The Duke's Wicked Wife (Wicked Secrets)

by Elizabeth Bright

  And that was it. Her hips bucked, her inner muscles squeezed around his finger in rhythmic pulls. When the last tremor had subsided, he moved between her thighs. She widened them farther to give him space. He hesitated there, his cock cradled against the velvet opening of her body, not wanting to hurt her but knowing he must.

  And so he did.

  He pushed in gently, slowly, barely inside her at all, and then eased out again. She took a deep breath and he moved again when she released it. Twice more—she breathed, he moved. And then her hands swept down his back, coming to rest on his buttocks. She gave him a gentle squeeze, and he rocked into her on a deep, thick glide. She sucked in a sharp breath and lifted her knees as though to curl her body into a protective ball, but all it did was cause him to sink deeper.

  Christ. The pleasure. His pleasure. Her pain.

  He didn’t think he could bear either one.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was a raw, cracked thing he scarcely recognized. He held very still, giving her time to adjust to his intrusion.

  Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, opened, and she blinked at him. “Oh.” She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and smiled in an almost puzzled way. “Oh, I’m so glad it’s you.”

  He would have laughed at the absurdity of it—of course it was him, he was her husband, who else could it be in her arms and her bed? Except it wasn’t absurd, and it wasn’t the least bit funny. It very nearly wasn’t him, or it wasn’t her, at any rate, and thank God, thank God, he had kissed her. The sudden joy was all encompassing.

  He began to move in long, slow thrusts, as gently as he could. His control was gossamer thin now, and he gritted his teeth to hold himself at bay.

  “Sebastian,” she said, and he froze.

  “Sebastian, yes, or Sebastian, no?”

  “Do you think…” She hesitated. “Do you think you could finish this quickly?”

  He looked down to where they were joined. His lips twisted in a rueful grimace. “Yes, I can do that.”

  He moved faster now, his thrusts hard and hungry, letting pleasure overtake him. He watched her face, hoping the pain was not too much for her. Her eyes were tightly closed, her lips parted to reveal small white teeth. Such a familiar thing, her face.

  Eliza.

  “Stay with me,” he whispered. He couldn’t be here alone, in this moment of intense need. It would break him apart, and he wasn’t sure how he would put himself together again when it was over. “Eliza, please.”

  She seemed to know what he needed, even though he did not. Her legs wrapped firmly around his hips, her arms tightened about his back, and she buried her face against his neck, pressing quick, desperate kisses there. He cried out as he flung himself off the cliff of pleasure, releasing into her with a brutal thrust.

  And found himself on the other side, all in one piece, held together by the strength of her embrace.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Eliza looked at the sleeping form of her husband and felt a queer ache in her chest. Love? She considered it, turning the feeling this way and that, poking at it. Did she love Sebastian? Just yesterday, as she swore before her family and friends to love him all the days of her life, the oath had felt as though it belonged to someone else. What had changed?

  A sharp twinge between her legs was her answer.

  Ah. Not love, then. Merely a tenderness born from being joined with him. Their bodies had been one, so much so that it had felt as though their hearts and minds had been one, as well. He had been inside her and left something of himself behind.

  A dangerous thing, lovemaking.

  And not just because it might eventually end with her death, although that certainly gave her pause. But she skittered away from the feeling of impending doom, setting aside that worry for another day. In a few weeks she would know. She would worry then.

  This feeling of tenderness was a much more immediate threat. It felt like a bruise on her heart, and she had no doubt that Sebastian would knead his fist against that aching spot without the slightest qualm. Not on purpose, of course. He was never intentionally cruel.

  But he didn’t care for her—at least, he did not care for her as a husband should care for a wife—and he would never allow himself to. She did not believe she was interchangeable with Lady Jane, Lady Abigail, and Lady Louisa—his anger and hurt before they kissed in the library proved that much, she was sure. And yet he still believed that so long as his wife bore him an heir and was reasonably pleasant of both conversation and face, further particulars mattered not. He had told her so himself, and Eliza firmly believed that when a man told you who he was, you ought to believe him. Sebastian had never hidden himself from her.

