Authors: Jane Prescott
Ania crossed over to where her sister stood and placed both hands on each of her shoulders. “Never, my darling. But some things are just between husband and wife. Just like some things are just between you and me,” she said, and felt Margaret soften against her.
“All right,” Margaret answered crossly, but Ania could tell her sister was well on her way to forgiving her. “Would you go ahead and hurry up with the latest installment, then? David will be waiting.”
“David? Why sister, I had no idea you and Mr. Turnquist were on such familiar terms,” teased Ania as she bound together the ink-stained pages. Turning around, she found that Margaret’s cheeks had colored, and realized that she had hit upon an unexpected truth. “Margaret?”
“Oh hush, Ania, it’s nothing,” Margaret replied, taking the papers from her hand. “We talk sometimes, is all, when I deliver the papers. He—he says I have an inquisitive mind,” she finished hesitantly.
“You do, Margaret,” Ania replied thoughtfully, noticing how her sister’s demeanor had changed at the mention of the handsome blond editor. “He is a nice man, in reality, and an unusual one,” she continued, thinking of the rather unusual man sharing her own bed.
It was as if Margaret could read her thoughts. “Do you think you will ever tell him?”
“Perhaps.”
“Or perhaps he will find out when he finds his own likeness in the next installment!” Margaret crowed, and Ania dove for her in quite the unladylike manner.
“Who will find his likeness where?” a deep voice behind them queried.
The sisters froze in their merriment and looked, for all the world like two schoolchildren caught misbehaving in class. They stepped away from each other, and the looks on their faces did not escape the notice of Nicholas Connols.
“Although my sister has often told me that I am given to flights of fancy,” Ania finally said, “it seems that it is she who has quit the imagination!”
Nicholas smiled. “And what has she imagined?”
“That she has read of your likeness in the latest installment of the Illustrated Lady!” cried Ania, well-pleased at her quick thinking. Until she saw the betrayed look on Nicholas’s face and realized he thought that she had told Margaret of his secret. Which she had, but not for the reasons he imagined. Sensing the tension between them, Margaret left soon after.
Later that night, in the privacy of Ania’s bedchambers, Nick watched her with unusual quiet from the chair. She felt strangely unnerved in his presence, as if she had transgressed in some large way; she could not bear the quiet and the way he refused to meet her eyes. She had to speak.
“Oh Nick, please do not be cross with me! I did not tell Margaret that you read the serial,” cried Ania, biting her bottom lip.
“Then why were you talking about it?”
“Because ever since you started reading them to me, I have been unable to tear myself away. There, I said it.”
Nicholas’s face softened, although he still looked doubtful. “And that is the only reason?” he asked.
“Well,” answered Ania, thinking fast, “it is also partly because of Margaret.”
“What about Margaret?”
“Oh, Nick, can I truly share this with you?”
“You can share anything with me, Ania,” he told her, and pulled her gently by the shoulders until she lay in their favorite position with her head on his shoulder on the bed. He held her hand in his own and neither one of them could remember when they had last felt so cozy outside of this room.
“Nick, I think Margaret is in love,” Ania blurted, not realizing until she said it out loud that it was the truth. That was the look she had caught earlier pass over her sister’s face.
“But that’s wonderful!” said Nicholas, drawing her closer to him. “How lucky she is. Do I dare ask the name of the lucky lord who has caught her eye?”
“Do you know Mr. David Thunrow?”
Understanding dawned on Nicholas’s face. So that is why Margaret and Ania had been reading the serial. His frequent perusal of the bold periodical had left him all too familiar with the masthead, and he knew that Lord Turnquist was indeed, one and the same as David Thunrow, editor and owner of the paper that printed the Illustrated Lady.
“A fabulous choice!” approved Nicholas, but caught sight of his wife’s troubled face. “You do not agree, Ania?”
“It is simply that I do not think that Lord Thunrow is looking to wed, particularly a girl right out of the schoolroom,” Ania answered worriedly.
Nicholas considered what he knew of Lord Thunrow’s age, estate, and the encounter he had had with him in several houses of ill repute and had to agree with Ania. Then again, given the nature of his occupation—and the fact that he had one at all, given his fortune—Lord Turnquist was quite an unusual man. And if Margaret was anything like her sister, she bucked the norm, as well. There was nothing that said they could not end up in a happy union together, particularly given the way Margaret said he spoke to her. He did not do so often, and Nicholas let Ania know all this.
“Oh Nick, do you really think so?” she cried, sitting up and looking at him with all the eagerness of a puppy.
Nicholas felt a strange emotion coat his throat at the naked trust in her eyes. “Well,” he said hoarsely, pausing to clear his throat, “In the worst case scenario, we can always chain an unwilling Lord Turnquist to my carriage and gallop him away to an impromptu wedding with your sister.”
Ania let loose a loud laugh at the image. “You sir, are terrible!” she cried, swatting at his chest with her hand.
Nicholas caught her hand and turned its palm up to his lips. Ania felt that all the way down to her toes, and her breath caught as Nicholas’s brown eyes met hers as his mouth continued its sensual journey all the way down her bare arm. Heart hammering, she allowed herself to be drawn into the crook of his arm, as her beautiful, generous husband looked her directly in the eyes and poised himself above her mouth.
