Chapter Five
Once Lady Esmeralda caught wind of the coming nuptials, she became obsessed with planning a proper English wedding, and everything was taken out of Duncan’s hands. This was perfectly acceptable to him, on account of the fact that he hadn’t a clue how to proceed.
In Scotland, he’d have just gone ’round the corner to the blacksmith or to the kirk in the next parish.
Things were different in London.
Much different.
For one thing, there was the delay. And not a delay he would ever have imagined. It wasn’t simply the fact that far too many women—Catherine and the St. Claires, and, apparently, all the friends Catherine had ever met in her entire life—were now involved in planning a wedding that was far too grand. It wasn’t just the arrangements and the invitations and the flowers and the church . . . It wasn’t even Lady Esmeralda’s most sincere determination to make him into a respectable gentleman before the blessed day.
In truth, the absolute worst of it was the annoying requirement of the reading of the banns, which was frustrating indeed—because once Duncan had Catherine’s agreement, the last thing he wanted was to give her a chance to change her mind.
Three weeks was far too long to be on tenterhooks.
Special license and elopement were “out of the question” according to Lady Esmeralda, and since she thwapped him with her fan when she said it, he had to believe her. He didn’t want Catherine’s reputation with the ton to suffer as a result of their precipitous union. It was bad enough that she was lowering herself to wed a Scot . . . and one without a title to boot.
So he prepared himself to wait.
Which led to another vexing annoyance.
Lady Esmeralda claimed it was scandalous for Catherine to stay at Ross House as long as Duncan was there. She insisted it was only logical for the girl to move in with the St. Claires. This, of course, left Duncan alone with Peter at Ross House, which made him the pup’s de facto guardian. Even though it seemed the lad had learned his lesson, given his chagrin during Duncan’s many lectures and the threat of the poorhouse, it was still a distraction Duncan did not need or appreciate.
He suspected all this was simply part of Lady Esmeralda’s conspiracy to drive him mad.
If he wanted to see Catherine, it had to be during morning at calls, at which all the St. Claire girls and a number of their tittering friends held court in the duke’s elegant drawing room, accepting cards and flowers and adulation from various suitors.
He was not allowed to sit next to Catherine, hold her hand, or speak to her directly. The other suitors could, though, which resulted in some severely gnashed teeth and one slightly traumatized swain. Although, in truth, it was hardly Duncan’s fault the man soiled himself when he caught a glimpse of Duncan’s expression when the bastard wandered too close to Catherine.
But perhaps the worst part of the Morning Call Torture was that Duncan had to wear a “proper suit.” Apparently, Lady Esmeralda “could not have the gels swooning at the bawdy sight of his bare legs.” A proper suit included a punishment device known as “the cravat,” which Duncan was certain had been invented by a vengeful wife.
The other times he was allowed to see his bride were the evenings, which were their own special brand of hell. It might be a musicale designed to destroy a man’s appreciation of Mozart or permanently scar his auditory canal. Or a crowded ball in some pompous lord’s too-small ballroom, featuring the stench of overexerted and bilious puddings as they pranced ’round the room and the hot spatter of wax dripping from the candelabras into watered-down lemonade.
Indeed, in that long month, he quickly began to regret the folly of asking Lady Esmeralda to help him be more civilized. This was certainly not the life he wanted to live. Some beasts could never be tamed. Nor should they be.
He could only hope Catherine felt the same—she certainly seemed miserable enough the few times he was able to get close enough to notice. He most certainly had not had the opportunity to ask her.
Indeed, the women had closed ranks around her. If Esmeralda had been a general, the war with France would have ended in half the time.
It wasn’t until two weeks into the engagement that someone made an error. Or decided to show him some mercy.
That night, there was no fancy ball and no soiree. It was simply an evening of cards at Sinclair House on Grosvenor Square, an orgy of architecture with seven bays and Corinthian columns. Since the duke spent the majority of his time in Scotland, Duncan considered it an enormous waste of money.
But this evening, he was thankful for Lachlan’s largesse, because it meant he could spend the evening with Catherine in a house large enough for two people to get lost, should they so desire.
And he did so desire.
To his unending gratitude, so did she.
In a rare moment when Lady Esmeralda and the St. Claire girls were distracted by a raucous debate of millinery consequence—which, frankly, was mind-numbing to Duncan, who had never considered that hats could be so divisive a topic—he sidled up behind Catherine as she stood by the window and caught her eye in the reflection.
