Diana shivered at the promise in his seductive gaze. He’d made her a bit nervous a moment before. After everything she’d been raised to believe about sex, it was easy to succumb to apprehension. But all he’d taught her so far had been so wonderful, each experience better than the one before. She had to believe this wouldn’t be any different.

And if it was, well, she’d come too far to turn back now.

Simon kissed her again and any potential discomfort or disappointment fled her mind. She didn’t think she’d ever grow tired of kissing him. Each one was different. Soft and sweet. Hard and demanding. Lush and provocative. This one was a combination of everything, his tongue delving deep into her mouth as his lips played over hers.

His fingers stroked her sex, reawakening the pulsing desire she’d vanquished just a short time ago. She loved the feel of him on top of her, their flesh pressed together, as intimate as two people could be.

His cock nudged between her thighs.

Perhaps not quite as intimate as two people could be.

He pulled his mouth from hers. “You can touch me, if you like.”

Yes, she liked. She ran her hands over his shoulders and back, loving the feel of his smooth skin, then moved lower, caressing the curve of his backside. It seemed an outrageous thing to do, forbidden almost, but it was tame, really, when she thought of the other things she’d already done.

“I meant my cock.” His hips pressed against hers, settling his erection firmly along her sex. The sensation of him there sparked a desperate need, not just the release of an orgasm, but the sensation of being filled. As he’d done with his fingers.

She slid her hand around his hip and reached between them until she found his shaft. Closing her hand around the base, she looked up into his eyes. His face was taut, his eyes dark as sin. “Like this?” she asked.

“Just like that.” His voice was hard and raspy, arousing all on its own, which seemed ridiculous.

She stroked him once, slowly, then again and again. He moaned before kissing her once more. Then his hand was around hers, guiding his cock to her opening.

“Open your thighs a bit more,” he whispered against her lips.

She did as he bade and felt him slide slowly into her. He hesitated, raising his mouth from hers. “Please tell me if anything hurts or if you want me to stop.”

She couldn’t imagine either of those things happening. It felt as though she were being stretched, but not unpleasantly so. Then his thumb pressed against her clitoris, and ecstasy began to build.

He slid farther inside and that sensation of being filled, of wanting more took over. Instinctively she raised her hips then lifted her legs and wrapped them around his thighs.

“God, Diana. How do you…” He didn’t finish his question as he sank himself deep inside. It wasn’t painful, but yes, there was a bit of discomfort—the feeling of being stretched intensified as her body worked to become accustomed to him.

“Are you all right?” His voice was strained, as if he were in pain.

“Yes, are you?”

A short, sharp laugh escaped his mouth. “Yes. I’m going to move now, Diana. I need to. I’m going to try to go slow, but God, you feel so good. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help myself.”

“From doing what?”

“Fucking you senseless.” He kissed her again. “My apologies, that was rather crude. But when a man is buried inside his wife and she’s as stunning and seductive as you, there is nothing he wants to do more than lose himself in sexual bliss.”

“Then by all means, do so.” She squeezed his backside and ran her tongue along his lower lip. “Come for me, Simon. Come for me.”

He cupped her neck and kissed her, his tongue spearing into her mouth as his cock did the same to her sex. He began to move his hips, thrusting in and out. The discomfort began to fade, and once more, the pleasure began to grow.

He broke the kiss. “Move your legs higher. To my waist.”

She did and was rewarded with him driving even deeper into her. The discomfort returned for a few strokes, but again she grew used to the sensation, and again the pleasure returned.

“Diana. My God.” His groans filled the room, and his movements sharpened, his cock filling her with delicious precision.

She rose to meet him, wanting the pressure of him against her and inside her. It was the most astonishing feeling as she reached for another climax to carry her away.

He stiffened, then cried out. Had he come? No, he continued to thrust. She was so close herself… But then he began to slow. His breath was hard and ragged. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips.

“Are you done?” she asked.

He took a moment to answer. “Hell, you didn’t have another orgasm, did you?”

She shook her head as disappointment settled into her. The need pulsing in her sex had diminished slightly, but it was still there, reminding her of how close she’d been. “I thought I was going to, but I didn’t.”

