The Truth About Love and Dukes

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  He lifted up to rest his weight on one arm and look into her eyes as he reached out and caressed her face. “God, you’re lovely,” he said, his hand sliding down, his gaze following as his palm glided over her breast, along her ribs, over her stomach, and down her thigh. “In fact,” he said, laughing a little, “I think you are, truly, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  Suddenly, his hand stilled at her hip, and a shadow seemed to cross his face. “If you want to call a halt,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper as he looked into her eyes, “you can, Irene. It would be . . . easier for me if you did it now, rather than later.”

  She turned her head and kissed his palm. “I don’t want to call a halt.”

  “You might,” he said. “Before the end.”

  “Why would I?”

  Instead of answering, he slid his hand beneath the pillow. He retrieved the red envelope, opened it, and removed what was inside.

  “Is that . . .” She paused, lifting her head to have a better look, but he had already tucked it into his palm.

  “Yes,” he said and began easing his body on top of hers, moving slowly as if to give her plenty of time to change her mind, until he was fully settled between her legs, and she felt him, hard and erect, against the place he’d kissed so intimately moments ago. His hand slid between them, and after a moment, he touched her where he had before, caressing the folds of her most private place with his fingertips, stirring those amazing feelings again. She lay back, closing her eyes, but his voice prevented her from sinking into the passion his caress always seemed to evoke. “Irene, listen to me. Look at me.”

  She obeyed, opening her eyes.

  “There will be pain for you,” he said. “There’s no way around that. But if, at any point, you want me to stop, say so, and—” He paused and kissed her, hard. “And I’ll stop. I promise. All right?”

  His voice sounded strange, strangled and harsh, and his breathing had quickened, but she was not afraid. “I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered, and as she spoke, any vestige of panic faded away. For she wanted this. More now than ever.

  He moved, and she could feel the hard part of him rubbing against her. The place between her thighs seemed keenly sensitive to sensation now, and the hardness of him felt scorching hot against her, and deliciously sensual. She moaned, her hips pressing up against him.

  “Irene?” His voice was urgent now as lifted himself above her, resting his weight on his forearms. “I can’t hold back any longer. I’m coming inside you.”

  Inside? Her eyes flew open to the vision of his face, taut and unreadable above her, but before she could utter the question on her lips, she felt him pushing against her. Into her.

  She sucked in a startled gasp as her body stretched to accommodate this large, uncomfortable invasion. He went still, hovering above her, waiting. She knew what he waited for, and she nodded, urging him on, her hips lifting.

  That seemed all he needed. Suddenly, with a rough sound, he gave a powerful thrust of his hips against hers that brought the hard, erect part of him into her fully, and though he’d warned her, she couldn’t help crying out at this sudden assault. He caught the sound of her pain, capturing it in his own mouth with a kiss, as her arms tightened around him. He stilled again, kissing her, deep, slow kisses as he brushed his palm against her hair. Then he pulled back, and began kissing her everywhere he could reach—her throat, her cheeks, her mouth, even the tip of her nose.

  “It’ll be all right, Irene. I promise it will.”

  But even as he soothed her, the pain was receding. “I’m all right, Henry,” she whispered, and tentatively, she moved beneath him, trying to accustom herself to him coupled with her in this way.

  He buried his face against her neck and began to move within her, quickening his pace, and as he did, his thrusts against her grew stronger and deeper, and she knew he was feeling the same sort of pleasure he’d given her. She pushed upward, tightening and flexing her hips, and when he groaned in response, she smiled, beginning to like this part. The pain had eased to a mild soreness deep inside, nothing intolerable, and she worked to move with him, trying to match the rhythm of his thrusts.

  His breathing was ragged, and his hips were pushing hers hard into the mattress with quick, urgent thrusts. Irene began to feel again that wondrous pleasure that he’d given her before, but even hotter and deeper.

  But then, suddenly, shudders rocked him. He let out a hoarse cry, thrust against her one last time and went still, his body covering hers, breathing hard against her neck.

