Duchess for a Day

by Nan Ryan

  “I know,” he replied, hardly daring to breathe.

  “I can lead you anywhere by your—”

  “Yes,” he groaned. “Do it. Lead me. Take me where you want me.”

  “Come this way,” she said softly and, never releasing her hold on him, slowly, carefully walked backward until they reached the padded chaise longue. Claire asked him sweetly, “Will you make love to me here in the moonlight?”

  “I won’t be able to if you don’t let go of me.”

  Claire smiled, pleased, and released him.

  Hank immediately threw a leg over and sat down astride the comfortable chaise longue. He looked up at her. “Join me?”

  Claire took a deep breath and sat down astride the chaise facing him. Hank reached out, took her chin in his hand, leaned forward, and kissed her. His mouth hungrily plundering hers, he drew her closer. Claire put her arms around his neck, arched her back, and brushed her breasts against his chest.

  Their lips separated.

  Hank put his hands beneath her knees, lifted her legs and draped her thighs over his. And drew her closer still.

  Determined to conceal her sexual ignorance, Claire was flippant, saying, “There’s only one thing between us, Hank.”

  “Which is?” he asked, brow furrowing.

  She lifted her hand, licked her fingers until they were wet, and rubbed them over the smooth, hot tip of his thrusting masculinity.

  “This,” she said, toying with him. “I don’t want it to come between us, Hank.” She licked her lips and added, “I want it to come inside me.”

  Hank anxiously brushed her hand away, lifted her and watched as she carefully guided the gleaming tip up into her. When it was just inside, she released her hold on him and put her hands atop his shoulders.

  Hank stayed completely still while Claire cautiously impaled herself on him. Slowly, seductively she sank down onto his erection.

  Blinded by the passion the duchess had so easily evoked in him, Hank felt her soft, wet warmth sliding sensuously down over him like liquid fire. He had to bite the inside of his jaw to keep from instantly exploding in her.

  “You all right, sweetheart?” he finally asked when she’d settled herself upon him.

  “Have you any idea how good you feel to me, Hank?” was her breathless reply.

  “Ah, baby, you feel twice that good to me.”

  “Mmmmm. Love me, Hank. Love me well.”

  Leaning forward to capture a soft, warm breast in his mouth, Hank clasped her thighs and began the slow, rolling upward movement of his pelvis. Claire gasped at the initial thrust, then quickly found his rhythm and rode him with an expertise born of animal passion. She met each forceful driving lunge with her squeezing, gripping heat. She held nothing back; gave herself up to raging desire and abandoned carnal pleasure.

  Her feverish body was completely open to his thorough invasion as he plunged all the way up inside her, stretching her, filling her, making her his own.

  His mouth at her breast was greedy, intent. He suckled the diamond-hard nipple hungrily while Claire sighed and moaned and gripped his shoulders so hard, her nails cut into the flesh. She threw her head back and looked up at the moon shining down on them, silvering their enjoined bodies, exposing them with a heavenly radiance.

  Claire imagined what the man in the moon could see as he shone down on them. An unashamed pair of wild, naked lovers coming together in the most unconventional way. In her mind’s eye flashed the erotic image of the lunar view: Hank naked astride the chaise and she straddling him, the darkness of his skin and raven hair contrasting sharply with her pale flesh and light hair.

  A beautiful, thrilling vision.

  Wave after wave of incredible pleasure washed over Claire and she rode the rising tide of ecstasy like a woman possessed.

  “Oh, Hank, Hank,” she murmured, clasping Hank’s head to her breast, bucking against him, feeling that frightening, joyous sensation beginning somewhere deep inside.

  Hank’s mouth released her nipple. She loosened her arms and he raised his head.

  “I want,” he said, pushing her tangled hair back, “to watch your beautiful face while you come.”

  Her eyes widening, she nodded, licked her dry lips, gripped his rigid biceps, and began to lose control. Hank held her and speeded his movements, his pelvis rising to meet the frantic slapping and grinding of her bare bottom.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she murmured excitedly and he gave her all he had.

