for your honeymoon?”

  “I have other games in mind for my bride, but thank you for the thought.”

  Sir Godfrey bowed. “The very best to you both. It will be an honor to serve you in the future.”

  When Charlotte came downstairs the next morning, she discovered that a package had been delivered to her by a private courier. For a wonderful moment her hopes soared that some goodhearted stranger had found and discreetly returned her lost diary.

  Indeed, when she sat alone at her desk to unwrap it, the contents proved to be far more scandalous than those she had so unwisely “confessed” in the pages of her diary. For secured in a red silk ribbon was a portfolio of detailed sketches that depicted a variety of erotic acts.

  And tucked under the ribbon was a brief note that read:

  A GUIDE FOR THE WELL-INFORMED WIFE

  by

  Audrey Watson

  Fondly,

  Jane

  “Oh.” She put her hand to her mouth as she came upon a picture that resembled…a rocket? Going where? “Oh.” This was worse than anything she had written. Or was it? Odd, but there was comfort in the knowledge that she was not the only woman on earth who fought forbidden desires.

  Still, she would not leave these drawings about for anyone to find them. Daphne would go off like a whippet if she realized what they revealed.

  She intended to return them to Jane that same evening. Grayson was giving a soirée at his house to officially celebrate Gideon and Charlotte’s engagement.

  That gave Charlotte several hours to study the prints alone upstairs. Until then she dared not let them out of her sight.

  She had learned her lesson, even though it appeared from Mrs. Watson’s portfolio that she had a few others still to grasp.

  Chapter 24

  Charlotte admired the gilt-edged Greek frescoes that decorated the walls of Grayson’s mansion. An array of mirrors added glittering dimensions to the entrance hall. One could reside in this house for a lifetime and miss a myriad of details, such as the tales of Odysseus that were inscribed on the Corinthian columns, or the rubies embedded in the three-tiered chandeliers.

  The engagement party dined at a black oak table with plush Persian carpets under their feet.

  Grayson’s French chefs had prepared a supper of spring pea soup, herbed quail, and grilled trout, with truffles and buttered French beans. A bevy of underbutlers served a dessert of pineapple jelly and strawberries soaked in brandy and smothered in cream.

  Devon remarked that the gold-plated service reminded him of head platters.

  “I’ll have you know that these settings came out of the vault in the duke’s honor,” Jane retorted. “It took two days to lay this table.”

  “Why?” Devon asked. “How hard is it to throw down a few knives and forks?”

  Charlotte looked dismayed. “Can’t you tell that the place settings have been precisely arranged to the exact proportions? Every plate and goblet has been measured with a ruler to match the others around the table.”

  “And,” Jane added, “that the beverage you are quaffing is vintage wine and not cheap ale?”

  Gideon was of a mind to agree with Devon. He wasn’t interested in what he was eating or how it was served. He waited through supper to be with Charlotte.

  He stared at her across the table.

  He studied the choker that encircled her delicate throat. It seemed a safe place to stop, between her face and tempting décolletage. No. Not safe. He could almost feel the silent beat of her pulse. And when her gaze met his, he hoped he would never do anything to dim the dreamy glow in her eyes.

  He waited through the playlet performed in the amphitheater by a cast of Drury Lane actors. He waited for the guests to go to gaming rooms or to gather in the summerhouse for champagne and conversation that centered on the dwindling value of the pound and the influence of foreign markets on England’s prosperity. The war might be over but its debt had deflated the economy. Families had lost their homes, their incomes, their last hope. Unemployed soldiers roamed the streets. Factories were closing up, leaving scars on the discouraged land.

  Soon no voices could be heard around them.

  It became apparent that he and Charlotte were not missed by the crowd.

  “It’s a conspiracy to leave us alone.”

  “Was it something we said?” he asked her as they walked unhurriedly through the house and came to the spiral staircase. “What’s up there?” he said.

  “The Italian gallery.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Shall we explore?”

  “Yes.” She took the first few steps, trailing her fingers up the railing, and of course he followed; a gentleman must ascend behind a lady lest she slip and he had to catch her.

  But the moment they entered the candlelit gallery he dropped all pretense and pulled her to him. His lips sought hers. His hands stroked down from her shoulders to her hips, fusing her body to his. “Charlotte,” he whispered against her lips, “I haven’t been able to think of anything but you all night.”

  She was consumed more and more by thoughts of what would happen when he took her virtue. All she understood was that this was a prelude to the passionate acts illustrated in Mrs. Watson’s portfolio, which Charlotte had examined until returning it to Jane’s for safekeeping. Every picture had told an explicit story.

  She twined her fingers in his hair. Be fire to fire. She had sought to follow the advice, but what would happen when the flames erupted into a conflagration? When he ravished her mouth as she fell into an inferno of her own need? His kisses whetted her desire for other pleasures and left her trembling and begging silently for the darker knowledge of his touch.

