The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “Often duty supercedes desire. That is particularly true in the upper classes, as you know quite well. But any parent dislikes seeing his offspring make mistakes.”

  “What mistake? Falling in love?”

  “With someone from a lower class.”

  “You give them too much credit.” She sighed, wandering to the window. “It wasn’t their different stations that infuriated their parents. Not even their disparate ages, though I didn’t learn the whole story until Mama was sick with that last fever.”

  “You needn’t reveal family secrets, Faith.” He followed her, sliding his hands down her arms to pull her back against him.

  She turned to face him. “But you need to understand why they will never accept me. Grandfather Harper lost a good deal of money through poor investments. Nothing fraudulent. Just bad judgment. The estate did not produce enough to recoup his losses, and he had a seventeen-year-old daughter expecting to make her bows in London – Mama was her governess. With his eldest son already wed, his only hope of recovery was to find an heiress for his younger son. So he arranged a betrothal with the daughter of a nearby mine owner. Half her dowry would go to Grandfather and the rest to Papa.”

  “He was the intended husband?”

  “Exactly. Papa knew nothing about it, though. Before the summons could reach him, he was injured and sent back to England, arriving in a delirium. Grandfather was frantic to save his life. He assigned the housekeeper and governess to tend him by turns, and even went so far as to summon the local wise woman to supply tonics and poultices. It worked. Papa recovered, but by the time his father broached the subject of his betrothal, he was in love with the governess.”

  “Is that when he eloped?”

  “Not quite. He refused the betrothal, very firmly. He was of age and could not be forced to honor a contract he had not signed. Grandfather was furious, and not just because he believed that the aristocracy should have been excluded from the Marriage Act provision requiring full consent from both parties, stripping fathers of the power to contract alliances. He needed the money badly. Papa offered to sell out and take over as estate steward. His commission could have financed his sister’s Season. Frugal management would have eventually recouped the losses. But Grandfather refused. Mama suspected that he’d already spent some of the dowry.”

  “It is dangerous to spend money before you actually have it.”

  She nodded. “When Grandfather called Mama a whore and tossed her off the estate, Father attacked. Leaving Grandfather unconscious, he and Mama fled to Scotland, then rejoined his regiment. Mama never forgave Grandfather for driving Papa back to India, which exposed us to fevers and plagues.”

  “Be fair. Your father could have sold out and found other work,” he reminded her. “Staying in the military was a conscious choice. Did his talents extend to other occupations – a clerk or a vicar, perhaps?”

  She sighed. “I doubt it. Neither would have suited him, and in retrospect, he displayed no knowledge of agriculture, either, so refusing him a steward’s post may have been less a matter of fury than of consideration for the estate’s future. But it is hard. Mama lost three infants to disease before their first birthdays.”

  “Do you recall them?”

  “No, thank heaven. Two were gone before I was born and the third a year later. One other survived infancy. Angela was six when that last fever hit.” Her head shook slowly.

  “No wonder you were in shock.”

  “And no wonder I was relieved when Papa’s family refused to take me in,” she admitted. “Papa had fewer choices than you imply. When Grandfather disowned him, he took steps to see that Papa never set foot on English soil again. After his brother died, Papa tried to transfer to a regiment based in England, but his father blocked the transfer, insisting he remain as far away as possible despite that he was then the heir, for his brother had died childless. The family wanted no more embarrassment – his return would revive memories of his scandalous behavior. His grudge condemned four more souls to death, including the grandson who should have succeeded him.” She met his eyes. “That is why Chester terrifies me. He, too, holds grudges. He will not consider the consequences of retaliation. He will lash out until we are destroyed.”

  “But he will fail.” He turned her to face him. “Yes, he is trying to cause trouble – he wrote to the trustees and probably to others. But few will believe his charges. Even now the trustees are at Westcourt proving that he lied, cheated, and stole from the estate. He will be ostracized by every respectable Englishman and will likely flee the country to escape his creditors.”

  “Never.” She glared. “Doing so would admit defeat. But he will not abandon the prize he’s sought for so long. You know as well as I do that the duke is likely dead. Francine would never have kept him hidden after Chester was installed as steward. She might have kept his parentage secret beyond age twelve, but not without keeping a close eye on his inheritance so it wouldn’t suffer. That she didn’t points strongly toward death. And once Chester has the title, there will be no prosecution for embezzlement. In the meantime, threatening him with arrest gives him a grievance so heinous he will not settle for ruining your reputation. He can only repay you by arranging a fatal accident.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Faith glared as her temper shattered. “You don’t understand him even now,” she snapped. “First he will torture you—”

  “How?”

  “He’s already started that phase. His tales include accusations so harsh that merchants are refusing you credit and gentlemen cut you in the street. How long will your staff remain once you are a social pariah? And his charges will get worse. Watching the house will prove I’m staying here. Making that information public will destroy your reputation.”

  “It won’t—”

  “It will. Do you honestly think your servants will protect me? Already your staff is splintering. One of the maids vowed to quit rather than remain in this den of iniquity an hour longer. She will never remain silent.”

