Chapter 13
He’d gone out.
The housekeeper had just taken her leave, and when Elizabeth had sought out the floor-to-ceiling double windows that overlooked the Mayfair streets, she’d spied him.
He’d not bothered with so much as a change of garments or a bath, but instead, had climbed astride a different mount and ridden off.
And he’d been gone for two hours since.
It shouldn’t bother her.
He’d expressed remorse for the great misunderstanding that had divided them, but he’d never indicated there was anything… more. Between them, that was.
There had been the kiss.
Elizabeth pressed a callused fingertip to her lips, and they tingled from the memory of his mouth on hers.
Seated at the window seat in her temporary chambers, she dropped her head back against the wall and knocked it lightly. “You are a fool.” The old clippings scattered on her lap, their content committed to memory long ago, were proof enough of her foolishness.
For there had been kisses between Crispin and… many women.
And because she was a glutton for her own suffering, Elizabeth picked up one of the yellowing pages she’d torn out at Mrs. Belden’s nearly eight years ago.
The recently widowed Baroness Norreys was discovered in a scandalous state of dishabille leaving the Pleasure Gardens of Vauxhall. The gentleman to follow shortly from that midnight rendezvous…
“Was none other than the Marquess of W and future Duke of H,” Elizabeth whispered into the empty room.
Jealousy lanced through her, suffocating in its intensity. Embers popped and hissed in the hearth in an echo of her own blasted misery.
For surely the hundredth time since he’d gone off, Elizabeth stole another glance out at the empty streets below.
She would sit here, while Crispin did… whatever it was that rogues did. For what purpose? With sleep eluding her, Elizabeth stuffed the neatly snipped articles back inside the valise at her feet and set out to explore Crispin’s residence.
The heavily padded carpet, warm under her feet, muted her footfalls as she took leave of her rooms.
Or rather, the duchess’ chambers, as the housekeeper had referred to them. For Elizabeth’s weren’t simply guest apartments for any mere stranger, but ones reserved for the lady of the household. Intimately aligned with Crispin’s, they remained separated by a wall and two walnut-veneer doors.
Elizabeth wound her way through the halls.
Every other Empire-style crystal and bronze swan sconce remained lit, with the candles’ glow illuminating the wide corridors and the wealth and grandeur of this place. The rosewood pedestal held a gold urn that gleamed from the efforts of the dutiful servants who looked over these treasures. An oil painting hung in a large oval frame, the lone piece of artwork in the length of the corridor.
Elizabeth briefly considered the framed scene.
According to the lessons she’d been forced to conduct on the proper décor for a nobleman’s residence—and Mrs. Belden and the books on the subject had all been abundantly clear—the artwork on display was to be of the distinguished ancestors and the family who dwelled at the property, as a reminder of their power and greatness. Elizabeth had always scoffed at the pomposity of that, but Crispin had none of those figures on display. Instead, the single work was of a bucolic country scene.
Adjusting her spectacles, Elizabeth lined herself up before it and took in the small cottage, bent trees, and rolling hills that could have been any English countryside.
“It is miserable, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth tried to reconcile that wistful regret with the same man written about in the papers, who’d dashed off the moment he returned, likely to visit one of the scandalous clubs he frequented.
Oftentimes, it was as though Crispin were two very different people—the tempting scoundrel and the scholarly gentleman—and both held her enthralled.
Drawing the belt of her wrapper tighter about her middle, Elizabeth resumed her exploration of his home.
What might have been their home together had she stayed.
“I want you gone. We will find a way to secure the annulment Crispin so greatly desires.”
Elizabeth jutted her chin out. “And if I refuse to leave?”
“Pfft. I always thought you were more clever than that.”
Heat rushed to Elizabeth’s cheeks.
“Why would you stay? You’ve heard yourself, Miss Brightly. My son regrets wedding you.” The duchess sent her a hate-filled stare. “And he’ll regret it even more when we cut him off without funds and sever his fellowship at Oxford.”
The duchess’ long-ago threat squeezed at Elizabeth, filling her with the familiar hurt, but now there was something more—a biting, vitriolic fury for the one who’d manipulated both her and Crispin.
