Pride & Passion

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “Yes, like that,” he was encouraging her in a deep whisper. “Shatter for me. Let me watch.”

  Her back was arching more, her rhythm—no rhythm at all, just fast, furious jerks of her hips that were uncoordinated movements, until his hand firmly planted on her waist, his fingers biting into her waist as he took over the task for her, moving her forward and back, onto his thigh as he commanded the rhythm.

  “Damn, you are hotter than hell itself like this,” he murmured over her breast. “Come for me, little Lucy, show me the fire that burns in you.”

  And then it happened: a feeling of utter euphoria, of floating weightlessly—not a care in the world. She was aware of Sussex there, holding her, keeping her safe, and then she was falling over a sort of precipice, shaking and trembling, and he was there, whispering in her ear, encouraging her to risk the leap. She didn’t want to, didn’t want to give that up, afraid of allowing herself to fall over that cliff where the future was unseen and unknown.

  “Lucy,” the duke whispered hotly in her ear, a beckoning voice that her body wanted to obey. “Come for me.” He flicked, thumbed her nipple, the wetness of his tongue against her lips, the ride of his thigh brought her up once more to the point she couldn’t think or see, only feel. “Yes,” he whispered. “Give this to me—your first climax.”

  She didn’t want him to know that, that Thomas had never brought her to this point. She hadn’t known that this point even existed back then, but now that she did, she could not bear the shame of having Sussex know that what she and Thomas shared had actually lacked something so dark and complex, so elemental—so passionate. And then, she could no longer think, or dissect, could only allow him to coax her into taking that step over the cliff. She was alone in this, and she was afraid.

  “Trust me,” he whispered again. “I’ll catch you when you come down.”

  And then she did something so strange, so frightening that she could only squeeze her eyes tight and let herself go as it happened—she fell, and all the while she was conscious of the duke’s eyes upon her, watching her. “So beautiful,” he murmured, awe in his voice.

  “Adrian!” she cried. Not “your grace,” or “Sussex,” but his Christian name, and it terrified her that she even knew it. As she crested, and tumbled, she called his name again, only to find herself freed, her hands thrown around his neck as he lifted her from the chair, and moved with her so swiftly that she found herself pressed up against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, her skirts and chemise raised and the slit in her drawers opened wide, and the feel of Adrian’s woolen trousers, his phallus hard and unyielding rubbing against her as his fingers pressed into her bottom.

  “I want to come with you, to share this first time with you,” he growled before capturing her lips and devouring them with a hard and demanding kiss as he rubbed relentlessly against her, thrusting her up against the wall as they shared lips and tongues and breaths. And then they were sharing something so intimate that Lucy could only breathe his name, and listen as Adrian’s breath stopped altogether—the silence hung by a thread, and the world ceased to turn as their eyes opened and heat and wetness pooled between them, and they fell over the cliff together, her wrapped tightly around Sussex, a man she hadn’t wanted to like, let alone trust. She looked into his eyes, and saw something deeper than she ever had before.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “YOU WILL NEVER believe the news!”

  Lucy glanced up from the copper-colored satin that was piled on the worktable before her. It was early morning, and she had not slept a wink since Sussex had driven her home. What an uncomfortable situation that had been. Both had sat in the darkness of the carriage, silent, gazing out the window, wondering what should be said to the other. In mute agreement, they had decided that no words were necessary. For Lucy, she was still suffering from the effects of what Sussex had informed her was la petite morte. The little death. An apt analogy, for she had felt as though she was dying—the most pleasurable, earth-shattering death a soul could hope for—and it was all courtesy of the Duke of Sussex!

  The sound of the chamber door opening and closing thankfully pulled her from reliving those moments in Sussex’s house, and the brazen and shocking way she had so easily fallen for his touch, and his lips, and the way he had looked pleasuring her. She still trembled even just thinking of the way those black lashes caused shadowed crescents over his cheeks, not to mention how perfect it had felt to watch him, and feel the tiny movements in his body, the way his muscles trembled and flickered. She still hadn’t the strength to think about the events against the wall!

