The Duke's Accidental Wife (Dukes of War Book 7) (8 page)

He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She found herself responding. Kissing back. Parting her lips. Wanting more. This wasn’t some untouchable, granite Adonis. This was Ravenwood. Her husband. And his kisses were as feverish as hers.

She pressed into him, eager. She wanted to taste him. To feel him. His body was hot against hers. Or perhaps
her
body was the one becoming heated.

He slid his fingers into her hair to cradle the back of her head and touched his tongue to hers.

Her pulse jumped at the wantonness. She twined her hands about his neck and rose on her toes to meet him kiss for kiss. He made her feel irresistible. Reckless. Like she could lose herself in him…and find something even better.

Her blood raced at the twin sensation of plundering and being plundered. Being known. This was
her
husband. Hers to kiss, to invite into her bedchamber.

Hers for much more.

The flimsiness of her nightrail allowed her to feel the lines of his waistcoat against her breasts. Under all those layers, did his heart beat as rapidly as hers? Could he feel the tightening of her nipples, sense the rush of excitement in her veins?

Her heart hammered. She wondered what it would be like to rub herself against him. The shameless decadence of naked breasts against a fully clothed chest. Would he rip his clothes from his body? Or would he allow her to divest him of each item, baring him inch by inch?

As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his mouth from hers just long enough to shuck his jacket and waistcoat. Before the garments even hit the floor, he pulled her back into his embrace and covered her mouth with his.

This time, there was naught but thin linen between the softness of her breasts and the hardness of his chest. She caught her breath at the sensation. He could feel her just as clearly as she could feel him. Every inch of her felt alive. Yet it wasn’t enough. She craved more.

With him, she could experience anything. Everything. There would be no recriminations, no risk of scandal. So long as he wore the sheath, she could indulge her desire. They both could.

He grabbed her by the waist and trapped her between the wall and his own body, pinning her in place with his hips, his kisses.

Her head spun in heady abandon. She had watched him from afar for years. Being in his arms was more than she’d dreamed.
He
was more than she’d dreamed.

She slid her hands up the hard muscles of his arms. Had she feared the marriage bed? They were nowhere near it and she was already breathless with desire. He was so hard, so hot. She wanted to explore him. Wanted him to explore all of her. Needed him to.

Together, the rest of the world fell away. All that mattered was the two of them.

Slowly, deliberately, he slid one of his hands up from her waist to her breast. His fingertips played with her taut nipple, driving her wild with every tug, every touch.

Her kisses grew bold. Demanding. He lifted her onto the bed and covered her body with his. She reached for him. He made her feel on the edge of…
something
, and she wanted to have it all. To know pleasure. To know
him
.

He yanked up the hem of her nightrail to expose her ankles, her knees, her thighs, her—

Cool air kissed the moist heat between her legs for only a moment. Then his wicked hand took over. Cupping her, coaxing her, dipping a slick finger inside and stroking her with her own wetness. Pleasure shot through her.

She felt helpless. Powerful. Her breath grew ragged, her thoughts incoherent. He was irresistible and she wanted more. She tangled her fingers in his hair as he brought her closer and closer to a peak. He tore his mouth from hers and pinned her with his gaze.

“Do you desire me?” he rasped as he drove his finger within her. “Do you want to feel me inside you, claiming you as my own?”

“
Yes
.” It was
all
she wanted. She was nearly delirious with the wanting. Her inner muscles clenched just from the desire in his eyes as he deliberately sank his finger in deeper.

He kissed her again, then reached below to yank down his breeches.

The thrill of anticipation raced through her. Quickly, she gestured toward the side of the bed. The sheaths would be ready. “I have a French letter soaking… over on the nightstand…”

He paused with one hand on his breeches. “A what?”

Her cheeks grew warm. “A French letter. It’s a… It’s a sheath for protecting—”

“I know what a French letter is.” He pulled up his breeches and buttoned them back into place. “Why do you have one?”

A gasp of sudden understanding escaped her throat and she shook her head wildly to dispel his confusion. A proper young lady would have no knowledge of such devices. Any man would assume the worst: that she was a whore, or diseased.

“It’s not what you think! I’ve never done…anything intimate before. I was just told it was easier for a man to place one of these on his member to prevent progeny than it is for a woman to deal with sponges or quinine rinses—”

He leaned back, his eyes hooded. “You’re saying you don’t wish to bear my children?”

The rush of familiar panic sent a wave of dizziness crashing through her. She tried to still her heart.

“I can’t think of anything more horrifying than the thought of bearing
anyone’s
children. It’s a panic, really. Neither child nor mother has any guarantee of survival. My heart starts pounding and my vision goes black…” She took a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to straighten her spine. Her fears no longer mattered. “I realize I don’t have a choice anymore. I’m a duchess now. I must do my duty. But I can’t. Not yet. Eventually, I will have to do what’s required, but for now I just… I wanted to be able to enjoy it. At least once.”

He rose from the bed and scooped his discarded coat and waistcoat from the floor without another word.

She realized too late that his concern had been something else entirely.