“Would you care to take a stroll?” he whispered.
He loved that her lips quirked and she nodded, nearly imperceptibly. “The conservatory is lovely at night.”
“Excellent.” He offered her his arm and, with hardly a glance at the growing squabble behind them, they slipped from the room. The hall was shadowed, lit only by the occasional sconce. It was the perfect place for a seduction, or at the very least a stolen kiss, but he managed to subdue those urges. This was the first time he’d had a chance to speak to her since their engagement, and it did not behoove him to pounce like a hungry lion—though he rather was. “You will have to lead the way,” he said when her step faltered. He offered a genial smile, though it cost him. “I’ve never been to the conservatory at Sinclair House.” Though he had fond memories of the one at Ross House.
“Of course,” she said sedately, though there was a thread of apprehension in her voice.
And he realized she was as nervous as he was.
Which was nervous indeed.
How did one reassure a woman in a situation like this? How did one recapture the comfort they’d once felt? The comfort he’d ruined in his blundering attempts to keep his distance from a girl who was far too young?
It was probably impossible to heal those wounds, but perhaps they could start over. Begin again.
“The wedding is coming soon,” he said, and she jumped as though his voice, or the words, had startled her.
“Yes. It is.” They turned one corner and then another.
“Are you enjoying the . . . process?”
She gave a little sniff. “It does seem silly, all this fuss over a wedding.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said. Dare he suggest an elopement?
“I mean, it’s not as though we are in love with each other.”
His heart stopped for a moment and pain banded his head.
She pierced him with a somber stare. “Are we?”
He couldn’t tell her the real reason he wanted to marry her. She would laugh at him for sure. He decided to prevaricate. “I would hope love would come to us in time. Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose.” It destroyed him, that tentative tone.
He cleared his throat. “We seem to kiss well.”
She stared at him again, this time with more interest. Definitely more curiosity. “Do people not . . . kiss well?”
He had no clue, but he had no plan to tell her that. “I’m told kissing well together is a great harbinger for a happy marriage. I do enjoy kissing you and I believe you enjoy kissing me, Catherine.”
The rising flush on her cheeks answered for her.
“I have also heard that diligent practice is necessary.”
“Naturally.” The word caught in her throat. “I . . . ah . . . Here is the conservatory.” She opened the double doors onto a glass-framed room filled with a garden of exquisite plants and blooms.
Duncan stepped inside and breathed deeply. The damp scent of loam tinged with perfume filled his senses, stirring within him something primitive and instinctual. “Lovely,” he said, and surreptitiously closed the door behind him.
“Isn’t it?” she said, caressing an orchid. Her touch was so soft, so gentle, so alluring. His knees locked, but he forced himself to follow her as she wandered down the path. “I love how you feel as though you are out of doors. You can even see the moon.”
He followed her lead and tipped his head back to stare appreciatively at the glowing orb in the sky. But truly, all he was thinking was how he could encourage her to kiss him again. And whether or not it would be proper.
All right, to hell with proper. Whether or not it would be wise.
Feeling the way he did at the moment, the way he’d wanted her for years, he doubted he had the wherewithal to stop at a kiss.
Most importantly, the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her with his passion. She was a sweet young thing. An innocent. Certainly not the kind of woman who would—
“Do you really think we kiss well?”
He ripped his gaze from the seductive face of the moon to hers. She stared up at him with her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide and her brow furrowed with a delightful curiosity. A shudder rippled down his spine. “Aye, my wee Cat. I do.”
Her nostrils flared as he stepped closer, but at great cost he was able to control himself. He lifted a finger and traced the curve of her cheek.
“There’s not another lass in Christendom I would rather kiss.” His whisper curled on the humid air. He moved closer, and this time she did not pull back.
“Really?” Was that a hint of excitement in her tone?
“I swear.” He cupped her cheek and leaned forward, close enough to smell her breath. “May I kiss you now?”
She blinked. “Does a man ask?”
“Lady Esmeralda would have my guts for garters if I did no’.”
“How do I respond? If I say no, I am a tease. If I say yes, I am—”
“A bride?”
He caught her there and she laughed. “All right then. One kiss.”
Ah, how he loved that smile on her lips as he bent forward to touch them with his.
Ah, how he loved the way she responded. Warm and curious and sweet.
