The Duke (29 page)

“Aye, I promise.”

She pulled open the sash of his dressing gown, and he felt her hand move from his bare chest downward to his belly. All his control vanished. “You're a witch,” he said and flung off his dressing gown. He heard a rip and couldn't begin to care. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. “I swear
I'll not hurt you this time. You're going to enjoy yourself.”

She wanted to tell him how very magnificent he was, but his lips closed over her breast and she couldn't believe the delicious sensation that rippled through her, all the way to her belly. He wound his hands in the thick masses of blond hair and sought out her mouth, teasing her with his tongue until she opened her lips to him. She felt his hands sweep down her back to caress her hips and stroke her between her thighs.

“Oh, my, are you truly supposed to do that, Ian?”

“What about you? Your hands are all over me.” He'd loved her hands closing over his sex, but that could wait. They had all their lives and he prayed it would be many, many nights. “Don't move now, just enjoy what I'm doing to you.”

“Well,” she began, then squeaked when his mouth closed over her. “Oh, Ian, I don't know about this.”

“Just be quiet, relax, and enjoy it.”

His hands lifted her to his mouth and he was hot and needy, his tongue all over her, and when she cried out, it shocked her. “Oh, goodness, I didn't mean—” She felt the most incredible urgency building, building deep in her belly. It wouldn't stop. It couldn't stop. If it did, she'd die, she knew it. She pressed her hips to his mouth, giving herself completely, and when she reached the first climax of her life, she thought if she died, it wouldn't be a bad thing at all.

He caressed her with his hands and with his mouth until her release was easing. Then he entered her, slowly, very slowly. She pressed her hands against his back, drawing him deeper into her. She waited for the pain, for she felt herself stretching to hold him, but there was no pain, only an exquisite fullness. Deeper and deeper he went, and soon she wondered if either of them would know where one began and the other
left off. She moved beneath him naturally, and clutched him tightly to her. When he gasped aloud, arching over her, she looked at him and knew she'd love him until she left this earth.

She felt a lazy feeling of contentment that made her wonder if anything could exist outside this room, outside of them. She rather hoped it didn't. She didn't want this moment or the next one after this one to end. She wanted him lying on top of her, his face beside hers on the pillow, his breathing still harsh and deep, his heart still pounding furiously against her breasts. He was still deep inside her. It felt wonderful.

“I love ye,” she said into his shoulder. “I didn't bite ye this time.”

He laughed and brought himself up on his elbows. “Well, Brandy, do you think my desire for you is sufficient? Do you think I pictured Marianne or any other woman in my mind when I was inside you? Will you accept me both as your husband and your lover?”

She gazed up at him, her eyes hooded, and nodded, unable to find the words to tell him how she felt. So she said again, “I love ye. I'll love ye forever.”

“And I you. Count on it. And your breasts as well.” He leaned down and kissed them. He moaned and kissed them again. “The most beautiful breasts I've ever seen. Let me kill Morag.”

“No,” she said with great seriousness, “let me kill her. She's a nitwit.”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, full of pleasure. “I wasted two months, Brandy. But never again will I willingly let you out of my sight.”

“Or yer bed?”

“You can't begin to imagine what I'm going to do to you once we're married. Perhaps you can. But know this, Brandy, your pleasure will be my lifetime goal.” Then he squeezed her so tightly she yelped. He kissed her ear. “Thank you for not biting my neck.”

“Ye're welcome. Ian, may I ask ye something?”

At the seriousness in her voice, he drew back slightly so that he could see her full face. “Aye?”

“Do ye truly want children? I remember ye joked about having a half dozen little Fionas. Did ye truly mean it, or were ye just jesting with Giles?”

“Indeed I do. But I'm not wanting a brood mare. We'll have as many children as you wish. There are ways to prevent conception, and we'll use them if you wish to.”

She sighed with contentment. “I'm relieved ye want children. However, I didn't know ye could prevent conception.”

“It's not completely reliable, but if you wish, we'll try them.”

“Perhaps. Someday. When do ye wish to marry, Ian?”