  Only from himself.

  For she knew—she knew—that he could care, if he but set his heart free of the cage where he’d trapped it. It was only his choice that he wouldn’t.

  So, no, it was not love. But something had changed inside her, and it was much more than simply the breach of her virginity.

  She rolled onto her side, tucking the quilt around herself, and propped her head on her fist to study her husband. The bed linens were pulled up to the tops of his hips, leaving his torso bare. Short, sparse hair covered his chest, vanished at the muscles of his stomach, and reappeared just below the indentation of his belly, where it made an intriguing path downward before disappearing beneath the blanket. She smiled.

  She knew what lay beneath.

  All hers, for now.

  Hers to touch, hers to caress, hers to adore. With my body, I thee worship. When he had spoken those words they had meant nothing to her. She hadn’t known, then. Now she understood. Why had no one told her how intimate the act of lovemaking was? If he ever did that with another woman, she would be forced to kill him.

  “Eliza.” His voice was a seductive purr.

  Her cheeks warmed. She glanced swiftly from his belly to his face. “Yes?”

  “I enjoy being admired, especially by a beautiful woman, and especially when I am nude. But your frown alarms me. I am not used to awaking next to a woman and finding her so perturbed. Tell me what is troubling you so that you may enjoy my nakedness without distraction.”

  It would have been a lovely moment had it not included a reminder of his many lovers.

  “Sebastian.” Her voice perfectly mimicked his sultry tone. “Have you a mistress?”

  His eyes snapped wide at her blunt question, but he rewarded her candidness with his own. “No. I have never taken a mistress. They require almost as much fidelity as a wife, and a pension to boot when a man’s interest turns elsewhere, so what would be the point?”

  Hmm. That did not entirely soothe her concerns.

  “Do you intend to see Lady Whistall again?” she asked with studied casualness.

  “Lady Whist—” His expression went carefully blank. “Why do you ask?”

  “She is your lover, isn’t she?”

  He paused. “We have…enjoyed each other from time to time, yes. No longer.”

  Slightly better, but still not the assurance she sought. She traced the seams of the quilt, watching the movement of her finger so she wouldn’t have to meet his questioning gaze.

  “I feel very…strange,” she confessed. “Before last night I did not mind so much, but I feel differently this morning. I am not jealous of the lovers in your past, but I would prefer they stay there.”

  “You…do not want me to see Lady Whistall again.”

  “I would prefer you didn’t. Not Lady Whistall, and not anyone else, either.”

  “How very wife-like of you. Does this mean our footman is safe from your advances? Or is it only I who must be faithful?”

  The quiver in his voice made her instantly suspicious, and she looked up. His dark eyes glinted with merriment. “You’re laughing at me,” she said reproachfully.

  “No,
dearest Sigrid. I am not laughing at you. I am gloating. When I attempted to court you, you mocked me. When we became friends, you lectured me. Of late, you even tried to marry me off to a parcel of lovely women—”

  “At your request!”

  “Nevertheless. And now…now…you want to claim me. A triumph, if ever there was one. I must record it in my diary.”

  Her lips quivered, and she pursed them to keep from laughing. “You don’t keep a diary.”

  “A damning thing that has never held any appeal for me. But it would be worth it to record this moment for posterity.” His voice changed to falsetto. “Dear Diary, you won’t believe it when I tell you, but the most incredible thing has happened! My own duchess admitted she liked me.”

  Eliza reached for her pillow, held it high above her head, and smacked him with it.

  From beneath the pillow came the sounds of his muffled laughter. “I cammmt addow taa camfage go umassard.”

  She removed the pillow.

  “Wh—ahhhhh!” she shrieked as he pounced, rolling her beneath him with startling quickness.

  “I said, I cannot allow the challenge to go unanswered.”

