The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever
Chapter 9
She had given her sister-in-law a black eye.
That was her introduction to Andrew’s sisters.
A. Black. Eye.
Della groaned and buried her face in her hands, shaking it back and forth as if by doing so it would undo the events of the last several hours.
To say nothing of the fact that she’d fainted on her.
On her sister-in-law. When the poor woman had done nothing more than help her.
Della groaned again and sank back in the pillows of the bed.
She pressed a hand to her middle, willing her nerves to settle, but her resolve did little to combat her racing mind. Her first introduction as a duchess, and she’d completely flummoxed it. True, it was only a member of the family, but that still mattered to her, and she’d ruined the entire thing.
She was clearly not cut out to be a duchess, and she was going to disgrace Andrew.
The thought had her turning to the plate of biscuits Mrs. Collins had left on the table by the bed, but before she could pick one up, the light of the flickering candle caught her attention as it played over the surface of the wood. Instead of picking up a biscuit, she moved her hand to the side and traced the scar on the surface of the table.
The mark was light and faded, and it was this that drew her attention. Because the scar was wide, suggesting at some point the scratch had been deep, it also showed how lovingly it was repaired. If the candlelight hadn’t flickered, and if the stain atop the scar hadn’t resulted in a slightly different hue, she might not have noticed it.
She withdrew her hand and studied the table for several minutes.
From the size and quality of Ravenwood Park, as well as Andrew’s carriage and dress, she assumed the Darbys were wealthy. Why then had so much furniture been repaired instead of replaced? Her grandmother was forever purchasing new furniture when there was so much as a loose thread in an upholstered chair. But here there were two pieces, in the duchess’s rooms no less, that exhibited such evident marks of repair.
She snatched a biscuit and popped it into her mouth whole.
Were the Darbys impoverished?
Had she unwittingly attached herself to a man who could not afford to support her?
She closed her eyes as she chewed.
Oh, Della, why are you like this? Why are you always such a nuisance?
Surely, she must be mistaken.
She washed down her biscuit with the last of the tea Mrs. Collins had left and settled back against the pillows. She had only one clue to suggest Andrew lacked funds, and she wasn’t going to let her mind get carried away with it.
After several minutes however, she knew she was nothing but a liar. She opened her eyes and stared at the plaster medallions in the ceiling. This would never do. If she had her book, she could at least attempt to distract herself and perhaps sleep would come eventually, but at this rate, she was likely to simply lie here, her thoughts churning until she made herself sick.
She threw back the covers and stood, her nightdress falling to hardly below her knees as if to spite her.
It needn’t matter. The hour was late, and the house was likely asleep. She hadn’t a single notion as to the location of the library, but it was better to attempt to find it rather than lie in bed and worry.
Mrs. Collins had taken all her things to be cleaned, and so Della was barefoot when she stepped out into the corridor moments later, holding the candle from her bedside aloft to get her bearings.
Earlier Mrs. Collins had brought her up the central staircase and turned right to follow the corridor into the west wing of the house. Della would simply retrace her steps. It was likely the library was on the floor below somewhere. It would be a room available to guests, which would suggest it wouldn’t be located in the same wing as the family rooms.
The long corridor stretched before her gloomily, and she shut her eyes. Melanie Merkett would never be afraid of shadows in the night. She opened her eyes and pressed ahead.
Her candle flickered with an unseen draft, and she raised a hand to shield it. If she lost her light, she’d likely lose her way and then where would she be? Andrew would find her asleep on the floor wherever it was she had stopped in the dark, unable to find her way and simply gone to sleep where she was.
She found the staircase without trouble and made her way down. The marble was cold against her feet, but she kept going. The quiet began to grate. Where did the servants sleep? Where did Andrew sleep, for that matter?
Her grandmother and grandfather slept in different wings. Was that how all homes of the peerage were constructed? She didn’t know.
She made her way around the staircase to the corridor Mrs. Collins must have emerged from earlier to find a similar hallway as the one above. It stretched in opposite directions in a seemingly endless march, and Della swayed with the enormity of it.
She turned right. After all, if the library weren’t down this wing, she could simply turn around and go in the other direction.
By rights, she should have been exhausted, both emotionally and physically. The last three days had completely changed her life, and yet this was the way with a nervous disposition. Sometimes the worry was too great, and sleep was just not to be had.
She was nearly to the end of the corridor without finding success. The doorways she had passed had all led into various drawing rooms, a music room differentiated by the presence of a piano, a breakfast room, and what might have been a ladies’ salon. It was hard to tell from the meager light of her candle, but that room had been furnished with a good number of settees and embroidery hoop stands.
She took several more steps before a noise at the end of the corridor caused her to freeze.
Someone had opened a door.