It didn’t take long for him to slip deeper into the embrace, and to his delight she was with him all the way. When he slid his tongue into her mouth, she stilled, but only for a moment, and then—ye Gods—she reciprocated.
A bolt of arousal shot through his body. If he hadn’t been hard as a rock already, that would have done it. Unable to resist, he pulled her closer and pressed his cock against her belly. She groaned and arched into him.
He eased his palm up her back and then slowly, oh so slowly, cupped her breast. All the while, he soothed her with his mouth, kissing her cheek and nibbling on her neck. When he swept out a determined thumb, he found her nipple, hard and ready.
Her groan was a ragged one. She slumped against him.
He caught her close and stared into her face. How lovely, those dewy eyes, that well-kissed mouth, that sweet gasp of breath as he stroked her again.
“Duncan,” she moaned. “What are you doing to me?”
He grinned. “Merely a kiss, my darling Cat,” he said. “Merely a kiss.”
* * *
Merely a kiss?
She didn’t think she could survive much more.
This was torment, but a delicious agony.
Her body throbbed, ached, wept. A hunger rose in her belly, one she’d never felt before and didn’t completely understand.
She had to trust that he did.
“Duncan,” she said as he attempted to pull away. She wrapped her fingers in his hair and tugged him closer.
“Aye, Cat?”
“Do that again.”
Something akin to horror flashed across his face. “Again?”
“Yes.” She cupped his hand and curled it around her breast. Whatever he had done, she wanted more of it.
“We should probably get back.” There was a brittle tension in his tone.
“Why?”
“They will be looking for us.”
“What do we care?”
“It wouldn’t be proper to be caught here alone.” Was that a hint of panic in his eyes?
“What will they do?” she said. “Force us to marry?”
He had no response for that. In fact, his lips flapped a bit, but Catherine knew when she had the upper hand. “Come now, Duncan. You did say kissing required diligent practice.”
“I did. However . . .”
“However, what?” Honestly. His sudden reluctance was beginning to vex her. Had she done something wrong in the kissing of him? Had she been too bold? Had she made him not want her anymore? Had she ruined everything?
“Cat, you don’t understand . . .”
“Then explain it to me.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, wincing when that was far too sensitive, and glared at him. Her body still hummed, ached, cried out for more of his touch.
“When a man kisses a woman . . .”
“Yes?”
“Certain, ahem, things arise.”
“Such as?”
Lord. Was that a flush on his cheeks? “I . . . um . . .” He glanced downward. “His, um, passion.”
She gaped at him. “You mean his cock?”
He lurched back and stared at her.
“Did you think I was not aware of such things?” Good glory. She’d been raised on a Scottish farm.
“You’re an innocent.” His face crumpled up. “You are an innocent, are you no’?”
She socked him on the shoulder. “Of course I am. But I know how things work. What I don’t understand is why you want to stop kissing.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Did I . . . do it wrong?”
He was silent for a moment, though his lips worked. “W-w-wrong?” he eventually sputtered.
She turned away, unable to take the humiliation. It was hardly her fault she didn’t know how to kiss—
A heavy hand fell on her shoulder and turned her back ’round. Her gaze met Duncan’s and she flinched at the ferocity in it.
“You did nothing wrong,” he growled and something in his dark expression caused excitement to whip through her like a summer storm.
“Nothing?”
“Nae, my wee Cat. Nothing.” He kissed her then, hard and fast.
“Then why did you want to stop?”
His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Why did I want to stop? Because I was afraid I wouldna be able to control myself, Cat. You make me wild with lust. You make me feel like a crazed beast. And I dinna want to frighten you.”
She barely held back a laugh—one of relief and amusement. “Frighten me?” The only time he frightened her was when she thought he might not want her.
“And for God’s sake, I dinna want to take you for the first time on the floor of the conservatory.”
The prospect was not altogether unpleasant. They could see the moon, after all.
“There is a divan,” she said, waving to the far side of the room. She smiled at him and stepped closer, gratified that he did not back away. She wrapped her arms around his neck and went up on her tiptoes and kissed his chin. “Just one more kiss?” she asked in a petulant tone.
“We both know it will be more than one kiss,” he growled.
And she responded with a broad grin. It turned into a laugh when he whipped her up into his arms and stormed toward the divan.
“You are a naughty girl to tease me like this,” he muttered. “You know I canna resist.”