  When she began to cry out, Hank wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, drew her face down to his and quickly covered her mouth with his own. While he swallowed up her shrieks of ecstasy, he joined her in paradise. He groaned into her mouth as he gushed up into her, the fierce pumping leaving him drained and weak.

  Claire tore her lips from his, hugged his dark head to her, and sagged weakly against him. For several minutes they stayed as they were, arms around each other, bodies still joined, hearts racing, breaths short.

  It was Claire who stirred first. She eased herself up, sighed contentedly, and smiled at Hank.

  “How would you like me to draw you a nice, hot bath?”

  He grinned. “How would you like to join me in that nice, hot bath?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Both laughed as they rose and rushed inside.

  After a long, leisurely soak in the suds-filled tub, the lovers stretched out on the satin-sheeted bed. They talked and laughed and played. And when dawn approached, they made love again. This time it was a lazy, unhurried coupling with Claire propped up against the pillows and lying on her back and Hank between her parted legs in the comfort of the big bed.

  They even paused momentarily and watched the summer sun rise, since that was what Claire’s note had invited him there for.

  “Good morning, Duchess,” Hank said and kissed her.

  “Make it a better morning, Hank,” she said and wrapped her silken legs around his back.

  Seventeen

  “Must you go?”

  “I really must, sweetheart.”

  Claire sighed as she lounged naked against the stacked pillows. Despite her attitude of languid repose, she had the strongest impulse to pull the sheet up and modestly cover herself. But she didn’t do it. She assumed that the Duchess of Beaumont would think nothing of lying about nude. And she was, for the time being, the duchess.

  Claire stretched lazily and feigned relaxed nonchalance as she watched Hank dress. The sun had barely risen, but he explained that he was expected at the racetrack for the early morning workouts of his Thoroughbreds.

  “You’ll hurry back,” she said.

  Hank turned to look her and Claire felt butterflies take wing inside.

  Lord he was exquisite.

  Breathtakingly handsome. His face a study in male perfection. Strong, but beautiful. His sky-blue eyes were shadowed, predatory, fearless, but the mouth was soft, sensual, with an irresistibly provocative curve.

  His body was as exquisite as his face. Tall, lean and dark. Broad, sculptured shoulders. Wide, deep chest. Slim hips, tight belly and tighter buttocks. Steely muscled thighs and long lean legs. A powerful, finely honed body.

  And blessed with grace as well as strength. A lithe coordination of flesh and bone and muscle which was very, very attractive.

  Earthy, sensual, passionate, he oozed sexuality. Just looking at him made Claire’s pulse race.

  “Is there a gauntlet to be run?” Hank asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How many servants am I going to encounter on my way out of here?”

  “It’s dawn, Hank. No one is up.” Claire got out of bed, went into the dressing room, and found a white silk robe. She slipped her arms in the sleeves, but did not tie the sash. She came back into the bedroom. “I’ll see you out.”

  “Not necessary, Charmaine.” Hank stepped close, took hold of her robe’s silk lapels, ran his thumbs up and down the slippery fabric and told he
r, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. You get some rest.”

  Claire nodded, put her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe and started to kiss him.

  “No, don’t do that,” Hank warned, turning his head slightly, even as he slipped his hands inside her open robe. “If you kiss me I will never leave.” He grinned, gave her bare bottom a harmless swat and released her.

  Claire followed him from the bedroom into the sitting room and to the suite’s double doors. There he turned and said, “Let’s have breakfast together later this morning.”

  “Yes.” Claire liked the idea. “But not here. Let’s go to the finest hotel dining room in all Saratoga.”

  “In my opinion that would be the United States Hotel, Duchess.”

  “Then that is where we’ll have breakfast.”

  “You realize, don’t you, that the minute we’re seen together—”

  “Everyone will talk,” she interrupted him. “Yes. They’ll take it for granted that we’re having an affair.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  Claire laughed merrily. “Dear, dear Hank. Surely you’ve heard the scandalous tales that follow me wherever I go.” She toyed with a button on his shirt. “My romantic liaisons—both real and imagined—have been fodder for the gossip mill for years now.” Again she laughed. “Besides, I want it made clear to the ladies at the Springs that you have your hands full with me. They’ll have to look elsewhere for male companionship.”