  “No one will consider us immoral once we are wed,” he said calmly.

  “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself,” she countered. “It is better that I leave. Your reputation can recover if I am no longer here.”

  “Sacrifice myself?” he demanded, grabbing her wrist before she could pull away. “It is no sacrifice. I want you as my wife. I love you, Faith.”

  Impossible. But she knew better than to argue. Men readily lied if that was the only way to achieve honor’s dictates. Honor too often led to despicable behavior. How many men had shot each other over some trifling disagreement? How many innocents had been left homeless and destitute in the name of honor? How many officers had ordered their men to certain death because someone’s honor demanded retaliation?

  John’s honor demanded marriage, so he would swear that black was white if it would convince her to wed him. But she would not let him throw away his career because she’d discarded her virtue. She’d known the consequences and accepted them, but that didn’t mean she could spread the damage to others.

  For the first time in years she thanked Catherine’s brutal assessment of her faults. Knowing she was unworthy of marriage held temptation at bay. Accepting John’s offer would produce tragic results. Regret would soon override honor, leaving them both miserable. Making the best of a bad deal was not a good basis for marriage.

  John’s questions about her family had revived more memories than she’d expected. Her parents had loved each other and their children with a fierce devotion. Their love still wrapped her in warmth. They had defied their families and defied custom in the name of love, and they had not once regretted it. Together they had faced an uncertain future, gaining strength from each other and using that strength to defeat each new adversity.

  But she and John lacked that core of caring. Without it, life’s vicissitudes would shatter them. She could not put either of them through such pain.

  As tears tickled the backs of her eyes, John pulled
her against him. She blinked, fighting off the need to weep.

  His hand caressed her back, diverting her from the pain of her impending departure. Heat spread as he murmured seductively into her ear. If she wanted to learn more of passion, now was as good a time as any. So she lifted her face and met his eyes.

  He kissed her, much as he’d done last night. But this time she pressed closer, opening her mouth in a plea for more. He responded instantly.

  Need exploded, filling every pore of her body. She pulled him closer, desperate to find the excitement he offered.

  “Upstairs,” he groaned, sweeping her into his arms.

  “Yes.”

  * * * *

  John hadn’t intended to take Faith to bed, but her passion engulfed him, shattering his control beyond repair. This time there was no fear, no danger, no need to remain alert for approaching footsteps. How could any man ignore his love’s surrender?

  He had intended to move slowly, giving her time to grow accustomed to his touch and to realize how wretched life would be if she refused him. Now those plans lay in ruins. He had to have her. Tonight.

  But she must enjoy this encounter even more than their first. Which meant slowing down and savoring the experience.

  Rather than fall into bed with her, he set her by the bedroom fire, sliding her sensuously down his body. Her eyes blurred, their color deepening as desire increased. Pulling the pins from her hair let it flow over his hands. Thick, luxurious, fiery silk.

  “Beautiful,” he breathed, scattering kisses across her face until her taste seared into his soul, confirming that she was his, had to be his, now and forever.

  Not until she slid his coat and waistcoat off, trapping his arms, did he realize she’d unbuttoned his waistcoat. When he tried to pull free, she tightened her grip, murmuring, “I need to catch up,” as she tasted the underside of his chin.

  The top nearly blew off his head. She nipped his jaw, then moved on to nibble his ear. But when she shifted to tug his shirt loose, he freed his arms.

  “Easy.” He caught her hands before she could drive him over the edge. “Take time to savor.”

  “Gladly.” Her smile raised his temperature several notches.

  His control was teetering on the verge of collapse. If they didn’t slow down, he would plunge into her and finish before they had barely begun.

  “Let me teach you what savoring means,” he murmured, reaching for her ties. “Don’t move.”

  He took his time, touching and stroking, kissing each inch of flesh as he bared it. She gasped as her gown slithered to the floor. Slowly the rest of her clothing followed. Very slowly. His hands skimmed over her skin, raising need, building desire until she stood naked in the lamplight, quivering.

  His mouth watered.

  “Let’s see if I understand,” she managed, voice husky. She reached for his shirt, drawing it off, then caressing his exposed skin. He grabbed the bedpost as his pantaloons followed. His smalls. His shoes. His stockings. Never had he endured such exquisite torture. Her hands were everywhere, warm and tender.

  “My turn,” he croaked when he could stand it no longer.

  He set her gently on the bed, refusing to give in to the need. She was as aroused as he, but it wasn’t yet time. So he kissed her from head to toe, following the trail his hands had laid out.

  Faith shuddered as John’s mouth closed over one breast. She’d thought she knew what to expect. Anticipation had built all afternoon, driving her need so high that she’d nearly shattered just from touching him. But this was so much better than before. More powerful than the most extravagant fantasy.

  She’d expected passion to be explosive, energetic, furious. But passion could also be subtle, gentle, slow. Not that her heart was slow. It hammered against her chest, sending ripples across skin so sensitive that even a breath made her tremble.

