Lord Ruin (8 page)

“And the moment they do, you are bored and must find another heart to break.”

“If any broke their hearts over me, that’s not my affair. Now, Anne, surely, there are more pleasant things at hand than whether I am bored by silly women. Do not look away.” He put a finger under her chin and brought her head back to face him. “Your skin is soft. Like silk. Everywhere I touch you.” He put action to his words and stroked her cheek. “I made love to you. Here. In this very room.
We
made love, make no mistake of that. You were—and are—so very passionate, and you made me feel like a bloody stallion.” He ran a finger down her throat, feeling her racing pulse. “The experience was . . . shattering. Last night. . . Last night—I shan’t ever forget it. I can’t.” He hadn’t intended to make love to her, but now there wasn’t anything he wanted more.

And she, sensing the change in him, went stiff. Her hands made fists at her sides, and she clenched her jaw.

Her perfume floated to him, light and pleasant, with a hint of citrus. “I will be gentle.” But her body shook, and her eyes locked onto his, wide and panicked. Thinking to calm her, he kissed her. Tenderly. A lover’s kiss. The sort of kiss he had used to great effect on dozens of other women: soft and just the least bit eager. With his fingers now buried in her hair, he tasted her, feeling the shape of her mouth under his and, regrettably, absolutely no indication that she knew what to do to help things along. “Have you never been kissed?” he asked, pulling back from her. “Well,” he amended, remembering the likely answer to that. Other than by me.

“No.”

After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I think I like that.” He drew her closer. “Do you feel it?” he whispered. He could tell she had no idea what he was asking. “When I’m this near you, the very air thickens with desire. I could reach out and grab a handful, it’s so thick, and all I can think of is kissing you and feeling your maddeningly, wondrously soft body against mine.”

Anne’s head came just under his chin which meant he had only to tip her chin to his to brush his lips over hers once again. As he did so, he slid a hand between them and lightly touched his thumb to the crest of her breast. She nearly jumped out of her skin. He summoned all his patience, which wasn’t much but would have to be enough. His hand fell away from her. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.” She gasped for air and got very little. “I don’t know you,” she said with a soft hiccup. “I know you are my husband, but in fact, I don’t know you at all. I thought you would send me away until the divorce. Now you’re not, and you expect me to ... do ... do whatever it is you intend.”

“You are my wife. And I must have an heir. We will do this often, you and I.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Kiss me, Anne.” A moment passed before he felt her lips press briefly against his. Catching the nape of her neck before she could back away, he kept her close. “Not like that. Like you did last night. Like this.” And he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her until her lips softened under his and she responded. He kissed her until he was completely taken away by the sweetness of her. Leaning back, he touched his fingertips to the side of her face. “You surely do kiss like an angel.”

Behind them, a servant coughed. Her eyes darted past him, but Ruan didn’t look away. “Ignore that.” The moment he heard the door discreetly close, he gathered handfuls of her skirts. “I adore women. I adore making love. I’m told I’m very good at it, but I think you’re better because God knows I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you.” Slowly, he brought the material up and up and up until he touched the bare skin above her garter and was stepping forward to let his body trap the material between them. “I’m harder than a stone,” he said as he opened his trousers to the imperative.

He knew he should save the more interesting variations of sexual congress for later, but he just couldn’t. She set him on fire. He took her there, against the wall, sliding inside her, nearly undone by the soft exclamation that accompanied his entrance, lifting her thigh to open her for him, feeling her not as ready as he might have liked. “Christ, but you are perfect. You are so hot inside.” Moving in her exposed the head of his sex to her depths and almost immediately, pleasure coiled in him, threatening to take over. “Oh, God.” He couldn’t believe the intensity of his every sensation. He’d not been abstinent long enough to feel everything so sharply, but he did.

She put her arms around him, palms touching his back and holding him close. Her earnest and thoroughly unschooled intent to please him did just that. He groaned into her ear, briefly caught the lobe between his teeth before sliding his mouth to the hollow at the base of her throat. Determined to make her want him the way he wanted her, to have her the way she’d been last night, he held her waist and then her upper thigh and for all of five minutes concentrated on her. The effort ended in failure because she made a small sound, an intake of breath, and then he was gliding in her more and more easily and his urgency built. Their hips found a rhythm and there wasn’t anything left of him but desire. The siren call of release beckoned. “Oh, sweet Christ.”

While he moved from orgasm to an otherworldly pleasure that threatened to turn him inside out, she whispered his name. He heard it low and soft, an undercurrent of tenderness beneath the roar of his climax. Cynssyr.
Cynssyr
. One moment, he clung to the edges of himself, in control, if just barely, of his pleasure, and the next he was gone. The sweetest death he’d ever felt in his life.

