by Darcy Burke
“I think you’ve outstayed your welcome, Lord Kingston,” replied Julian.
Kingston craned his head around, and the Dowager Duchess obligingly stepped forward. “Let’s not indulge in dramatics.”
“I’d be pleased to avoid them,” he replied, pleasantly. “Which means your guest will take his leave before noon tomorrow.”
“Lord Kingston,” murmured the Dowager, squeezing his bicep. “If you’ll give us a moment?”
Kingston strolled out of the room, pausing on the way to murmur in Julian’s ear, “Abstinence does not make the heart grow fonder, old chap.”
Julian gritted his teeth.
Once Kingston had gone, the Dowager took a deep breath and smiled. “Now. Are you quite well?”
Julian took a seat on the sofa and grabbed the paper at the top of the pile, snapping the pages crisply. “I told you that you’d have a place here for as long as you needed one. That’s still true. I never extended my guarantee to Kingston.”
“He’s behaved himself marvelously.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be so sorry to see him go.” Julian lowered the paper. “And if you plan on leaving, you’d best remove yourself soon.”
“Understood,” said the Dowager, making her way to the door. She paused at the threshold. “You’ve a cruel temper, Your Grace. Be careful about indulging it. There aren’t many capable of reining you in, anymore.”
The sun had fallen far enough to kiss the horizon before Sophie finally made an appearance. The library door opened halfway and she inserted herself into the gap, hovering half in and half out, wearing a horrible, drab gown. He oughtn’t fault her for that, she hadn’t had time to acquire a new wardrobe, but it bothered him anyhow. Try all you like, the dress seemed to say, nothing will change.
“Julian?”
“Come in,” he said, and Faithless opportunist, he failed to add. He gestured to the empty space on the sofa next to him.
She dragged her feet as she advanced, tossing her shawl onto the empty seat, and then, quite suddenly, dropping to her knees at his feet. She looked up at him like that, with her heart-shaped face and her still-water eyes, and his pride vanished. By any means necessary, he reminded himself.
“I behaved abominably last night, didn’t I?” Sophie asked, her voice small.
Julian raised his eyebrows. “A bit.”
She draped her arms over his thighs, propped her chin on his knee. “Are you very angry?”
“Furious.” Julian leaned forward. “But here’s the question: do you know why?”
“I disappointed you.” She slumped back. “I disgraced myself in polite company.”
“No, Sophie.” Julian shook his head slowly. Her dark eyes followed the movement, side to side. “No. That’s not why.”
She ducked her chin, looked up at him through a fan of thick lashes. “It isn’t?”
Julian didn’t reply.
“Then why?” She rubbed her hands restlessly atop his thighs. Sly minx. “I’ve been furious with myself all day. I’m never so thoughtless…”
“You needn’t concern yourself with winning the good opinion of a dozen local luminaries. As of yesterday, they must concern themselves with winning your good opinion—and if that means forgiving a little silliness, I assure you they’ll rise to the challenge.” Julian narrowed his eyes. “But leaving the marriage bed unchristened? That, Sophie, is an insult that will… not… stand.”
He closed the last inches separating them as he spoke, leaning forward until his nose brushed hers.
She tipped her head to the side and rubbed her cheek against his, spoke lowly, her breath warm on his ear. “How can I make it up to you?”
“I know how you can start,” Julian replied, reversing their positions. He set her on the sofa, right where he’d been sitting, and knelt between her legs. He tugged her bodice down, and then her shift, freeing her breasts. Glorious. The silken skin ghost-pale and delicately veined, the nipples dark as cherries. Like the landscape of heaven, a place he could live in dreams.
She stroked his throat, his jaw, teasing. He wasn’t in the mood. He captured one nipple in his mouth, pulling and sucking until the weight of her forearms pressed down on his shoulders, heavy and unselfconscious. Her scent surrounded him, a breath of summer with a chemical undertone.
