Pride & Passion

by Charlotte Featherstone

  She came awake with a start, only to see Adrian kicking the door closed. Rosie was in his arms, mewling and whimpering. Blood soaked his hand, and he placed the dog on the mat before the hearth.

  “What’s wrong?” she gasped. She had donned her night rail, and ran across the floor in her bare feet. Rosie was whimpering and kicking her back paws.

  “She’s whelping.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Of all the damn times,” he said. “I’ve nothing here, nothing prepared. My breeder is in Yorkshire, of all places.”

  “No, don’t use that,” she said when she saw how he was making a bed with his coat. “It’s the only one you have. Wait.”

  Running to her trunk, she reached for her extra night rails and wrappers, and tore them up then handed them to her.

  “They’re ruined.”

  “It’s only linen, for goodness’ sake. I have plenty more. Now then, tell me what to do.”

  He smiled. The darkness was still in his eyes, but he seemed lighter, and the ghosts were not there—at least not at the moment. “Ring the bell pull. We’ll need some water and blankets, and something comfortable for Rosie to lay upon. The fire needs building up, too.”

  Abigail answered the summons and immediately ran down to gather the things they had requested. In the meantime, Lucy came to kneel by Rosie’s head and petted her. “There now, it will be over soon.”

  Adrian glanced up at her. “She hasn’t even begun.”

  “It’s good to offer hope. I hope you’ll do the same for me when my time comes.”

  Lowering his head, she saw his grin before he hid it. “Let us hope your time does not come while we are stranded in a country inn far from home.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” she said thoughtfully as she sat down on the ground and placed Rosie’s head into her lap. “I’ve always dreamed of a nice little cottage on a beautiful winding country lane.”

  Rosie let out the most mournful sound, and the first puppy was born in its sack. Lucy was rather horrified by it all. Especially when Adrian instructed her to release her hold on Rosie so the dog could break the sack and clean the pup.

  “It’s the way of animals,” he said as her face scrunched up with distaste. “Her licking will stimulate the pup to breathe, and when it does, we’ll help to dry it, then place it by the fire and wait for the next.”

  “How many will she have?”

  “Up to seven. My God,” he groaned as he watched Rosie with her baby. “I hope it’s not that many, I can’t stand much more. Her crying is making me feel damn guilty for bringing her along.”

  Lucy placed her hand on his arm. “It’s the way of Mother Nature, Adrian. Rosie will do just fine. And we’re together,” she said. “We’ll do it together, and then I will write to Lizzy and let her know how wonderfully Rosie did—and you, as well.”

  It was a long process, but by the time the morning light crept over the horizon, Rosie had delivered four little puppies: one male and three females. She lay by the fire exhausted while Lucy stroked her ears, and Adrian placed the pups at their mother’s teats, making sure the warmth of the fire blanketed them. Their eyes were fused, and they were the most adorable little things in the world.

  “You did it,” she murmured.

  “No, Rosie did it.”

  “Lizzy will be pleased. I don’t know why she didn’t come along with us. She would have been present for Rosie’s big day.”

  “She wanted us to be alone. I tried to persuade her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “You’re very good to her, Adrian. She told Isabella and me once, that you were not always so kind to her. But that you became deathly ill, and upon convalescing you had changed and that you had become the ideal brother to her.”

  “I’m a fraud,” he said quietly. “There is nothing ideal about me—but my love for her is real. I care for her and wish only the best for her.”

  “Does she know?”

  Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to talk, but stopped instead and reached out, stroking his hands over the puppies’ little bodies, which were only the size of a mouse. “They’re nice and warm. We should make sure the fire doesn’t die out. They need heat and Rosie is exhausted, she won’t awaken if the room becomes chilled.”

  She allowed him to distract her—for now—and got up from the floor and walked to her trunk, where her velvet traveling cloak lay folded. “This will keep them warm—and Sybilla can clean it when we’re done using it.”

  She covered the pups, and stroked Rosie’s head. “It was really rather wonderful, wasn’t it?”