Excellent. Most excellent indeed. She felt the same, wild and lost and wanting. She couldn’t wait to discover what was next.
He settled her on the divan, but to her surprise, didn’t sit next to her. Rather he knelt before her.
“Do you remember when you asked me to go down on one knee?” he asked.
Somewhat perplexed, she nodded.
“Well, I am going down on one knee now.” His gaze was intent, harsh, captivating. A muscle worked in his cheek. “Are you ready for your kiss?”
“Yes, Duncan.”
“First, this.” He took her wrists and guided her hands to her breasts.
She sent him a curious glance.
“While I am kissing you, you must touch yourself. Here.”
He guided her thumb over her nipple and a shocking delight whipped through her and she gasped.
“Aye. Like that, my wee Cat.”
“I can’t.” Mortification and embarrassment and . . . something else fed the hot tide rising on her cheeks.
“Aye. You can.” He winked. “You canna expect me to do this all on my own.”
Do what? Good lord. What was he planning to—?
She gasped as he scudded his palms down her skirts and circled her ankles. “Duncan?”
“Hush darling. Just relax.”
“What are you—?”
“Hush.” His hands made their way up her legs, drawing her skirts with them. His skin was warm on hers, causing the most delicious swirls of pleasure as his caress rose. She tried to be still. Tried to remember to touch herself as he had instructed, but as her delirium grew, she lost all cognitive thought and moved directly into instinct.
Her body, her fingers, her breasts, seemed to know what they wanted.
She stared down at him through half-closed eyes, her breath coming in pants as he bent to kiss one thigh and then the other. And still, he moved higher.
“Duncan—” Her throat pinched on the word.
“Cat,” he said on a sigh as he lifted her skirts that last little bit exposing her utterly. “Ah, my wee Cat.” He touched her then, gently, drawing a line of bliss along her slit, filling her with an unimaginable pleasure. Surely nothing could be so delicious. Surely this was heaven.
But no. He had more to share. He circled her hard nub, toyed with it, tormented it, making her lurch and twitch and beg.
He glanced up at her, his expression taut and needy. “Are you ready for your kiss?”
She couldn’t help wriggling. She had no idea what he had in mind, but she knew she would love it. Everything he’d done up until now had been utterly delightful. “Yes. Yes. Please.” And then, she released a strangled groan. Because Duncan lowered his head and took her into his mouth.
The world exploded, expanded, shattered.
Catherine spun through a maelstrom of emotions, blinded by bliss and powerless to resist.
And Duncan, wonderful Duncan, continued to lick and lap and nibble her tender flesh, driving her higher and higher again.
At each plateau, she swore it could not get better . . . but it did.
When she thought for certain she would expire, when she was sure she could take no more such pleasure and remain in her mortal coil, he eased back and rested his head on her thigh with a sigh.
Catherine forced herself into a sitting position—as she’d declined into something of a slump during this onslaught—and frowned at him. “Why did you stop?” she asked.
He shot her a smile, though there was a hint of pain in his expression. “I dinna stop, my darling. I think you are ready for the next step.”
She gaped at him, delight washing through her. Oooh. There’s another step. She opened her mouth to command him to get on with it when a sound echoed from the other side of the conservatory.
She peered through the fronds of a palm and stilled as the doors opened and Lady Esmeralda, Elizabeth and Peter stepped through.
“Blast!” She flipped down her skirt and tugged at Duncan’s sleeve. “They’re coming.”
“What?” His response was nearly as panicked as hers. “Who?”
“Get off the floor. Come sit beside me. Not too close.”
He did so, but slowly. She glanced at his crotch and winced. Poor thing.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
He forced a smile. “Not something I’m no’ used to,” he said in a pained tone. But she had no time to ask him what he meant, as Peter rounded the palm and said, “Ah, there you are.”
“Do come back to the drawing room,” Lady Esmeralda barked. It was not an idle suggestion, but an order.
“Of course.” Duncan stood and gave Catherine his arm and they made their way back through the house. Catherine was battered by multiple conflicting emotions, not the least among them, regret. Regret that they had not finished their exploration. And perhaps a hint of frustration.
As they stepped into the drawing room, Duncan leaned closer and whispered, “I hope I’ve given you something to think about for the next week.” Though there was a thread of humor in the words, Catherine didn’t see anything amusing about the situation.
Not in the least.