  “I like you, Duchess,” Hank said with a devilish grin. “No pretense for you. You see what you want and reach out and take it. I do that myself.” He paused. “That doesn’t make us bad people, does it?”

  “Most certainly not.”

  Hank put a hand inside Claire’s open robe and caressed her breast. “We’re two of a kind, you and I.” He ran his thumb back and forth over her tightening nipple. “We want each other physically. Elemental sexual hunger and that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. We’re of like minds on that score.” He grinned as he added, “Or should I say like bodies.”

  “Mmm. Isn’t it marvelous? No emotional attachments. No recriminations. No regrets. Just two healthy, hot-blooded people coming together for a few carefree summer nights of amour at a lovely mountain resort.”

  “I don’t think I’ll go to the track this morning,” Hank said, his hand sliding down to her hip.

  Again Claire laughed. “You silly boy, of course you must go.” She pushed his hand away and drew her robe together. “Go watch your creatures run and be back here by ten sharp. I’ll be dressed and waiting.”

  “I’d rather you be undressed and waiting.”

  “When we get back from breakfast, you can undress me at your leisure and we’ll spend the long afternoon in bed. How does that sound?”

  He brushed a kiss to her lips. “Like the best offer I’ve had all morning.”

  And with that the Silver King opened the door and was gone.

  Claire closed the door behind him, sighed and returned to the bedroom humming happily.

  It was incredibly thrilling to make love to the handsome, sun-bronzed Nevadan. And gloriously liberating to be the pleasure-loving noblewoman who went uncensured for her sexual escapades.

  Claire doubted the duchess had ever made love to a man as physically beautiful as Hank Cassidy. And, oh, the things he had done to her. Such amazing pleasure! Claire blushed at the recollection.

  Throughout the night of heated lovemaking she had pretended that she was not shocked by or reluctant to engage in wanton sexual behavior the kind of which—until now—she had been totally ignorant. After all, she was not Claire Orwell. She was the Duchess of Beaumont. Expected to take lovers. And to know what to do to excite and satisfy those lovers.

  Claire sank down onto the love-rumpled bed, fell over backward across it, brushed a couple of wilted rose petals to the floor and flung her arms above her head. She exhaled slowly, stretched and smiled mischievously. She liked being the wayward duchess. She looked forward to the golden days—and nights—ahead. She could do just as she pleased, when she pleased, with whom she pleased. And the “with whom” was the gorgeous Nevadan.

  She would cram a lifetime of pleasure into these fleeting days of summer. And when it was over, when the real duchess was to arrive, she and Olivia would silently slip away like two thieves in the night. She would leave Saratoga and the Silver King without a backward look or moment of regret.

  Wasn’t that how the very rich lived their lives?

  One of the great activities of the day in Saratoga was a late breakfast at the United States Hotel. The event was a tremendous undertaking. The enormous saloon—actually four saloons at right angles to each other—could accommodate up to six hundred guests at one time.

  Those hundreds of guests were waited on by one hundred and fifty waiters commanded by the consistently gracious maître d’ hôtel.

  The operation of finding proper places for the picky multitude was no trifling task. Once the guests were seated, waiters, dressed in spotless white jackets, extended their hands over silver domed covers and, at a signal from the chef stationed in the center of the saloons, removed them simultaneously.

  Then came a great clatter of knives, plates and forks and spirited conversation. And waiters rushing hither and yon, bearing plates dexterously on their arms, marching to the appointed places. Then with their eyes on their commander-in-chief, they held the dish over the table, and set it down at the first signal. With another clap of hands from the commander a second dish descended. And finally at the third signal the tables were covered.

  The entire exercise was immensely entertaining.

  This drama that was breakfast at the grand hotel was well underway when, at twenty minutes past ten, the Duchess of Beaumont and the Silver King paused in the arched doorway of the crowded dining saloon.