  “You are in a wicked mood tonight,” he whispered into her hair. “I wish I had known earlier so that I might have planned accordingly.”

  “You’re making my legs go weak,” she whispered back. “And I think you already know this, but we’ve become part of a grander plan.”

  She felt the heavy warmth of his hands, their strength, stroking and seeking places as if to lay claim to what would be his alone. “I think we ought to lie down together on that couch,” he said with a persuasive smile. “Just in case you feel faint.”

  He slipped his arm beneath her bottom and carried her the short distance, kissing her again before lowering her to the chaise. She landed in a delicate disarray of silver gauze and blush-rose silk. Her full breasts rose and fell in rhythm with her increasing breathlessness. Her blue eyes clung to him, innocence giving way to invitation.

  “What a lovely sight,” he said, sinking into the space beside her.

  She turned and found herself trapped between his hard torso and the arm of the chaise.

  “Look up at me.”

  Her heart fluttered at the unmasked intent in his eyes. Slowly he lowered his head. The taunting brush of his mouth against he
rs brought her bliss. She sighed and placed her hand upon his lean torso. There was something about this man in evening wear that made her head swim.

  His fingers caressed her cheek, lulling her into acquiescence. But his lips seduced her soul, promising devotion and deeds. A surge of overpowering desire coursed through her veins.

  He stared at her half-recumbent form, her skirts drawn up to one thigh. “I think you need more than a few kisses tonight.”

  She stared up into his eyes. “Do you indeed?”

  “I can give you everything you need.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “And I need you,” he said.

  Why hadn’t he realized it right away? She was delightful company during the day. In bed she would be a sensual challenge that demanded skill and perception. He could not have found a better candidate for a wife. Charlotte deserved a slow introduction to the pleasures no one had shown her before.

  He settled one arm under her shoulder. She was captured in his hold, close enough now that he could ease his hand under her gown and over her thigh to stroke the drenched warmth between her legs. His belly tightened in anticipation.

  He heard her sharp draw of breath as he played her. “Now this,” he whispered, staring down at her in fascination, “is what I call a treasure hunt.” His fingers slid inside and pushed as high as he could reach. She closed her eyes, trembling, drenched in her own desire, drowning, adrift.

  “That’s what you need,” he whispered, his thumb flicking upward and faster. “Just let me show you. Part your legs a little more so I can enjoy your release.”

  His shoulders tightened. He wanted her. He could have taken her without either of them undressing.

  But he didn’t want her to feel any shame the first time he made love to her. This wasn’t the time or the place. When their moment came, he would unravel her and kiss and lick every delectable spot on her body. He would heighten her arousal until she begged for him. Until the ache he denied would grow and torment and tempt him beyond endurance. He was so hard right now he might explode.

  “Gideon,” she moaned, throwing her arm over her face. “My heart is going to burst.”

  “Mine, too,” he whispered, quickening his fingers. “Give yourself to me.” He laid his head against her upraised knee and gazed down into the hollow of her thighs.

  Her response excited him. Her passionate displays grew wilder every time he stole a moment with her. She undulated her hips like a siren. She moved as her instincts guided her, her response so enticing that his throat tightened and he was only a blessed instant away from burying himself in her beautiful body.

  He reached up his other hand and unfastened her bodice, bending to her unbound breasts to suck at their distended tips. She whimpered and twisted at the waist. “Gideon. I can’t—”

  He sat up and drew a harsh breath as she shattered, her body swept by helpless spasms. Her nipples darkened. Her eyes were glazed and dilated. She shivered and curled in against his arm, whispering, “Gideon. That was…Oh.”

  He threw himself back against the couch, reluctantly drawing his hand from her warm flesh. “It certainly was.”

  She darted him an inquisitive glance. “But I didn’t pleasure you.”

  “Oh, you did.” He inhaled, rousing himself to move. “You’ve no idea how much. I expect that in a short while you will learn.”

  She looked down at his hands as he relaced her gown. “Is it an art that I should study?”

  “Study? You have a natural talent for bed sport.”

  “There are wives in the ton who pay a fortune to study under Mrs. Watson,” she said after a hesitation.

  He gave her a rueful smile. She looked tousled and delectable. “You’re tempting enough without professional tutelage. I prefer that I have the advantage. Now we are going back downstairs before a search party is sent to find us.”

  “I’m sorry, Gideon,” she whispered with a laugh as he pulled her to her feet.

  “For what?”

  “For dragging you to the altar.”

  “Do you see a ball and chain attached to my body? Do you see a man who has no mettle nor the means to express it? I am not entering this union against my will, my dear.”

  She stared up at him in consideration, then lifted her hand to stroke the cleft of his chin. “I see a man who has his heart hidden away.”

