Definitely up to something, Eleanor decided.
“This wasn’t a marriage either one of us planned,” he continued. “But that does not mean we have to be enemies.”
She shifted her weight as her foot began to tingle. “I don’t think of us as enemies.”
“But do you think of us as friends? I thought not,” he said when she pressed her lips together. “I’d like us to start over, if we could. Forget the circumstances that brought us here, and go forward with a fresh slate. I’m extending an olive branch, Eleanor. And I would like very much if you’d take it.”
She had never been very fond of olives. Too bitter for her taste. But if Derek really was making a genuine effort to improve their tumultuous relationship, then she could try to do the same. After all, it wasn’t as if she enjoyed fighting with him. Well, at least not all the time.
“Very well,” she said, giving the tiniest of nods.
“Excellent.” He started to walk towards her, but at her wary frown he stopped short and lifted an innocent brow. “What? A man cannot kiss his wife goodnight?”
Her grip on the wrap tightened. “I thought you just wanted to have dinner together. You did not say anything about kissing.”
“We are married,” he reasoned. “I thought it was a forgone conclusion that we would kiss at some point.” Even white teeth flashed in a grin that could only be described as roguish. He raked a hand through his hair, drawing her gaze to his thick ebony locks. Almost absently she wondered what the silky tresses would feel like. Coarse, like the mane of a horse? Or smooth, like the downy fur of a rabbit?
“I suppose one small kiss wouldn’t hurt anything,” she said reluctantly. “We have to start somewhere, don’t we?”
“That we do.”
She tensed when he crossed the room in three long, languid strides, but to her pleasant surprise his touch was surprisingly gentle when he wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the damp tendrils that had come undone from the twisted pile of curls atop her head.
“Relax,” he said softly, his thumb gently massaging a knotted cord of muscle. He was standing so close she could smell the faintest hint of wine of his breath. Madeira, if she had to hazard a guess. A sweet red wine that went splendidly with dessert and the only spirit her mother had allowed her to drink at the dinner table. “There’s no reason to be frightened.”
“I’m n-not frightened.” It was a lie. If she’d been wearing boots she would have been quaking in them. It wasn’t that she was scared of Derek, per say. He may have been an arrogant cad prone to flashes of temper, but he wasn’t violent. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, or force himself upon her. So why were her knees trembling? And why did her belly feel as though she was in a coach that had just taken a very sharp turn downhill?
The kissing, she decided. It had to be the kissing. Having never done it before, she didn’t have the slightest idea what to expect. Was she supposed to close her eyes? What did she do with her hands? Should she purse her lips like a fish, or pinch them closed? For a woman who was accustomed to being knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects, from Greek mythology to astronomy and everything in between, the idea of not knowing how something worked was incredibly daunting.
“I – I’ve changed my mind,” she said nervously. “I don’t think–”
But it was too late. The hand at the back of her neck tightened ever-so-slightly as Derek lowered his head and kissed her. His mouth was warm and dry. She could taste the wine on his lips – she’d been right, it was Madeira – and she couldn’t help but wonder if he tasted what she’d had for dinner. It wasn’t the most romantic thought, but then no one had ever accused Eleanor of being a romantic. An academic, yes. A bluestocking, certainly. But a romantic? No. Never that.
Yet she couldn’t help but feel a bit of romance blossoming within her as Derek deepened the kiss. His eyes were closed so she closed hers as well, and when he wrapped his arm around the small of her back and drew her against the hard length of his body she tentatively splayed her hands across his chest.
She felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath at her innocent touch, and she marveled that such a small motion could cause such a large reaction. Then she felt his tongue lightly slide across the seam of her lips and it was her turn to gasp, for surely this was not how kissing was done.
“It’s all right,” he murmured huskily. “I just want to taste you. Just a taste…”
Her stomach fluttered at his words and after a moment’s hesitation she parted her lips, welcoming his tongue into her mouth on a soft, wondering sigh.
Oh yes, she thought dazedly. This is how kissing is done.
To her embarrassment – and secret delight – she felt her nipples harden against his chest. If his low growl of approval was any indication he’d felt them as well, and she was glad they’d both decided to close their eyes so he couldn’t see the bright pink blush unraveling across her cheeks. The blush traveled all the way down to her collarbones when, without so much as an, ‘I’m going to kiss your ear now and you’d best prepare yourself for it’s going to set your blood on fire’ he did precisely that.
Her eyes shot open as his teeth scraped against her earlobe. She clung to him, latching onto his waistcoat for dear life as her legs threatened to give out. When he teased his tongue along the delicate shell of her ear she would have collapsed if not for the arm he had wrapped around her back. He held her upright, which was a very good thing for she felt as if her entire body had suddenly turned to a bowl of orange jelly. Goodness! All these years she’d thought her ears were only for hearing. If she’d known the truth, she might have been tempted to investigate this kissing business much earlier.
Derek’s mouth slid down to her neck where it pressed against her fluttering pulse before returning to her lips. A few more slow, leisurely thrusts of his tongue and then, to Eleanor’s great disappointment, it was all over.