  Their presence was immediately noticed by people seated nearest the entrance. Those observant few stopped eating and stared. The domino effect quickly took effect as more and more breakfasters turned to see what the others were staring at. Soon the buzz of idle table conversation came to a halt. The clatter of silverware against china dishes ceased. The huge dining hall fell eerily silent.

  Bowing and smiling, the slender, mustachioed maître d’ stepped forward to greet Claire and Hank. He led the handsome pair through the filled tables to a choice spot at the very back of the room where the tall glass windows looked out on the verdant gardens.

  The silence passed.

  Everyone was now whispering and there was but one topic of conversation. The unexpected presence of the Duchess of Beaumont on the arm of Hank Cassidy.

  Claire knew that this was to be an important outing, so she had dressed accordingly. Her hair was carefully arranged in a neat double row of plaits at her nape and atop her head was a saucy white straw hat banded with a wide navy grosgrain ribbon. She wore a stylish afternoon dress of navy-and-white striped poplin with frilly white collar and cuffs. On her small hands were snowy-white kid gloves. Expensive gloves imported from Paris. The gloves that Hank had caught her admiring in one of the hotel shops and bought for her.

  Claire’s fragile face looked as clean and scrubbed as a child’s, save for the pale-pink rouge appealingly staining her full lips. Her violet eyes were aglow with good health and happiness. She was girlishly slender, her pale skin flawless, her taste impeccable.

  A beautiful woman with presence.

  The tall, dark man with her had no less a commanding presence.

  On this perfect July morning Hank Cassidy looked exceptionally handsome. He wore a finely tailored suit of crisp white linen, a shirt of pale blue Egyptian cotton, and a neck piece of maroon silk. Bareheaded, his raven hair was neatly brushed and his tanned face was smoothly shaven. In his hand was a panama hat and on his feet were soft Italian leather shoes.

  The radiant pair looked as guileless and innocent as a couple of naive children.

  But everyone in that crowded dining hall, gentlemen and ladies alike,
knew that nothing could have been further from the truth. It was at once a foregone conclusion that the lucky Silver King had successfully seduced the beautiful Duchess of Beaumont.

  Or vice versa.

  The gentlemen smiled and nodded and secretly envied Hank Cassidy his good fortune. The ladies were just as aware that the flirtatious standoff between Charmaine Beaumont and Hank Cassidy had come to a thrilling end. None were particularly shocked or surprised.

  The majority of the married ladies exhibited no scorn or censure. Truth to tell they were delighted to have an exciting new topic of gossip. But the unmarried women were sorely disappointed that the brash duchess had snagged the most eligible bachelor at the Springs.

  No sooner had the dazzling pair taken their seats than a smiling white-jacketed waiter appeared.

  “I’m famished, are you?” Hank asked Claire.

  “Starving,” the duchess replied, eyes sparkling. “Let’s order everything on the menu.”

  “Consider it done.” Hank nodded to the waiter. “And a bottle of your finest champagne.”

  Minutes later a tempting array of hot and cold dishes graced the damask-draped table. Strong black coffee. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Ripe red strawberries. Heavy cream for dipping. Assorted sweet pastries, piping hot. Honey cured ham and crisp thick bacon and huge sausage patties. Soft scrambled eggs and cheese-filled omelets and eggs over easy. Dry toast and buttermilk biscuits and fluffy pancakes. Creamery butter and maple syrup and assorted jellies and jams.

  And chilled champagne in tall crystal flutes.

  Claire and Hank looked at each other and smiled.

  “Shall I propose a toast?” Hank asked.

  “By all means,” Claire said.

  He leaned halfway across the table and spoke in a low, soft voice so others couldn’t hear. Claire heard every shocking word. And she blushed to the roots of her pale hair. Hank winked, clinked his glass to hers, and they drank.

  Then the pair picked up their silverware and, with great appetite, eagerly began sampling a taste of this, a bite of that. Laughing and enjoying themselves, they had eyes only for each other. They made no effort to hide their fascination with each other, blithely ignoring the curious stares directed at them. They were oblivious to the whispers swirling about them.