Forcing the memory of that day and that woman into the furthest chambers of her mind, Elizabeth wandered in and out of parlors, located the Portrait Room where Crispin’s ancestors had been all neatly organized, until she reached the farthest recesses of the townhouse.
A pair of painted, white lead-light doors stood as a vibrant contrast against the dark of the hall. The stained-glass perimeter of the frame had been adorned in…
Her breath caught audibly as she was drawn on silent feet closer—
“Butterflies,” she mouthed.
She stretched a hand out and trailed her fingertips over the crimson wings of one of the glass renderings.
It was a coincidence, and nothing more.
Her throat worked. Only—
“They live just a handful of weeks.” Sprawled on her stomach, the dewy grass dampening her dress, Elizabeth followed one monarch as he fluttered from flower to flower. “How very sad their existence is.”
“On the contrary,” Crispin murmured in soft tones, his gaze taking in the delicate creature’s every movement. “It isn’t how long one lives, but what one does with one’s time while they are here.”
From that moment on, her love of the winged creatures had been forever linked to Crispin and that summer day in her family’s gardens. She’d studied the butterfly, learning every detail from every book Crispin had sneaked off from his tutors to feed her insatiable thirst for a greater knowledge of them.
Elizabeth pressed the handle, and a warm heat filled the hallway, a soothing balm against the night’s chill.
Hurrying inside, she closed the door behind her and leaned back against the glass panel. And promptly exhaled her whispery surprise.
The expertly designed room trapped and retained all the earlier warmth of the previous day. Lit gilt brazier stands set around the conservatory added a layer of heat to the gardens.
Elizabeth drifted deeper into the grounds, her tread silent upon the plush lawn. Holly and ivy climbed trellises artfully placed throughout, while Eucryphia and glossy dark evergreen created the illusion of an outdoor scape.
A pale blue hanging snagged her notice from the corner of her eye.
Wandering over to the neatly tended holly tree, Elizabeth contemplated the unusual piece that dangled from a thin branch. Nearly two feet long and several inches wide, it had the look of a house her papa had once constructed for the warblers that inhabited the poplar outside her chamber windows.
Going up on tiptoe, Elizabeth peered inside each of the narrow slots, trying to make something out of the darkness.
Above the tops of the tree, a holly blue flitted about, and Elizabeth went absolutely motionless as the butterfly drifted lower and then slid effortlessly into one of those side slats.
“It is—”
“A butterfly house,” Crispin called out from over her shoulder.
Elizabeth gasped and spun about.
Crispin stood at the front of the room, his arms folded across his chest. At some point, he’d discarded his jacket and cravat, but remained in the same wrinkled lawn shirt and mud-splattered boots he’d worn for his ride that morning.
“You’re not abed,” he noted, strolling over with lazy, languid steps.
Damn him for being so captivating… even just walking. It was infuriating that he should take ordinary and transform it into spellbinding. She focused on drawing in an even breath. “No,” she acknowledged. “I was unable to sleep.” He sharpened his gaze on her face. Elizabeth hurried to clarify. “I was awake so long that my body has moved beyond rest.” Did he sense the lie? Did he gather that her own tortured imaginings of him with one of his lovers had robbed her of all hope of sleep?
“I see.”
And though there was not even a hint of arrogance or conceit contained in those two words, something told her that he very well knew. With his instincts and insight, he saw more than she wished to share.
Disquieted, she reexamined the wood structure. “I’ve never heard of a butterfly house.” He came over and took up a place beside her, standing so close their arms touched. Her pulse pounded, and she struggled to make her suddenly heavy tongue move. “I-it is like a birdhouse, then?”
“They are different,” he said, so even and pragmatic in that pronouncement that it effectively doused the haze he’d cast. “Birds require a sheltered place to raise their young. Butterflies don’t.”
“No,” she murmured, peering deeper into the darkened recesses. “They are delicate, but far more resilient.” A wistful smile tugged at her lips.
He lowered his lips close to her ear, and little tingles danced along her lobe, pulling a breathless laugh from her. “How many nights did we spend searching the grounds with nothing but a lantern to light our way, peering under leaves for slumbering butterflies?”