  “There’s far more to you than meets the eye, too.” He smiled. “Remind me that I am never to trust a first impression again.”

  Chapter 25

  Millie hunched down in front of the broken looking glass in the corner, struggling to button the back of her dress.

  “I’m late again,” she muttered. “There’s nothing worse than choosing the gents the other girls refused. I didn’t mind it when there was a bully to watch over me,” she said to the mirror. “But now I could lose me life for a half sovereign’s toss. Do you ’ear me, Nick? Are you listening to me, you with your thumb up your bum?”

  He looked up from the bare pallet on which he’d fallen, belly first, the diary opened to a random page. “‘Comb your fingers through my silken locks.’”

  “Why?” Millie asked idly, hiking up the cotton stocking that sagged below her knee. “Don’t tell me you’ve caught lice again.”

  “God,” he said, grunting. “It’s meant to be romantic.”

  “Pickin’ nits ain’t my idea of a lovely time. You and your palaver with a lady who’d faint if you touched ’er. You said that book would make us rich. All it’s done is make you stupid.”

  He had never read words put together like this. How’d she do it? How did a lady make lust sound like it wasn’t a disgusting secret? That was how Nick thought those fancy folk regarded it.

  He hadn’t guessed that a woman could think like this. Maybe she was cracked. He didn’t mind if she was. He’d never met a completely sane woman in his life, starting with his mother.

  He’d never learned pretty language, either. Still, he could patter slang in his crib with a few pals or to an enrapt audience on a street corner, passing a bottle ’round and ’round.

  There wasn’t any other way to survive the streets where he’d been born unwanted and would die unmourned.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the boarded-up window. “Sapphires. That’s the color of ’er eyes.”

  “The eyes that nearly popped out of ’er skull when she caught you at the window? You’ve gone daft, Nick. You ain’t done more than a few jobs since you stole that bloody book. I never thought to see the day that you’d turn into a sop.”

  He snorted. “Didn’t I steal the stockings that you’re wearing tonight?”

  “Stockings. My four-year-old nephew pinched a paisley shawl at the market.”

  “Then stuff it in your mouth,” he said as she stomped to the low steps that led up through a stairwell into the street. “Just leave me be for once, would you?”

  He set his teeth and closed his eyes, waiting for her to slam the door. She did. Fragments of plaster floated down upon the open diary and his face. He swung upright and blew the debris from the pages. No sooner had he hidden the diary under the loose floorboard than he detected the clatter of heels coming down the cellar stairs.

  “What did you forget now?”

  “I forgot how rank this place smelled,” a tart voice answered from the door as it was unceremoniously flung open. “Don’t you ever empty the chamber pot?”

  His eyes widened in speculation as the slight figure appeared on the top of the steps. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t the duchess stopping by for a spot of tea. What brings you to the slums, dearie? Missin’ your old pals?”

  His old friend Harriet lifted her lace handkerchief to her nose. “Have you taken to burying your victims under the bed?”

  “Careful where you step,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow.

  “What a disgusting hovel,” Harriet said through her handkerchief.

  “I’m movin’ out soon enough,” Nick said. “I got
some merchandise to sell and then I expect I’ll ’ave fancy lodgings.”

  Harriet scraped a rickety stool to the bed. “I’m looking for a lost diary,” she announced without preamble.

  He whistled. “I never knew you kept one. There must be some shocking tales in that. Tales about you and me.”

  “This is important, Nick. The diary is going to turn up sooner or later. If I find it before anyone can read and release the contents, there will be a reward, and no questions asked.”

  He studied her face. “What will it bring?”

  “Five thousand pounds out of my purse.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What do you mean, ‘that’s all’? As if you come across cash like that every day.”

  “I used to,” he said softly. “You and me. God, what a rum couple we was.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “For only five thousand pounds I can’t even remember what it is. You and I brought in more than that paltry sum on our housebreaking lays together. I miss those times. I’ll never forget the night—”

  “I’m not here to reminisce,” Harriet said, drawing her ankle from the hand he’d reached out to grasp it.

  “Who wants it the most?” he asked.

  “The person who wrote it,” she answered. “It’s important only to…well, to the owner.”

  “Why would anyone else keep it then?”

  Harriet narrowed her gaze. “I’m not giving you any more information, knowing what a head you have for business and a heart for vice.”

  He chortled. “I deal in jewels. Silver. Gold. Not in books.”

  “The reward could go up, Nick.”

  He grinned. “Then so could the price.”

  “Keep your eyes open.”

  He smoothed back his hair. “Who’s the author again?”

  “A distant relative of mine.”

  “Time ago you and me was family. Never thought you’d give it all up for a fancy title and a castle in some foreign land.”

  “It’s Wales, Nick. And my husband isn’t a foreigner. You know everything that’s going on in the streets. If anyone stole it, the news will get out eventually.”