“Soon, very soon. How about tomorrow or the next day? How about in thirty minutes? How about just after I make love to you again? That would be about fifteen minutes from now.”

“Nay, I don't think it would be wise to wait.”

He saw a small smile playing over her mouth. What game was she playing with him? “What wouldn't be wise?”

“Waiting too long to wed. Perhaps we could wait a day or two, though.”

“Are we again talking at cross-purposes? No, I am, but you're not. You're stringing me along like a trout on your line.”

“Not I. It's just that I want to be slender when we wed.”

“Slender? You're skinny. Well, skinny in places it's all right to be skinny. Are you planning to gorge yourself on Cook's haggis?”

“Nay, in fact, it makes me quite ill.”

“Brandy, that's quite enough. No more games. No
more twitting me. What the devil are you talking about?”

“Very well, yer grace,” she said in the falsest docile voice he'd ever heard. “I'm pleased that ye want children, for in truth, we'll have a wee bairn by Christmas.”

H
e stared down at her. She was pregnant? Oh, God. The vagaries of fate plowed through his brain. “You're pregnant,” he said, his brain as blank as a man who'd drunk too much brandy. “You're going to have a babe.”

“Aye.”

“And you didn't see fit to tell me? You didn't see fit to write me?”

“I'm telling ye now, Ian.”

His brain was working. It terrified him. “Would you like to tell me what you would have done if I hadn't come back?” He wanted to shake her hard. He also wanted to crow in satisfaction. He'd made love to her just once, took her virginity, and she was pregnant with his child. She couldn't begin to imagine what that made him feel. But what if she hadn't told him? He rolled off her and lay on his back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. “Tell me, Brandy.”

“I don't know what I could have done. I didn't even realize it until just a few days ago. I was just getting used to the idea. I was just beginning to be afraid. There, I've told ye the truth, so stop that dark, cold voice of yers.”

He groaned in exasperation. Only a few days, well, perhaps she would have written to him. What would
he have done? He would have raced back here like a man on his way to a feast. He would have married her in a flash. But, dear God, what if he hadn't come to his senses? Well, he had. What would it matter if the child were born two months early? It could hardly matter, for he would remove her soon to Carmichael Hall.

He turned and pulled her roughly into his arms. “Did I ever tell you that you're more stubborn than I am? No, don't shake your head. I'm a saint of docility compared to you. If ever you keep anything from me again, I swear I'll thrash you.”

“Not until after Christmas, I hope.”

He spoke with sudden decision, “No big wedding in Hanover Square for you, my girl. You won't mind missing out on a big wedding, will you?”

“Bah, it's nothing to me. I don't want to be surrounded by people I don't know who would likely expect me to stumble over my wedding gown.”

“Excellent. I shall have Bertrand help with the arrangements. Will you wed me on Saturday, Brandy?”

She was silent for a very long time. He was close to shaking with impatience when she said, leaning against his shoulder, “All right. But only because I want to be skinny.”

He couldn't believe how relieved he was. But his mind was already leaping ahead. He said, “At least I don't have to worry about your care. Edward Mulhouse, a doctor and an excellent friend of mine in Suffolk, will attend you.”

“He's a man?” She sounded utterly appalled.

“All doctors are. Certainly he's a man. Come, Brandy, Edward is young, but you won't find a finer doctor anywhere. What is this? You're embarrassed because a doctor will examine you, and yet you come to my bedchamber and seduce me—twice—without a by-your-leave?”

She poked him in the ribs. He felt her magnificent breasts against his side. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

“It wasn't exactly like that,” she said, and pressed harder against him. She felt his hands rove over her belly. “Our babe is in there,” she whispered.

“It's incredible,” he said. His fingers moved lower.

“Damn ye, Ian,” she said at last, “if ye're going to dally with me, I'll just have to seduce ye again.”

“Yes,” he said. “That's a fine idea.”

He remembered to ask her before she fell contentedly asleep, her cheek against his chest, “Brandy, whatever did you want the two hundred pounds for?”