“I’ll get to know your body better, and this won’t happen.” He slipped from her body and put his hand on her, doing what he’d done to her at Beaumont Tower—briskly massaging her clitoris and then putting his fingers in her.

She felt another bit of discomfort, but then he focused on her clitoris again, and the pleasure came rolling back. Ecstasy built as she rose up off the bed to meet his hand. He moved faster, driving her to the brink. Then she let go completely.

White light flashed behind her eyelids as she cried and whimpered her release. He stayed with her, guiding her back, then kissed her softly. “Better?” he murmured.

“So much. Thank you.”

When she was still, he pulled the coverlet up and gathered her into his arms. “Sleep now, wife. And if you’re not too sore and can still stand the sight of me in the morning, we can do this again.”

“I’d like that.” They were quiet for several minutes, their breathing returning to normal, and she wondered if he was drifting to sleep.

She yawned, as sleep tried to overtake her. But she wasn’t quite ready to succumb. She wanted to bask in this moment he’d given her. She’d never felt so cared for, so treasured, so wanted.

She kissed him softly on the mouth. “Good night, husband.”

She looked at the iron band on her finger. It felt only slightly less foreign than it had earlier. Wonder spread through her as she listened to his deep, even breathing. She’d resigned herself to getting married. But she hadn’t expected it to be to this man. Nor had she expected to want it. To want him.

Yet there was still so much she didn’t know about him—his family, his past, and, of course, his wife. His first wife. She knew there was much more to the tragedy and hoped that he would come to trust her enough to share it.

Will you trust him enough to reveal your secrets?

She shivered at the unspoken question from the recesses of her mind and snuggled against him. His arms tightened around her, and she welcomed the feeling of security she was now coming to know.

Yes, maybe she could trust him with all she’d worked to hide. And maybe—just maybe—she’d even be able to trust him with her heart.

---

The journey south to Lyndhurst was the happiest fortnight Simon could remember. They’d stopped in Oxford for Christmas, where they’d spent several days shopping for new clothing for Diana, buying gifts for his staff, and, of course, exploring each other in bed. Her courses had come two days after the wedding, so when they’d reached Oxford, they’d been more than eager to resume their marital entertainments.

But now that Lyndhurst was on the horizon, Simon’s stomach began to churn. In truth, his apprehension had started the night before. He’d known it was the last time he’d have Diana to himself and that the next day, he had to escort her into a home he despised.

The coach turned into the drive lined with oak trees, their bare limbs arching overhead. It was almost like driving through a skeleton. If one had a morbid mind. And apparently, Simon did just now.

He took a deep breath as they approached the turn that led to the front of the house. Diana touched his arm, and he turned his head to see her eyes glowing with warm enthusiasm.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your home.”

They’d talked about it over the past few days, but not in depth. Every time the subject arose, he fought to maintain his equilibrium and invariably found a way to change the topic. But now they were here, and he couldn’t avoid the past. It was about to hit him in the face.

He turned toward her. “Diana, this may be difficult for me—”

She pressed her lips to his and whispered, “Shhh. You don’t have to say anything. Not now. Just know that I’m here with you.” She kissed him again, and he was eternally grateful for her presence.

The coach stopped, and the door opened quickly—too quickly for Simon’s taste. Tinley put down the step, and Simon clambered down. The familiar façade greeted him, with its stately Jacobean exterior. Beneath the portico, he could see his butler, Lowell, standing in front of the open door.

A sharp wind threatened Simon’s hat as he turned to help Diana from the coach. The breeze whipped the ribbons beneath her chin, and she brushed them away from her face.

She looked up in appreciation. “Lyndhurst is beautiful. And large.”

The original structure had been built in the early seventeenth century. Simon’s grandfather had enlarged it and undertaken considerable repair and restoration.

Simon tucked her hand over his arm and led her into the shade of the portico. Lowell, a tall man in his late twenties—quite young for a butler—with thick brown hair and a serious demeanor, bowed deeply. “Welcome home, Your Grace.” He performed a second bow to Diana. “We are pleased to welcome you, Your Grace.” Simon had sent word ahead that he’d married. He wondered what his staff thought but decided it didn’t really matter. What was done was done. And he had no regrets. At least about that.