  “Issy,” she remarked in surprise. “What are you doing here at this time of the morning?”

  Isabella glanced at the wrapper Lucy was wearing. “Is that another creation? My goodness, all that lace—stunning!”

  She pulled the wrapper a bit tighter around her modest bosom, her nipples still feeling slightly tender from the duke’s ravaging lips and tongue. Frowning at the answering echo in her belly at the memory of his grace’s exceptionally talented mouth, Lucy glanced out the window, then at the clock. “Issy, is something wrong? It’s barely ten in the morning!”

  “Of course not, silly.” Her cousin breezed into the small salon that she used to sew her gowns and also where she kept her collection of dolls and dollhouses. “Oh, what a gorgeous color, such a beautiful burnished gold, and that black lace—how are you going to use it? As a flounce?”

  “On the sleeve,” she murmured, perplexed. “Really, Issy, you’re making me uneasy. What are you doing here so early? Not that you’re not welcome, but…but…”

  “Yes, I know, Black has a terrible habit of keeping me in bed till noon, but today is different.”

  Lucy watched as her cousin pulled a side chair over to the worktable. Plopping herself down, Isabella began sorting through the assorted fabrics Lucy was using. “What will this gown be for, hmm?”

  “Issy, what the devil is wrong?” Sudden suspicion rose in her mind. “Does Black know you’re here?”

  “Goodness, why does my husband need to know that I’ve made an early call? I have my own mind, Lucy—I haven’t quite given it over to my husband, yet.”

  “He’ll worry if he awakes to find you’ve left without telling him.”

  Issy waved away her concern. “We shared an early breakfast and then he took himself off to Sussex’s. I presume they are discussing the matter that I am trying to parlay to you.”

  “Well?”

  Isabella looked to each side of the room for any unnoticed and obviously unwanted servants then leaned closer, closing the space between them and the table. “I have gossip.”

  Smiling despite still feeling confused and angry at the duke and herself, Lucy prodded, “About what?”

  “The Guardians, this Orpheus fellow and the marquis, behaving very badly.”

  The soft hairs on Lucy’s neck rose in alarm. “Orpheus?”

  Nodding, Issy continued to fidget with loose threads of the silk. “Last night Black received a missive—from Sussex I believe—asking if Black would see to the task of assisting Alynwick.”

  “With what?”

  “A duel,” Issy whispered, her eyes wide with shock, and perhaps excitement. “With Lord Larabie of all people.”

  “No!” Lucy replied. But Isabella shook her head that she spoke the truth.

  “Black left almost immediately, and naturally I could not sleep for worrying about him. I know nothing of duels, other than that they are a stupid means of assuaging a man’s honor, and someone usually winds up hurt, or dead. So, I spent the remainder of the night awake and writing, trying to get my mind off the horrors of it all. Then Black returned.”

  “And?”

  Her cousin’s eyes were bright with excitement. “He told me everything. Apparently Alynwick was dead drunk, and Black feared the marquis wouldn’t be able to hold the gun, let alone fire it. My husband said he was in quite a foul mood—a ‘blazing rage’ is how Black described it
.”

  “Strange,” Lucy murmured, “he didn’t appear drunk last night when I saw him.”

  “Where, Lucy?”

  It was Lucy’s turn to lower her voice in case any of the upstairs maids might be walking by, or lingering about the hall seeing to their duties. “At the Sumners’ musicale. He quite barged in and made a scene. Lizzy was strolling with the Earl of Sheldon, to whom she had only just been introduced, and then Alynwick came in, stalked over and quite tore Lizzy from Sheldon, and then proceeded to slam the poor earl up against the wall. Not only that, Alynwick thrust his arm against Sheldon’s throat as if he were going to murder him!”

  “Poor Lizzy!” Issy whispered. “What was that brute Alynwick thinking to have caused such a scene, and by putting Lizzy’s reputation in jeopardy?”

