The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever
Chapter 12
The hour was late before she worked up the nerve to knock on the connecting door.
She had spent several hours replaying his words repeatedly in her mind. He thought her hideous.
Hideous.
In fairness, he had said her gown was hideous, but that was only one degree removed from what she knew to be the truth.
That he found her to be hideous.
He must. She was too big and far too graceless. She had proven that tonight by publicly embarrassing him.
So why had he told her she was beautiful in the moonlight?
She scoffed at the memory. That had been before they returned to London. Before he could be reminded of what he should have had.
She had seen the women society deemed acceptable. Beauchamp’s Boutique had been filled with them. Tonight at dinner, she’d seen even more of the slender, diminutive beauties who exhaled grace effortlessly. Della had no hope of comparison.
She was so utterly unprepared to be a duchess, and it was enough to crush her heart. There was so much against her. How could she possibly believe she could be enough for Andrew? How could she possibly believe that she wouldn’t yet again be a burden to someone?
And now, after seeing her in the cream puff of a dress, she knew he found her absolutely repulsive.
This thought rendered the most pain.
He hadn’t come after her when she’d left him in the carriage and for that she was grateful. It had taken what little strength she’d had left to maintain her composure until she’d reached her rooms.
She’d dismissed Parker immediately. It wouldn’t take much to get her out of that horrid gown, and she didn’t want to give the servants anything over which to gossip.
As soon as the door had closed behind the maid, Della sat down at her dressing table and let the tears come. They weren’t tears of pity. She was never so maudlin. It was more a welling up of frustration and despair.
Was this what she was destined to be? How could it be that time and time again she would be nothing more than a nuisance? Would she ever find her place?
By the time she knocked on the connecting door, she had mentally prepared herself for a return to Bewcastle, the shunned Duchess of Ravenwood, so inept at her duties that her husband should send her to the far reaches of Cumbria.
This carried with it too many echoes of her mother’s own journey, and instead of hauling out her gowns, all of which she was now convinced should be burned immediately, she had chosen to confront Andrew instead.
If he should think her gowns hideous, she would ask that he select what he might find pleasing. If he thought her behavior abhorrent, she would ask that he instruct her as to what he would wish to see from her. She could mold herself to his liking. Whatever it took, she could do it. She must.
The idea of spending the rest of her life neglected and despised in her grandparents’ moldering home was one thing, but to think of a future without Andrew was unbearable.
She rapped again, but after several minutes of silence, she realized he might not be in his rooms.
A new wave of doubt assailed her.
She hadn’t turned around to see if he left the carriage after her. Had he instructed the driver to take him somewhere after she exited?
Once more she wondered if he had a lover. She recalled the night at Ravenwood Park when she had found him lurking in the dark. Did he keep a mistress in London as well? It would be rather convenient for him. The thought sent her stomach churning, and she backed away from the door.
She wasn’t looking where she was going and knocked into the stool of her dressing table. She reached out a hand to catch herself, but in her haste, she became unbalanced and crashed into the stool with both of her knees as she caught herself against the table.
It would have been enough for the stool to simply fall over, but her knees had bent at the last moment, and it sent the delicate piece of furniture wheeling end over end on the rug until it crashed against the hard planks of the bare floor. She closed her eyes against the splintering sound.
She kept her eyes shut, letting the room go silent around her once more. The servants were surely too far away to have heard her, and yet she worried she may have awoken someone. That a knock on her door didn’t immediately come only served to tell her what she already feared.
Andrew was not in his rooms.
A new pain flashed through her, but she threw open her eyes and marched over to the chair, limping slightly against a twinge in her knee. She rubbed it absently as she bent to pick up the stool. One delicate rosewood leg had snapped at the base and hung lopsided against the cushion.
Gingerly, she picked it up, her heart thudding until she realized the leg had been repaired once before. She examined the wooden appendage and noticed a column of lighter colored wood, a patch that had been inserted to secure the leg to the stool after the piece must have previously broken. She felt somewhat relieved that she had not been the one to break it initially, but she still felt guilty for the work that must be done to repair it again.
For surely it would be repaired. She was coming to understand the Dukes of Ravenwood did not buy new furniture when the old could be mended.
She set the stool aside and as she straightened, her stomach gave a low rumble. She put her hand to it. Now was not the time for her nerves to get the better of her. She turned and faced the connecting door once more, but it did no good. She snapped up her dressing gown and took a taper from the table by the bed.
She had been in Ravenwood House for a week now and felt no fear in wandering the corridors at night. She would find her way down to the kitchens and fetch herself some bread and cheese. Surely that would be easy enough. She refused to bother the servants again when her nerves were simply being unreasonable.
She made her way down the central staircase before weaving her way to the back of the house where the servants’ stairs would lead her to the kitchen. She knew she would find something suitable to calm her nerves as she had developed what she hoped was a pleasant relationship with Cook.
