Scandalous Love (40 page)

"Hello, Serle.
Forgive me for disturbing you," the Duke said evenly.

"Think nothing of
it, Your Grace," Robert Serle replied politely.

"I would greatly
appreciate the use of one of your carriages."

"My pleasure"
Serle said, turning and calling downstairs to his butler to order round the
coach.

"Traitor!"
Nicole cried, coming to her senses. "Help me, please! Martha—"

Hadrian smacked her
across her buttocks again. Nicole was dumbfounded into silence. "And my
stallion needs tending, if you please."

"Do not worry, he
shall be fed and groomed immediately."

"Put me down."

"Why?" the
Duke asked calmly. "You choose to misbehave like a child, so you shall be
treated like a child. Errant wives get what they deserve." He began
walking down the stairs.

"Oooh!" Nicole
was momentarily incoherent with rage.

"Test my patience
one more time," he said too conversationally as she began to twist
frantically, "and I shall put you over my knee as if you were six."

She stopped struggling.

They paused in the
foyer. The butler nonchalantly pretended not to see them. Martha came hurrying
downstairs. Nicole tried to catch her eye desperately, but Martha was careful
not to look at her. "You will need this," she said to Hadrian. She
gave the butler two heavy blankets and a full-length fur coat.

"You too!"
Nicole cried, almost sobbing now.

"The coach is here,
Your Grace," the butler said. He could not quite keep the relief from his
voice.

"Thank you, Lady
Serle. Again, forgive the intrusion," the Duke said, following the butler
outside and to the coach. Fortunately it had stopped drizzling. When the servant
opened the door, Hadrian unceremoniously tossed Nicole onto one of the seats.
He heaved himself in after her, reaching past her to lock the opposite door
before she could even move to leap out that side of the carriage. He pocketed
the key.

"Wait!" Martha
cried, running from the house with a bottle in her hand. "You will need
this too!" She shoved a bottle of brandy at him. The butler slammed that
door shut.

Hadrian nodded his
thanks and knocked on the ceiling sharply. The coach moved off. Then he stretched
out his long legs and turned to look at his wife.

"I hate you!"
she cried, heavy tears sparkling on her lashes.

"I am sure that you
do," he said calmly. He threw the fur coat at her. "After all, if you
loved me you would not have asked me for a divorce, would you?"

Nicole's nostrils
flared. Tears slipped from her lashes, tracking down her cheeks. She stared at
him as if incapable of responding.

"Just to set the
record straight," the Duke said quite conversationally, "a divorce is
out of the question."

"Why?"

"Because I do not
wish it."

"And my wishes do
not interest you in the least!"

"That is
correct."

Nicole stiffened, then
covered her face with her hands. She was not going to cry. She was not going to
unleash all the grief and anguish which she had so carefully and deeply buried.
She was not.

But she could feel it
boiling up in her like a volcano about to spew forth its hot, molten contents.

She grappled with
herself and finally, she won. She parted her hands to see the Duke regarding
her impassively. "I will make your life unbearable."

"It already
is," he said calmly.

Nicole blinked.

His smile was tight,
cold. "I am damned if I do and damned if I don't," he informed her.
"But I may as well get something out of this marriage, such as an
heir."

She did not understand,
and did not care to, not when he was stating his intentions so badly. "Is
that what I am to you? A brood mare? Damn you! I will not bear you a son!"

He leaned towards her
abruptly. There was no longer anything casual about his posture or his expression—hot
rage glittered in his eyes. "You may make your position as my wife as
elaborate—or as mundane—as you choose. And you
will
do your duty. You
will
bear me my son."

"No!" Nicole
cried, frantic. She lunged past him for the door. It was locked, as she had
known it was, but she shook it wildly anyway. Immediately he pulled her away,
from behind. With a wild cry that was half a sob she twisted to claw at him
viciously. He caught and restrained her hands instantly, forcing her body into
an intimate embrace with his and pushing her backwards against the seat
cushions. Nicole writhed and writhed hopelessly while he held her pinned there,
panting and bucking, tears of rage and frustration and despair streaking her
cheeks. Finally she had no strength left and she went limp against the seats in
defeat.

He did not move. He made
no attempt to free her, even though they both knew she was exhausted—and that
she had lost. As Nicole's breathing slowed, as the mad rage which had blinded
her diminished, she grew more aware of the feel of his chest against hers, his
hip against hers. His arms were around her, his hands grasping her wrists,
pinned behind her back. A day's growth of beard was rough against her cheek.
His steady breathing was warm against her skin.

Panic flared.

It flared the instant
all of her senses kicked into total awareness of his strength, his power, his
heat, his maleness. And their intimacy.

"I will not try to
escape," Nicole whispered, turning her head slightly. To her horror, her
lips brushed his chin as she spoke. "Let me up." Her voice quavered.

He did not move, nor did
he answer. The silence lengthened. Her heart was beating madly now. Although he
still gripped her wrists, it was loosely now, and she became aware that she was
actually in his arms. She was afraid to lift her gaze, afraid to look into his
eyes.

She knew what she would
see there.

She looked up. Their
glances met. His was burning, but not with anger. "Please don't," she
begged.

He shifted slightly and
his heartbeat came into contact with hers. Her breasts were crushed fully by
his chest. His coat was open, his shirt soaking wet. Nicole's nipples tightened
instantly in response to the sensation of hot male skin covered only by the
thinnest layer of silk; her own silk bodice was now equally wet and equally
disturbing. Dismayed, she knew he could feel her body's exuberant response.

"Please," she
begged again, her voice catching breathlessly.

