Pride & Passion (23 page)

“Isabella confided in me before we left that she was the one to tell my father about the House of Orpheus. In fact, she and Black brought him in their carriage. I assumed, well…”

“You thought I had staged it.”

“Yes. I may be prideful but I am one to admit when I’m wrong. And I was wrong. It is over now, we’re married. And I’ve discovered that it’s too much effort to exert to sulk and be miserable all the time.”

“Lucy…” She looked at him and he reached for her, wishing she would yield a bit more so he could pull her from the carriage seat and kiss her. “Pixie,” he murmured, “if we could do it over again, I would win you fairly.”

“And you might have succeeded, too.”

“You talk in the past tense, as if now it is not possible for me to win your affections.”

“Affections are not required in a marriage such as ours. Breeding and money are all that one needs—and an heir.”

They were out of the city now, making their way north. He was feeling tired and miserable, and ready to fight with her. Her jabs were well-placed, hitting him where he felt guilty.

“Perhaps now is not the time for this. We should both rest.”

Closing his eyes, he meant to feign sleep, but actually succumbed. When he awoke it was to the sound of the footman pounding on the carriage door, and a raging blizzard outside.

“Y
OU CANNOT MEAN
to go outside in this weather.”

They were forced to find shelter within the walls of a small inn. Something heavy hit the scarred wooden table, and Lucy turned from the window to see Sussex tossing his overcoat onto it.

“I must.”

He was rifling through the pockets, pulling something out and placing it to one side, paying no heed to her concerns. “You will freeze out there. Besides, you won’t be able to see a foot in front of you. The snow is blinding.”

He grunted something, and carried on about his business making Lucy’s temper flare. Strange how easily he could provoke her into a temper—or any rash feeling at all. She had thought after all these years, she’d conquered the emotions that had threatened to rule her as a child; she had easily found them once again after she thought he betrayed her.

“Go then,” she grumbled and turned her back to him. Wrapping her arms about her waist, she watched as the innkeeper and his wife ran out into the ravaging snowstorm.

“There’s not enough help for them and the animals. They must be brought into the barns, and I must see to the horses and the servants.”

Why did she care? she thought churlishly. What concern was it of hers?

“You’ll be safe here.”

She whirled around, her skirts in a rustling flurry about her. “It’s not my safety that concerns me!”

Her cheeks flamed, and she darted her gaze away, refusing to look at him. What the devil was wrong with her? Let him go out in the snow; she would not allow herself to care.

She could feel his gaze boring into her back, and she refused to respond to it, to that beckoning call of his mysterious gray eyes.

“Lucy—”

“Go.” She swallowed and squeezed her fingers around her arms in an effort to cease the sudden storm of emotions that suddenly swirled as violently inside her as the storm beyond the windowpane. “The servants need you.”

There was a very long pause, and then she heard the retreat of his boots along the weathered floorboards. His fine clothes would be no barrier to the harsh winds and blowing snow. The bitter chill of the lashing winds would rip through the fine linen shirt and wool jacket he wore. “Your grace?”

He stopped and turned. Lucy went to him, pulling her cloak from the back of the chair. “Take this. It’s lined with fur and will fit well enough over your coat.”

“It will be ruined.”

“Far better that it be destroyed than to have you freeze to death out there. I don’t know where we are, let alone how to find my way back to London. I’m afraid I need you alive.”

Oh, wicked, wicked thing to say, but she could not stop it. He was looking at her in that way again—the way that made her heart ache to know him, to discover the man behind the sad, gray eyes. She couldn’t have that.

He smiled, damn the man, and took the cloak. “Oh, I think I have a far greater chance of freezing to death in this room than out there.”

Her mouth was still hanging open in shock when he closed the door behind him. Arrogant man! He thought it chilly between them now, wait till he returned frozen and chilled from the weather. She would do nothing to help him! Not one thing! Let him freeze to the very marrow, she thought. She would not thaw him.

Strolling to the window, she gazed out, watching the chaos as the small handful of the inn’s employees struggled with the horses’ harnesses. Rosie stood on her hind legs beside her, her front paws balanced on the windowsill, docked tail wagging in happy little circles.

“Stupid man,” she said, and the dog glanced at her, tongue lolling to the side. “Well, we’re well and truly trapped here, Rosie. We might as well settle in and make do. This weather will not let up for some time.”

Rosie jumped down and headed for the fireplace where she snuggled onto a worn mat and immediately fell into a deep, sonorous sleep. Would that she could sleep for twenty-two hours of the day. Then maybe she could avoid her husband, and the unwanted marriage she now found herself in.

She could unpack their things, she supposed, and was about to do so when Sussex came into view. He
was shouting to the others, and they stopped, gathered around him as he took control of matters.

He was very good at that, taking control. He was a born leader; people gravitated toward him, listened to him. Soon, he had the flow of help turned to specific tasks, and Lucy could not help but notice that he did not simply order people about, but assisted in the task of getting the animals sheltered and their servants settled.