“Thank you, Lowell.” Diana smiled warmly. In Oxford, when they’d shopped for gifts for the staff, Diana had taken care to ask after everyone—and not just those in the highest positions. She’d wanted to know how many maids worked in the scullery. Simon hadn’t the faintest idea.

As they moved toward the threshold, Simon’s steward, Nevis, greeted them. An affable man with a keen intelligence, he’d served as steward longer than Simon had drawn breath and had been a close and trusted friend of his father’s. “Welcome home, Your Grace. The staff is assembled.”

“Thank you, Nevis. Diana, this is my steward. Nevis, Her Grace, the Duchess of Romsey.” He’d introduced her several times since Gretna, but the title still felt strange on his tongue. He’d known two Duchesses of Romsey—his mother and Miriam. It was a bit of an adjustment to realize there was a third and that it was Diana. He almost wished he could go back to calling her Kitty Byrd.

That thought served to lighten the weight in his chest. At least for a moment.

Then he stepped into the great hall with its gleaming marble floors and impressive collection of paintings filling the walls, and his breath caught. The staff was lined up before him, but his gaze couldn’t help but stray to the right where the grand staircase led up to the first floor. God, he hated this room.

The door snapped closed behind them, and Lowell moved past them into the hall. He addressed the staff. “May I present Her Grace, the Duchess of Romsey.”

They were arranged from the housekeeper to the footmen to the scullery maids—he counted two. This was just the inside staff, of course. Every single one of them bowed and curtsied toward Diana.

She walked forward, starting at the top of the line, and took the time to meet each retainer, spending a moment speaking with them one by one. Simon oversaw the arrival of the gifts they’d brought, which Tinley handled with the help of one of the grooms.

After Diana had greeted everyone, she gestured to the pile of gifts on a table that had been set up in the corner. “We were sorry to miss Boxing Day, but we brought gifts to make up for it. Please know how much we value your service.”

It was as if she’d been a duchess for years, not days. But then he knew she’d been trained for this and nothing else. Her father would be very proud, the prick.

Diana removed her hat and gloves and handed them to one of the maids, then supervised the distribution of gifts with the housekeeper, Mrs. Marley.

Lowell approached Simon and took his hat and gloves. “Your letter indicated that Her Grace would require a lady’s maid. Two of the maids applied for the position, and I selected Miss Banford. Does that meet with your approval?”

Simon couldn’t say. Most of the staff was new within the last two years, and he hadn’t bothered to learn their names. The staff was new because many of the existing retainers had left following Miriam’s death. Except for a precious few, they’d preferred to take new positions than stay and taint themselves with the scandal. Lowell was one of those few, having been the head footman when the former butler had departed. Nevis had promoted him with Simon’s consent. Consent? Simon had barely known what day it was following Miriam’s death. He’d given Nevis carte blanche to manage things as necessary.

Simon didn’t even know which of the women in the line was Banford. “I’m sure she’s more than satisfactory. The Duchess is not demanding.”

Lowell inclined his head. “I wonder if we might schedule a meeting for tomorrow, sir. I’d like to bring a few things to your attention.”

“Is anything amiss?”

“Not at all, sir. You’ve just been gone for some time, and I thought you might like to be informed of staffing changes and how the household is running.”

Of course he should. Damn, he was a terrible duke. His gaze strayed to Diana as she moved along the line. She, however, was already an excellent duchess. Perhaps she ought to meet with Lowell. “Should the Duchess join us?” Simon asked.

“She could if you wish; however, I suspect she will be meeting with Mrs. Marley. I know it was the housekeeper’s intent to give her a proper introduction to Lyndhurst as soon as Her Grace wanted.”

That made perfect sense. “Thank you, Lowell.”

The butler bowed and went to help with the gifts.