She was never in her life more aware of her underdressed state than she was at that moment. She had no wrap and no slippers. She could almost feel the chill of the night air cut through her thin nightdress as if she wore nothing at all, and heavens, her ankles were still hanging out for all to see.
She took a step back.
Should she try to hide? From whom was she hiding? And where would she go?
Footsteps, soft and steady, came from the shadows at the end of the corridor.
She should hide.
But as soon as the thought formed, a man appeared in the dimness ahead.
“Della?”
Relief sang through her at the realization it was only Andrew. And then she realized it was Andrew, and she crossed her free arm over her torso as if that would hide anything.
It needn’t matter anyway. He had already seen everything after the debacle earlier. He and that other man, Ben. Was he also a duke? Lud, she was a disaster unto herself.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she stammered in her haste to get the words out.
Andrew was in front of her within an instant. “Are you hurt? Unwell? Is there something I can get for you?”
She could see his face now that he’d stepped into the ring of candlelight, and his features were drawn with worry.
She smiled as brightly as possible. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. All is well. If you could just point me in the direction of the library, I’ll be sure to get right out of the way.”
She thought he would be relieved to hear she required nothing from him, but instead, his brow furrowed more deeply.
“The library?”
“I lost my book if you recall. I was hoping I might be allowed to select one from your library.”
Something passed over his eyes then, and she swallowed, taking a step back.
“Of course I should have asked for your permission. I’m terribly sorry. I shan’t overstep again, I promise. So sorry. I’ll just go back to my—” She had turned to flee when he caught her arm, turning her back to him.
“Della, of course you may read a book from the library. Read as many as you would like.” He slipped her arm through his and took the candle from her. “The library is this way.”
She thrilled at the way he so naturally took her arm, the way he pressed it to his side and wove his fingers through hers as if he were afraid of losing her in the dark.
“Are you sure you’re not feeling unwell? I can send for a doctor.”
“No.” She said the word quickly, embarrassment flooding through her at the thought he might go to so much trouble for her. “I’m fine really. It’s only sometimes I have difficulty sleeping when my mind is preoccupied.”
He squeezed her hand. “I know the past several days have been unexpected, but I promise you are safe now.”
She liked the way his voice took on a deeper note when he spoke of caring for her. It was such a novelty to know someone else was thinking of her with such a care, but it also gave her cause for more worrying. She didn’t want his care to turn into obligation.
They had returned to the main staircase then and continued along the corridor.
“This is an interesting construction for a house, isn’t it? With long corridors such as this.”
“The third Duke of Ravenwood enjoyed foot races.”
She peered up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He flashed her a sardonic grin. “He enjoyed foot races, but he didn’t like getting his shoes wet. He constructed the house to conduct foot races during house parties no matter the weather.”
She stopped and faced him. “Surely you jest.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I do no such thing. You would be surprised what men are capable of when they obtain both wealth and leisure. They must find something to occupy their time.” His tone changed at the final sentence, almost as though he were reflecting inwardly, and she wondered at that.
He nodded to the door behind her. “The library, Your Grace.”
She turned to find an oak-paneled door slightly ajar. She pushed it open without hesitation and stepped through, only to stop in her tracks once more.
Her grandfather had boasted of Bewcastle’s library, but it was nothing compared to this. The room in which she found herself was several yards in width and stacked two stories tall. The walls were lined with bookcases, both on the main floor and on the balcony above. Library ladders dotted them, and she could just make out a circular wrought iron staircase in the far corner that intruded onto the balcony above.
A fireplace interrupted the books at one end of the room and at this end there was a long wide table as if inviting one to sample several books at once. Tall windows broke up the bookcases on the opposite wall. She was pleased to see window benches installed in each of them, and she thought of the rainy days she might spend there.
It occurred to her for the first time that this was for the rest of her life. Ravenwood Park, Andrew, and this library. What had that gentleman said earlier? She had married into this bunch, the Darbys. She was one of them now. It hadn’t really settled in until she saw those window benches, and finally she could see herself there.
She felt a weight shift along her shoulders. It didn’t disappear, but she could carry it better now.
She turned to thank Andrew, only to find him leaning in the doorway, a curious expression on his face. Almost as if she’d caught him in the middle of pondering something. Something about her.
Her momentary lightness fled at the sight of his face, and she raised her chin. “What is it?” she ventured.
He shook his head, and when he spoke her toes curled into the floorboards from just the growly sound of his voice. But his words, his words undid her.
“It’s just that you’re so beautiful in the moonlight.”
* * *
He hatedhow his words could bring that wary look to her face, almost like she didn’t trust him. Such behavior was learned, and he hated that she was taught to distrust kindness.
He pushed away from the door and went to her, lifting his hand to cradle her cheek in his palm even as he told himself to leave her be.
