CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
HANOVER SQUARE, LONDON – MID-JUNE, 1814
T he wedding itself was a simple, sweet ceremony. Grace wore a white silk dress rendered all the more elegant because of its lack of ornamentation. Damon returned to his customary black waistcoat, though he donned a white silk shirt and cravat and added a small white rose to the lapel of his jacket. The black and white combination of bride and groom was most striking, everybody agreed.
Because of the recent events, Grace and Damon decided to journey immediately after the ceremony to Thorne Hill. They’d had enough of being the center of London gossip; it was someone else’s turn to become the latest on dit.
As they entered the carriage, Damon sat next to Grace and drew her close. They waved goodbye to the Mattersley clan and as the horses pulled the carriage through the London streets, he simply held her. His wife.
Wife. The word infused his heart with delight and wonder like never before. This woman, this intelligent, unpredictable, amazing, brave woman, was his wife. And she loved him. Loved him. Damon. The Demon Duke.
He nuzzled her hair, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. She arched back to look up at him, a dazzling smile crossing her face. “I have something for you.”
She leaned forward, breaking contact with him to pull a box from under the seat. Where had that come from?
“I had Hobbes put it in here before the ceremony,” she explained as she handed it to him.
A gift? His new bride had gotten him a gift? And from the weight of the box, a heavy gift, indeed. He lifted up the lid, revealing a set of books stacked neatly within. It was the Gibbon set, the six volumes of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. He ran a finger over the bindings, swallowing back his emotions.
“When? Why?”
“That day at the bookshop on Pall Mall. And because I think I loved you even then, though I hadn’t quite admitted it. And what better way to show love for someone than to give them books?”
“What better way, indeed?” He chuckled, even as his eyes moistened. “I will treasure it always. As I will treasure you. But—” He stopped.
“But what?”
“I haven’t—I didn’t get you anything.”
“Oh, yes, you did,” she answered, bobbing her head emphatically. “You gave me you. You gave me love. You gave me the power and freedom to make my own choices. And that’s all I ever want.”
Taking the gift box, she set it back under the seat before nestling into Damon again, her brown eyes capturing his. “Husband,” she whispered.
“Wife,” he whispered back before seeking her lips in an intense kiss. She wound her arm around his neck, holding him to her as she returned the kiss with enthusiasm, her mouth opening under his. His hand moved to her waist, his fingers kneading her flesh through the thin layers of her dress.
The rhythm of the carriage moved their bodies together, and for long moments the only sounds were the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the occasional moan. Damon’s hand had worked its way up to Grace’s breast, which she eagerly pressed into him. She’d moved her own fingers from his hair to his chest, tracing the muscles through the front of his shirt.
He broke off, panting, resting his forehead against hers. “You don’t know how often I’ve thought of that night at Clarehaven,” he said. “Of how often I’ve wanted to repeat it.”
“Yes, I do.” A saucy smile brought dimples to both of her cheeks. “Because I’ve thought the same.”
He took her mouth again, infusing every ounce of love for this woman, his wife, into this intimate connection. She groaned against his lips, clutching him to her. She, like he, wanted an even more intimate connection.
But not here. Not in the carriage. He would not take his new wife in a coach like a baseborn lad unable to curb his desires. She deserved better. A luxurious bed. A warm fire. A husband in control of his own urges.
He broke off from her again, frustration surging through his veins. “God, Grace,” he breathed. “I want you.”
She gulped in air, her eyes shining pools of desire. “And I you. Husband.” She snaked her arms around him, holding his head to her as she wove her fingers through his hair.
He was lost.
“Wait.” He pulled back. “We should be in a bed. A real bed. I want your wedding, our wedding night, to be perfect.”
“We have plenty of time for perfect,” she said, her voice rough. “Besides, perfection is overrated. I prefer the less predictable. Much more interesting that way.”
He laughed. What had he done to deserve this woman? He’d never thought he’d find someone who would accept him as he was, much less someone who’d love him. And yet here he was, ensconced in a well-insulated carriage with this gorgeous creature. His wife. He traced his finger down her arm.
“And if the driver should, er, notice?”
She dropped her eyes, chewing her lip. After a moment, she started untying his cravat. “Then we shall have to be quiet, I suppose. You know, ducal in behavior. Because dukes and duchesses never behave improperly. Don’t you agree?”
The cravat slid out from behind his neck. He said nothing as she unbuttoned his waistcoat and then started on his shirt. As she exposed the skin beneath, she peppered his abdomen with soft kisses. His legs trembled, anticipation flooding his loins. He’d never made love in a carriage before. The rocking motion of the seats brought numerous scenarios to mind, each more delicious-sounding than the last.
Pulling her head up, he dropped kisses on her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, before once again tasting her mouth, his tongue reaching out to lick her lips. She moaned in response.
“Shh,” he whispered against her mouth. “We’re being quiet, remember?”
Her only response was to push his jacket over his shoulders, taking his waistcoat with it. She tugged on his shirt, and he shifted forward, pulling it over his head with both hands and discarding it without care. As her fingers slid across his bare collarbone, electricity sizzled through his veins. He couldn’t get close enough to her, wanting, needing to have bare skin on bare skin. His arms reached for the bodice of her gown, carefully undoing its buttons. The petticoats underneath were nearly sheer, so much so that the pale rose of her nipples shone through. He throbbed with anticipation and a ragged groan escaped from his throat.
She giggled, a husky giggle that did nothing to calm his roaring senses. “Quiet, Your Grace. I expect better from someone in your lofty social position.”
He snorted even as his fingers loosened her petticoats, eagerly sliding them off her shoulders. He’d wanted to make a witty retort, but all words, all thoughts fled as her perfect breasts came into view, the nipples jutting up as if to taunt him.
