The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (22 page)

T
he timing was perfect
. If all went to plan, nine months hence a little Julian would be squalling and keeping them up at night.

She pushed back the curtains and peered out into the darkness. The tall buildings blocked her view, but she craned her neck and there it was. A quarter moon. An old wives tale? She needed all the help she could get.

She drew back, tugged her bathrobe tighter, and checked that the coffeemaker had enough water. She padded to the bathroom, on edge. She surveyed the granite counter top where a discarded ovulation kit lay. She threw it in the trash then spritzed on some perfume and checked her legs to make sure she hadn’t missed a spot with her shaving.

Goodness. She was acting like a virgin and not like the six-month-old married woman that she was! She hadn’t seen Julian in over a week and though they had phone sex and video-conferenced every day (please God don’t let anyone get hold of the last one), she missed him. Missed his distinct smell that clung to his pillows.

Mrs. Oldman, his Kensington flat housekeeper, had looked at her oddly when she protested against the scheduled change in bed linens that was due. She hugged his pillows every night that he was away and tried to concentrate on finishing book two of her well-received book “Duke the Goldfish.”

Any minute now Julian would arrive. He had texted when his plane had landed at Heathrow.

He would be shattered from his exhausting trip, but Imogen hoped she could entice him to stay awake for at least an hour for what she had planned to do. Thus the little bits of lingerie she was currently sporting, having unearthed it from the pile of her bridal shower gifts. They had gotten married again in the Trennery Court chapel, and Maggie had insisted on throwing her a bridal shower. She had never worn any of it before. Julian just had to look at her parading not-so-innocently in their bedroom in her ratty shirts (braless, upon strict orders) and knickers (not so ratty, mind you) and he would get that sensual, predatory gleam in his green eyes that promised delicious retribution.

His Grace always delivered, thank you very much.

She heard the bedroom door open and took a deep breath. She loosened the belt, stepped into the deeply carpeted bedroom, and dropped her robe for her grand seduction.

A string of curses rent the air and drowned out the Barry White CD she had popped in the player to set the mood. Pinhole bedroom lights came on simultaneously.

So much for her scented candles and romantic ambiance. Imogen sighed.

“What the fucking hell is that thing?”

Julian was staring in abject horror at the object on her night table, a six-breasted, carved figure of a woman with hair made of twigs and straw that was leering maniacally. The piece de resistance was the razor-sharp teeth.

“Maggie lent it to me.”

He quirked an irate eyebrow.
You’re not making bloody sense.

Being married had honed Imogen’s translation of her husband’s non-verbal cues. “It’s a fertility goddess.”

“More like an infertility goddess,” he snorted elegantly, glancing at the figurine with skepticism. “My hard-on just about died when I saw it.” He shrugged off his coat. “I don’t know if any bloke can manage to bring it up with her looking on.”

“Julian!” She half-laughed, half-groaned.

“We don’t need any kind of fertility goddess in that department. Get it out of the room. And speaking of goddesses…”

His eyes roamed across the poor excuse of a bra and knickers she had on. Thin, spaghetti-like straps did its job of holding her breasts and sheer, gauzy white tulle fabric with hand-embroidered lily of the valleys shaded her “crucial” spots.

Fixing her with a glittering stare, he loosened his tie, yanked off his shirt, and stood in front of her in his underwear and socks.

He started prowling towards her, his intentions clear.

“Wait,” she squeaked when his lips started nuzzling the area below her jawline. A few more minutes and they would be at the point of no return. “You have–to - ,” she panted, “drink,” she planted her palms on his chest, “coffee,” and shoved him off, “first.”

“What,” he had that langorous but uncomprehending look as he took a few steps back, “are you talking about?”

“You have to drink coffee first before we have sex.”

“I’m not going to pour caffeine into my system and get my body clock out of sync. What is this all about?” He had his grip around her arms.

“Er,” she began, not meeting his gaze, “You know how we’ve been trying for several months now and nothing’s been happening?”

He sighed and shot her a tender look. “Genie, the doctor said there was no medical reason for you not to have another baby. You have to give it time.”

“But that’s just it, Julian.
Now
is the perfect time.”

