“When it comes to men, my dear, it is advisable to keep one’s expectations low and one’s compensatory indulgences high.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne during a discussion of Lord Berne’s less endearing qualities.
It was a disgrace—outright highway robbery, Harrison thought as he examined the household accounts. The bill for spices had increased tenfold in the two weeks since their arrival at Blackmore Hall. Tenfold!
“Your correspondence, your grace.”
He glanced up to see Beardsley, the estate’s butler for the past four years, entering his study. Nodding, he indicated the tray on his desk designated for new correspondence to be reviewed. The butler was even shorter than Jane, but he was the most efficient and competent man ever to hold the position. Victoria had hired him shortly after taking over their mother’s duties. It was one of many reasons he still missed her. He did not possess her gift for understanding people. Take their cook, for example. Why would the Frenchman suddenly require ten times the usual amount of spices? Certainly, the size of the household had not increased proportionately.
Sighing in disgust, he set the bill aside and retrieved the first letter from the stack of correspondence. He sliced it open and quickly examined the message from Dunston, who reported he and his mother and sister would be passing through the area next month and would take Harrison up on his offer for a visit.
Frowning, Harrison considered this news with some concern. Jane was only now beginning to overcome her shyness with the servants. Last week, they had received a visit from the vicar and his wife. She had scarcely spoken more than a handful of sentences. While not precisely rude, her discomfort had been obvious, and the vicar had kindly cut his visit short, offering his felicitations on their marriage.
He tried to imagine Jane playing hostess to the sociable Lord Dunston, along with Dunston’s mother and his sister, Lady Mary. It would be most trying for her, especially given that their visit would last days or weeks, not the mere hour the vicar and his wife had spent.
Harrison despised seeing his wife in such a state. With him, Jane was unreserved, even cheeky, though often subtly so. Her lively sense of humor, quick wit, and clever, observant nature were most endearing. In fact, having accompanied her on several explorations of the estate, including the gardens, the ruins of Blackmore Castle, and along the river that wound through the surrounding countryside, he had grown quite fond of her company, craving it at odd times over the course of each day.
Her personality was unusual, in his experience, but could not be faulted as unappealing. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was simply stifled and trapped in the presence of anyone unfamiliar. Recalling her reaction to the vicar’s visit, he felt anger rise again. She had been seized by silence and self-doubt, clearly ill at ease with anything more than the bare niceties. Inexplicably, he had found himself growing agitated, glowering at the vicar, who had done nothing other than wish them well in their marriage and encourage them to attend Sunday’s service. Jane’s discomfort made him want to tear something—or someone—apart. An unreasoning response, but undeniable.
Shaking his head, he reminded himself that she must learn to handle visits such as Dunston’s sooner or later. Perhaps, as her husband, he could ease her path by handling all the arrangements in advance, ensuring she need only make occasional appearances for meals and such. Yes, he decided. That was the proper course. He would plan everything for her, remain by her side whenever necessary, and reduce her obligations to those of an honored guest. An excellent solution.
Satisfied, he quickly penned a response to Dunston then dealt with the remaining correspondence. By the time he had finished, his desk was cleared of all papers except the household accounts and the bill for spices. His earlier frown returned.
Upon closer examination, he realized the quantity of spices had not, in fact, increased tenfold. Instead, his cook was now spending truly exorbitant sums on chocolate.
“Beardsley!”
The butler answered his bark almost instantly. “Yes, your grace?”
“Fetch Mrs. Draper.”
When the housekeeper arrived, Harrison held up the spice merchant’s bill and demanded to know what had prompted the outrageous increase.
“I—I am given to understand Monsieur Renaud wished to ensure he did not run out, your grace. Her grace—the duchess, that is—she is mighty fond of chocolate. Takes it every evening.”
“Every evening?”
“Yes, your grace. Some mornings, too. Though, she prefers coffee then.”
Jaw tightening, Harrison dismissed the housekeeper and looked again at the bill. Such extravagance was preposterous. He must confront Jane about her indulgence. As he strode the corridor between his study and the old library—the room she occupied with an almost religious devotion—a small voice in the back of his mind questioned whether he was exaggerating the importance of the expense as an excuse to seek her out. But immediately, he rejected the notion. She was his wife. He could speak to her whenever he wished. He did not require excuses.
Naturally, he had placed limits on himself when it came to spending too much time with her. The woman was pure temptation. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed to visit her bed only once per week, the frequency he had deemed appropriate for marriage. And as painful as that was, even more excruciating was preventing their passions from inflaming beyond his ability to control. But if he did not restrict himself, he would give in to his baser instincts and never let her leave the bedchamber. What sort of man would treat a proper wife so? No, he must continue to show her the respect she deserved by controlling his primal nature and keeping an appropriate distance.
As expected, he found her curled up in one of the chairs between the fireplace and the window, her brown slippers lying on the floor, her russet silk skirt tucked around her knees, and a large book cradled in her lap.
When he closed the door, she looked up. And then she smiled. Dark eyes sparkling, dimples emerging, her face went from plain to riveting in a flash. “Oh, your grace, you have no idea of the treasures you possess.”