But he couldn’t resist touching her, feeling her smooth skin against his palm, hearing the way her breath caught when he caressed her. He stroked her plump lower lip with his thumb, thrilling at the way he could light the fire in her eyes with such a simple touch.
“You’re always so beautiful, and yet you don’t seem to know it,” he whispered, tracing the line of her lips now, following the path of her jaw until he slipped his thumb beneath her chin and tilted her face to accept his kiss.
Only he didn’t kiss her. He drew his lips close, close enough that he could smell the clean scent of her skin, but he didn’t kiss her. He hovered just over her lips, knowing how it must torment her.
“Do you know how beautiful you are, Della? Can you understand?” He whispered the words across her lips, and he felt the flutter of her eyelashes, but she didn’t answer him.
He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, lightly, teasingly. He moved to the other corner, and this time pressed just a degree harder.
Still, she didn’t move, didn’t whimper. But he saw the way her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, heard the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
He whispered his lips over the line of her cheekbone to her temple and pressed a kiss against the soft skin there.
“So beautiful,” he murmured with his lips still pressed against her skin.
He slipped his arm around her waist carefully, his hand tracing lightly along her back. He could feel every knot of her spine through the thin fabric of her borrowed nightdress, and he knew if he only closed the distance between them, wrapped his arm more tightly around her, he could feel all of her pressed against him.
He wanted it at the same time he was afraid of it. He couldn’t let himself lose control again. Every time he let his guard down something happened, and he couldn’t afford to do it again. No matter how much he craved her kisses or how beautiful she looked with moonlight spilling over her.
Then why was his hand moving lower and lower still? Why did he press his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw?
She sighed. The sound was so soft, so wistful, he almost thought it a dream, but then she moved. It was so slight, he might have made it up, but her body curved. Not into him, but into the place where his lips touched her jaw, almost as if her body yearned for more.
It was then his resolve snapped. He could feel it let go entirely like a dam breaking. Desire rushed into all those places he had so resolutely barricaded, and he wondered why he had attempted it at all.
He grabbed her, wrapping his arm fully around her until she pressed against the length of him, and it was just as glorious as he knew it would be. He groaned against the soft place just in front of her ear where his lips were pressed. Groaned with the ecstasy of it and the anticipation. He could feel every curve as she fitted against him, and now he wanted to touch her everywhere.
He pulled away far enough to capture her mouth and steal the kiss with which he had teased them both. He plundered and took, heedless of her desire, but it didn’t matter. Her moan told him all he needed to know.
He buried his hand in her hair, holding her against his kiss while he explored her mouth, her lips. His hand at her back traveled farther, daring to cup her buttocks and pull her snuggly against him.
God, he was hard, and the feel of her soft body against his was almost enough to undo him. He knew she could feel the length of him, and she didn’t shy away from it. Instead, she put her hands against his back, her fingers digging into his muscles. Fire burned through him, and he found his fingers clawing for the hem of her nightdress.
He shifted, guiding Della backward until they reached the table that sat at the end of the room. Only then did he allow his exploring fingers to gain purchase, pushing her nightdress to her hips.
God, as suspected she wore nothing under it, and she was bared to him. Finally. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see all of her. In the moonlight. Now.
He pressed her back until she was on top of the table. He tried to remember that this was still very new to her, and he pleasured her with the kisses he knew she enjoyed.
“Please let me touch you,” he whispered against her ear, but her hands had already found their way to his shoulders, her fingers pressing into his flesh.
“You must touch me. Please,” she whispered back, and he couldn’t help but smile at her urgency.
He wasn’t alone in this. Whatever this was between them it was mutual, and it only served to make him burn hotter.
He ran his open palms along the curves of her thighs, spreading her legs for him. He traced the pale skin to where it ended in the nest of curls at her mound, but he wouldn’t let himself go farther.
Instead, he followed the line of her torso up to where a neat line of buttons marched their way down her front. He spent aching seconds undoing each one, knowing that if he ripped the nightdress from her, she would be without clothing entirely. When the last button slipped free, he shoved the nightdress from her shoulders. He pulled her arms from around him and pressed each of her open palms to the table behind her. The loosened fabric of the nightdress spilled down her arms revealing her breasts to him.
He stilled as the moonlight fell over her. Her breasts were full and magnificent, the nipples puckered in the chill night air. He wanted to stroke her breasts, suck each of the nipples into his mouth in turn, but he did none of that. He lifted a solitary finger and traced the curve of her right breast, following the pale skin to the dusty pink of her areole.
“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.” The words were choked with desire, and finally he bent his head, replacing his finger with his lips.
She arched into him, a cry escaping her lips, and he wrapped his arms around her until she was bending over them, offering her full breasts to him. And he took. He was not strong enough to resist, and when her fingers returned to his shoulders, her grip frantic, he lost what little resolve he had left.