When she’d first arrived, Mallard, the butler, had presented Della with the week’s menu with instructions from Cook to let her know of any changes she wished to make. Instead of passing a message through Mallard, Della had requested Mallard’s assistance in finding the kitchen so she could speak with Cook directly. She learned very quickly that this was not the typical behavior of a duchess as the kitchen collapsed into a state of paralysis at the mere sight of her.
However, when Della expressed honest interest in what Cook was preparing at that moment, a sort of kindred relationship had formed.
Since then, Cook had been sure there was a platter of cheeses and breads for Della whenever she should require it. It was a long way from shortbread, but she supposed Cook would have prepared that for her as well should she ask.
Tonight, she would satisfy herself with bread and cheese while her thoughts ran amok. She didn’t wish to examine too closely why it was that the thought of Andrew having a mistress upset her. She had heard gentlemen often kept mistresses. Perhaps it was just the way of things, and Della had to be the one to learn to accept it.
Even more, a mistress might keep the pressure off Della in terms of Andrew’s physical needs.
This thought had her stopping entirely, her hand going out to the wall to steady herself.
She hadn’t considered that. Was Andrew going to his mistress to fulfill his sexual desires? She had only her relations with Andrew from which to judge what was required from a wife, and now she worried she wasn’t adequate in that role either. If Andrew found her hideous, then perhaps she was failing there as well.
But then why did he come to her every night? Why did he whisper such sweet words to her? Was it all a charade? Was he simply telling her what he thought she wanted to hear so he could find some kind of sexual release until he could arrange to meet with his mistress again?
She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs burned, and her heart stampeded. Was there nothing about her marriage that was real? She knew Andrew had been forced into it. She would not deny that, but did that mean there was no possibility it could turn into something real?
Once more despair gripped her, and she saw her future yawning before her like an empty void. Was this what her mother had felt? Is that what had driven her back to her parents’ moldering home? What had forced her to endure her own mother’s cruel nature?
As Della stood immobilized in the corridor in the middle of the night, she understood only too well why her mother had fled. Anything was more bearable than this consuming power of hopelessness.
A noise at the end of the corridor startled her enough that she nearly dropped her candle. As it was the flame spluttered, and she willed her hand to stop shaking. If the light went out, she would be plunged into darkness.
The door at the end of the hall opened, and for some strange reason, Della held her breath. It was probably just a servant finishing a task that had taken longer than expected. Perhaps it was Mallard himself checking on the house before retiring for the evening. There were any number of explanations that should not have had her frozen to the carpet.
But it wasn’t any of those things.
It was Andrew.
He emerged from the servants’ stairs as if it were the most natural thing for him to have been below stairs at this hour. He closed the door softly behind him, and she knew he hadn’t registered that she was there yet. He must have seen the light from her candle, but she could tell by the bent angle of his head, he was lost in thought.
Was he still heady from the throes of desire he’d experienced in the arms of his lover?
She was going to be sick. The candle began to shake in earnest now as both her insecurities and her imagination ran away from her.
Andrew must have noticed the vacillating light because he looked up, his gaze instantly finding hers.
“Della.” His voice was oddly breathless as if she’d startled him, and he closed the distance between them in three brisk strides.
He took the candle from her, holding it aloft as he drew her against him with an arm around her back. Her body tensed, not wishing to feel his strength, not wishing to remember what this was like, but it was too late. He was all muscle, true, but it had always been more than that when it came to Andrew. For he was the only person in the world to make her feel like a lady.
She closed her eyes, wishing it all away.
“Della, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Is it your father?”
Her eyes flew open at the mention of her father, and she studied his face so close to hers in the flickering light of the candle.
It wasn’t the afterglow of lust that preoccupied him. It was something else. Something darker. He was worried.
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching up and touching his cheek as if she could banish the haunted look from his eyes. But then she snatched back her hand as she pushed against him.
“What about my father?”
* * *
He hadn’t meantto tell her anything. He didn’t wish for her to worry. They couldn’t know for sure that her father even knew of her whereabouts or even of their marriage.
But when he’d seen her, standing in the corridor in the middle of the night, her hand pressed to the wall as if it were the only thing which held her upright, fear had seized him.
He had only stepped away for a few hours, and it wasn’t as though he’d gone far. It was just that after the events of the dinner, his sister’s revelations to him, Della’s own success, and the subsequent odd conversation in the carriage ride home, his head had been stuffed, and he’d needed time to process it all. And there was nothing better to help him process troubling information than good, clean physical exercise.
Others may not have viewed it as such, but that was how he saw it.