  She jerked, trying to free her arms, but he locked them over her head, holding her so that every shudder drove her deeper into his mouth. Spasms of pleasure shook her from head to toe, yet he held her, quaking, on the precipice, and refused to let her fall.

  “Please, John,” she begged as he moved to the other breast. “I need to touch you.”

  He said nothing, but nipped lightly with his teeth. Desire swelled in her womb.

  John kept her trembling on the edge, reveling in her response as he traced her form with hands and lips, filling his senses with the essence of Faith. Always Faith. Only Faith. She writhed beneath him, her fingers clutching his hand, nails biting deep as he sent her higher.

  “John!”

  “I thought you would like that.” He smiled, nudging her nearer the precipice until she stiffened, screaming. Not until her muscles went lax and her limbs limp did he release her so he could drive her up again.

  Faith gasped. Heat and light and more urgency than ever washed over her as John caressed her thighs. Only a moment ago she’d been too replete to think, but now…

  Passion engulfed her, bursting through her faster than she’d believed possible. She could no longer lie still. Rolling, she pinned John beneath her. Passion was stronger this time. Much stronger. She ought to be embarrassed to find herself naked, with lamps lit so he could see every inch of her. But she wasn’t. He, too, was naked. She explored his muscular shoulders, savoring memories of undressing him – the dark triangle of hair arrowing toward his groin, muscular legs whose scars and blemishes emphasized his power, his jutting manhood…

  If she’d seen that the first time, terror would have pushed her into flight, for it seemed impossible that she could accommodate him. But she had, and with little discomfort. She reached down to grasp…

  It jerked.

  “Easy. Don’t rush me.” He rolled, trapped her hands, and kissed her thoroughly.

  “Why?”

  “I want to enjoy you first.” His hand slid between her legs, teasing her most private place. She waited with bated breath for him to do more.

  In moments he’d driven every coherent thought from her head. Not until she whimpered with need did he finally let her shudder to completion.

  “You haven’t—” She couldn’t find the words she wanted.

  “I will. You have the advantage of me, for you can climax more than once. Men need time to recuperate.”

  “Oh.” She needed to read the Tableau again, for she recalled nothing about this difference. Was it universal, or did it apply only to John?

  But that was for later. Thought failed as she wallowed in sensation. John was amazingly talented, finding sensitive spots she had not known she possessed. All she could do was explore as much of him as he let her reach and hope to return the favor.

  He, too, had nipples, though smaller than hers. But they seemed as sensitive, puckering at her touch. Nipping them drew eager groans. His ears were oddly sensitive, eliciting a similar reaction. His manhood, of course.

  She found many scars – apparently those two falls at Westcourt weren’t unusual. He even sported an old burn. But nothing detracted from his devastating maleness. The hair so much coarser than hers. Hardness where she was soft. Softness when she expected hard. By the time he positioned her beneath him, they were both panting, both wild with need, both long past thought.

  She cried in relief when he entered her. Nothing had ever felt so good. By the time they shattered together, temptation prodded her to stay with him always.

  She thrust it aside. Yes, lying with him was the most glorious experience of her life, but staying would be wholly selfish, for it would ruin him. She could not sit by and watch his friendship turn to hatred as his dreams faded to dust. Passion could not hold the world at bay.

  When weakness threatened to overcome sense, she sat up.

  “Stay here,” he panted.

  “I can’t.” When he reached for her, she squeezed his hand, then released it. “Staying would confirm whatever suspicions your staff already harbor. That can only cause trouble.”

  He pursed his lips, then nodded. “Very well.” />
  Gathering her clothes and leaving took all her determination. She wanted nothing more than to curl up next to him all night. Perhaps letting him teach her about intimacy wasn’t a good idea after all.

  But she knew she would be back tomorrow and every other night until she left. And she couldn’t lie about her motives. Practice had nothing to do with it. She needed the memories to keep her warm…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Montrose is gone. I have done everything possible to keep my darling safe and assure that he can one day claim his inheritance. And I warned him over and over to fear Chester. Yet can he understand at his age?

  Duchess of Westfield, July 8, 1787

  John smiled at Faith over breakfast the next morning, convinced he was finally making progress. Last night had been the best encounter of his life, enriching the love he’d thought was already complete. Even thinking about it—

  He pulled himself back. She wasn’t ready to accept his love – which was the real reason she’d returned to her own room. Instead of letting him hold her while she slept, strengthening their intimacy, she’d retired to rebuild the wall she kept between them. But at least she was relaxed today.

  “Would you like to visit Bullock’s Museum?” he asked. “It houses artifacts from all over the world, including Napoleon’s carriage and an Egyptian mummy.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “I’ll take you. It’s not far, and I’ve time,” he added when she tried to object – breaking down her barriers was more important than any commission. “And if you are concerned that someone might spot you leaving the house—”

  “Lord Portland to see you, sir,” said Treburn, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “I’ve put him in the drawing room.”

  John bit back a sigh. There went the morning. No cozy discussion of other lands as they studied museum exhibits. No chance to touch her hand or steal a kiss. No opportunity to remind her of the problems she would face if she refused to wed him. “Thank you, Treburn.”