Inconvenient but true: the smell of ink made him hard. He’d spent too many hours closeted with her in the High Bend distillery at a tender age, trying to cajole her into misbehaving. He’d succeeded, as often as not, and now…
He groaned. Without further prelude, he tossed her skirts up over her knees and felt for the folds of her sex. He parted the seam with one finger, growled. She’d come to him frightened, not ready. Both hands then. He inserted one finger, pumped slowly, and flicked at her clitoris.
She gasped into his ear. Exaggerating. He didn’t care; his cock twitched. He removed his damp fingers and set to work loosening the fall of his trousers. The sofa stood at just the right height; he hadn’t planned it, but in the future—a whole gallery of images winked at him as he positioned himself, the pleasure he was about to enjoy multiplied into infinity by the prospect of repeating it.
He entered her slowly; for his own benefit, as much as hers. To test the strength of his self-control before he outpaced it. To get a good solid grip on it, even as the slick silk of her sheath clenched and throbbed around him, so that he didn’t forget to keep his finger flicking, faster, more insistently. They’d take their time later. Right now, he just wanted to make her come.
He thrust shallowly, nose buried between her breasts, licking, sucking, biting. Not always pleasantly, he suspected, but he had to do something—to bite, to fuck, to shout. He bit.
She grabbed hold of his buttocks, fingers digging in like claws, and drove him deeper. Her voice in his ear was a hiss: “Yes,” and, “Gall and vinegar, Julian, I will bite my tongue off if you don’t…”
He rested his forehead on her bare shoulder. It landed with a squelch and slid slick against her bare skin, as though greased. His hands trembled.
“Not yet,” he said hoarsely, withdrawing as far as he could bear, thrusting shallowly again. “Not yet.” Christ. He worked his finger harder and faster, gasping with relief as she began to jerk against him, writhing away from his finger. He thrust hard, despite himself, and it was good—the catch in her breath even better.
And then he felt it—the rippling squeeze, tight as a vice around his cock. Her climax. His reward. “Sophie?”
She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.
He let go. It was the closest he ever came to oblivion. To a world where only the present mattered, and the present was simple. He wanted to bury his cock in her. He wanted to spill his seed. He wanted that flash of perfect pleasure and he wanted it now, while her inner muscles clenched him tight. Close. Almost. At some point, the wanting swamped the sensation. It hurt. Almost.
Now.
§
Sophie slumped against the sofa. She advised herself to move, perhaps sit up, because she’d drooped into an awkward position that would soon cause her great discomfort. Her rear end was in danger of sliding off the edge of the cushion. Her chin poked her sternum, her spine bent at an odd angle, and her neck would soon cramp. Lassitude kept her still. She didn’t want to shake loose the last particles of bliss, fizzing and dissipating like bubbles in a glass of champagne.
“I haven’t felt so good in years,” said Julian, then laughed hollowly. “Ten years. Did I…?”
Sophie heaved herself up a few inches on her elbows so she could see him. He sprawled across the carpet on his back, completely clothed but for his still glistening penis. It lay there, a secret revealed, the pink slitted head half retracted into its protective sheath. Amazing, that people found pleasure in such ways—a little touching, a little rubbing. Ignoble and ridiculous, until a body learned to crave it. Years of abstinence, years of self-pleasuring, couldn’t quench the ache.
She touched a tender spot on her breas
t, another on her shoulder. He had bitten her toward the end. Little flares of pain, like salt over sweet caramel. They’d helped her along.
To think she’d wasted half the day worrying about what he’d say, preparing for his anger.
“Did I please you?” Julian finished.
Sophie laid a loosely fisted hand over her heart. She shook her head a little, wordlessly, tried to squeeze the mess of feelings that couldn’t fit into words out of her eyes. “You please me.”
Julian’s head dropped back onto the carpet with a thud. “We should take a honeymoon.”
Sophie chuckled. “To some very remote place?”
“How did you guess?” He groaned and stretched, the leather in his boots creaking. “Some isolated wilderness. Nothing but a few servants for miles around. They’d carry in bottles of chilled champagne while we lie naked on the bed between bouts.”