  He reached for her, pulled her down so that she was sitting in his lap. “Harrowing and exhausting,” he corrected, “and I found myself wondering how men watch their women lie upon a bed suffering hour after hour, feeling helpless and inept.”

  Lucy smoothed her hand down his cheek. “You weren’t inept, Adrian. Besides, when our baby is about to be born, I hope you’ll stay by my side and whisper the same encouragement to me as you did to Rosie.”

  He smiled then. “Men don’t attend their wives in labor, Lucy.”

  “My man will,” she said, and she kissed him, only to groan when a soft knock on the door was replaced by the sound of creaking hinges.

  “Shall I clean up here, your grace?”

  Lucy hid her face into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back as the servants worked quickly to pick up the bloody clothes and blankets they had used.

  “Ah,” the housekeeper cooed. “Look at the little loves.”

  Both she and Sussex beamed with pride, as if they had had some hand in the whole matter.

  “Well, you’ve been up the night through, yer graces. I’ll have breakfast ready for you and sent, and a fresh tub of hot water.”

  “Will you draw a bath in here, please? My wife requires the tub, as well.”

  Abigail curtsied, and it seemed within minutes that the tub was full of steaming water. Adrian pulled her gown over her head and helped her to step into the water. She groaned at the feel of the heat that soothed her muscles. She had been sitting on the floor for hours. But she wouldn’t have missed it for the world. There was such a sense of accomplishment, she thought as she glanced over at Rosie and her contented, sleeping puppies.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” he warned, and Lucy nodded.

  “It feels nice, that’s all. I’m relaxing.” But she was sound asleep in seconds.

  ADRIAN CAUGHT HER and stepped in behind her. Lowering himself into the tub, he brought Lucy back against him. Her head leaned back to cradle against his chin, and he held her like that, just watching her, taking in every rise and fall of her chest. The way she smelled and felt beneath his hands was a balm to his soul.

  Her breasts were small—perfect handfuls. Her nipples, God, he couldn’t get enough of them, the color, such a contrast to her skin. They beaded perfectly, and they were so responsive. He couldn’t help but stroke his thumb against one, watching as it puckered for him.

  He shouldn’t be doing this, not after what he had done to her in that bed—what he had confessed. He was a bastard, a filthy urchin who had no right to touch her, but his hands wouldn’t listen to his brain, and he caressed her, needing to touch her, to watch his palm possessively roam over her body.

  He was hard, and she was soft, her plump bottom cushioning against him, and he rocked, experimenting with the sensation. He was a wretch for doing this, but he couldn’t stop. He slipped inside her, stretching her wide, and she moaned, raised her arm and wrapped her hand around his neck as he slowly pushed inside her, her body awakening in slow increments with every thrust, every one of his breaths in her ear.

  “Lucy.” It was a benediction the way he said her name. So full of awe and wonder. He couldn’t help it. He watched as he touched her, parted her sex and stroked her, his cock filling, hardening even more at the sight of her breasts, her pale body spread out along his.

  There were no words, just the sound of the water lappin
g and sloshing against the copper tub. Occasionally Lucy would moan, and he would encourage her with a touch, or a different stroke to do it more, and louder.

  “I want to see you,” she whispered, and she turned to the side, and dislodged him, and he felt…empty at the sensation. He noticed she did not use his name, and wondered at the omission, but thought of it no more as she straddled his hips and lowered her body onto his cock.

  “I’ve never done it this way before,” she whispered as she kissed his lips in a slow drag and pull. “Teach me?”

  Resting his head back on the lip of the tub, he let his hands roam over her breasts, the flat of her stomach, as he watched the water bead over her skin. He shook his head, denying her.

  “Learn me,” he said simply. “Learn our rhythm.”

  Slowly she rose and fell, and he watched, loving every nuance of her dance, how she made love to him.

  “Take as much as you want, as fast or as slow as you want,” he encouraged. “Just don’t stop.”