She was silent for some moments, and he felt her breasts quicken their upward and downward movement against him. He wanted her again. No, he couldn't. They were both very tired. She was probably very sore.

“I told ye, the money was for clothes.”

“Don't lie to me, Brandy. Come, out with it.”

“Why are ye so interested? I can't imagine that a mere two hundred pounds could mean much of anything to ye.” Then she turned and buried her face against his shoulder and said in a muffled voice, “Please, Ian, don't ask me for a reckoning, for I can't tell ye.”

“You
refuse
to tell me?”

“Aye, I refuse. Don't give me that kingly look of yers. I'll thank ye to remember that ye can't threaten me until after our babe is born.”

“Oh, I can threaten all I like, it's just that I can't do anything more. I'll just have to use my superior wit and reasoning power on you. We will speak more of this later, Brandy.”

He wouldn't drop it, she knew that. But at least she wouldn't have to come up with another lie just yet.
She curled close to him, kissed his shoulder, and burrowed her face against his chest.

Ian awoke near dawn the next morning, realized Mabley would surely succumb to apoplexy were he to arrive at Penderleigh and open the door upon the two of them. It was difficult, but he managed to slip Brandy back into her nightgown. He disliked disturbing her peaceful sleep almost as much as covering those beautiful breasts of hers. God, and all the rest of her. It was almost too much for a man to bear.

He carried her to her room, on the watch for any early rising servants. He kissed her gently on the forehead and returned to his bed for several more hours' sleep.

Brandy wasn't at the breakfast table. Ian smiled to himself, picturing her lying in her bed, smiling, satisfied, and anticipating being with him again. Men, he thought, their minds were very basic.

Bertrand, though, was soon shown into the breakfast room by Crabbe, and Ian grimaced slightly at the sight of the heavy account ledger he carried under his arm.

“Good morning, Ian,” he said, all hearty and revoltingly well rested. Ah, but who cared? “I trust ye slept well last night. Nay, I see ye still look a bit weary. A pity, but perhaps ye've just enough energy to take a small look at the accounts.”

“I'm fine, Bertrand,” the duke said, and smiled at the rusted cannon in view outside the window. “You're going to let me eat my breakfast first, aren't you?”

“Certainly. Where is Crabbe? Where's the porridge? Now, while ye're waiting, I'll just summarize all we've done in the last two months. Listen carefully now, Ian.”

“I'd thought you'd done that last evening.”

“Oh, nay, that was just the barest titillation.”

“Devil seize you, Bertrand. Very well, go ahead, addle my wits.”

If Bertrand thought the duke's attention to be wandering during his recital, he made no mention of the fact until, at the end of a half hour, he paused, seeing that the duke was looking thoughtfully out the window. “I daresay that Napoleon will much appreciate my services.”

“What's this? Napoleon? What the devil are you talking about, Bertrand?”

“Nonsense, nothing but nonsense. I just wanted to assure myself that yer thoughts were indeed many miles away from here, and they are.”

“No, not miles away at all.” The duke grinned. “I beg your pardon, Bertrand. If you must know, I've got much too much on my mind at the moment.”

“Ye're worried that yer attacker still awaits ye here?”

“Not really. Well, now that you mention it, perhaps I shouldn't forget it entirely.”

“Then what are ye plotting, Ian?”

The duke gave him an expansive smile. “That, my friend, you'll discover soon enough. I meant to tell you, after watching you and Constance last night at the dinner table, that you've made rather impressive headway since I last saw you.”

Bertrand was concentrating hard on his knuckles. “Dammit,” he said suddenly, “she's so very young, and skittish, despite all her bravado about looking and acting older than Brandy. Ye must know that Lady Adella and my father are forever twitting the both of us, and that doesn't help matters.” He sighed and said somewhat in the matter of a stoic, “I really haven't all that much to offer her either. Living in the dower house with my father and me? Although Percy is no longer a problem—thank God—she naturally dreams of fine clothes, carriages, servants of her own, not to
mention rubbing shoulders in fine society. What can I offer her here at Penderleigh? Just a bunch of bloody sheep.”