“Wearing blindfolds?”
“They’d be very well trained.”
“And discreet?”
“No tongues,” Julian replied. He made a snapping motion in front of his mouth. “Cut off.”
“And is that intended to be an… enticement of some kind?” Sophie shook her head, bemused. “How unfortunate that I must remain here in Padley.”
“What about Paris?” Julian propped himself up on his elbows, mirroring her. Pale hair fanned across his forehead, lending him a boyish air. Or maybe it was everything else about his expression: open, muscles relaxed, eyes clear. “The Côte d’Azur. Italy.”
“I really can’t leave.” Sophie winced apologetically. “Iron & Wine is too busy.”
“Hire someone.” His brows furrowed but his smile didn’t change. “You can’t spend every day atIron & Wine—what happens when we go to London?”
Sophie blinked and, finally, shifted into a proper sitting position. Moisture seeped from between her legs, startling her. “I can’t go to London.”
Julian’s open expression shuttered, and Sophie answered her own half-formed question: a lock of hair could not transform his face. With his usual mask in place, dishabille rendered him rakish rather than boyish, dangerous rather than sweet.
But when he spoke, his tone remained light. “You can’t?”
“I meant to talk to you about that—Bettina has some notion that I’ll chaperone her through the Season, but I don’t see how it will be possible. Between preparing the factory, launching the nibs, and processing the new ink orders I’ve received, I need to remain here in Padley for the rest of the year.”
Julian paused. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. This time, his voice dropped in register and emerged with an unmistakable edge of warning. “I’m to go alone?”
“If you must go to London,” Sophie replied, very firmly now, “you must go alone.”
Julian hinged forward, smooth and graceful, and righted his trousers.
“You agreed, Julian.” Sophie set about putting her own clothes in order, covering herself. “Keeping Iron & Wine was my condition. We drew up a settlement with a solicitor to sign and seal it.”
“You’re right, of course. That was the bargain.” Julian stood, buttoned his jacket. He started for the door.
Sophie called out at his back, “Then why are you angry?”
He paused. Stood still for the space of a full breath, two. Then continued walking.
“Julian!”
He reached the door. Opened it. Looked back, cool and remote as a statue. “Sophie?”
Don’t leave, she wanted to say. But the words died on her lips. She scrambled, looking for some other way to draw him out, to pull him back to her. “Whatever happened to William Allsop?”
“How about this?” Julian smiled thinly. “If he ever shows his face again, I’ll tell you.”
The door shut behind him with a click.
Sophie just had time to record the afternoon’s events in her diary before dinner was announced. She took Julian’s arm and proceeded into the high-ceilinged, cavernous dining room, empty but for two place settings: Julian’s, at the head of the table, and hers, to his right.
She hadn’t requested this intimate seating arrangement, and knew he must have seen to it himself.
Two footmen filed in carrying shallow, wide-rimmed bowls of a creamy soup. They settled the bowls into place simultaneously and withdrew as the butler murmured, “Fennel soup, Your Graces,” and backed out of the room.
“You still like fennel?” Julian asked.
“How did you know?”
Julian raised one eyebrow.
Sophie blushed. “Fennel, anise, hard candies. Anything with a licorice flavor.” She tasted the soup, sharply spiced with a creamy potato base. It was delicious. “Do you like fennel?” She had no idea. She couldn’t believe he still remembered something so insignificant.
“I don’t mind it,” he replied, eyes following her spoon as she took another sip. “And we’ll have venison in the first remove, which I know you hate.”
“It’s the smell,” Sophie said. “I can’t bear it.”
“You see?” Julian took a sip of his soup. “It all balances out.”
Sophie hesitated. She wondered if Julian had intended his last comment to carry some hidden message, and if she should attempt a reply—direct or veiled. But she didn’t want to spoil his mood, so warm and kind, with a fight. They’d clashed almost continuously since his return to Derbyshire. A bit of peace and quiet might be just the thing.