His brows met. Translation:
I will humor my wife and get this silly nonsense out of the way so I can bloody well shag her .

“I’m ovulating, there’s a quarter moon, and based on the Chinese Lunar calendar, if we have sex now it’ll most probably be a boy.”

“The Chinese Lunar calendar?”

“It’s a system based on the woman’s age and month and year and when you get to conceive. Maggie says it’s 99% accurate.”

He snorted again to show how much credence he placed on Maggie and the calendar. “And the coffee?”

His frown became deeper, but she forged on. “Drinking coffee before sex makes the “bloke” sperms swim faster, increasing the chances of conceiving a boy.”

“Does it now?” he rumbled ominously. She nodded, feeling a delicious sense of danger. He stalked her until she bumped the edge of the bed. She knew where this always ended but like riding a roller-coaster, she needed to brace herself before plunging down the highest loop. It was going to be a hell of a ride.

He invaded her personal space until they stood breast to chest and belly to belly. “And what else do I need to know about making a baby boy, hmm,” his knuckle caressed the side of one breast, “so that I may be properly guided.”

Her breathing started getting choppy. “The woman has to have an orgasm.” She was soaking through her knickers. “Erm, makes the environment alkaline, friendlier for the “bloke” sperm.”

“Your orgasms are always a sure thing with me, darling,” he murmured confidently. “Any other pointers?”

Her nipples were ridging the lily of the valleys. “You have to go deep.”

His eyes flared with heat. “How deep?” he rasped, thumbing those ridges.

Her breath hitched.“Like I’m on all fours kind of deep.”

He cursed, low and guttural. “Assume the position. Now,” he growled.

Trembling, Imogen did as needed.

“Is this deep enough, you think?” Thrust. “How about this?” Another thrust. Oh My God.

“Julian!” Imogen gasped as she lifted her forehead from the bed, tendrils of sweat-dampened hair clinging to her temples. “Oh, God−” Her sensitized nipples grazed the bed as Julian pounded into her deeply, furiously. “I think I’m coming.”

Every word was taut with effort. “Let’s. Make. You. Pregnant.”

That one last powerful thrust buckled her knees. She came and his seed flooded her.
Swim. Swim,
little blokes,
she thought hysterically.

Julian collapsed on the bed weakly, dragging her on top of him. Imogen heard him laugh.”What’s funny?” she murmured, too weak to even lift her head. She was happy and content listening to his steady heartbeat.

He was running a hand through her hair. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing or you wouldn’t have laughed.”

“It must have been the trick of the light.”

“What is?” She finally lifted her head and spotted the bemused expression on her husband’s face.

“I thought I saw that ugly statue wink at me.”

Imogen grinned. “She must have liked your performance.”

He swatted her butt playfully. “In that case, we’d better have a repeat then,” he murmured wickedly. “I’d hate to disappoint our audience.”

N
ine months later
…thereabouts

It was polo half-time and some of the spectators rushed to the field to stomp the divots, champagne glasses in hand.

Imogen stayed put and tried to hide behind Olga but since she was as big as the tent they were currently standing in and her step mum-in-law was as thin as the poles that held it up, it was wishful thinking on her part. Julian’s hawk-like vision spotted her from the pony lines. He yanked off his helmet with one angry motion and started eating up the yards towards her with his long legs encased in white jeans and leather boots.

“Uh-oh. Somebody looks really pissed,” her brother-in-law commented lazily, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he sipped water from a bottle. His eyes were unexplicably rimmed with dark eyeliner. Imogen didn’t bother to find out why he was channeling rock star chic. As a model, Gray had always baffled her with his fashion choices.

Olga stopped flirting with the old Greek tycoon seated beside her and spotted Julian. “You should have stayed in the manor just as you were told to do,” she hissed as she twisted her head to address Imogen. “Now he will think I had something to do with this.”

Imogen heard the Greek tycoon mumbling, and she saw Olga’s profile as she pulled her thin lips into a simpering smile. “It’s nothing, dear.”

In her chair, Imogen started fidgeting. It was true that Julian had expressedly forbidden her to attend the polo match held in Trennery Court, the first in over three decades. The polo field was several kilometers away from the main house and she was due any day now.