  “I won’t.” She captured his lips again. “I won’t give up until you cry out my name and stare into my eyes.”

  Their loving was slow, close; she pressed against him, her breasts scraping against his chest, their lips constantly touching, their voices whispering, their fingers locking. She took her time, listened to his sighs, felt the way his body grew taut and insistent. And then she pulled back and watched him, their gazes focused on each other, and he wondered what she saw—a duke or an urchin from the slums. He wasn’t either, and it terrified him to think that perhaps the man he was did not please her. She was young when she had fancied her little urchin friend, and when he had returned to her, he was a duke—rich, cultured and successful. What did she see when she looked at him, when she was taking him into her body and loving him?

  Her eyes were misty as she loved him, and he reached for her, kissed her, felt her say against his mouth, “I want a place to belong.”

  “You have a place to belong. Here with me, Lucy. As my duchess.”

  “No!”

  Lucy could no longer contain her thoughts, the emotions that filled her just as strongly as Adrian’s body did. She bit her lip against the sudden pain she felt searing her breast. She’d been bred for this duty. She could run his ancestral home, and the other three estates he owned as well. She could plan balls, and country house parties, and dinners for fifty people. But that wasn’t all she wanted. She wanted the sense of belonging—of being needed. Not her skills as a duchess and hostess, but as a woman. A wife. She didn’t want to be just a duchess. She wanted to belong as Adrian’s wife. Gabriel’s wife. Whoever he was, whatever he was, she wanted to belong to him in the most elemental way.

  She trembled, her whole body quaking. “I…I want to belong—somewhere, to…someone…”

  Blinded by tears, she saw him gazing up at her, and the ghosts in his eyes shone brighter. Through lips that trembled, she braved the fear she felt, reached for the center of her soul which he had slowly thawed to a warm liquid during the days of their marriage and weeks of their strange courtship. A fat, hot tear fell from her eye, falling onto her lip.

  “I saw Fiona again today, adorable and chubby and squealing with laughter. Abigail looked at her with such love, and I wanted that, Adrian,” she said, her voice breaking. “I wanted that sense of belonging, of warmth and acceptance. And I imagined it, what it would be like to sit in your library, with our children laughing around us, and I…I’m sorry for everything. For being cold and heartless.”

  “What are you saying, Lucy?”

  “That you’ve broken me,” she gasped through large gulps and sobs. “You’ve taken everything from me, my shields, my defenses, and broken them down until I can feel the rawness deep inside me. You have made me want this marriage. Made me want to be your wife in every way. I don’t care who you are, I only know that I cannot be as I once was with you, distant and cold. Even then, you drew me in.”

  “You do belong somewhere, to someone, Lucy. You belong to me as my lover, my wife—my entire life.”

  “Show me, then,” she whispered, “make me feel it.”

  And he did, until she was gasping and crying and clinging to him, and he was whispering her name over and over, spilling inside her, realizing for once that he, too, had a place to belong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  FINALLY THE ROADS cleared and the Duke and Duchess of Sussex made their goodbyes, with promises to return. Their servants had already headed north, and they both laughed at how well they had managed to get along without a lady’s maid and a valet. Of course, Lucy had taken to wearing her hair down. It seemed her husband had a fixation with brushing it and pressing his face into the silken mass.

  Lucy discovered she rather enjoyed lounging in their marital bed, the sheets rumpled from their lovemaking as she watched him shave. It was fascinating to her, the intimacies of a marriage—outside the activities of the bedchamber. They had talked, had shared their meals together, and an evening drink by the fire. He had written correspondence, while she sewed a new sweater and bonnet for Fiona—and refashioned a cloak for Abigail. They had taken the puppies, all healthy and strong and bundled warmly along with Rosie for the ride home.

  Waving to the gathered staff, Lucy watched as the stone inn disappeared into the horizon. When she glanced at her husband, it was to discover that he was watching her.

  “We’ll come back—yearly,” he vowed as he lifted her hand and kissed it. “Do not cry, my love.”