But fear was her oldest and dearest companion. She knew all its guises: the cold hand fisted on her heart, the slight chill in the air. The finger on her tongue, urging her not to speak.
So she made pleasant conversation. She was careful to drink very little. Later, upstairs, after the maid had come and gone, Sophie sat down at her vanity in a plain white linen nightgown to comb her hair. She palmed a few drops of scented oil into her hair and began combing it, watching the rise and fall of her hand in the mirror.
The door connecting her suite to Julian’s opened. He stepped into the threshold, dressed in a black silk dressing gown loosely belted at the hips, a pale vee of his flesh left bare where the lapels didn’t quite overlap. He watched her finish with her combing and then held out his hand.
Sophie rose. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she crossed to him, placed her smaller hand into his larger one, the palm smooth and warm, and let him lead her into his room.
He unfastened the pearl buttons of her nightgown then pushed it down over her shoulders. The thin linen whispered over her skin as it fell, pooling on the floor. He laid her out on the bed of layered furs and fine wool. He mapped her body with his lips and tongue, every hillock and crevice. When she tried to return his caresses he brushed her roving hands away, turned her onto her stomach, and entered her from behind. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek into a furl of mink as he stretched and filled her, rocked back into him as he moved steadily and with a rhythm that she felt all the way down to her fingers and toes in little throbs, like a second heartbeat.
He slid one hand under her belly and between her legs, set his clever fingers to work until she ground her pelvis into the mattress with the force of her climax. He drove hard inside her, invisible and silent but for the force of his own need, the slick slide of his torso against her back, the insistent wanting part of him that had to get deeper, deeper inside of her.
Afterward, as she drowsed in his arms, she compared the bland solicitousness Julian had shown her at dinner with the greedy intensity of his lovemaking, and she admitted to herself: one of these is a lie.
She fell asleep in his arms.
At dawn the next morning, she was in a carriage bearing the Clive coat of arms, on her way to Padley.
Chapter 20
Sophie returned home from Iron & Wine to find Mrs. Purse waiting for her. The modiste helped her to select fabrics and patterns, and over the following days new gowns populated her wardrobes as if by magic.
Julian did not leave for London, though she supposed he must
soon, if he wanted to arrive while the Lords remained in session. Instead, he returned to the subject of her inks over dinner.
“You devise the inks, Sophie—but brewing is mindless labor. Why must you do it all yourself?”
Sophie put down her utensils before she dropped them; she was sure she felt the blood draining out of her head. “Anyone I hired to brew for me could steal my formula.”
“Take out a patent,” he replied. “That would protect you.”
“It would take weeks to obtain a patent. I’d have to go to London.” Sophie shook her head, contemplating the trouble involved. She’d thought about it, of course. More than once. And discarded the idea each time, if only for the expense involved. “And if I wanted a patent for each of my inks? I’d spend hundreds of pounds, Julian. I’d have to disclose my formula on the application, and then defend it in court if I suspected another chemist of using it.” She took a deep breath. She reminded herself not to squander this opportunity, to extend an olive branch where she could. “Perhaps next year… if the nibs do well… I could contemplate taking that step.”
“You are the Duchess of Clive.” Julian spoke slowly, as though she might be dim. “You can bear the expense. If you’d like me to arrange it, I can ensure that the bureaucratic process is smoothed and shortened.”
“As the Duchess of Clive—yes, I could lavish money upon Iron & Wine and turn the whole enterprise into a hobby.” Sophie fiddled with her utensils, put her hands in her lap. She stared at her plate of chicken fricassee, pooled in a heavy mushroom gravy. “It is an asset. Not a toy.”
“The duchy earned more than fifty thousand pounds last year,” Julian said gently.
Iron & Wine had earned Sophie eight hundred pounds during the same period. A number she’d been extremely proud of. But all that she had made, added to all that she would ever make in a lifetime of nurturing her little company, might never equal what the duchy brought in over the space of a single year.
She felt very, very small.
And terribly misguided.
“I find I have no appetite,” she said, excusing herself from the table.