“Countless ones.” He’d been an unjaded boy, free with his smile, his garments as mud-stained as her own.
Whenever they’d been together, he hadn’t bothered with the constraints of a jacket or cravat. How singularly odd that he should be in a similar state of dishabille and yet with wholly different pursuits bringing him to that point.
Her smile faded.
It was a sobering reminder about the new divide between them.
“Tsk, tsk. I am disappointed, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth drew her brows together. “I don’t—”
“The girl I recall never had fewer than a dozen questions on any topic. You possessed even more for those discussions on the butterfly.”
“I was different then.” We were different. “I’ve learned to be more measured. More restrained.” Her livelihood at Mrs. Belden’s had relied upon it. She gave him a meaningful look. “More careful.”
Crispin dropped a hip against the carved stone sundial and hooded his gaze. “I know you,” he insisted in the melodious, rogue’s murmur that conjured seduction and sin. “You might present one way for the world, but you’re the same girl you always were. Inquisitive. Eager to know and explore… everything.”
Her heart thumped an erratic beat.
Somewhere along the way, they’d shifted course, and they were no longer two adults speaking of butterflies or forgotten memories. She was a woman, and he was a rogue who, with his words, whispered of the forbidden.
“You presume much,” she said for her own benefit. Elizabeth wetted her lips, and his gaze homed in on that gesture. His thick lashes swept down, barely concealing the desire in the sapphire depths of his eyes—for her.
“Do I?”
“You do. I’ve changed.” She looked him up and down, lingering her stare deliberately on his wrinkled garments. “We’ve both changed.” In ways that made any hopes of any future impossible. Because she could not, even if he wished for her to remain here, do so if he were going about at all hours of the evening… visiting wherever it was he’d been. It would break her in ways their first separation hadn’t managed.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why do I believe that was intended as an insult, Elizabeth?” Frustration rippled off his frame.
She’d offended him. Why should he care? If he was an unrepentant rogue, happy for his freedom, what should it matter what she believed about him?
“Not an insult,” she said, shaking her head. “Rather, it was stated as a matter of fact. I don’t have time to run around hillsides and ponder a butterfly’s wings for the length of the day. I’m a finishing school instructor, Crispin. I’ll leave, and there won’t be room for endless hours of discussion on anything but those topics you rightly disparaged.” She could at least own the truth of that. He’d been correct. There was nothing honorable in the lessons she doled out. All of that, her future, her work at Mrs. Belden’s, left her bereft.
“You can stay here,” he said quietly.
Those four words, a suggestion and a question all rolled together, shrank the air between them.
“What?” she whispered.
Crispin straightened, unfurling to his full height. He closed the handful of steps between them, and capturing her chin in a delicate grip, he ran his thumb down her cheek. “Stay.”
Stay. Her breath stuck somewhere between her throat and lungs, trapped there as she stood stock-still, afraid to move, to breathe.
“You don’t have to have that life you described,” he continued in somber tones stripped of the earlier rogue’s murmur. All the while, he continued that delicate caress. Soft as the butterfly’s wings, it brought her eyes briefly shut, and she leaned into his touch, his offer, desperately yearning for both. “We can have a future together.”
And there it was. The dream she’d pined for in silence for ten long years, laid out. As a tender offering.
Crispin lowered his mouth to hers, and Elizabeth tipped her head back to receive the kiss, but the scent of whiskey wafted over her lips.
She turned her head, and his kiss grazed her cheek. Reality came rushing in. “You’re a rogue.” She drew in a breath and stepped out of his reach. “You smell like spirits and cheroots.”
His cheeks flushed. “I’m not ape-drunk, Elizabeth. And I wasn’t smoking. The smell is merely attached to my garments.”
“It is the places you go,” she entreated, needing him to understand. “It is the people you keep company with.” She paused. “It is the life you’ve lived since we’ve been apart.”
He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words emerged.
Elizabeth scrunched her toes into the soft lawn. Oh, God. She silently begged with the earth to open up and take her under. “I do not begrudge you for… taking a lover… lovers,” she amended lamely. Liar. You hated him for it. And you hated them even more for having earned his affections. Even as it was her fault for leaving him and their marriage.