  “Silly, isn’t it? We barely know them, but I will have such fond memories of that inn, and what happened there.”

  “We found each other there, didn’t we?”

  She smiled shyly. Yes, they had. They had discovered each other’s bodies, what pleasured them, what inflamed them with passion. They had made love so many times, and each time it was better, more intimate, because Lucy knew without a doubt that she loved him. He hadn’t said the words to her, but sometimes she would catch him looking at her, and she knew that his feelings were deep, every bit as deep as hers were, but he still held back—his love, and his secret.

  “When will you tell me?” she asked in a quiet voice. “We have two days yet before we’ll reach Yorkshire.”

  “I should never have spoken it to you, but when I saw you with that doll’s bed, and listened to you talk about the boy you knew, something inside me broke. I wanted to show you I was alive, and I was there, and that you only needed to reach out and I would be there whenever you needed me.”

  “So how did it come to be, Adrian?”

  He looked away, swallowed and remained silent as he watched the rolling countryside go by outside the carriage window. Just when she had given up all hope that he would tell her, he spoke.

  “My mother was a Scottish maid in the ducal town house. Her name was Mairn and she was… Well, I hardly knew her. She died when I was about six. But from what I remember, she was conniving and ruthless. My father, drawn to her spirit so he could tame it, found her intriguing, and they began an affair. She became pregnant with me, and used the pregnancy to bribe him.” He snorted with disbelief. “My father was not going to pay for her silence, so he packed her up, threw her out and forced her to find her way on the streets. I was, quite literally, born in a gutter. And I was called Gabriel.”

  Her heart actually ached for him—for his mother forced to live in the streets, to deliver her child amongst the cruel elements. “Did your father know of you?”

  “I haven’t a clue. I didn’t know him until I was six. He already had Elizabeth, you see, and a son—his rightful heir, who was little more than a few months older than I was. I don’t know how I made it there,” he said, his gaze distant and fixed, and far, far away. “But when you grow up in the stews poor and hungry, you grow up fast and learn to make your way around. Somehow I found myself in a rainstorm knocking on his door. The butler slammed it in my face. So I waited in the cold and rain, and eventually he did come out, and when I stood before him, he froze, his cru
el gaze narrowed on me.”

  “So you’re alive, are you? Remarkable.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Is she?” he said, my father’s voice so cold and full of mockery. “Well, boy, the first thing you must learn is that whores have a very short life span—they’re only needed for so long, and then they become a nuisance—something to be tossed out when they become tiresome.”

  “You’re my father.”

  “No. I sired you, there’s a difference.” He laughed and came down the steps until he could touch me, and then he cruelly picked me up by my dirty coat collar and lifted me so that he was looking into the same silver as his eyes. “Astonishing, you’ve none of her in you, that little Highland hussy that birthed you.”

  Adrian remembered his father’s eyes…how they looked at him with pure repugnance.

  “Pity that my wife couldn’t do the same. My children—the legitimate ones, that is, are the very image of their mother. French weaklings, both of them. There is no York blood in them.”

  “What will you do for me?”

  He dropped me then, and I landed on the steps.

  “Do for you? Boy, I shall do nothing for you. Men make their own way in the world. Come to me when you make yourself into something that interests me.”

  “And then he left,” Adrian finished, “but not before he tossed me a few coins, and laughed at me as I scrambled to find them in the dark.”

  Lucy was crying, tears making tracks down her cheeks. She had thought herself miserable as a child, but her childhood was glorious compared to what her husband had endured. She thought of her father, the way he had hit him, scaring him, and she reached out to kiss his brow and give him comfort.

  Straightening, he seemed to push away that memory, and forged on to the next. “A butcher—you recall Mr. Beecher? He caught me sleeping with his pigs the next morning. I thought I’d have my hide stripped from me, but he and his wife were childless and they took me in, fed me, clothed me and cared for me as best they could, and they taught me a trade.”

  “I still remember the day I first saw you, standing in the kitchen. You refused to talk, or take the tart I offered you.”