  She arched a brow, a teasing retort on the tip of her tongue. But a sable lock fell rakishly across his forehead, distracting her from their game. She had never seen him so…disheveled. His hair was in disarray, and a shadow of dark stubble covered his chin and jaw. A deep, red crease lined his cheek, a remnant from sleep.

  He had never looked so alluring. So tempting.

  She was suddenly very much aware of his warm skin against her own. Her hips shifted restlessly beneath him of their own accord.

  He inhaled sharply, his length hardening against her thigh. She licked her lips in anticipation. His gaze went to her mouth, and his eyelids drooped to half-mast.

  “Eliza.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Are you very sore?”

  “No,” she lied.

  With a smooth, gentle motion he flipped them so he lay on his back with her atop. She blinked down at him in confusion.

  “This way,” he whispered, guiding her onto her knees.

  He pressed thickly against her entrance, and she sank down on him in a fluid glide. Her breath caught at the slight twinge from her newly tried inner muscles and she paused, reconsidering. Then his hips tilted up, driving him deeper within her, and she gasped with pleasure. Dear God.

  She rose up, sank back down, and rose up again, this time angling forward slightly before she again filled herself with him. Her head fell forward, her nails dug into his shoulder for purchase. “Oh. Oh, I like this.”

  “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought you might.”

  She moved faster, chasing the pleasure she had learned would come. It remained just out of reach, infuriating her. She made a frustrated sound, and he chuckled darkly.

  “Let me,” he said. His hand came between them, his thumb found her center, he swirled and pressed.

  “Sebastian!” His name was on her lips when the pleasure finally overtook her.

  He grasped her hips, holding her steady as he drove hard and deep. He cried out as he released within her, and she slumped forward, sprawling on his chest in a satisfied, damp heap.

  He trailed the ridge of her spine lightly with his fingertips. “Eliza,” he murmured.

  “Hmm.” She was too sleepy, too content, to do anything more than grunt.

  “Only you. No one else.”

  She turned her head and pressed her forehead against the curve of his neck. “We did not recite our vows under the usual circumstances, and I have already made demands on you that no other woman would. It is not fair for me to ask it of you, when you have never shown the least aptitude for faithfulness. I can’t.”

  “You can, because you are my Eliza, because you are my Sigrid. You are the only one who can.”

  A strange warmth spread through her body, and though she tried to move her lips, she could not speak.

  “And Eliza…”

  “Hmm,” she managed.

  “No footmen.”

  His warm laughter was the last thing she heard before she drifted to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was merely a coincidence that Sebastian had taken to spending the hour between ten and eleven riding in the park. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that his wife spent that particular hour locked in her study.

  He told himself this yesterday, as he requested his horse to be made ready.

  He told himself this now, as he again ordered his horse saddled.

  Likely tomorrow would bring more of the same.

  A coincidence, that was all.

  A fortnight into their marriage and they had fallen into a routine. Eliza rose at an ungodly hour that found even the servants still asleep in their beds. Sebastian awoke at the much more sensible hour of nine of the clock, by which point his wife had already had tea and toast and was safely ensconced in her favorite room with the door shut tight against his presence, and there she remained until the clock struck eleven, upon which she emerged feeling peckish.

  He wondered if she would ever leave that room if not driven from it by the threat of starvation, or if something else could entice her…such as missing her husband.

  It was best not to dwell on such thoughts.

  His routine ought not to have changed at all, given that he was somewhat wifeless for the morning hours. But her absence felt as tangible as her presence, and he found himself avoiding the spaces where she wasn’t. Prior to their marriage, Sebastian had greatly enjoyed a long, leisurely, and hearty breakfast that left him satisfied until long past noon. Now he had a quick bite of toast before taking the broadsheets to his study, where he pointedly left the door open.

  He had no secrets.