“That’s it?” she asked, her forehead creasing in a frown.
“No.” Brandy eyes dark and heavy, Derek tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear before he stepped back. “That wasn’t even a scratch on the surface, Red.”
“Then why did you stop?” And why was she filled with a vague ache, as if she’d left something undone? The feeling was an uncomfortable one, and with a grimace she tried to ease it by pressing her thighs together. Seeing the tiny, nearly imperceptible movement her husband’s gaze grew hot, but he didn’t kiss her again. Instead he took another step back, and then another until he was standing in front of the door
“Because I can’t trust myself.” His tone was almost accusatory, as if he was blaming her for…well, come to think of it she hadn’t the vaguest idea. Had she done something wrong? She knew she wasn’t an expert kisser by any means – how could she be, having never done it before? – but he hadn’t seemed displeased.
She bit her bottom lip, drawing the swollen flesh between her teeth to worry it back and forth as a dog might a bone. For some reason that seemed to make Derek even angrier, for with a sharp curse he abruptly turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving her staring after him in complete bewilderment.
Chapter Nine
What the devil had just happened?
Massaging his temples where a dull throbbing had settled in – while simultaneously trying to ignore the other dull throbbing between his legs – Derek entered the library and threw himself down into a chair to stare broodingly at the smoldering fire.
With the exception of his own thoughts and the crackle and hiss of the flames, the house was quiet, the servants having long ago found their beds. They would be up before the sun rose to attend the hearths, open the drapes, make breakfast. Under their care – and the sharp eye of Mrs. Gibbons – Hawkridge Castle ran like a well-oiled machine, which was precisely how he liked it. When he woke in the morning there were never any surprises. He always knew just what to expect.
He knew there would be a warm basin of water already filled so
he could shave his face (he preferred to do it himself rather than relying on a personal valet). He knew as soon as he came downstairs a piping hot cup of coffee, two poached eggs, and the newest edition of The Morning Post would be awaiting him in the solarium. He knew his riding clothes would be laid out on the bed when he returned upstairs to dress, and he knew his horse would be waiting for him, already tacked, in front of the stables.
His house in London ran in a similar fashion. Having started his life in one direction only to have it veer dramatically off course when his parents died, he was a man who enjoyed order. Who liked knowing what was going to come next. Who did not care for surprises. Which was why his little red-haired wife, with her sharp tongue and quick wit and guileless green eyes a man could lose himself in if he wasn’t careful, had thrown him so utterly and completely off guard.
Consummate the marriage and get the hell out of this Godforsaken castle where painful memories were as plentiful as rocks. That was his plan. Or at least, that had been his plan before he’d kissed her.
Eleanor was an inconvenience. A means to an end. A way for him to continue his neat, orderly life while still meeting the terms of the will. So why had he just been one second removed from losing all self-control, throwing his virgin wife onto the bed, and rutting into her like a savage?
He knew what lust felt like. He was more than well acquainted with passion. But what he’d just experienced upstairs…it was unlike anything he’d ever known. It had been more than lust. More than passion.
One glancing kiss. That was all he had intended. But from the first moment he first tasted the sweet honey of her lips he’d wanted more. He’d craved more. And he didn’t know why.
Eleanor was by no means experienced. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to learn that was her very first kiss. Yet despite her innocence, she’d entranced him like no other woman before her. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. It just didn’t make any bloody sense. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to desire his own wife.
No, not desire, he corrected himself grimly. Desire was too weak of a word. Yearning came close, but it was still insufficient. There was no word in the English language to describe what he’d felt. The power of it. The thrall. The ache. All of his mistresses combined had never made him feel even an ounce of whatever the hell it was he’d felt with Eleanor. And that was the bloody point. He didn’t want to feel. Feeling led to emotions, emotions led to disorder, disorder led to chaos.
Sitting back, he cupped the nape of his neck and directed his brooding stare back into the flames. All this, he thought with a bitter twist of his lips, and all he’d done was kiss her. What the devil would happen when he actually bedded her?
“Derek? Are you in here?” Georgiana’s lilting voice pierced the silence, followed by the rhythmic swish of her skirts as she strolled into the library and discovered him sitting in front of the fire. “Sitting by yourself in the dark without a glass of brandy?” She made a tsking sound under her breath. “It must be serious. Care if I join you?”
“Go ahead.” He nodded brusquely at the empty chair beside him. She sat down, and for a moment the two siblings gazed at the slowly burning logs without speaking.
Their relationship had always been, if not troubled, then at the very least strained. With only two years separating them they’d been thick as thieves when they were children. More than once person confused them for twins they were so close, and one never did something without the other. Then their parents died…and everything changed.
Georgiana was immediately taken under their grandmother’s wing, but it was their grandfather who sent her away to boarding school. She hadn’t wanted to go. Had begged Derek to help her stay. But as a boy of only twelve there’d been nothing he could do but watch through a sheen of angry tears as her carriage drove further and further away.