He had returned only when he’d felt the claws of the issues that plagued him loosen their grip on him, and he thought he might be able to sleep. He’d still been muddling through what he’d left behind when he closed the door to the servants’ stairs behind him. That was why he didn’t realize she was there at first, but when he did, his heart had thudded in his chest so loudly he thought she could have heard it.
He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t taken a moment to think it through. He’d simply moved, eating up the distance between them with long strides so he could pull her into his arms. He had to touch her, feel her body pressed against his to know she was all right.
He had assumed it was her father, but too late he realized what haunted him might not be what haunted her. She had confirmed it in short time, and now he’d given her another reason to look so stricken except—
She no longer appeared frightened. Her chin had firmed, and she met his gaze directly when only seconds before he had thought she might drop the candle from her hand.
He didn’t wish to have this conversation in the hallway. Not only because a servant might overhear but because the night had grown cold, and Della wore only a nightdress and robe. She had appeared not much more than a ghost when he’d first spotted her, and now he worried she might grow chill.
“Not here,” he said and took her hand, leading her to the central staircase.
He could be sure to find a fire in his bedchamber, and he planned to set her before it while he told her of what he’d learned. He wondered at how natural it felt to hold her hand, but then this was not the first time he had done it. He could almost say he’d come to anticipate it, the feel of her soft skin against the rough planes of his palm.
The stairs creaked as they mounted them, and it was the only sound in the vast house. It struck him suddenly how quiet the house had become. For the first time since he could remember, the house was not filled with the cacophony of children racing down its halls, running up the stairs, or filling the rooms with musical lessons.
He wondered if he and Della would have children. It was entirely possible. While he had tried to remain objective, his strength to resist his wife had never lingered into the night. There was something about the closeness of darkness that had made him think it was safe to let his guard down then. Almost as if nothing bad could happen while they were safely tucked into bed.
He knew this for the excuse it was because every time he thought of Della, his heart raced a little faster. He knew what that feeling meant, and he would not name it.
He felt the heat of the fire as soon as they entered his bedchamber, and he shut the door against the drafty night when Della slipped inside. She did not progress into the room he noticed, but instead, kept her back to the door.
He wandered over to the fire and added more coal even though the bright flames needed no more fuel. It was at least something to do with his hands while he gathered his thoughts.
Still, she did not move.
“I learned today that your father has traveled to Bewcastle. I can only assume he’s looking for you.”
He didn’t miss the small intake of breath from behind him, but he couldn’t turn to look at her. If he did, he would find himself in her arms again.
“How do you know this?”
Her voice was strong, and he chided himself for thinking it wouldn’t be. Finally, he turned to face her.
“I asked my brothers-in-law to assist me in keeping track of your father’s whereabouts. I wanted to be forewarned should he be heading for London.”
“Your brothers-in-law.” It wasn’t a question, and oddly, her expression clouded somewhat at the mention of Dax and Sebastian.
“Yes, they are both well-respected gentlemen in society with connections of their own. I thought they may hear something before my own solicitors or other connections did. In this instance, it proved useful.”
“Does he know of our marriage?” She spoke as though their marriage were something that did not involve them, and it unsettled him.
He took a step forward. “I don’t know. I can only assume he might believe you went back to your grandparents.”
“Of course.” She looked down, blinking furiously as if to avoid his gaze.
He was in front of her in two strides, pushing her chin up with a bent finger.
“Della, what is going on?”
She startled him by jerking her chin free and stepping back, putting a distance between them.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Her voice was strong even as her eyes were wild with an emotion he couldn’t discern. “I’ve trapped you into this marriage, and I’ve failed at every turn to be the duchess you require, and now my father will come to London to cause further trouble for you.”
He blinked, struggling to process her words. “What are you talking about? How have you failed? Della, you’ve been nothing but a success.”
She laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “How can you say such things? If it weren’t for your brothers-in-law, tonight would have been a complete disaster. I could have ruined everything for you, and not to mention—” She stopped speaking so abruptly she choked on her own words.
“Not to mention what, Della?” he pressed when she’d sucked in a gulping breath.
She shook her head. “I’m very tired. I should like to retire for the evening if there’s nothing more.”
She turned toward the connecting door of their rooms, and something in him snapped. When faced with the possibility of being bartered to her father’s cronies, she had not balked. When he’d all but kidnapped her in the dead of night, she had risen to the challenge.
But now she ran from him, and he wouldn’t stand for it.
He caught her arm before she’d taken two steps, swinging her about to face him.
“Della, stop.” He said the words as softly as his rising frustration would allow. “You must tell me what’s gotten into you. I don’t understand why you’re upset. Please. You must explain to me.”
He pushed a lock of hair that had fallen loose from her braid behind her ear, letting his fingers trail over her soft skin.
She tried to shake her head again, but he caught her chin.
“Della, I don’t know what’s happened, but I can’t help but feel that I lost you somewhere between Brydekirk and London.”