“Look at me,” he commanded with a quiet insistence that brought her gaze up to his. “I met with a friend this evening, Elizabeth. When I was broken with your leaving, the Earl of Fielding was the only one there for me.”
He’d had another friend in his life. He hadn’t been alone. How was it possible to feel joy and an aching sadness at the same time? When she’d been miserable and missing him at Mrs. Belden’s, Crispin had found another.
Her shoulders sagged. “You don’t owe me any answers, Crispin,” she said tiredly. “As you pointed out… I left. You were free to live your life, as you wished.” And as he would when she returned to Mrs. Belden’s.
Elizabeth pressed the frames of her spectacles back behind her ears and, bowing her head, started for the butterfly doors.
“You believe I was unfaithful to you?” he called after her. The annoyance and hurt wrapped around the question froze her midstride.
Elizabeth completed the step and turned slowly back. “I…” There had been the papers and his own relish several days past in throwing his reputation in her face.
The pale glow of the moon played off the chiseled contours of his face and illuminated the spark of regret in his eyes. “How low your opinion of me is,” he noted, and where there’d been anger before, now there was acceptance. “I gave you no reason to doubt my devotion.” He strolled over, the bulge of his corded biceps making a lie of any feigned casualness. Crispin roved his eyes over her face. “There has never been any other woman, Elizabeth.”
That statement brought to a cessation the flow of all logical thought.
He quirked his mouth in an irreverent half-smile. “The papers?” he supplied for her. “The gossip? The world is content to see what they want to see. A bachelor duke, friends with a scoundrel, must be a rogue.” The knot in his throat moved rhythmically. “There was only ever one woman I wanted. One woman I desired.”
“Who?” she asked, giving him nothing more than that single, breathless syllable.
A pained chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Oh, Elizabeth. How is it possible for a woman to be so very clever and to know nothing all at the same time?” He dropped his forehead atop hers. “It is you, Elizabeth. There has only ever been you.”
And just like that, the world ceased spinning on its axis.
*
Elizabeth fluttered a hand about her breast. “You’ve never…?”
Crispin pressed his fingertips against his brow and rubbed. And he wished in this instance that he was the rogue the world had proclaimed him to be. For then he would have all the charming words expected of him. But so much of his life had been lived fulfilling expectations—those his family had of him, those the ton had for a duke. “I realized I loved you when I was six and ten, but I’ve loved you forever.”
She emitted a soft, whispery gasp.
And before she might again reject him, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her. Crispin kissed her as he’d dreamed of since a long-ago kiss stolen under the crisp Oxfordshire skies. Kissed her as he had just a day earlier, but this time without the restraint, giving himself over to the hunger tearing through him.
Filling his hands with Elizabeth’s slender hips, he drew her close, pressing her body to his.
Moaning, Elizabeth melted into his embrace, and parting her lips, she allowed him entry.
Crispin swept his tongue inside, sparring with hers. And on her lips and every breath she drew and exhaled, he tasted his own desire.
Through the thin fabric of her night shift, he searched her slender body with his hands. Reaching between them, he cupped her right breast, tweaking the tip through the fine cotton. Over and over. Until Elizabeth dropped her head back on an incoherent half plea, half sob.
Desire pumped through him, and with a primitive groan, Crispin guided her garment lower until her breasts lay bared before him and the London night sky.
He drew back slightly, and she cried out at the loss. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she tried to guide his mouth back to hers, but Crispin resisted.
His breath rasping in the quiet, still but for the errant breeze and the trickling water of the Grecian fountain, he worshiped her with his eyes. A handful of freckles dusted the column between her breasts, her large nipples a pale pink hue. The gentle swell of her cream-white breasts had been made for his palms, and he filled his hands with her.
Elizabeth bit her lower lip. Her lashes fluttered, and through those crimson lashes, she followed his every movement the way she’d contemplated any scientific study she’d launched.
Between his fingers, Crispin rolled the pebbled tips of each mound, teasing them with little flicks, and Elizabeth dropped her head. “Crispin.” She moaned his name, an entreaty.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed against her skin. Bending his head, he drew a nipple into his mouth and suckled.