On the contrary, he could think of at least one.
“This Bible is sublime.” Indeed, her voice held a hushed reverence, her fingers lightly stroking the pages. “It is sacred art from a hand that obviously adored its subject.”
The feelings that seized him in that moment were anything but godly. Profane, perhaps. Sinful, certainly. He fought it, as he always did. And, as usual, the battle left him little patience or softness when he next spoke. “I received the bill from the spice merchant. Because of your chocolate habit, it has increased tenfold.”
Her smile disappeared, replaced by a confused wrinkle between her dark brows. “My chocolate habit?”
“Yes. You have been partaking every evening, and it must stop.”
Carefully, she closed the Bible, stood up and carried it back to the bookcase, sliding it reverently back into its home. Turning to face him, she braced her small, white hands on the back of the chair and asked, “Are you short of funds, your grace?”
His head recoiled, his temper flaring. “That is not the point.”
She came around the chair, moving closer, her color rising, her hands now planted on her hips. “If you like, you may feel free to use my dowry to cover the cost of my habit, as you say.”
“It may not be sufficient, if this profligacy continues.”
“Profligacy?” She pressed her lips together then nudged her spectacles higher on her small, round nose. “Tell me truly: Do you not think it unusual for a duke to concern himself with such minutiae as a minor increase in chocolate consumption?”
“I would not call a tenfold increase ‘minor.’ And do not change the subject. We were not speaking about me.”
“Well, perhaps we should be. Might I suggest you take up archery or hunting? I understand some dukes enjoy these very appropriate pastimes.”
He moved closer. “You are implying I do not have sufficient activities to occupy my time, I take it.”
“Either that or you cannot afford to employ a steward, which may be even more alarming than your outrage over chocolate.”
His ire rising with each passing second, he attempted to regain control of the conversation. “Enough,” he snapped. “You will cease drinking the stuff every night. From now on, you may have it once per week. That is all.”
Her flush grew and her eyes flashed, signaling her fury. “Given the quantity of starch required to keep your cravats sharpened, you are in no position to issue such commands.” Stomping the final two steps between them, she poked a stiffened finger into the offending garment, glancing off his chest beneath. “For the same cost, I could bathe in chocolate every night and still have enough left for a plate of biscuits.”
He tried—oh, how he tried—not to envision her naked form covered in chocolate. But it was there, playing through his mind like a demon’s trick, tempting him beyond his endurance. The part of himself he had too long denied howled and struggled for dominance. And the part of him that had begun to harden the moment he’d entered the old library and seen the smile that twisted him inside out—that part turned to pure stone, ready to take what was his.
Perhaps if she had stopped there, he could have resisted, pulled the primitive animal he feared back into its cage. But she was not finished.
“You may prefer to indulge yourself on a weekly schedule, your grace,” she snapped, obviously referring to his once-weekly visits to her bed. “But I believe the pleasures of life were not meant to be meted out in so miserly a fashion.”
Her statement broke him. He had tried so bloody hard to control himself—until he thought he might die from the strain of it. And did she appreciate all he had done to protect her? No. Instead, she accused him of denying her pleasure. She had poked his pride, his authority, his manhood—even his cravat—one time too many.
The light grew sharper, her face clearer. His skin tightened as red edged his vision. The tide of lust and obsession and dark need pushed against the wall of his will, stretched muscle and bone, causing a heavy, burning ache throughout his whole body.
It would take so little to snap the tether, to let the tide and the animal run free.
So. Very. Little.
And then, just like that, it happened. Watching the subtle lift of her saucy, sarcastic mouth curving into a satisfied smirk, everything he feared suddenly unleashed.
Without thought, his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, gripping hard and pulling her mouth up to meet his, letting the pressure force her lips open, invading with his tongue. The other arm crushed her against him, his body roaring its approval at the cushion of her sweet, full breasts, the endless softness of her waist and hips.
If she had resisted, he would have stopped at a kiss. But she did not. Instead, after a brief moment of surprise, she met his fire with her own. Now, she was there with him, his body exulted. Her mouth suckling his tongue. Her hands threading through his hair, yanking him down tighter. Her dusky moan a wanton invitation, echoing through his lips.
He lifted her off the ground, stumbled toward the desk, set her on its surface. His mouth eating at hers, he pulled her thighs apart, wedged his hips between them, ground his aching cock against the warm notch at their juncture. But it wasn’t satisfying. He needed to be inside. She was his. His.
Grabbing fistfuls of russet silk, he yanked her skirt higher, his hands fighting the fabric for access to what was his. He broke the kiss, heard her whimper in need, sucked air into his chest, pulled her sweet apple smell into himself. His vision spun. His mouth dropped to her throat. He needed more. More of her skin and her scent and her hands clutching his neck as they did now, as though she would never let go.
His lips slid down over her collarbone. His tongue found a trail to her breasts. His hands won the battle with her skirts, fingers finding her damp curls, gliding through slick folds, sinking deep and true into her tight, wet sheath. His sheath. His.