Finally his words seemed to penetrate whatever fog had taken hold of her, and for the first time that night, he looked into her eyes and saw her. Della. The wild Scottish lass who had not hesitated to tumble out a window and into his arms while a band of drunken men threatened to break down her door.
“Andrew, I’m not good enough.” She licked her lips. “I can’t do it.”
He forgot himself entirely at the pleading, desperate tone of her voice, and he slipped his arms around her, holding her tightly to him even as her hands flattened against his chest in weak protest at his touch.
“I don’t understand. You need to explain it to me.” He spoke carefully, as he would to a child, but she only shook her head.
“Della.” He touched his lips to hers. It was not more than a brush of his lips against hers, but he hoped it would be enough to remind her that she could trust him, help her to remember what it was that existed between them.
He felt her eyelashes flutter closed, and her fingers dug into the front of his shirt.
“Andrew,” she whispered against his lips, and then she tilted her head, offering her lips to him.
He shouldn’t do this. He still didn’t understand why she was upset. She hadn’t explained anything, and now the tendrils of desire had begun to fog his brain. She let go of his shirt front as she slipped her arms around him, her hands flattening against his back as she pulled him nearer.
Maybe this was what she needed. She needed him, physically, to set right what had upended in her mind.
“Della,” he murmured against her lips.
Her hands slid down his back, cupping his buttocks as she pressed herself into him. Lust spiked through him, and he felt himself harden as she ground against him.
“Della,” he moaned now, pulling free from her hypnotizing kiss to set his forehead against hers. “Della, I don’t want to do this. Not when you’re upset. I want you to talk to me.”
She shook her head the smallest of degrees. “But I don’t want to talk. I only ruin everything when I talk.”
“Della—”
She captured his mouth again with a fierceness he couldn’t deny. Her arms came up and wrapped around his neck, and now her body hung against his. He could feel every curve of her. Her full, weighty breasts, the swell of her stomach, the mesmerizing curve of her hips.
His hands reached for the tie of her robe before he could think better of it. He shed her of the garment within seconds and soon her nightdress followed. He carried her to the bed, and after carefully laying her atop it, went to work on his own clothes. He was naked within seconds and stretched out across her, tracing the way the firelight licked across her body with the tips of his fingers.
She arched into him, a whimper escaping her lips. She’d grown bolder in their lovemaking, and now she caught his hand and pressed it fully against her. Her eyes opened, and she captured his gaze, refusing to let it go as she directed his hand across her body.
First, she drew it up her hip and across her body to the valley between her breasts, coming achingly close to first one nipple and then the other. He swallowed, trying to hold her gaze, and yet he couldn’t help but watch what she did with his hand.
She tugged it lower, over her belly and down, across the flat plane of her pelvis and over to the gentle curve of her thigh. He swallowed as she pressed his palm between her legs. She arched, lifting her breasts and moving his hand higher. His penis throbbed as he watched her draw his hand so painfully close to her hot center before pulling it away. She did it again, coming closer this time, and he swore he could feel how wet she grew as she teased her own body.
“Della.” Her name was a raspy groan, and with one last stroke, she lifted herself against his fingers and released his hand.
He plunged a single finger inside of her, and she cried out, her hips coming off the bed as she gripped his wrist to hold him there. She was so very wet, and he wanted nothing more than to be inside of her, but not yet. He shifted and replaced his hand with his mouth.
“Andrew.” He felt more than saw her sit up, her hands grasping his head in obvious surprise. “Andrew, you can’t—”
He licked her, and she collapsed against the mattress. He drew his tongue across her sensitive nub in a single, slow swipe, making her groan and writhe.
“Andrew, please.”
He did it again, holding her hips in place as she squirmed. He touched just the tip of his tongue to her. Once. Twice. And again. He slipped a finger into her once more as he stroked her nub with his tongue, and he felt her muscles convulse around his finger. One more stroke, and he sent her over the edge.
He entered her even as the last of her climax echoed through her body. He could feel it in the tightness of her wet sheath, the way it grabbed at him, pulling against him until he thought he wouldn’t be able to hold back.
He bent his head and sucked first one nipple into his mouth and then the other. He sucked and nibbled and tortured her until he could feel her body coiling once more. Only then did he trail kisses up her chest, along the column of her throat, until his lips pressed to her ear.
“Della, you are not a failure. To me you are perfect in every way just by being yourself. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever forget how perfect you are when you are just yourself.”
“Andrew.” Her voice was weak and unsteady, and he wondered if it were from his words or from what he was doing to her body, but he didn’t have time to think on it.
With a final thrust, his world exploded around him, and he came, hot and hard, the strength leaving his body until he collapsed. He moved just enough so he wouldn’t crush her and then he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight and hoping it was enough to vanquish whatever doubts still lingered in her mind.