Elizabeth cried out.
He caught her as her legs went weak and shifted his focus to her other breast, lavishing it until keening moans echoed around the gardens.
“I have wanted you long before our first kiss,” he panted, his breath rasping against her flushed skin. He pressed a kiss to the place where her heart beat wildly. “I have dreamed of this…” Long after she’d gone. He hesitated, drawing back. “But you deserve more than being made love to out here on a—”
“Don’t,” Elizabeth ordered breathlessly, catching him by the shoulders. “This is how it should be.” Her fingers came up to clasp his head, and she drew his mouth back to hers. “This is how I want it to be.”
With a groan, Crispin claimed her lips. Never breaking contact, he guided Elizabeth to the grass so that they knelt there. He stroked his tongue over her lips, tracing their plump seam and then finding his way inside once more.
And she let him in. Welcomed him. Turned herself over to him with a searing fierceness that sent a stabbing ache of need to his shaft, fueling his hunger, raising the heat of the blood coursing through his veins. When he shifted his attentions to the delicate shell of her right ear, Elizabeth moaned. “Th-this is c-certainly d-different than our last em-embrace.” Her voice broke on a moan as he suckled at that lobe.
“Which ‘last kiss’ do you refer to, sweet Elizabeth?” he whispered against her ear, pulling a breathless laugh from her. “Outside the inn only last evening?” Not pausing to wait for an answer, he worshiped her previously neglected breast.
Her hips arched reflexively as she ground herself in a primitive dance against the hard ridge of his manhood. “N-never last evening’s kiss.”
“And here our first kiss left me ruined for any other woman,” he teased. And then all words, laughter, and pain of the past melted away, superseded by only their mutual hungering to taste passion with the other. Crispin wrestled with the buttons along the back of her night shift. It hadn’t been enough to simply worship those perfect swells. He wanted to see all of her cream-white skin, only flushed red from her desire, bathed in the soft light of the moonlit sky.
Crispin blazed a trail of kisses over the column of her neck to her jaw.
Elizabeth tipped her head sideways, allowing him complete access to her, opening herself to him in ways he didn’t deserve, but he was too much of a bastard to ever deny himself.
“So many damned buttons,” he gasped. He’d believed it wholly impossible to so despise an inanimate object such as a button.
“M-Mrs. Belden believes the button preserves a lady’s—” Riiiip. The tiny buttons rained down about them. “Virtue,” Elizabeth finished. Through the thick haze of passion swelling between them, they shared a brief smile. Crispin collected the hem of her night shift.
Then all humor faded away as he exposed inch by inch of her satiny, soft flesh.
All the air stuck in his chest, lodged there painfully. And he allowed himself that which he’d yearned to do—he caressed her with his gaze, touching his eyes upon every enticing freckle and delicate curve. Through his search, Elizabeth knelt there, proud as Athena.
As the seconds tripped by, she brought her arms up almost protectively about her breasts.
Crispin caught her arms in a delicate but firm grip, staying those attempts.
Indecision raged behind her smudged spectacles.
How could she not know her own beauty?
“There is no one more magnificent than you, Elizabeth. In mind, spirit, and beauty.”
Her lips parted, and she exhaled a soft, shuddery sigh.
She held her arms open for him. “Make love to me.”
It was a command, belonging to a woman who knew what she desired. Blood pumped to his shaft, and that organ sprang harder from his need for her.
Crispin guided her down so that the lush, emerald patch of earth served as their mattress.
And in this, she’d been correct. There was something only right that this moment should come here, like this… in this make-believe Eden.
Crispin sat up, and Elizabeth lifted her heavy lashes, watching him, a question in her eyes.
Not taking his gaze from her, he pulled his shirt from his trousers and over his head and tossed it aside. Next, he pulled off his riding boots, throwing them onto the forgotten pile of garments.
Elizabeth pushed herself up onto her elbows, and with wide eyes brimming with desire, she took in his every movement.
Crispin shoved down his breeches and kicked them aside, and then he stood naked before her.