  She caressed him, liking the feel of the hard, smooth muscles of his back, and when he lifted up and looked into her face, she found herself seized with an overpowering tenderness that was like nothing she’d ever felt in her life before. It squeezed her heart and made her want to laugh and cry. It seemed to fill her very soul.

  So this was what it was to be a ruined woman. She felt no regret and no shame. She just felt an overwhelming happiness that bubbled up within her until she couldn’t contain it, and she laughed out loud. Being ruined felt ripping wonderful.

  Chapter 18

  “Irene?” Henry lifted himself above her, looking dubious. “You’re laughing?”

  “Well . . . yes.” She’d confounded him, she could tell. “I’m sorry, if that’s a rude thing to do at a moment like this. It’s just . . . I don’t know what all the repression and censure is about, honestly.” She paused, laughing again. “This is glorious. Why don’t people do this all the time?”

  That made him laugh, too, a deep, hearty laugh, and he liked the sound of it. “Many people do,” he said, cupping her face with his palms. “Believe me, there are people meeting in hotel rooms and bedrooms all over London as we lie here talking about it.”

  Her laughter faded as she studied his face. “What about you? Have you been with many women? Besides your wife, I mean.”

  “No, not many. I mean, enough to know what I’m doing. But not enough to be cynical about it, thank God.”

  “And some people are cynical?”

  “Far too many, I’m afraid.” He studied her, and his smile faded to a thoughtful expression. “You’re a very unusual woman, do you know that?”

  “Why? Because after knowing you less than two weeks, I’ve taken you as my lover?”

  She tried to sound nonchalant, but she feared the breathlessness of her voice spoiled the effect.

  “In a way, yes. You are very unexpected, Irene. I never can seem to predict what you’ll think or feel about anything. Or what you’ll take it into your head to do.”

  “That’s part of my charm.”

  She was being facetious, but he did not laugh. “Indeed, it is. I think I’m coming to like it, actually.” He kissed her, then lifted himself away from her, and she let out a startled breath as his body slipped free of hers.

  His hand reached between them, stirring between her thighs, but it wasn’t a caress, and she knew he was retrieving what had been in the red packet. Strangely, knowing that made her feel shy all of a sudden. “What happens now?” she whispered.

  “That depends on where everyone thinks you are.”

  “If you mean Clara, she thinks I’m at Belford Row. If you mean Papa, he thinks I’m spending the night at Upper Brook Street.”

  A frown knit his brows. Abruptly, he rolled away, and she felt a strange shiver of apprehension as he sat up, his back to her, the contents of the red envelope in his closed fist.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just a bit awkward.” He gave a short laugh. “Talking about your father at this particular moment.”

  “If you think I regret what happened, Henry, I don’t.”

  “I’m glad.” He turned his head, smiling a little, and with his free hand, he reached for one of hers. He kissed it, then let her go and rose from the bed. Irene sat up, allowing herself a good, long look as he walked to his own room. His body was really quite splendid, she thought, craning her neck. His wid
e shoulders, his muscled back, his bum. He vanished through the door, and she gave an aggrieved sigh before falling back against the mattress.

  When he returned, he was clad in a long, dark red dressing gown, much to her aggravation. He resumed his seat on the edge of the bed. “If you don’t need to be back home straightaway, shall we have dinner up here?”

  “Oh, can we? What a lovely idea. I’m famished.”

  That made him laugh, and she smiled at the sound. “As much as I like to make you laugh,” she said as she sat up, “why was that amusing?”

  “Because I know the reason you’re hungry.” Smiling back, he kissed her, and then he looked down, and his hand cupped her breast.

  Her body responded to his touch at once, arching into his hand, but her delicious anticipation was quashed before she had the chance to savor it.

  “You’ll have to give me a bit of time to recover, darling,” he said. “Men need that.”