Simon had pivoted so that his back was to the staircase. If he couldn’t see it, perhaps his tension would ease. Yes, and perhaps Society would welcome him with flowers and fanfare when he and Diana went to London. He swallowed a derisive laugh at the likelihood of either of those things happening.

Diana came toward him. The lines were back between her eyes.

“You were meant to be a duchess,” he said, hoping to ease the worry etched in her face.

“My parents certainly educated me for it,” she said wryly. “Your staff seems well organized and superbly trained. I’m to meet with Mrs. Marley tomorrow—unless you have other plans?”

Such as leaving? He’d only just arrived, and he was ready to flee. How many days had he spent here since Miriam’s death? If he tried, he could surely count them with ease.

The lines between her eyes deepened, and her mouth turned down. “Simon, your color’s a bit off.” She touched his cheek. “Are you feeling well?”

No, he felt like hell. “Fine.”

Her gaze moved past him, and he knew she was looking at the staircase. Or perhaps just the floor at the bottom of it. “This can’t be easy for you—bringing me here.”

He turned his head slightly, following her line of sight. “It’s never easy coming back here. That’s why I seldom do it. Your presence neither improves nor worsens the occasion.”

“I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted,” she murmured.

He swung his gaze to hers. “What did I say?”

She touched his arm. “It doesn’t matter. I was trying to bring a bit of humor, but that wasn’t well done of me.”

He appreciated her concern so much. He still didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her. “I will also choose humor over depression. However, sometimes it’s difficult.” That was more than he’d ever admitted to anyone.

She rubbed his forearm reassuringly. “I know you meant to have me tour the house when we arrived, but I think I’d rather go directly to our apartments to rest. Will that be all right?”

Once again, she’d anticipated what he wanted. “How do you do that?” he asked softly.

“Do what?” The question seemed guileless, but surely, she knew.

“Know what I need, sometimes even before I do?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’ve come to know you. We’ve spent a great deal of time together.”

Yes, they had. And he was grateful for every moment.

Simon signaled for Lowell to come back over and informed the butler of their plans. He asked that they not be disturbed and that dinner should be ready at seven.

Then he turned toward the stairs and faltered. His mouth went dry as he stared at the place where Miriam had fallen. All he could see was the blood on the floor—long gone now—trickling from the wound on her head. He didn’t remember the fall and was glad for it. He could well imagine the horrible sound she would have made, and having the actual memory in his mind would be another torture.

Diana took his arm and gave him a gentle squeeze. Then she started walking.

Simon focused on the stairs in front of him and wiped his mind blank. He moved quickly, probably climbing too quickly for her, but he couldn’t help it. He rounded the corner at the landing and practically ran up the last set of steps.

When they reached the top, he slowed, but she was also tugging on his arm. “I can’t go that fast. I might trip.”

He froze for a moment, an ice-cold terror gripping him as he glanced back toward the stairs. He pulled her forward, away from the top step, and led her to the left around the railing that looked down over the stairs. He stared at her a long moment, torn between wanting to crush her against his chest and running away from her before he caused another tragedy.

She cupped his face. “Breathe with me, Simon. I’m fine. You’re fine. They are stairs. We will need to use them every day. Unless you’d like to undertake some refurbishments and move our bedchamber downstairs. I would be happy to support that.”

She would? Of course she would. She’d been nothing but thoughtful when it came to his despair—from seeing his reaction to the Taft children in Brereton to understanding his fear of his own bloody staircase.

“Which way is our room?” she asked softly.

Simon shook himself from the darkness of his mind and gestured to the right. “In the back corner.” He took her hand, needing the warmth and pressure of her touch.

He led her into the apartments. “This is the sitting room,” he said rather unnecessarily. “I usually take breakfast in here.” He tried not to think of the breakfasts he’d shared with Miriam. He could picture her sitting at the desk in front of the window, writing a letter to her mother.

Blinking rapidly, he went into the bedchamber. It was completely different from the last time he’d seen it. He’d instructed Nevis to oversee its refurbishment. Everything was new—from the paint to the bed to the carpet. Before, it had been blue. Now it was green. In fact, the bed hangings reminded him of Shakespeare’s room at Beaumont Tower. Good, that was a far better memory.