He sucked her nipple, rolling his tongue around it, before moving to the other breast, delivering the same exquisite torture.
He traced the line of her breastbone with his tongue, traveled up the column of her neck until he captured her mouth once more. She writhed in his arms now, her mound pressing against his hard penis until he was afraid he would come in his trousers. He had to be inside of her, and it had to be fast.
He pulled away, his fingers scrambling to undo the buttons of his trousers.
“Andrew.” The sound of his name, weak with her desire, almost undid him.
Finally he was free, and he gripped her hips, pulling her to the edge of the table. He buried himself in her in a single, smooth thrust. He groaned with the ecstasy of it. She spasmed around him, her muscles tightening at his intrusion, and his fingers flexed into the softness at her hips.
“Saints, Della, you feel too good.”
Her head was thrown back, but she looked up at this, her eyes half-closed as desire tightened her features.
“Too good?” Her voice was breathless, but he could still hear the uncertainty.
He pulled her against him, her breasts pressed against his chest, and he knew the next time he would have time to undress. He wanted to feel her naked body against his. The way her nipples hardened, the rounded softness of her belly, the supple curve of her thigh over his hip. He wanted all of it.
“Too good,” he repeated against her lips, nibbling playfully before sucking her lower lip into his mouth.
He began to move, sliding into her in long, even strokes until she whimpered. Only when he thought she couldn’t bare it any longer did he pick up his tempo, moving faster, harder against her. He kneaded the soft skin at her hips as he tightened his grip, holding her even as she squirmed against him.
“Andrew, please,” she moaned.
He slipped a hand between them and found her sensitive nub. He flicked his thumb across it, once, twice, thrice, and she jerked against him as her muscles tightened along his shaft.
“Oh God, Della. Please tell me this feels good. I want it to be so good for you.”
“It is,” she whispered. “It’s so…so…” But her voice faded away as her head fell back, as her fingernails dug into the skin at the back of his neck.
He circled her nub at the same time he withdrew and plunged, moving deeper within her. He could almost feel her tighten, sense the crescendo of her climax as it grew. He resisted the urge to bury himself within her, to pound her into her release and his. He held himself back, torturing her with each deliberate stroke.
“Andrew, please,” she moaned again, and this time she lifted her hips, grinding against him even as he tried to hold her at bay.
The sensation was too intense, and he felt himself slip, felt the edge of his release too close.
“Della,” he moaned, and his need overtook him.
He pounded into her now. Vaguely he heard the scrape of the table legs against the floor as he buried himself in her over and over again. Her full breasts bounced with the force of his thrusts, and he reveled in it, capturing one to knead against his palm, rolling the nipple between his fingers, unable to resist touching her just a little longer.
But it was too much. She was too wet and too tight.
He flicked his thumb over her nub relentlessly, and he felt the moment her orgasm hit her. She went entirely still around him, and he leaned forward, letting himself go.
The power of his release buckled his legs, and he put his hands against the edge of the table to hold himself up. When a semblance of strength returned, he straightened and gathered her into his arms, holding her against him.
He didn’t want to think about how perfectly she fit there, nestled in his arms, her head just under his chin. Slowly his breathing evened out, and the strength slowly returned to his legs, but he didn’t let go of her. He held her and wondered why he enjoyed that even more than making love to her.
It felt so good to just hold her.
But she hadn’t made a single sound, and she’d grown impossibly still in his arms. Reluctantly he drew back far enough to see her face.
“Della, are you all right?” He placed a single finger beneath her chin to raise her face so he could see her expression.
When her eyes fluttered opened, he thought he saw a dampness there, and fear that he might have hurt her spiraled through him. But then she blinked, and he thought it only a trick of the moonlight.
“I’m quite all right,” she said, but her voice was soft.
“You should be in bed.” He reached for the nightdress that was still caught along her arms. “I shouldn’t have kept you up.”
He withdrew from her only when he afforded her the decency of her nightdress. He turned away while he fixed his trousers and when he turned back, she had slipped off the table, the nightdress returned to rights as if nothing had ever happened.
He held out his hand to her. “Come. You’ll need your sleep before we leave for London.”
She had been reaching for his hand but stopped at his words.
“London?” Her eyes widened, and even in the dimness he could see the very real trepidation in them.
“Yes, London. I want to put as much distance between us and Scotland as possible.”
“But aren’t there things required of a duchess in London? I haven’t any training and—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping forward to snatch the hand that lay forgotten at her side. “My sisters will be there to help you.”
What little color he could see in her face drained away.
“I gave the last sister who tried to help me a black eye.”
He laughed. “Yes, but she deserved that. I know you will find Eliza and Louisa to be much more helpful.”