“Wait,” she stammered, pushing down the hem of her nightrail to cover her nakedness. “I thought you wanted…”

“Of course I want you.” He paused in the open doorway connecting their bedchambers and turned inscrutable eyes toward hers. “But there are things I want more. Like a future for this dukedom.
Soon
. If you cannot promise that much, then our marriage will need to be annulled. Let us hope that does not need to happen.”

He closed the door behind him. No key turned in the lock.

And yet the wall that separated them was too great for either to cross.

Chapter Eight

Ravenwood tossed his shears into the dirt and settled at the foot of his favorite cherry tree. His private garden had never felt more like home.

No matter what might be going on outside of these walls, enjoying a spot of sun beneath the shade of a comfortable tree always made him feel more at peace.

He liked being alone. He loved tending his garden. Or just letting it grow wild.

Pink geraniums and purple irises blossomed against the deep green of the grass and the brown bark of the trees. The white primula with their golden yellow centers sprang up cheerfully from their thick leaves. But his newest addition, a brightly colored smattering of dahlias, made his garden look as lush as a painting.

Happiness filled him as he gazed at all the vivid colors. He wasn’t artistically inclined like Rembrandt or William Blake, and he didn’t need to be in order to enjoy the art of nature. Morning dew balancing on a delicate petal brought him the same amount of joy as other men found in cockfights or shooting pheasant.

Not a particularly ducal sentiment, to be sure. England’s most revered peers would never allow grass stains on their coat sleeves or muck about in the dirt like schoolchildren just to tend a flower. If they wanted a rose, they simply sent a servant with a coin to fetch one, like civilized people.

Which was why Ravenwood’s walled garden was hidden beneath a cloak of ivy at the rear of his estate. And why he possessed the sole key to unlock its gate.

He would not subject the things that gave him pleasant memories—or inner peace—to the forked tongues of the
ton
. He tried not to let it bother him that no one would ever see beyond his aristocratic mask.

’Twas better for all parties that they could not.

Particularly now that his spotless reputation had taken such an ill-earned thrashing. He would need to watch his every word for the next two years to erase the damage done in a single moment.

Not that avoiding scandal was much of a challenge for a man who tended to avoid people in general.

But he wasn’t alone any longer, was he? Now he had a wife. A woman he neither knew, nor understood. He tossed a blade of grass aside and pushed to his feet. That he was often happiest in solitude was not a question. Whether he could be happy with her, or she with him…

No future family? He would not resign himself or his dukedom to such a fate. But while begetting an heir was both a must and a priority, the thought of forcing himself upon a wife who lay there in terror simply because it was her duty did not paint a pretty picture.

Annulling their marriage, however, was not a step Ravenwood would ever take lightly.

Not only would she be ruined in the process, he took his wedding vows as seriously as he took his loyalty to the Crown.
For better or for worse
meant not giving up at the first sign of adversity.

He would simply treat her as he treated the rest of the
beau monde
. He would be polite, play his assigned role, and wear the mask that she wanted—or at least expected—to see.

For now.

To his surprise—and pleasure—the passion they had shared had been as fast and as hot as quicksilver. There was no denying their attraction. In the space of a breath, their simple kiss had led to him shedding clothing and tumbling them both into bed.

That was more than promising. All she needed was time to get to know him. Perhaps that was what they both needed. To come together as a couple, rather than as strangers.

He was convinced their union could work. He just had to convince his wife.

Mind set, he quit the garden sooner than he had planned. It would survive without him. His relationship, on the other hand, would not.

Ravenwood went straight to his chamber to wash up and change into fresh clothes. It had been
his
bedchamber for over a decade, and had never once struck him as particularly cold or lonely. Until last night.

Sleep had not come easily. He had stared at his tester until the wee hours, wondering if his wife was doing the same thing. Now that he was back from his garden, perhaps they would have a chance to speak.

When he emerged from his dressing chamber and enquired as to her whereabouts, he learned she was taking tea in the yellow parlor with her aunt.

Ravenwood nodded to himself. Perfect. Not only would the presence of a third party make conversation less awkward, at last he would also learn what his wife liked to eat besides fish and canapés.

Today, they would stop being strangers. Very soon, they would truly be husband and wife.

Both ladies were holding saucers of tea when he entered the parlor. He bowed to them both, and motioned for them to remain seated and enjoy their tea.

“Good afternoon, your grace. Mrs. Havens. I trust you slept well?”

Laugh lines radiated from the corners of Mrs. Havens’ eyes as she grinned up at him. “Like a babe. I would’ve found a duke to marry myself if I’d had any idea how soundly I’d be able to sleep.”

He blinked. “I am pleased the accommodations meet your approval. And you, madam?” He turned to his wife. “Do you lack for anything?”

She squinted at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

At first he stiffened, assuming her mirth to be mockery. But then she shook her head.

“Please don’t tell me I’m to spend the rest of my life being referred to as ‘Madam’ and ‘Your grace’ by my own husband. My name is Katherine. If you feel comfortable doing so, you have my leave to use it.”

Mrs. Havens raised a finger at her niece. “Some people might appreciate being able to command such elevated honorifics.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be certain to require such acknowledgements when I find myself amongst mere earls and viscounts. But there’s no need for stiff formality in one’s own home, is there?”