“You are so beautiful, Grace.” His hands slid over the precious mounds. “So beautiful.”
He gently flicked one nipple and she squirmed, but leaned into his hand as if to ask for more.
“I am glad you think so.” She covered his hands with her own, looking down at them on her chest. “I always felt I was the least comely one of the family.”
“Never.” He pulled her around and onto his lap so they were sitting face-to-face. Or rather breast to mouth, since she was straddling his thighs and thus positioned a bit higher. Positioned perfectly. He took one of the tips into his mouth and suckled it, thrilling in the soft mewling noises she emitted. He ran his fingers up her bare back, caressing the soft flesh. Her hands came to his hair, grasping him close. She rocked her hips into his, aided by the movement of the carriage, and the friction made him buck up, seeking more.
She must have felt the same, as she pressed against him again and again. He reached for the bottom of her skirts and slid his fingers underneath, trailing them up her calf, then her thigh. He moved his hand around to the front, to the curls he sought and then farther down, farther in, until he’d found that delicious spot. He rubbed it lightly, and she writhed against his hand, her sudden inhalation letting him know he’d hit the right place.
“Damon,” she breathed. His lips released her breast momentarily and he looked up. The sight of her, of Grace, of his wife, her eyes closed and head thrown back, giving herself over to the movement of his fingers, the feel of his tongue against her skin, fired his blood. He took the other breast in his mouth, laving the nipple as his fingers kept up their steady movement below, slow circles that had her clawing at his shoulders.
He wanted to tear his breeches open and thrust himself into her. He wanted to push her onto the other carriage bench and fall between her legs, to taste the very essence of her, to thrust his tongue inside of her. He groaned against her breasts at these erotic fantasies. There would be time for them. Lots of time. The rest of their lives. For now, he wanted to bring her to the edge and watch her fall apart in his arms.
She was close. Her legs tensed and her back arched as she leaned into him, holding his head against her breast. Her breathing came in short pants now, and she ground her hips against his thigh, against his fingers. “Oh God. Damon. Oh … oh … Damon!” She screamed his name as the waves of pleasure overtook her, her hips rocking into his hand, her fingers wild in his hair.
He released her breast as her movements slowed, dashing kisses against her ribs. “So much for keeping quiet,” he teased.
Her cheeks shot through with red, but she wiggled backward on his thighs, reaching for the top of his breeches to loosen them. He hefted his hips up off the seat, taking her with him as she worked his breeches and smalls down over his derriere. She laughed as they bunched at her legs. How utterly delightful that she could find humor in this most intimate of moments.
She half stood and he instantly missed the heat and pressure of her. His brow furrowed until she pushed at her gown and skirts, dropping them to her feet. He instantly shoved his breeches farther down, but they stuck at the tops of his boots. He growled in frustration.
“Again?” Grace looked down, considering.
He reached out and drew her back to him. “Sit down,” he said, as he pulled her thigh over his. She did, leaning back so that she could look down at him. She swallowed as she took his length in her hands, her fingers stroking the velvety skin. He feared he might spill his seed then and there, so hypnotically seductive was it to see his wife touching him in such a way.
“You look so very different from a woman,” she said.
He made a noise, part laugh, part moan. “Good God, I should hope so!”
She stroked him up and down a few more times until he caught at her hand.
“You are quite the temptress, my sweet wife,” he whispered. “And I long for the time when you use only your hands—or your mouth.” His eyebrow cocked up wickedly at the flush that spread over her skin. “And I shall most definitely return the favor. But for now—”
He lifted her hips and pulled her forward until he nestled in her curls. “—I want something else. I want you.” Using his hand, he guided himself into her, slowly, as she enveloped him inch by inch. The intense pleasure nearly undid him.
“I had no idea one could—” Grace murmured. She wriggled her hips so that he was fully within her.
He groaned at the sigh of pleasure that escaped her, clutching at her hips as he bucked up into her.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Move with me, Grace. Together.”
She braced her hands against the backboard of the carriage and practiced raising herself and lowering, again and again. “Oh my Lord,” she moaned, her eyes closing.
“Yes. Isn’t it beautiful?” He grabbed at her rear, kneading the fleshy orbs as she moved against him, up and down, up and down. Her pace increased and he matched it, their breath coming in short, harsh grunts now.
The release he so sought snaked through his loins, and he pounded into her even as she sank down. At the last minute, he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard as the world exploded around him and he spilled himself into his wife.
“Grace,” he cried out, once, and then held her against him, skin against skin, flesh against flesh. They sat that way for who knew how long, the rocking of the carriage making both cognizant that they remained joined, loath to move, to lose that connection.
It wasn’t long until he stirred again. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t think he’d ever get enough of her, of Grace. His wife. His love.
But he would have to wait. The next time he made love to her—for that was definitely what this was, a more intimate connection than he’d ever known—it would be in a real bed. His bed. Their bed. He gently disentangled himself from her and pulled her close into his side.
“I love you, Grace Blackbourne,” he said as he ran his thumb over her bare shoulder.
She shivered. “I love you, too. But do you think we could get dressed again? I’m feeling a little … exposed.”
He chuckled as she rose to retrieve her dress. “I guess it’s one thing to consummate a marriage in a carriage,” he said. “It’d be quite another to show up at Thorne Hill naked.”
She made a show of throwing the dress at him, and he ducked, pure joy rising up in his throat, bursting forth in gales of laughter. She laughed, too. Together, they dressed, then she settled into the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. He rubbed his thumb on her arm over the fabric of the dress. He liked it much better when he was touching skin. He was about to ask her a question when a soft snore rose to his ears. He grinned.
His wife had fallen asleep.