When he let her go afterward she began to slide to the floor as if only his body, his manhood, had held her up. Then, she gathered herself, adjusting the hem of her gown so that it once again fell to her ankles. She arranged her face with as much care as her skirt. No other description would do. The chin firmed, her back straightened and her mouth curved in a gentle smile. Her hands, though, trembled and gave away the emotion so carefully concealed.

He still didn’t have his breath or his customary equilibrium back. The pleasure lingered, but he wanted it back at the same time he wondered if he would survive it if he felt it again. When he could stand no more of the silence or his inability to gather logical thought, he gave his attention to his clothes.

She tried to repair the damage to her hair, but he’d made a such mess of her braid she had to start over. With deft fingers she twined her hair into another braid. This was not at all what he had intended. She’d had little satisfaction from him. No release at all. At the very moment she ought to be wrapped around him in the aftermath of mutual enjoyment they were a thousand miles apart. Her face once again settled into mute amiability.

Appalled by the magnitude of his failure with her— Did he not pride himself on finesse?—he said, “Forgive me. I am not usually a clumsy or selfish lover.” Lord almighty, he had taken her up against a wall like she was some practiced courtesan. “Next time, I assure you, I will see to your thorough satisfaction.” He walked to her, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, deciding that a change of subject might help relieve the tension. “I’ll place the notices when I arrive in town. Shall I send you copies?”

“I should like that.”

“Devon is right. It’s better that you stay at Satterfield. Let Mama and your family combat the gossips until I send for you.”

“I don’t want to go to London.” She faced him, clutching the curtain in a fist. Pleading as much as he suspected she was capable of doing. It wasn’t much. “Can I not stay there?”

“I’m not about to travel all the way to Satterfield whenever I want to make love to my wife.” Which he now began to think might be often. “Besides, when the time comes, my duchess will be expected to entertain, so you must.”

“I don’t care for parties.”

“There’s no help for that.”

“Than I shall.” She shrugged. “I shall.”

“I’m sorry,” he lied.

“As am I.” He wondered if she knew they weren’t talking about the same thing at all.

Affairs in London kept him frantically busy, so he didn’t get to Satterfield even once in the next three weeks. Even after settling matters with the Council and saving Buckley’s fat neck—the man had been in Germany during three of the assaults of which he’d been accused, and dead drunk at Boodles during another, and further, he had in his possession uncollected vouchers from half of London and so no motive for ransom—there arose crisis after crisis that demanded his attention.

Urgent appeals required his presence at the Justice Courts, and since he was in town, he attended the sessions, which proved just as well because had he not, the pensions bill would surely have been killed. As it was he managed nothing better than to delay the vote.

In deference to his marriage, he accepted no invitations, made no calls and was, in general, unavailable and not at home. His butler, Merchant, was under strict orders to leave the knocker off the front door to keep up the appearance that he was staying at Satterfield with his bride. At Whitehall, he kept Hickenson on guard at his office door. He stayed away from his clubs, except for Brooks, because most political compromise took place at Brooks. When he rode in Hyde Park, he did it at an ungodly hour of the morning. Several times he thought about calling on his mistress, Katie, but never did.

Four weeks into life as a married man, Ruan decided it was time to call Anne to London. Having her in London seemed far more practical than enduring the bother of a journey to Satterfield. Besides, more than once he found himself thwarted by the distance when he discovered himself in a mood for her intimate company.

This particular evening the parliamentary sessions had extended to nearly three in the morning but as soon as he came home, he told Merchant to have Anne brought to London tomorrow. Quite satisfied with his decision, he went to his room. Dobkin glided from his dressing room, a fresh jacket in hand. Gratefully, he changed into clean clothes.

At his desk, he quickly sorted though the afternoon post. Of all the correspondence, only one item interested him. He was by now so used to watching for Anne’s letters he no longer questioned why he so looked forward to one. Ignoring the stack of papers Hickenson had given him on his way out of Whitehall, he took her letter and sat down to read.

Though mostly she penned polite recitations of the weather, Anne had a knack for deft descriptions of village life and of his staff at Satterfield, so he expected her missive would amuse him. Which was why he wasn’t at all prepared for what he read.

“Cynssyr,” she wrote. “I believe I may be with child.”

He went to Satterfield himself.

Slowly, reluctantly, Anne surfaced from deep sleep. Exhaustion pulled at her, clouding her mind. She didn’t know where she was or even who she was with. Someone shook her shoulder. “Anne, my dear.” The voice, a man’s rich and silky voice sent a thrill along her spine. Not her father, which it ought to have been. “We are home.”