Never had Ania wanted anything so much in her entire life as she did the duke’s mouth on hers. As his tongue flicked out to moisten his lower lip, Ania lost whatever semblance of control she had maintained during his pathway of kisses, rose up out of his arms, took his face into her hands, and kissed him for all she was worth.
Nicholas felt that kiss so acutely it was as if he was being reborn. Blood rushed away from his vital organs and went straight into his mouth, where every nerve was teased alive by Ania. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in raw enthusiasm, and it was perhaps the very fact that she wanted him that was causing his more animalistic desires to override any sense of gentlemanliness he had maintained over the past week. Her hands on his face, tugging him closer got under his skin, and he gathered Ania’s small form into his arms. She broke the kiss to settle, agonizingly, into his lap, and, holding his head in her hands, stared at his mouth and eyes with all the intensity of an explorer who has discovered a new country.
There was more, she was sure of it, she thought as she settled her lips on his again. Something was attracting her attention at the forefront of her mouth, and she realized he was parting her lips with his tongue. Oh, but what a funny feeling slinked down her stomach! As his tongue danced a merry tango with hers, encouraging hers to meet it, Ania felt a strange ache between her legs. It was Nicholas who broke away this time to slide his gaze all the way down her body, and to her short-breathed delight, he slid a hand along her leg, settled on her hip, closed both hands around her waist, and drew her chest against his. She rose above him like a sensual nymph, loving the feeling of his hands on her as she knew she would.
His soft mouth on hers again, and she moaned. The sound almost undid the last of his restraint, and he tried hard to think of something else to distract himself. The day he had fallen off a horse, he thought, and was just beginning to settle back into a more reserved version of himself when Ania bent her head down to his ear and breathed, “More.”
Nicholas broke away from her and lay her down on the bed before him, her wonderful wavy hair spread out behind her and her eyes warm and trusting. He grinned at the sight and shook his head. “Not tonight, Ania.”
“Why not?”
“Because we have the rest of our lives to discover each other, and I fear you are not quite ready yet.”
“Oh—” she broke off, chewing her lip again, looking as if a very important thought was in her head.
“What is it?”
“It’s just that—well, there is more, right?” she asked, and the wicked curiosity in her eyes almost made Nicholas lose his self-control all over again.
He reached down to pick up one of her small hands again, and carefully placed it to the bulge in his breeches. Her eyebrows spiked all the way to her hairline, and for a moment, he was scared she would draw back, an affront he was not certain his pride could take, but she did not. Instead, she looked up at him curiously.
“Do you feel that, Ania?”
She nodded, her eyes huge and green.
“That is my promise to you, my dear, that there is more,” Nicholas said, bending down to kiss her again, feeling her delighted response beneath him. “Much, much more.”
Ania thought about that for a moment and smiled.
It would not be long before she discovered all that much, much more was about.
* * *
And then the pirate slowly divested Marguerite of her clothes, leaving her as naked as the day she was born.
“Blast!” he cried, knowing that he was hopelessly lost forever.
Nicholas put down the pages of the serial and lay a kiss on the head of Ania, who lay nestled against his arm, listening with great intent.
“That was a good one, wasn’t it, Nicholas?” she asked, her green eyes strangely serious. He laughed, then kissed her on the lips.
“Yes, my dear, that was truly exciting,” he replied with a broad smile.
It had been two weeks since they had settled into a delicious bedtime routine. Nicholas would come into Ania’s bedchamber, and the pair of them would curl up on the great bed in the center of the room, laughing, talking, and yes, often reading the latest installment the Illustrated Lady proffered; it had become quite the ritual between them, always exciting them to the point where they could do nothing but kiss and touch one another. Lately, however, Ania had begun to wonder if the more the duke had spoken of would be forever denied to her. Although he seemed to enjoy the kissing as much as she, he showed no signs of taking matters between them any further.
She delighted in hearing him read her words aloud, however. Now she wrote her serial with Nicholas’s voice in mind, and hearing his baritone bring her words to life filled her with a hunger she could describe only as carnal. However, her curiosity had been spiked about her husband; it was certain that he had an appreciation for creativity and dramatized works, but had he any imagination of his own? Ania decided to test her theory.
“Now that the lady has offered her thoughts on the matter, Nicholas,” she said, snuggling closer to him, “Perhaps you would do me the honor of telling me a story of your own.”
Nicholas looked down at his wife in surprise. Pausing for a few moments, he racked his brain for something that could entice and excite her. Finally, he lighted on a story, made a few wicked changes in his head, and began.
“My brother used to tell me the story of a young girl clad in red who visited her grandmother bearing a basket of treats—”
“Oh, who doesn’t know that one?” Ania asked derisively, but snuggled a little bit closer to his arm.
Nicholas found himself breaking out into a large grin and was glad that she could not see his face. There was something so charmingly child-like about what she had just said, as if she was a little girl who wanted new, who wanted creativity fused with the familiar. Looking over at the full, upward tilt of her bosom, Nicholas recalled many familiar activities that he would want to creatively explore with his new wife.
“She was stalked by something in the forest, something dark and mysterious, which all the locals said was a wolf. But instead, it was a man. He came out of the shadows towards her, and her heart pounded. He had her cornered against a tree, and slowly and carefully, his hand crept up her breastplate to close around her neck.” As Nicholas spoke the words, he drew a careful and sensuous hand across the tops of the duchesses’ breasts and closed around her throat gently.