  Lucy thought back to the carriage ride home from the musicale. Elizabeth had sat beside her, tense and unusually quiet. They’d left the Sumners’ house in a flurry, but the ride home had been quiet—too quiet, as if Lizzy hadn’t trusted herself to speak, especially with Sussex present. “I do believe that Lizzy was seething from it all.”

  “And Sussex?”

  She would really rather not think of the duke, or speak of him. Her feelings were still raw and confused, and she was not yet ready to begin delving deep to sort them. “I cannot say what was going on in Sussex’s mind. I do know that he pulled Alynwick off of the earl, but then the two of them disappeared, and I did not see Sussex again until he climbed up into the carriage with Lizzy and me. I have no notion what was said or what transpired between them. In any event, I was seeing to Elizabeth, who was quite distraught over the earl—I think she really fancied him, Issy, and was absolutely mortified by Alynwick showing up and acting as he did. She fears the earl will never want to see her or call upon her after this.”

  “Oh, dear. This is disastrous.”

  “Indeed. Now, the duel, was it a success? What happened?”

  Isabella waved her hand in dismissal. “As is typical for this sort of thing—well, according to Black, at least—both Larabie and Alynwick counted their paces, turned and fired, both bullets going wide. No one was hit, honor was satisfied and the matter is now solved.”

  “Really? How anticlimactic. One would think that a husband catching another man ravishing his wife would be slightly more incensed, and would warrant more than a stray bullet in some farmer’s field,” Lucy mumbled. “At the very least, a sound pounding is in order, I believe.”

  Issy shrugged. “It does seem rather like a lot of effort if one is not going to take matters seriously. I do agree, a sound trouncing seems much more effective in preventing any future dalliances than firing your pistol willy-nilly into the dawn sky.”

  “Men,” Lucy grunted miserably. “They are all a strange lot. I don’t think I’ll ever understand them.”

  “It’s part of their allure to females, I think. They are a puzzle that will never be solved, and as women, we always want to put them to rights and fix them and protect them from themselves.”

  Something about Issy’s analogy struck her deeply. She found herself shocked, thinking of Thomas, and she couldn’t understand why. For eight months she had sought to find him, had mourned him, and now…now she wanted…what, exactly? If it were true that she had desired him in the physical, emotional sense, she would have not fallen for Sussex’s seduction so easily. She would have railed and fought as best she could, but she hadn’t. What did that say about her? Was it just female instinct to protect? Did she see Thomas as weaker than Sussex, and was that the reason she was striving to shield him? Frowning, she bit her lip and tried to make sense of it all. Damn Sussex, she thought miserably, he had confused everything, had made a hash of her careful plans and controlled emotions.

  “Well,” Issy continued on, barely pausing to notice that Lucy had momentarily been thinking of other things, “Alynwick has no right to get himself involved with a duel, when this Guardian business should be his first concern. But, more importantly, he has no right to tear Lizzy away from anyone. Black is correct, Alynwick has become a liability—his drinking is out of control, Black says, and his reckless ways might not only expose the Brethren, but get himself, or someone else, killed.”

  The image of the duke dead came unbidden and unwanted and she thrust it away, focusing instead on her conversation with Issy. “There was something unholy in Alynwick’s eyes last night. I saw it—something very dark and troubling, as if he were possessed by demons.”

  “And that is just it,” Issy whispered while she reached for her hand. Squeezing it, Lucy felt the anguish in her cousin’s touch. “I was literally ill with fear last night. I begged Black to let me help with the Brethren Guardians but he says he won’t expose me. But I’m afraid. I mean, dragging my husband to the scene of a duel? Appearing drunk and reckless? I’m afraid, Luce, that the marquis might do something to endanger my husband’s safety. I won’t stand for him being a Brethren Guardian if Alynwick is going to put him in danger.”

  Patting her cousin’s hand, Lucy tried to find the right words to placate her. “Black is a smart, powerful man, Issy. He’s been a Guardian all his life. I’m quite certain he can handle Alynwick.”

  “I’m certain he can, too, but this investigation and Orpheus has him distracted.”