Polo was a dangerous sport and Imogen couldn’t possibly just stay in the house, waiting for him to come back in one piece. She just couldn’t not go.

She timed it so that the competition was well under way and then snuck into the tent. Jenkins had driven her, pointing out the orangery and the maze and the chapel, not knowing that she had spent several summers here. He dropped her off right behind one of the tents and left her to park the SUV on the opposite side of the field where the designated car parks were.

Julian was getting nearer and Imogen could now make out the stern set of his mouth. Maybe this hadn’t been really a good idea, maybe−Oh!

Imogen felt a sudden gush of wetness between her thighs. “Oh God!” She jerked upright and saw clear fluid trickling down her legs. Okay, now it was really not a very good idea.

Gray glanced at her, followed the direction of her gaze, and swore.

Olga whipped her head, her eyebrows slashed furiously, her mouth ready to deliver a blistering setdown at Gray’s cussing, and paled.

“We did not have anything to do with this!” Olga denied vehemently as Julian strode inside the tent, his face like a thundercloud.

His eyes were flashing and his jaw was clenched. “I told you to stay in the house,” he ground out in a controlled voice.

Several of the people inside the tent began murmuring at the commotion.

Imogen grasped at her maternity tent, flapping it away from her bottom so as not to get it further wet.

“Er…Julian−” she tried interrupting. The fluid was trickling to her leather sandals and she tried mopping it with her dress surreptitiously.

She saw Olga staring in fascinated horror at her dress.

“Do you want to deliver our child in the middle of a polo field?” he blistered, and then he started going on and on about stubborn, hormonal, pigheaded women.

“She will if you don’t stop yammering,” Gray’s amused voice broke through Julian’s tirade.

He swung around and scowled ferociously at his brother. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“Her water broke,” Olga said in a choked whisper, gesturing to Imogen’s wet dress discreetly.

“
Her water broke?”
Julian echoed, glancing at her wet dress, and Imogen could see it was not getting through by her husband’s puzzled expression.

“The baby,” she said, pointing to her swollen belly. “It’s coming now.”

Julian stood dumbstruck, noting her wet legs, her swollen belly, and the way she had her legs clamped together.

It was a moment that would forever be burned in Imogen’s memory. Her husband just lost it right then and there. He looked wild with panic.

“Where’s my mobile?” he muttered, patting his trousers jerkily. “Fuck! I left it with the groom!” He turned to Gray, his eyes flashing with alarm. “Call your driver! She can’t walk all the way to the parked cars.”

“I don’t have a driver. I came with one of the guests,” Gray said.

Julian cursed violently. Imogen jumped back, startled. “Darling, please take a seat. Everything is going to be okay. Just calm down.”

Gray snickered.

Julian blasted him a scowl before turning to his stepmother. “Olga!” he snapped. “We’ll use your driver.”

“I came with Hector,” Olga answered, tilting her chin to the tycoon.

Julian raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “Imogen? Call Jenkins.” He started pacing around while he slapped his thigh and waited for Imogen to fish out her mobile from her bag.

“It’s not charged,” she said in a small voice. Julian swore violently once more.

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. The people inside the tent had discreetly left when they sensed trouble brewing awhile back.

“Wait here,” he commanded and ran out of the tent.

“Where is he going?”

“He can’t run all the way to the cars! It’s too far.”

Their speculation was interrupted when Imogen gasped.

“What is it?” Olga cried. “Is the baby coming out?” She let out a string of Russian words. Imogen didn’t need to understand her to know her sentiment.

“I think I’m having contractions.”

Olga swore again in Russian, and even Gray lost his tan.

“Shite!” Gray cursed. “Why couldn’t you have stayed in the house as you were supposed to do?”

“It’s okay,” Imogen reassured mother and son, tamping down her own panic. “First babies are not supposed to come out until after several hours of labor.”

“Graham did not want to come out at all. I had to have a Caesarian.” Olga shot Gray a dark look.

“Can you blame me for wanting to take advantage of free board and lodging a bit longer?”

The sound of thundering hooves came closer and closer. “What the
–
”

They all turned to see Julian astride his black horse. He dismounted gracefully.