He shifted. Nicole
thought he was moving away from her, and she wanted to weep with relief. But he
only moved to release her hands so he could slide his palms up to her breasts.
"This is where we suit," he said roughly. "Rather, this is how
we suit. You won't deny me now, Nicole, will you?"

She wanted to deny him,
she did. But he crushed her breasts gently in his hands, his fingertips grazing
her nipples, his gaze never leaving hers. And instead of protesting, Nicole
gasped in pleasure.

He locked his arms
beneath her back and lifted her abruptly in an arch to his mouth. He took one
silk-clad nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Nicole grasped his head, not to
push him away, but to hold him to her.

He released her. He
gripped her knees and pulled her down onto the seat. As he loomed up over her
their gazes met again. Puffs of vapor formed with each rapid, hard breath he
took. Nicole looked at his exquisitely handsome face, strained with a passion
as dark and consuming as her own, and her heart lurched. His eyes were golden
flames, burning intensely. Promising intensely. But promising her what? A moment's
paradise? She wanted eternity.

She realized what he was
doing. His hands fumbled with the clasp of his trousers. She watched him reveal
his phallus, engorged and fully erect. Abruptly he flipped the silk skirts of
her nightgown up over her waist and out of his way. Nicole closed her eyes,
unmoving, waiting.

He came down over her
and slid into her in one fast, fluid motion. Nicole instantly rose to embrace
him. Her arms coiled around his shoulders, her legs around his hips. He filled
her completely, instantly, hotly. For one moment he was still and she was
still. Again their gazes locked. Again she glimpsed the promise she did not
understand. Then he took her mouth with his, just as completely as he had taken
her body with his.

He moved. He moved fast,
deep. Nicole strained with him. There was no gentle introduction, no playful
prologue, just hard, rough thrusting. Nicole slid back on the seats, thrusting
up her own hips to meet him in a series of violent dead-on collisions. Harder.
Faster. Their bodies met with fury, punishing one another. Nicole gripped him
fiercely as a tidal wave of intense, mindshattering pleasure swept over her.
She shouted her release.

He laughed. He laughed
as he rode her in a final thrust that was deeper, more complete, harder. His powerful
buttocks tensed as he drove her up against the opposite side of the carriage.
Nicole held on tightly, her nails penetrating his skin as another wave of
savage spasms attacked her as he swelled and swelled and finally burst inside
her.

They lay limp, drained.
The carriage rocked them back and forth. Nicole grew aware of his full weight
crushing her, of his wet shirt and trousers abrading her bare breasts and bare
legs. Her nightgown was tangled up hopelessly around her waist. Yet she wasn't
cold. His body steamed with heat, warming her own flesh.

Realization of what they
had just done and her own active, eager participation, brought despair swiftly
into her heart. Nicole turned her face away from him, closing her eyes. The
moment she did so she became aware of his regard upon her.

She would not meet it.
She would not. For if she opened her eyes she would cry. He was already the
victor, and he did not deserve another victory.

She still loved him.
Despite all that had happened, she did. And she hadn't forgotten why she had
run away, or how he had abducted her from Cobley House. And now, now she was
reminded of just how hopeless her resistance to him was—in any way or any form.

"Nicole," he
said.

She refused to answer.

"I know you are not
sleeping."

She screwed her eyes
tightly shut. She wished he would get up so that she need not be reminded of
how warm and hard his body was, but he merely shifted to one side. The anguish
was there again. She choked it down. He had forced her to return to him, she
could not escape him, just as she could not escape her love for him. And his
only interest in her was sexual—just as was his interest in Holland Dubois and
God only knew how many other women. It was hopeless, so hopeless. To love such
a man was hopeless. She was not going to cry, for if she did, she would never
stop.

He touched her face.
Nicole refused to respond. But his fingers were light and gentle, and despite
her distress, his touch seemed tender, which she knew was an overwrought
illusion on her part. His thumb stroked her mouth.

"Please
don't."

"Then look at
me."

She did, and tears
welled up in her eyes. She didn't know what she had expected to see in his
gaze, but it wasn't the softness that was there. It was her undoing, and she
choked back a sob.

"Perhaps if you cry
you will feel better."

"No."

"I doubt you will
feel worse." He smiled slightly.

She could not smile
back. Suddenly she wanted to be in his arms, when that was the last place she
should ever think of looking for comfort. Quickly she closed her eyes and
turned her face away again, praying in one breath that he would put some
distance between them, and in the next, that he would reach for her and hold
her.

"Is it truly that
bad?"

His tone was gentle. He
still loomed over her. He was too close. Nicole knew she must say something
inflammatory, she must. Instead, she opened her eyes and again met his gaze.

The softness was still
there. His expression seemed caring, but she knew he did not care, not for her,
not really, not any more than he did for his mistress. Her hands found his
chest and she tried to shove him away, panic choking her. "Please!"

He sat up and pulled her
into his arms.

"God, no!" She
cried, flailing at him blindly and missing by a wide margin.

He cradled her against
his chest. "Cry."

"Please don't do
this," she said, but she was already crying. He didn't answer, but he ran
one large hand up and down her back repeatedly. "Damn you," Nicole
wept. "Damn you," she sobbed. Her fists balled and struck his chest,
the blows pitiful, overwhelmed as she was by her tears. "I hate you,"
she sobbed, flailing at him. "I hate you."

He tensed, but he did
not let her go and he continued to stroke her. She continued to weep, giving
vent to such a storm of tears that he was shocked at the depth of her grief. He
could not understand why she cried, but he could identify with this kind of
pent-up, bone-deep hurt. His arms tightened upon her. He rocked her as if she
were a child. And holding her, he was sad.