Only a Promise (17 page)

Perhaps it was time to find out how much she enjoyed it.

“It could feel better if we went to bed,” he said. “But it would have to be somewhat different from what we have been doing there since our wedding, Chloe.”

She gazed at him.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you would prefer to get back to your embroidery.”

“That can wait,” she told him.

He stood back and offered her his arm very formally.

Very formally, she took it.

He could not, it seemed, hold back change. But he had learned that lesson long ago. How foolish of him to have forgotten when he had come to marriage terms with her.

H
e took her to his own bed again, that vast monstrosity on its high pedestal that was nevertheless more comfortable than any other bed Chloe had ever encountered. He did not allow her to go to her own room first to change into her nightgown. When she protested, he informed her that she would not need it. And he proved his point as soon as the door was firmly shut behind them by unclothing her one garment at a time, including her stays and her shift and her garters and stockings, until she was standing naked before him, bathed in the light of what seemed like a million candles. He had a good look too while he was playing lady’s maid, and he made no effort to stop his hands from brushing against her skin. Indeed, he was probably making an effort to see that they
did
touch her.

What surprised Chloe most was the fact that she hardly felt embarrassed at all. It would have been a bit silly to do so, of course, since she had been his wife for longer than a week and had already lost an exact count of the number of times he had had relations with her. But even so, standing naked before a fully clothed man
with all her imperfections ought to have been more disconcerting than it was. Except that he did not look disappointed and her body was humming with what she could only guess was desire.

It occurred to her that perhaps she ought to unclothe him since he had done it for her, but she could not bring herself to be quite that bold. And he seemed to be doing well enough on his own. She noticed after his waistcoat and then his neckcloth had followed his evening coat to the floor that he really looked very attractive indeed in his shirt and tight pantaloons, but he was not wearing the former much longer. He peeled it off over his head and dropped it. His valet was going to be very cross with him in the morning. It was a good thing she had no maid yet to be cross with her.

He undid the buttons at his waist and opened the fall of his pantaloons, and in no time at all he was as naked as she. The difference was, of course, that she had seen him before. There were other scars in addition to the one about his shoulder and the one that slashed across the left side of his face. None of them—even the facial scar—marred his beauty. And he was beautiful.

His hands came to her shoulders then—they looked very dark-skinned against the paleness of her own flesh—and down behind to spread over her shoulder blades so that he could draw her against him until her nipples touched his chest, shocking her all the way down to her toes. He was rock solid—except that a rock was not warm and inviting and did not have a heartbeat. Her own hands found his shoulders as he lowered his head and kissed her openmouthed again.

Kisses were such an unexpected delight. And a shock
too, for she had never imagined that lips would part, that mouths would open, that tongues would explore and tangle and even simulate the marital act—or that such shocking activities would have a taste and a sound and would send sensations to which she could not put a name sizzling through her whole body until she yearned for the touch of him
there
.

Oh, she thought—and it was one of her last coherent thoughts for some time to come—she
must not
fall in love with him. It would be the most naïve and foolish thing she could possibly do.

Sex,
he had said.
It is just sex, Chloe.

She must, must,
must
remember that.

But
just sex
was glorious beyond imagining, she discovered during the hours after he took her up the steps and laid her on the bed. He followed her down onto it without extinguishing any of the candles. She was able to watch everything they did and to see that
he
watched too until at some time during the night the candles guttered out one at a time and there was darkness. By then, though, they were sated and exhausted.

His hands, his fingers, his lips, his tongue had touched every inch of her body on the outside and a good portion of her body on the inside too. And after the first round of . . . sex, her own hands and mouth had grown almost equally bold. He had been on top of her, she had been on top of him, and once he had even been on her but behind her. And none of it had been just the mildly pleasurable experience she had come to look forward to since her wedding night. Instead it had been . . .

But there were no words. Only feelings that built and built, time after time, to some pinnacle of glory, before
exploding into something that made
glory
seem a paltry thing.

Oh, no, really there were no words.

It occurred to her once or twice—particularly when she heard herself cry out for no apparent reason—that perhaps she ought to be ashamed, that perhaps ladies did not behave with such wanton abandon. Undoubtedly ladies did not, in fact. But she always pushed the unwelcome thought aside. If ladies did not experience the wonders of
sex,
then they were to be pitied. They did not know what they were missing.

By the time the last of the candles wavered and went out he was sleeping, sprawled on his stomach beside her, his head turned toward her, his nose almost touching her shoulder, one of his arms flung heavily across her waist. He smelled of sweat and something else very male. It was surely one of the most enticing smells in the world—which was a
very
strange thought to be having. The bedcovers were down around their knees.

It had been sex, she told herself. And, because it had been just that, he had enjoyed it as much as she had. And it was enough. She would make it enough. But please, please let their relationship not revert now to the way it had been every other night. Let him not be satisfied simply to have proved a point to her. She had enjoyed every night and every early morning with him too, but from now she knew they would not be enough without
this
at least occasionally.

It was just sex, of course. But it was surely better than love, for there was too much turmoil, too much uncertainty, too much danger of heartbreak in love. There was only enjoyment to be had from sex.

She ignored a twinge of doubt as she closed her eyes and relaxed into the delicious languor that came after the exertions of sex.

This had been better than love.

*   *   *

When Chloe awoke sometime later, Ralph was gone from the bed though it was still full dark. He was not gone from the room, though. He was standing by the window with the curtains pulled back, and he was half dressed again in his shirt and pantaloons. His hands were on the windowsill, his shoulders slightly hunched.

“Ralph?” she said. It was chilling to see that he was dressed when there was still no sign of dawn.

He did not turn or say anything for a few moments. Then he sighed and spoke.

“We will be going to London next week, Chloe.”