  “Oh.” She blushed, realizing there was a great deal about men she did not know. Then she frowned, tapping his wrist. “If that’s so, then why are you teasing me this way?”

  His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked as innocently disingenuous as one of his naughty nephews. “Is that what I’m doing?” he murmured, his fingertips brushing over her nipple, stirring heat inside her.

  “Yes,” she said firmly and pushed his hand away. “Besides, you promised me food.”

  “So, dinner for two, then? Do you trust me to order for you?”

  “Certainly. Being a duke, you’re sure to know what food goes with what wine, and all that, so order whatever you think best. But no dessert,” she added as he started to rise.

  He sank back down, giving her a puzzled little frown, the one between his brows that told her she’d confounded him yet again. “Why not dessert?”

  “I don’t need any.” She smiled, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You’re my dessert.”

  And so it began, the life of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Henry would telephone from his club which hotel they would be staying in, a different hotel every night. He arranged for the transportation of her suitcase and the laundering of her discarded clothes, so that no matter where they spent the night, she always had fresh garments without anyone in her household or his being given cause for suspicion while doing the laundry. And he assured her that he never came in his own carriage and that he always took a circuitous route to their destination. They met after dark and parted before dawn.

  These illicit arrangements were a facet of life she already knew something about, for the bread and butter of gossip columns involved the love affairs of various members of the aristocracy. And that knowledge served her well in guarding against any gossip being directed at her and Henry. She was always sure to leave him shrouded in her dark cloak and veil. Train stations served as desirable places to slip out of her distinctive veiled garments and into her usual shirtwaist and skirt, a uniform indistinguishable from the shop girls, telephone operators and typists who scuttled about London late at night and early in the morning. Even her hair color was easily hidden beneath a plain straw bonnet. Despite these precautions, one of Irene’s competitors did make mention in its Wednesday edition of the Duke of Torquil’s sudden interest in a mysterious veiled lady, forcing Irene to make sure that Josie’s next Delilah Dawlish column did the same, for a failure to mention it would be noticed by her competitors. She even began to fabricate an identity for Torquil’s mistress. His family, of course, asked him no questions about this woman, for as he assured her, among his sort of people, a man’s mistress was never discussed.

  Her father, who didn’t read any of the gossip rags and had long been accustomed to Irene coming and going at odd hours, was given no cause for suspicion, and as long as Clara didn’t visit Belford Row, the secret of Irene’s sleeping arrangements would be able to remain intact.

  For Irene, their nights together were wondrous, not only because of the sweet bliss she felt in Henry’s arms, but also for their conversations, for she had never in her life had the chance for open, honest debate with a man. She’d had a suitor or two, respectable young men introduced through her cousins or because they lived in the neighborhood and she’d known them all her life. They had all been polite, earnest, and dull. Any feminine dissent on her part to their opinions and advice had made them uncomfortable and inclined to change the subject. Never had she had any interaction with a man who could meet her on her own ground as Henry did. He did not find her feminine brain at all intimidating, nor inferior to his own masculine one. Nor was he wont to patronize or humor her to avoid discussion, and their conversations were often as heated as their lovemaking. As he had from the moment they’d met, he was able to provoke her, and infuriate her, and make her think.

  “But why should women have the vote?”

  Irene set down her knife and fork, happy to take him on over the breakfast trays spread out between them on the bed of their third hotel room in a week. “Why shouldn’t they have the vote? Answer me that.”

  “That’s not an argument.” He leaned back against the brass headboard with his tea, preparing to get comfortable. “Make your case.”

  “Why should I have to? Did men ever have to? Or did they just decide—we’re bigger, we’re stronger, we win?”

  “Well, yes, that’s probably exactly how it happened, but again, that’s not an argument. If you want the vote, you’ll have to do more than march and protest and declare some sort of moral high ground, you know. You’ll have to convince men in power to cede power to you, and to accomplish that, you’ve got to do better in forming your argument. It’ll get you nowhere to complain about how unfair things are and how men have had it all their own way for too long. If you ever get the ear of an MP and you say rot like that, he’ll laugh in your face and tell you that what you need is to be married with a brood of children so you’ll remember your place.”