Cynssyr. Even before she fully recalled her situation, she felt a curiously physical recognition of the man. Electric. My God, the duke of Cynssyr was her husband, and she had been asleep, truly and deeply asleep with her head and hands on his lap. His warmth had seeped into her, she felt it still, could not shake it off. Her hands and cheek retained the feel of his thighs. A man’s legs, firmly muscled, and yet she had been quite comfortable. She sat slowly, letting her aching body resign itself to wakefulness. Her stomach roiled. She saw him make a sharp motion in the direction of the open carriage window.

“Are you ill again?”

“I don’t mean to be a nuisance.” She swallowed hard and still felt sick. He handed her one of the biscuits they’d discovered fended off the worst of her nausea. Gratefully, she nibbled on it.

She tried not to be obvious about staring at him, but she couldn’t help it. If the duke of Cynssyr had physical imperfections, she had no idea what they were. She had, during her time at Satterfield, read everything even remotely connected to the duke.
The Times, The Court Journal
, anything at all. Her husband, she soon learned, was brilliant. She had good reason to feel intimidated. And embarrassed to have dismissed him as a dilettante. He was anything but.

“Better?” he asked after a bit.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He opened the door. A footman held it open, gray periwig and tricorn hat misted with light rain. Cynssyr stepped down and, boots crunching on the gravel, turned with one of those carelessly melting smiles on his face. He held out a hand.

Something inside her reacted to that breath-robbing, heart-pounding smile so that for a moment she sat frozen on the seat, leaving her husband with his hand extended and the footman holding the door and both getting wetter by the moment. Down she stepped. Another footman hurried forward with an umbrella, ready to escort them inside. Cynssyr moved to her side as grooms led away the coach, and she saw for the first time her husband’s home.

Cywrthorn melted into a backdrop of low gray sky. Somewhere above, a flag whipped in the breeze, but fog shrouded all but the bottom of the flagpole rising from a central dome. Mullioned windows on the lower floors would let in whatever light there was on such a chilly, rainy day. The upstairs windows were wide and sashed. Brass gleamed atop the wrought-iron fence enclosing the courtyard.

Behind her, the gate clanged shut with a hollow ring. Turning, she saw portions of the Cynssyr coat-of-arms fashioned on the black curves. Growling stone lions glared at the street from the gateposts and from the pillars flanking the stairs, holdovers from the days when the Bettencourt titles had not yet included the dukedom.

Cynssyr took her hand and led her up the stairs. On cue, the massive front door opened. Two unsmiling footmen in powdered wigs, green frockcoats and knee breeches bowed at either side of the entrance. Above their heads loomed the lintel and the stone-carved crest of the ducal title. A butler as distinguished as he was severe inclined his head in a respectful bow. Cynssyr released her hand to peel off his gloves. She tried to keep her eyes off a monstrous stuffed tiger positioned so its snarling, glassy-eyed glare confronted anyone entering the house.

Her knees shook, they actually shook because any moment, any moment at all, someone would declare her a fraud. She was no duchess. But the footmen stood at military attention, eyes forward, necks stiff. If they had such thoughts, Anne couldn’t tell. She didn’t dare move from Cynssyr’s side. His gaze shifted from his hands to her with a small sideways glance. The corner of his mouth curved just so. A flare of heat danced in the green eyes, unmistakable and intensely hot. When she looked away from him because if she didn’t she wouldn’t be able to breathe, she caught the butler staring. The man had no expression whatever, but he was staring. He was shocked by her, she felt, because she was not the beautiful princess they had been expecting of Cynssyr.

“Merchant.” Ruan nodded as he led Anne over the threshold. Merchant, he saw, had been knocked back on his heels by the look he’d just given Anne. He’d been with the family for years, and Ruan was expert at reading his shades of expression. A layer of mist covered the coat and hat he handed to his stiffly standing butler.

“Castlereagh sent several messages.” He deftly caught the gloves Ruan tossed him. “All urgent, your grace. There are two from Lord Eldon and one from Norfolk.”

“No others?”

“None important, your grace. Lord Buckley sent a case of champagne.”

“A good vintage, I trust.”

“An excellent one.”

“Tell Hickenson I will see him first thing tomorrow. Put the knocker on the door, but we are not at home tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Merchant edged toward Anne, effortlessly positioning himself to take her pelisse. She slipped free of the garment and took several steps ahead.

Ruan spent a long moment appreciating the sight. The woman walked as sensuously as she smiled. He couldn’t help thinking of her hips moving to meet his. Christ, he fairly itched to have his hands on her intimate places, the insides of her thighs, that lovely, ravishing backside. How had he gone a month without that? Since the end of the war, he’d not lasted a week without making love, and now he’d gone an entire month. Even after indulging himself at Satterfield, he felt eager as ever for his wife’s bed.

Merchant cleared his throat. “May I offer the duchess felicitations on your marriage?”

“You may, thank you,” Ruan said.

“Madam, your grace, best wishes for your future happiness.”