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at the changes, but he didn’t stir until Diana touched his back. “Simon?”

He turned his head. “Mmm?”

“Is this all right? My being here?”

“Where else should you be?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I could take another bedroom.”

He shook his head. “No. Unless that’s what you want.”

“I’ve been sharing a bed with you for weeks now. Those few days we slept apart from Beaumont Tower to Gretna were rather vexing.” She gave him a captivating look, her eyes sparkling and her lips just barely curving up at the corners.

He relaxed slightly, appreciating her efforts to keep the darkness at bay. “This room will be fine. I asked Nevis—my steward—to oversee refurbishments to several rooms since…since Miriam died.” It was, he realized, the first time he’d uttered her name to Diana.

“I see. I like the green. It reminds me of your chamber at my cousin’s.”

He smiled. “I thought the same thing. And Lord knows I have pleasant memories of that room.”

She blushed. “What else has been refurbished?”

“The stairs were first. The railings have been changed. They were gilt before. And all the artwork there and in the entry hall have been moved around—so that it looks different.”

“A wise decision.” She stepped toward him, her features tentative. “Simon, have you considered not living here?”

Every damn day. “One might argue that I don’t. As you know, I’ve spent much of the last two years traveling. Or I’m in London for Parliament. I stayed here one night after I left the house party in October, and before that, I was here for just four or five nights in the summer.”

She touched his hand, slipping her fingers between his. “We don’t have to stay.”

“We do—at least for a few days, maybe a week. A duke should probably see to his estate.”

She moved closer so that their chests almost touched. “I don’t want you to suffer.”

He marveled at her empathy. “How can you be so kind? You know what happened here, what I did.”

“Not entirely,” she said. “I know your former wife fell and that you are blamed and that you don’t remember what happened. It sounds like a terrible tragedy. Sometimes, no one is at fault.”

Logically, he knew that was true, but that wasn’t the case here. He’d apparently been arguing with Miriam, not that he could fathom why. They’d never fought. While it was true no one could definitively say he’d caused her death, it certainly seemed as though he had. He ought to tell Diana all this, but the words froze on his tongue. She was so understanding, so generous with her faith—he wanted to bask in her light.

He realized this was what love felt like. He knew from loving Miriam. He’d wanted to spend every moment with her, to better himself by being in her orbit. But how could he love someone other than Miriam? He’d sworn he wouldn’t. He could like and respect and admire Diana. He couldn’t love her.

His chest ached with the unfairness of it.

Suddenly, he was tired of thinking, of hurting. He wanted to feel something good. And he wanted to forget. He clasped his hands around Diana’s waist and pulled her flush to his chest. He lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her lips.

Again, she seemed to understand exactly what he needed. She pushed his coat from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, then tugged his cravat loose and slid the silk from his neck. When his shirt fell open, she slipped her hands inside the fabric and caressed his collarbones, curling her fingers around his nape.

Her tongue flashed into his mouth, seeking and claiming what he would freely offer. She’d been nothing short of adventurous and enticing in their marriage bed. He’d hoped to find a match like this once, but twice?

No, this wasn’t the same as Miriam. It couldn’t be.

And it wasn’t. There was something fiercer about Diana—she was courage and fire and beauty all wrapped into a petite and astonishing package. She was, as he’d told her on several occasions, incomparable.

The familiar guilt tugged at him, more strongly than in recent days, probably because of returning to Lyndhurst. But maybe with Diana—with this glorious physical connection between them—he could begin to banish the ghosts of his past.

She trailed her lips from his, moving along his jaw, then down his neck. Her fingers made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat, unfastening them with deft alacrity. Then the garment slid from his shoulders to join the growing pile of his clothing on the floor.

“Duchess, are you seducing me?” he murmured.

She pulled the hem of his shirt from his waistband and skimmed her hand up under the fabric, stroking the hard plane of his abdomen. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Never.” He curled his hand around her nape and dragged her mouth back to his. Unbidden, he whispered, “Make me forget.” The plea was dark and ragged, like the edges of a heart that had been split in two.

But just maybe it could be repaired.