Unabashedly, she worked her passion-heavy gaze over him, leaving no swath of his skin untouched. There was an infinitesimal pause as she fixed on his abdomen, and then she proved as fearless and beautifully unashamed as she’d always been.
Her eyes fell to the organ that stood proudly erect, the crown pressed to his abdomen.
“You are magnificent,” she whispered in an echo of his very own thoughts about her. She stretched her arms up in a siren’s invitation, and he was as lost as those sailors at sea.
Groaning, Crispin came over her. Propping himself up on his elbows, he took her mouth in another kiss, and as she wrapped her arms about him, she met every lash and stroke of his tongue.
Crispin reached between them and found the downy patch of curls shielding her femininity.
A hiss exploded from her lips, lost to his mouth.
He palmed her, pressing the heel of his hand against her sensitive flesh.
“Please,” she whimpered, bucking into his touch. She let her legs splay in an invitation, and he slid an answering finger inside her wet channel.
An incoherent sound—neither moan nor groan, but rather, both rolled into one—soared to the glass ceiling.
“I want… I didn’t know…”
“Neither did I,” he managed to squeeze out, his voice hoarse as every nerve and fiber of him strained under the overwhelming need to lay himself between her legs and plunge deep. He teased her nub, explored the plump folds that shielded it. Crispin reveled in the feel and heat of her.
Sweat beaded on his brow, and a lone drop wound a path down his forehead.
Elizabeth stretched a trembling hand up and caught that moisture. She brushed his hair back behind his ears in a tender lover’s touch.
Crispin continued to tease and touch her, until Elizabeth’s hands fell away and wrapped about him once more, until she was scraping her nails down his back, gripping him tightly, pleading for him.
He settled himself between her thighs, nestling his shaft against her moist curls. An agonized groan ripped from him, and he waged a battle for control.
“Please,” she begged, testing his every last shred of strength and resolve.
Dropping his brow to hers, Crispin slid slowly inside, filling her tight core inch by inch. He stopped. It was too much. “Oh, God.” He squeezed his eyes so tightly shut that pinpricks of light danced behind them.
“Marmoream relinquo, quam latericiam accepi. Nil ego contulerim iucundo sanus amico. O mihi praeteritos referat si Iuppiter ann—”
“Are you quoting Latin?” she asked on a breathy laugh.
“No.”
She arched her hips, urging him.
“Yes,” he rasped, the one-syllable utterance dissolving into a groan.
Elizabeth smiled wickedly up at him.
“You minx.”
Her smile froze in place as he found that delicate nub once more. “Mmmmm.” And with words lost for both of them, Elizabeth wrapped her legs about him and rotated her hips.
“Forgive me,” he whispered and then plunged the remaining inch inside, filling her.
Elizabeth’s cry rang about the room before Crispin covered her mouth with his and swallowed the remainder of that shattered yell.
His heart thundered in his ears, beating hard against hers. They remained motionless, neither moving for different reasons. One suspended by want, the other pain. And it was that pain that allowed Crispin mastery over his desire.
He pressed a kiss against her temple. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly, his breath stirring a loose curl.
Elizabeth opened her eyes, her spectacles askew, her smudged lenses reflecting his hungering for this woman. “Make love to me,” she urged.
He groaned and then began to move inside her. Slowly at first and then faster. His hips bucked frantically. And with every thrust, the thin thread of control he had strained under the weight of his own desire. Elizabeth matched his movements, holding him close. Whispering his name. Pleading with him.
Oh, God. Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem…
Elizabeth’s hips took on a frantic, undulating rhythm. Her breath came fast.
I cannot wait… “Come for me,” he pleaded. He battled with himself. Wanting her pleasure to come before his. Before all else. “Nostri coniugii memor vive, ac vale.”
Elizabeth’s entire body stiffened. And with a glorious scream, she came.
With a groan, Crispin let himself surrender, pouring himself inside her, coming so fast and hard that light flashed behind his eyes, and all he saw, breathed, or felt… was Elizabeth.
He collapsed, catching his weight on his elbows to keep from crushing her.
One night would never be enough. He wanted forever with her.
Elizabeth.