  She grimaced. “That’s more true than I like to think.”

  “So, answer my question. Why should women have the vote?”

  Breakfast forgotten, she set down her utensils and shoved aside her tray. “I believe if women had the vote, it would be a better world.”

  “That’s sentiment, and I don’t care what you believe. Remember,” he added at her sound of outrage, “I’m your opponent. I’m the MP you’ve got to convince. Try again.”

  “I will try, Henry, but in all seriousness, don’t you think women having the vote could bring about changes that are good? Forget the notion of making argument, just tell me what you think, you personally.”

  “Honestly? I don’t know.” He ignored her sound of exasperation and considered for a moment. “If it happened,” he said slowly, “the change would be enormous, chaotic even. Would they be good changes? How can I answer that? All my life, I have been raised by a certain code. I am the duke, it is my responsibility to keep my world stable, to take care of all those who exist within my sphere. The tenants of my farms, the servants in my employ, the tradesmen in my village—all these people depend upon me to keep their world as reliable as possible. That is a fact of my existence. I am keenly aware that the economic condition of all these people, particularly the women and children, is to a great extent dependent upon decisions I make.”

  “But put your title aside. What of yourself?”

  “Speaking as a man, I have always believed it is my duty, my responsibility, and my honor to take care of the women in my life, and the children. If I do not have that, if I am not allowed that, then—as a man—what am I? What is my purpose in this world, if it is not to protect and care for those I love and hold most dear?”

  Watching him as he spoke, Irene felt a powerful ache in her chest. She could not reply, for she was overcome by myriad emotions. Bafflement, for he truly did not see that he was so much more than the caretaker of others. Confusion, for she’d never known any man for whom caring for others meant so much. And, yes, she felt a hint of envy, too, envy of those who were fortunate enough to h
ave him as their champion.

  She couldn’t think of how to say all that, and as she watched, that puzzled little frown etched between his brows. “Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked.

  “Because, Henry,” she said softly, “you are not like any other man I have ever known.”

  That embarrassed him, she could tell, for he looked away with a cough. “Yes, well, I don’t think I’m so rare a chap.”

  “But you are. And because not all men are like you, where does that leave the women who are not fortunate enough to be within the realm of your responsibility?”

  He raked a hand through his hair and gave a laugh. “God, Irene, I don’t know. You confound me at every turn, you truly do. Why is it that with you, I am always questioning what I think, what I believe, what’s right and wrong? Until I met you, I was absolutely sure I knew all these things.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I’m not sure of anything, to be honest. You provoke me and madden me and arouse me and impel me to question everything I know and believe. I find myself engaged in debates on issues I never considered before, and you shred ideas about my life I have always taken as truth.”

  “You do the same to me. But that’s a . . . a good thing.” As she said it, she felt a sudden prickling along the back of her neck, as if an ill wind were brushing through the room. “Isn’t it?” she whispered.

  “Is it?” He frowned, glancing around the hotel room, and as she followed his gaze, she noted the evidence of their frantic rush to lovemaking a short time ago—the scattered clothing, the red envelope. “I am enmeshed in situations that I never would have dreamed of only a few weeks ago,” he went on, musingly. “You delve, Irene, into the very bedrock of my existence.”

  She forced herself to look at him again. “You said you wouldn’t regret this,” she whispered. “What we have.”

  “I don’t.” He set down his tea and leaned forward, cupping her cheek. “Not at all, not for a moment. But knowing you is a bit chaotic to my sensibilities. You want to change the world, darling,” he added, smiling so tenderly that her moment of apprehension floated away and disappeared. “And I’m far more accustomed to being content with the world as it is. And on that note,” he added, leaning back, his hand falling away, “you still haven’t convinced me of why women should be granted the vote. So carry on.”