When she returned four years later she was a different person. Or at least that was how it seemed to Derek. Gone was the rebellious tomboy who had loved to climb trees and catch frogs. In her place was a quiet, polite, ladylike stranger who no longer looked at him as if he’d hung the moon. In fact, she’d been so busy preparing for her formal debut she’d hardly looked at him at all. Over the next two years they grew even further apart, and when she married her count he felt as if he were attending the wedding of a stranger.
This was the first time they’d been under the same roof in nearly a decade. She was his closest living relative – he didn’t count Norton – and he didn’t know what to say to her. Shifting his weight, he cast a surreptitious glance at her profile out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re up late,” he noted.
“I often have trouble falling asleep,” she said without looking away from the fire. “I find it helps to read.”
Which must have been why she’d come into the library. “I can leave.”
“No, stay. Please,” she added when he started to stand. “Do you know this is the first time we’ve lived in the same house since I married James?”
Derek nodded. “I just had the same thought.”
“I miss him the most at night. It must be the quiet, for I hardly think of him at all during the day. Do you think that’s strange?”
“No,” he said, for he often found himself thinking of their parents in a similar fashion. “I don’t think it’s strange at all. It has only been seven months, Georgiana.”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Seven months…” she murmured. “Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. Other days I expect to turn my head and see him still standing behind me.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
“I didn’t love him,” she continued after a long pause. “But I did like him. He was kind, if a bit boring. We were trying to have a child when he passed. For a while I hoped…but it wasn’t meant to be, I suppose. Just as well. Children are messy creatures. Always getting into this and that. When do you think you and Eleanor will have them?”
Startling slightly at the sound of his wife’s name, he crossed his arms and frowned at the fire. It was nearly out, having smoldered down to a few logs that glowed orange and red in the dark. “I don’t know. Eventually, I suppose. I need an heir.”
“Yes, you do. Unless you want to tie Hawkridge up in a pretty red bow and hand it over to Norton.”
“I am well aware.”
“Then what are you doing down here instead of upstairs with your wife you haven’t seen in nearly a year?” One elegant black brow arched as she finally turned her head to look at him. “A wife whom, if I remember correctly, you sent on her merry way as soon as the marriage ceremony was concluded. You didn’t even let the poor thing partake in her wedding feast and she so does love to eat.”
“I thought she would be happier in the country.” The feeble excuse was the same he’d used when anyone else had inquired as to Eleanor’s whereabouts in the months following their wedding. Poor health, he’d said. She does best in the fresh air. No one believed him, of course. Wives – especially new ones – were never really sent to the country for their health. But it was what a husband was expected to say even when the truth was painfully obvious.
“Eleanor is the healthiest person I’ve ever met,” said Georgiana, her lifted brow indicating she didn’t believe him for a moment. “Surprising, really, given all the time she spends with those animals of hers.”
“Animals?” He knew his wife had a hedgehog named Penny or Whinny. Ginny, maybe? He’d considered forbidding her to bring the pet to Hawkridge – God knew the spiky little rat had already caused enough trouble – but he hadn’t wanted the headache of another long, drawn out argument.
“Yes. She has an entire barn full of them. Geese and pigs and rodents and heaven knows what else.” Georgiana flicked her wrist. “All rescued or saved in some manner or another. She’s a regular animal Joan of Arc, your Eleanor.”
“She isn’t my Eleanor,” he s
cowled.
“Oh?” his sister said with a hint of amusement. “Then just whom does she belong to?”
No one, was his immediate thought. Eleanor belongs to no one. She was like a wild filly who’d not yet been tamed. One that had never felt the constrictive binding of a halter or the cold metal of a bit pressed between its teeth. After their kiss, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to gentling her.
“I like her, you know,” Georgiana said when he remained silent. “Although she is an unconventional choice for a duchess. She would have been much better suited if she married a baron, I think. Or mayhap a doctor.”
Derek straightened in his chair. “Are you saying I’m not suitable enough for her?”
“No. I am simply saying she is not who I would have picked for your wife. But the damage has been done, as they say, and there’s no going back now.” She propped up her chin on the palm of her hand and blinked languidly at him. “What do you plan to do with her?”
“Do with her? She isn’t a piece of furniture to be polished and packed away.”
“And yet that is precisely what you’ve done. Married her and packed her away. Which makes me wonder what you’re doing here now.”
His scowl deepened. “I thought you were happy to see me.”
“I was. I am. Now that James has passed, you and Eleanor are the only family I have.”
“What about Norton?” he asked, wanting to gauge his sister’s attachment to their slimy weasel of a cousin. If the will was brought to court, Georgiana could prove to be a useful ally. Her husband’s family had high connections, including a magistrate. He had been waiting to tell her about their grandfather’s will until he knew for certain where her allegiances lay.
“I’d rather be related to one of your wife’s pigs,” she said with a sniff. “I claim no relation to that wastrel.”
The Spring Duchess (A Duchess for All Seasons Book 2) Page 6