  He blew out a long breath, sending a stream of white into the damp fog. It was cold. He was hungry. Eliza wouldn’t surface for another—he checked his timepiece—half hour, at least, which made both the cold and the hunger seem infinitely worse. Worse than both of those—worse even than the fact that Ozymandias was now farting with every step he took—was that Sebastian was very much alone here in the park, and he very much disliked being alone. The park was empty—hell, most of London was empty, and would remain so until spring brought everyone back for the Season.

  Ahead of him, a man pulled his patched coat tighter to ward off the chill. “Ho, there, Davis!”

  A man Sebastian presumed to be Davis halted and turned. “George! How are you? And the missus?” He gave him a solid clap on the shoulder.

  “Good, good.” Davis grinned, exposing several gaps where teeth were missing. “Susan has enough washing to earn us a bit more coin, and she says thank you to your wife for the bird…” His cheerful voice faded as they turned a corner.

  All right, so London wasn’t empty. There were thousands still here, who had no country homes to which to flee. London hummed and throbbed and teemed with life. He just wasn’t a part of it.

  That made Sebastian feel lonelier still.

  Which was a ridiculous thing to feel maudlin about. He did, at least, still have all his teeth. Besides, self-pity was loathsome in a duke. It suggested an unbecoming tendency toward introspection.

  Ozymandias gave a snort of agreement and a fart of repugnance. Sebastian glared at the horse’s ears. He had paid over one hundred pounds for the beast, because of its impeccable bloodlines and bravery over obstacles. The breeder had waxed on about its willing temper, its sure feet, its strong back. He had not said one damn thing about the farting.

  Perhaps Sebastian could convince Abingdon to abandon Lady Abingdon for an afternoon at White’s. His friend was one of the few left in Town, as they had not yet settled on a home to buy in the country. Lady Abingdon was set on Sussex, close to her sister and Nick. It wouldn’t be so very far from Perivale Hall,
which would make Eliza happy.

  Sebastian checked his timepiece again. If he kept Ozymandias to a very slow walk, he should arrive back at precisely five past eleven. Just in time to take tea with Eliza without seeming overly eager about it.

  A gentle squeeze of the rein and nudge of his boot, and they were turned toward home. Ozymandias immediately pricked up his ears and hastened his gait, sensing that an afternoon of leisure in a warm, dry stall would soon be his. Ozymandias had no qualms about seeming over-eager to the mare in the next stall. Perhaps because he was missing his balls.

  Sebastian rode straight into the mews and delivered Ozymandias to a waiting groom. The horse gave a great, relieved shake of his head, dispensing a parting fart as Sebastian dismounted,. The groom, being exceedingly well-trained, did not so much as wrinkle his nose.

  Sebastian hastened to the house. It would not do to arrive too early, but neither did he want Eliza to take tea without him. Which she might. He was not at all certain that she desired his presence. He paused at her study. The door was flung open, as though its occupant had left in a hurry. It was usually kept shut—to remind him that he was not welcome, he supposed—and now his curiosity got the better of him. He hovered in the doorway and peered inside.

  It was an elegant room, reminiscent of its mistress. The walls were pale blue with silver inlay in broad stripes. A desk faced the window, where the dark blue velvet drapes were pushed back to reveal the gray morning. Next to the desk chair was a stack of books. Another book lay open on the desk. The room was neat and tidy, and—he leaned in while keeping his boots firmly outside the door—yes, it smelled faintly of roses.

  The thick sheaf of papers on the desk caught his attention. She spent her hours here writing letters, he assumed. But to whom? And about what? It must be more than the weather and everyone’s health, to keep her so occupied. She must be transcribing her heart, soul, and dreams, as well.

  To someone who was not Sebastian.

  It bothered him, yet he couldn’t quite identify the source of his annoyance. He did not suspect Eliza of being unfaithful. She had never seemed to favor any man in particular, and in point of fact she’d often treated her throng of beaux as a herd of goats—amusing, but best kept at a safe distance lest they eat her bonnet.