Using his other hand to yank at the edge of her bodice, tugging her sleeves off her shoulders, forcing one plump breast to overflow so his lips could capture the ripe, red nipple, he then suckled hard, raked her with his teeth. Moaning and gasping, she squeezed his hips with her thighs, squeezed his fingers with her wet sheath, writhed and pushed her breast deeper into his mouth.
He tore at the fall of his trousers. Freed his engorged cock. Bent his knees. Removed his fingers. Released her nipple with a wet pop and a lingering lick against the very tip.
Looked into his wife’s molten eyes.
Then, deliberately, he notched the head of his cock against her. Paused to listen to her gasp for breath, whimper with longing. And he thrust with all his strength. Her mouth worked open as her eyes squeezed shut, a scream of boundless pleasure emerging like a siren’s song. Now, he was drowning in fire, her sheath clenching and clinging to him. He retreated then thrust again, the desk banging against walnut paneling. Again, harder. Her fingers clawed into his nape, sharp and stinging and perfect. Again, deeper. He growled her name, the sound a guttural claim. Again, faster.
Jane. His Jane.
Again. And again. Deeper. Faster. Harder. More.
He wanted to burn himself into her, saturate her body with his.
Her breasts, bared to him, shook with every thrust. Her throaty moans echoed across his skin like a symphony, gathering into a crescendo. She seized upon him, clenched hard, rippling all around him. Her beauty in that moment of climax—milky skin pleasure-flushed, mouth swollen and open on a gasp, bottomless brown eyes closed in ecstasy as she uttered a final thready cry—it drove him mad, his arms wrapping her tight against him while he buried his face in her throat, buried his cock to the furthest depths of her body’s hot, welcoming embrace.
He felt the peak coming, felt it like a geyser at the base of his spine. Knew it would change him forever. When it came, the intensity was a lightning storm, thundering and crackling along every muscle and nerve, forcing his hips to hammer at her, working his cock hard inside her. The frenzied movement could not be controlled. It would not be stopped. Together, they were a force of nature. Shouting his triumph and growling his satiation as he shot his seed deep within her core, he knew beyond all doubt. It was true. She was his.
His by right. His by God.
As she gently stroked his hair and his neck with her hands, laid her lips softly against his temple, his only thought was that she was his.
And he would never let her go.
*~*~*
Jane was not entirely sure what had just happened. Still trembling in the aftermath of furious ecstasy, she could only cling to him, feeling similar tremors ripple beneath his skin. He remained a full presence inside her, his hips wedged tightly between her thighs, his arms cinched around her back, squeezing her almost painfully to his chest, his hot breath dampening the skin between her neck and shoulder. It was as though she had tried to leave, and he held her prisoner.
Except that she did not want to escape. For the first time since their marriage, she wanted to stay. Just like this. Her body slick and pulsating in remembered pleasure. With him standing raw and bare and stripped of his title, his manners, and his bloody starch.
His every muscle shook, his chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. She understood, for she felt the same. It had come on like a raging tempest, so sudden she had barely managed to hold onto him. One second, she’d been incensed at his ridiculous accusations over chocolate, and the next, his eyes had flared with fearsome heat, his mouth and body virtually consuming her.
After his third visit to her bed—was it only last night?—she had resigned herself to not-unpleasant, but ultimately rote and unfulfilling marital relations. Each time he’d touched and kissed and stroked her body, her hopes had risen, only to be dashed by the end of his husbandly duty. She hadn’t wanted to complain. After all, he was the very picture of courtesy—cool, controlled, blasted frustrating courtesy.
But that was before today, before she’d known what she was missing. Before he’d revealed what he’d been hiding from her—ferocious passion buried beneath layers of ice. Even now, she could feel him withdrawing, his arms loosening around her, his body pulling free of hers. As he retreated, he gently shifted her bodice up, lowered her skirts to cover where they had been joined, then discreetly tucked himself away and buttoned the fall of his trousers. His head, while no longer buried in her neck, remained bowed. He would not meet her eyes.
“Jane,” he rasped, his voice almost completely gone, his hands resting lightly on her silk-satin-covered knees. “I … I am sorry. Did I … are you …?” His finger came up to stroke the skin at the side of her throat where the bristles of his jaw had chafed her a bit.
She had never seen him so uncertain, so vulnerable. “I feel positively splendid,” she replied softly.
Troubled, searching eyes flew to hers. Remorse and surprise mingled there. His throat worked on a swallow. “I lost control. To treat you, my wife, in such a way is an unforgivable lapse. It shall not happen again.”
She began to protest that it should—and would—happen again, if she had anything to say about it, but he did not give her the chance. He braced his hands on her waist, lifted her down from the desk like she weighed no more than a pillow. She squeaked in surprise at the move, her skirts falling back into place. Before she could utter a word, he straightened his spine, steeled his shoulders, turned on his heel, and left her swaying on jellied legs in the old library, certain now of only one thing: The eighth Duke of Blackmore was a fraud.
*~*~*