“Thank you, Merchant.” Her fawn gown did no great service to her appearance, Ruan thought. Recent developments had taken their toll on her appetite and the dress hung limply on her shoulders. He knew she must feel much like she looked: tired, slightly crumpled, and glad to be done with the traveling. The journey to London had exhausted her, that was clear from her shadowed eyes and her pale, pale skin. She’d slept like the dead until he’d awakened her.

Merchant bowed, his face devoid of emotion. And yet, Ruan thought as he watched Anne, she possessed an air of serenity that must impress his butler, who considered composure among the highest of accomplishments. The three then walked forward into the great hall in which upwards of a hundred servants waited to meet their new mistress. Merchant began the introductions.

Anne was glad of Cynssyr’s presence. The gathered servants looked a stern bunch, wary and no doubt wondering just what sort of mistress the duke had brought home to them. “I am glad to meet you,” she said when the introductions were over. She raised her voice so the kitchen maids and stableboys arranged in the back could hear her. “All of you.” The corner of her mouth quirked as she glanced around. “And I thought Satterfield large. I shall certainly become lost in this house. If I shout, ‘hullo,’ I hope someone will come running to show me the way.” The moment she finished, she wanted to take it all back. How provincial that sounded. Unsophisticated and every bit the rustic she was.

Cynssyr leaned close and softly said, “Well done, Anne.” He gestured to Merchant. “The duchess and I will dine in her rooms tonight.” That incandescent smile of his appeared, and Anne turned from the sight.

“Your grace,” murmured the butler. Anne’s heart thudded, and she nearly missed Merchant’s gesture. “This way, Madam Duchess, to your apartments.”

Anne walked at Cynssyr’s side. He kept a hand on the small of her back, and she felt the gentle pressure like sparks from a fire. They followed Merchant through the marbled great hall, the gleaming parquet upstairs, over thick wool carpets, past carved paneled walls, under high ceilings painted, molded or decorated with gold.

Gilt-framed dukes watched sternly from beneath powdered wigs, high lace collars and the gleam of polished armor. Crystal chandeliers that must take a team of maids an entire day to polish sparkled from cavernous parlors and withdrawing rooms just glimpsed as they passed. Lovely side tables bearing exquisite vases and marble niches containing figurines of alabaster, marble or bronze decorated the passageways. Rococo mirrors and oils painted by a master’s hand hung from the walls. Through an arched doorway she saw a richer room yet, an entire wall carved with gold-tipped columns.

They stopped. She felt bereft when Cynssyr removed his hand from her waist. For a deathless moment, they stared at each other, oblivious to Merchant. Oblivious to anything but each other. Impulse had her brushing a lock of mahogany hair from his forehead, as if she’d known him for years and was entitled to a gesture of such intimacy.

He caught her hand in the moment before she would have snatched it back. Slowly, he brought her fingers to his lips. “Rest, Anne. I will join you later.” And then he let go and strode briskly down the hall as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

“Your apartments,” Merchant said, opening the door for her.

“Thank you.” Without Cynssyr so near and addling her wits, she recovered her sensible, practical nature. In she went, through a private sitting room done in ivory and gold. On the far side, an interior door led to a small withdrawing room. To the right of that was a dressing room in which young Tilly, who had agreed to leave Aldreth to take on the position of Anne’s ladies maid, and another servant unpacked her trunks.

“To your left, your grace,” said Merchant, opening doors, “the bathing room and watercloset.” Directly forward was the bedroom, also decorated in gold on ivory and big enough to hold two of the largest rooms she had imagined would be hers. “To summon a servant.” Merchant indicated a gold-embroidered pull. “Another by the bed.” Silk gauze tented the bed, falling in delicate ivory curves from a spot high over the center of the bed. “Through here,” said Merchant, opening another door, “the boudoir.”

“Where does that door lead?” She pointed to the opposite side of the room, by now expecting a private library or office, perhaps.

He coughed. “To the duke’s rooms, madam.”

“Yes, of course.” She felt herself go horribly red.

“Shall I send tea?”

“Thank you. Please do.” Tired to the bone, she sank onto a chair covered in gold-striped ivory silk. She thought of Cynssyr and his ease in this huge house, walking past an army of servants as if it were nothing. To him, it was. None of this was out of the ordinary for him. He took no notice of the luxury and splendor. Simply put, he belonged here, and she could not image she would ever feel at home. And yet somehow she must find a way to manage. “Merchant?”

“Madam?” He stopped at the door, his expression as starched and friendly as his cravat.

“You must see I am hopelessly over my head with him.”

Merchant’s face did not change, but she would have sworn his eyes softened in some indefinable way. She grimaced. She needed something to nibble on, something to ease her stomach, only there was nothing at hand. The biscuits had been left behind in the carriage.