“It’s faster this way,” he explained as they all gaped at him.

The umpire bell sounded to signal the start of the second half of the game.

He turned to Gray. “You have to play for me.” He took in his brother’s attire. “Why aren’t you in the team’s uniform?”

Gray shrugged. “I never get to play.”

“You will now.” Julian yanked off his shirt and tossed it to Gray, who caught it against his chest.

Gray seemed momentarily stunned. His face broke into a wide grin. He saw Imogen looking at him and he glanced away self-consciously.

“Help me,” Julian asked his brother, gesturing to Imogen and then the horse. Imogen blanched. Julian’s horse was black as night and looked mean.

Gray grabbed a chair and placed it near the horse.

“Are you crazy?” Olga shrieked. “Pregnant women can’t ride horses. It’s too dangerous.”

Olga’s mild hysteria was causing a scene. Julian had invited some press people to cover the event, and they were now angling their cameras to the VIP tent.

Imogen felt another mild contraction and she hunched over. Julian cursed violently. He led her back to a chair then dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be back.”

Wide-eyed, Imogen saw her shirtless husband mount his horse and gallop away like the whole line-up of the opposing team was after him.

Olga and Gray hovered on both her sides, shielding her from curious onlookers. Two minutes later, the sound of a roaring car engine caught everyone’s attention. A Bugatti was tearing right through the middle of the polo field towards the VIP tent.

Gray emitted a deep-seated groan. “Fuck! He’s destroying the field! The game will have to be cancelled.”

Imogen laughed weakly at her brother-in-law’s distress.

The Bugatti parked in front of the VIP tent. The windows were down, and Julian was in the driver’s seat.

Gray assisted her to the passenger side of the vehicle.

“Gray,” Julian barked, “call the house. Let them know we’re on our way.”

He roared off without waiting for a reply. Julian’s mouth was grim, the knuckles of his hands white with his death grip on the steering wheel. The lush countryside flew by in a blur. Imogen spied workers who were digging the goldfish pond pause and straighten, staring slack-jawed as they whizzed past them.

Minutes later, they screeched to a halt in front of Trennery Court. Donaldson, the ancient butler, was already standing stiff by the main entrance, holding a carryall bag.

“Your Grace,” he puffed, the few steps to the car winding him. He handed Julian a shirt and a baby bag through the lowered window of the driver’s seat.

He quickly pulled the shirt on and tossed the bag in the backseat as he roared towards the hospital.

Imogen’s cry of distress slowed him down. “What is it?” he asked in alarm.

“I’m soaking through the leather seats. It’s going to be ruined!”

“It’s moisture repellent,” he said, but a quick glance showed that not only was she wet, she was dripping all over the seat and the floor of the car.

Imogen tried reaching for the overnight bag, but her belly got in the way.

“Here,” he said, and for the second time that day he was shirtless. “Put it under you.”

Which was how the Delicious Duke arrived at the hospital without his shirt on.

Paps, alerted by the press from the polo cup, had camped out at the hospital trying to get their money shot. It was easy. The Bugatti came tearing manically down the drive of the hospital. A doctor and a team of nurses were waiting by the emergency entrance, wheelchair at the ready.

The paps’ mouths dropped open when the frantic and shirtless duke emerged from the sports car, striding towards the passenger side like the devil was after him. They recovered in a few seconds though and cameras started clicking away.

A hospital staff member approached the car and the young duchess was wheeled into the emergency room, followed by the obviously agitated husband, a baby bag slung on a bare shoulder.

Two days later, the world got their first photo of the heir to the dukedom of Blackmoore as the new parents emerged from the steps of the hospital. It was a marvelous spring day. Flowers were budding and the sky was a robin egg blue dotted with wispy white feather clouds.

The duchess was beaming beatifically at her infant, tucked in her arm and bundled snugly in a white baby blanket. And the father, the duke, was smiling proudly as he gazed down at mother and son.

It was too much to hope for that the Delicious Duke would have actually forgotten to put his shirt on during this momentous occasion. The paparazzi consoled themselves instead by clicking away at the lovely family tableau the duke, the duchess, and their baby made.