“What?” Chloe sat up abruptly and clutched the covers to her naked breasts. But she knew she had not misheard.

“Next week,” he said, choosing the most trivial detail to repeat.

“You said we were to remain here,” she told him. “You promised me . . .”

He turned, leaned back against the sill, and crossed his arms. She could see him only as a dark silhouette, but he looked both impatient and menacing.

“But they are right,” he said. “My mother, my grandmother, all the rest of them. It is necessary that we go to town.”

“But you promised—”

“Everything has changed, Chloe,” he said harshly. “Can you not see that? It was naïve of us to plan our
future as though we could go to Elmwood after our wedding and live in retired rural bliss there forever after. We knew my grandfather was well into his eighties. We knew he was infirm. We knew he was bound to die soon, even if we could not have predicted that it would be quite
so
soon. The whole reason for our marriage—on my part, anyway, and you were fully aware of it—was to secure the succession, and the whole point of doing
that
was that the dukedom matters. I would not have married otherwise—you or anyone else. The dukedom is more than an impressive title to attach to my name. It is an important office and brings with it duties and responsibilities. The Duke of Worthingham may not hide away in the country the way the Earl of Berwick with his courtesy title could have done. I ought to have taken that fact into consideration when I agreed that we would live in the country and ignore society and the London Season. I ought to have reminded you that we were free to live as we wished only until my grandfather died. The Duke of Worthingham will be expected to make his bow to the king and to be ready to take his place in the House when he is summoned. And, since he is a married man, he will be expected to make his appearance in society with his duchess at his side. Unfortunately the duke and duchess are not just impersonal entities. They are
us
. You and me.”

“
You
married to secure the succession,” she cried. “
I
married for other reasons. I married for a life of quiet domesticity, and you agreed that it would be so. It was a mutual bargain we made. You cannot change the rules now.”

“Rules?” He leaned a little more toward her. “Have
you not heard a word I said? Are you quite as naïve as you sometimes seem? When have you ever known life to follow any
rules
we may try to impose upon the chaos? You knew whom you were marrying. You must have known that everything would change one day.”

“Your grandparents lived here for years,” she said. “They never seemed to believe it was their duty to spend the Season in London.”

“They were
old,
” he reminded her, “and they were thoroughly well established in their role. I am twenty-six years old. You are twenty-seven. We are novices. We have yet to establish ourselves, to prove ourselves worthy of the role for which fate has chosen us. There are duties associated with the privilege of rank and fortune, Chloe, and one of them is to mingle with our peers. I wish to God it were not so, but it is.”

“You may break a promise you made me, then,” she said, “in order to win the approval of people who mean nothing to you. Clearly
I
mean nothing to you.”

Even to her own ears there seemed to be something a bit childishly petulant in her outburst.

“What promises
have
I made?” He pushed away from the windowsill and turned back to the window. “I made marriage vows, which I intend to keep. You made marriage vows too, Chloe.”

“To
obey
you?” She scrambled up onto her knees and wrapped the top sheet about herself. She glared at his back. “You are going to enforce
that,
are you?”

She could hear his fingernails clicking on the sill.

“You made that vow, not me.” His voice was cold. “I did not see anyone twisting your arm or otherwise coercing you.”

“But you are going to coerce me into going to London.”

He whirled about and strode toward her. He did not stop until he was up the steps and leaning across the bed, braced on his forearms. His face was a few inches from her own. She clutched the sheet tighter and held her ground.

“I will not whip you into submission,” he told her. “Nor will I tie you hand and foot and toss you into the carriage and convey you to London as my prisoner. But I
do
say that we will be going there next week. I have duties and responsibilities. So do you. I was born for this. I was never particularly thrilled at the prospect. Indeed, I was even careless of the reality of it when I was eighteen and rode off to war with crusading zeal. My father still stood between me and the title at that time, and he seemed a firm enough bulwark. But he died of what seemed like a simple chill, and here I am. And there
you
are. You married me with your eyes wide open. You can cower here if you choose. I cannot—or, rather I
will
not—force you into accompanying me next week. But remember, Chloe, that in addition to being my duchess you will in all probability be the mother of a future duke. My son. How proud will he be of a mother who is afraid to show her nose to the beau monde lest someone bite it off? How happy will my daughters be with a mother who is afraid to take them to town when the time comes for them to seek husbands lest the
ton
dare find something in her about which to gossip?”

“I am not
afraid,
” she protested.

“And besides,” he said, “if you will not come with me to do your duty to society, you need to come to do your duty to me. You need to be
bred
.”

Her hand was stinging suddenly, and she realized in some shock that she had slapped him across one cheek.

There was a heavy silence as he straightened up to stand beside the bed.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice tight. “That
was
crude.”

“I am so sorry.” Chloe spoke almost simultaneously. Her teeth were chattering. “Did I hurt you?”

Ridiculous question. She had hit him across the scarred side of his face.

“Yes,” he said. “But I would have slapped me too if I had been you.”

Chloe flexed her hand. It was hot and throbbing. She had never slapped anyone before.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to look at her.

“Certain members of the
ton
once shunned you,” he said, “because your sister had eloped with a married man. A known rake who had toyed with your affections cut your acquaintance with calculated disdain. Several years later—
last
year—it was discovered that you bore a passing resemblance to a lady who happened to be taking the
ton
by storm during her debut Season in London, and gossiping tongues began to wag with the salacious rumor that her father once paid court to your mother. So both those visits to London left you hurt. Understandably, you want nothing more to do with society. In retrospect, perhaps it was not wise of you to marry an earl who was an elderly duke’s heir. But you did just that. And as a result you now find yourself being called upon to face society yet again—in the prominent role of a duchess this time. Are you going to do it, Chloe? Or are
you going to allow fear to keep you here in hiding for the rest of your life?”