  Lucy felt a measure of guilt by asking this, but she felt compelled to. Especially after what happened last night between her and Sussex. “What of Orpheus? What news is there?”

  Issy glanced up. Lucy could see it in her eyes: Isabella was uncertain whether or not to tell her.

  “Issy, I know that I cannot undo the past. I stole the pendant that Black and his family have kept hidden. I took the seed inside and it was wrong of me. I know you’ve been told not to say anything, but I swear to you, I do not want to bring down the Brethren Guardians.” Just discover once and for all if Thomas is really part of it all. And that was the truth. Sometime in the past two days, the truth had become her focus. Thomas was alive, so why had he hidden from her? And Sussex, would he lie to her about what he’d witnessed? The blind faith she once had had in Thomas was crumbling, leaving too many questions unanswered—and too many perplexing feelings about his grace.

  “Alynwick,” Issy began, “has found a way to infiltrate the club. They’ll be going in a few days to capture him. I don’t know more than that. It’s all Black would say.”

  A few days… Good Lord, she needed those answers, and soon. She must find a way to meet with Thomas. He wasn’t Orpheus.

  “What on earth is this?” Isabella asked suddenly with a little laugh as she held up a piece of wood. “My goodness, I doubt you found this at Albright’s Toy Emporium.”

  As kindly as she could, she said, “Please be careful, Issy, please do. Just set it back down, it’s fragile.”

  Isabella glanced at her quizzically as she obeyed Lucy’s command. “All right then, there it is, back in its linen nest. But tell me, where did you get it? I’ve never seen it amongst your dollhouse treasures before.”

  Lucy stared at the adorably disproportioned doll piece. It was a four-poster bed that was knobby and nicked, one tester much wider than the other three. It was the dearest little piece she had.

  “You’ve never seen it before,” she said on a sigh, “because my father discovered that I had been given it as a gift by someone he deemed unsuitable, and he tore it from my hands and tossed it into the rubbish as if it were no more important than a potato peeling.”

  “That’s what I think of your gift, girl, as well as the gifter. Not fit for naught more than rubbish. And as for you, boy,” her father had railed, “I’ll teach you a thing or two about your betters.” Her father’s hand had come down hard on Gabriel’s head, his heavy signet ring slicing his face, the blood dripping down his cheek. “Leave and never come back, or I’ll have you hanging from the gallows and swinging in the wind for this. The impertinence of you, presenting something such as this to the daughter of a lord, thinking you might have her. Her future i
s with a duke, boy, not some filthy urchin from the parish stews.”

  And then Gabriel had left, his sad eyes boring into hers. He had not said goodbye, and the fact still haunted her.

  She had never seen him again; the toy bed was the only tangible connection she had to him.

  “Oh,” Isabella said. There was a wealth of meaning behind that word. “I see.”

  “The person who gave it to me—” the words were thick and choking as she tried to stem the pain that came with the memory “—was my one true friend. Before you came to live with me, that is.”

  Isabella reached for her, and for once, Lucy gripped her cousin’s fingers, not the other way around. This morning, Lucy needed Isabella’s calm, and her understanding. “After Papa punished me, I stayed up in my room and waited till night, and then I went outside and rifled through that waste bin to find it. A rat was nibbling away at a piece of meat that landed on it, you can see his teeth marks in the footboard, but I kicked him off and snatched the bed before the greedy rodent could run for it. I’ve hidden it away ever since.”

  “Lucy, what a terrible thing to have happen. I’m sorry.”

  “That was—is—my life, Issy. While you might have been raised poor, you at least had affection from your mother. I was raised in an institution. It’s called the ton, and it allows a young girl with an abundance of dreams and hopes very little chance of obtaining them—not if there is any substance to those dreams,” she added as an afterthought. “If my dreams were only to marry well, I could have had that my first Season.”

  “What are you dreams, Luce? I don’t think you’ve ever spoken of them.”

  It must be the exhaustion that was making her tongue loose. Or maybe she was tired in another way—the way the spirit and soul fatigue from years of coldness and isolation.