“You've become melodramatic, Bertrand. This isn't a problem. I'll tell you what I think, that is, if you don't mind my meddling in your affairs.”

“I don't see why the hell I should mind,” Bertrand said. “Lady Adella and my father show no hesitation at all. When one of them shuts up, the other begins.”

“What I think,” the duke said, “is that your hands are much too light on the reins. It's quite clear to me, after last evening, that Constance isn't at all indifferent to you. Quite the contrary, in fact, she needs but a firm hand—your firm hand—to ring down the curtain. You must know that Constance is a very romantic girl. I think what she needs is a rather masterful approach. Surely you've thought along those lines?”

Bertrand ran his fingers through the shock of red hair on his forehead. He was silent, but he looked like he was thinking harder than he'd ever thought in his life. Suddenly he struck the palm of his hand against his knee.

“Damned if ye're not right. Ye really think it requires naught but a firm push to topple her over the edge?”

“Precisely. I'm assuming you can handle that, Bertrand. If you can't become the master, I wash my hands of you.”

Bertrand rose, his ledger book forgotten. “Aye,” he said more to himself than to the duke, “I'll do it. Not just at this precise moment. I must think about this and plot my strategy. That was why the English knocked us out of our kilts in '45. There wasn't enough strategy. I'm good at strategy. I'll figure out exactly what is to be done and how much of it to do.”

“Good luck,” the duke called after him as Bertrand
strode from the breakfast room, never raising his head, never looking back.

Bertrand rehearsed many such masterful scenes in his mind as he went about his duties during the day, grunting when he found one not to his liking, and grinning broadly at another that caught his fancy. He was on the point of returning to the dower house to scrub himself down when he saw Constance approaching him. A gentle breeze had ruffled her soft black curls, and he thought she appeared utterly delectable. He squared his shoulders and waited for her to draw near.

“Och, ye smell like a sheep, Bertie.”

It wasn't perhaps the best of beginnings, but he didn't care. He seized the opportunity. He had a strategy. “Aye, Connie. I fear, though, that it's not to be helped—at least during the day.”

Those green eyes of her widened. She had gorgeous thick black lashes. She knew it well, but who cared? “What do ye mean, at least during the day?”

She looked mightily interested. “What I mean, Connie, is that at night ye'll never have cause to take me into dislike.”

“Oh.” She studied the toe of her shoe.

“Would ye like to walk with me?” he asked, realizing that they were standing opposite each other like two statues. A master would walk and be fluent in his speech as he walked. He would be more eloquent than was even necessary to win her.

“Aye,” she said, and when he put out his hand, she didn't hesitate to lace her fingers into his.

He said abruptly, “Connie, when will ye be seventeen?”

“In August, Bertie.”

“I should have remembered. I'm sorry, but I've other more important things on my mind. Isn't it strange? I've known ye all yer life.”

Constance thought of the plump, wild-haired little girl that she had once been and paled. Then a memory of Bertrand when he was all of fourteen years old popped into her mind, and she giggled. “Ye were so tall and gangly. And all that red hair, I swear it was like looking at a sunset just before a storm.”

“Do ye think that our children would have my mop of red hair or lovely silk black hair like yers, Connie?”

Her fingers tightened in his. She laughed nervously. She scuffed the toes of her shoes. “What a question, Bertie. I fear ye've been in the sun too long. Haven't ye?” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Nay, it's ye whom I've let rove about in the sun overlong. And ye can forget all yer childish nonsense about Percy, or any other man, for that matter. Ye can forget all of them except me.”

She tossed her black curls. “And what if I don't, Master Bertrand?”

Ah, she said it herself.
Master.
It sounded wonderful. He said with a small smile, “Why, lass, I'll beat ye.” He then took her shoulders and shook her lightly until she looked up at him.

“Ye'd beat me?” She was suddenly breathless. “Really, Bertie? Ye'd beat me?” It was amazing to him. He felt his confidence soar. This was all he'd needed to do? If he'd been alone he would have kicked himself for being so blind. Thank God the duke had stuck his oar in.

“Aye, black and blue, if ever ye dare look at another man.”