How long she stood there and watched him, she could not say. His hat had blown off, and his ebony hair was now heavy with snow. His greatcoat swirled around his boots, and she noticed that the innkeeper’s wife now wore her cloak over her threadbare shawl.

And another frozen corner of her heart seemed to chip away and melt into her chest.

I would die for you…
Those words crept into her mind, and unconsciously she began to touch her fingertips to her lips, remembering his kiss, the tightly held control that swiftly slipped away, consumed then by a frantic devouring.

I would die for you…

She was lost in that memory, his words. The lonely isolation she saw in his eyes. Inside she warmed, the ice thawing further. Feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge sprung forth and she buried them, but they rose up again as she watched the man she had married that morning rush about the inn yard.

I would die for you…
But would she for him? The ice began to form again, and she reached out, pressed her fingers against the iced windowpane.

She was afraid. So damn afraid of the feelings inside her. Conflicting thoughts and emotions. Passion. That
was all she had wanted. But this… What she was feeling had nothing to do with passion, and she wanted to run from it, to hide behind the veneer she had erected.

Empty, soulless creature. You want only passion because it’s all you can feel. Because it makes you forget that inside you there is nothing.

“No,” she gasped, pressing her palm against the window. But she could not force herself to look deep within. She didn’t know what resided there. Maybe the voice was right. Nothing dwelt within her. Nothing but her pleasure-seeking impulses.

You wouldn’t die for him
.

And she felt the burning sting of tears behind her eyes. Biting her lip, her fingers curled tightly against the glass, as if by squeezing them she could somehow keep the tears from spilling.

She had cried in front of him today. But that had been in frustration and anger. But this was something else. This was self-reflection, a moment of discovery, when one looked deeply within and realized that one was a horrible human being who cared only about her own wishes.

Oh, God, what had she allowed herself to become?

A sob strangled in her throat was about to break free when the door to her chamber opened. The cries of a babe screeched, and she whirled around to see a young woman carrying a bucket of coal in her hands.

“Pardon, your grace, but his grace sent me to fetch ye some coal and build up yer fire.”

The young woman’s hair was clinging to her neck, wet with melting snow, her fragile fingers reddened with cold. She shivered as she curtsied and rushed to
the hearth. In moments the fire was roaring. Rosie sighed contentedly, stretching out before the warmth as the babe continued to cry.

“Shall I bring you some warm water for a bath, your grace, or tea perhaps?”

She was cold, this poor girl, and here she was catering to a woman dressed in heavy velvet and wool, with layers of petticoats and lace, and warm, fur-lined boots.

“No, stay. Warm yourself by the fire.”

The girl’s eyes went round, before her gaze darted to the hall, and the now frantic wails of the baby.

“I mustn’t tarry,” she said shyly. “We’re full to bursting now, and I’ve got to get to the kitchens to get the dinner started.”

“Abigail,” a voice roared. “Where is that gel?”

Nervously the maid glanced at her then curtsied. “If that is all, your grace.”

“Abby, get that bairn to bleedin’ stuff it, and get yerself to the kitchens!”

The maid rushed past her, and Lucy reached out, stilling her. “The child is yours?”

Wincing, the girl nodded. “I’ve done me best to soothe her, but she’s getting teeth and, well, she wants ta be held. I’ll move her to another part of the inn so your grace isn’t disturbed by her ruckus.”

“Abby!” the innkeeper roared again. Abigail rushed to the door.

“Bring your child to me,” Lucy said. “I will mind her while you see to your duties.”

“Yer grace, oh, I couldn’t—”

“You’ll be busy with the cooking, and once those men come in they’ll be famished. My husband in
cluded.”
How strange that sounded, her husband.
“Come, bring me your child.”

The sound of heavy footfalls clambering up the stairs sent the maid into action. In seconds she had returned with a red-cheeked and tearstained infant and threadbare blanket.

“My father and mother run this inn, and once things get settled, I’ll be back to fetch the child. I won’t be but a minute,” she said as she fussed to soothe the child. “Oh, yer grace, she’s gnawing on your lovely pearls.”

Glancing down at the chubby baby she held in her arms, Lucy couldn’t suppress her smile. “So she is. And what is her name?”

“Fiona, your grace.”

“Well, Fiona,” she said as she jiggled the baby in her arms. “Let us watch the storm. Have you ever seen snow like this?” she murmured to the child as she turned toward the window. “No, I don’t expect you have. You’re not above half a year, are you?”

Lucy held the baby and watched as she settled. Together they stood by the fire, and soon little Fiona was asleep and Lucy was staring down at the baby she held. She wanted one of these—not out of duty, but created out of love. She wanted its father to love it no matter whether it was a boy or a girl. She wanted this, this sense of family and home and warmth.

She could find this with Sussex, something told her. She just needed to choose the right road.

A
DRIAN STILLED
when he came into the room and saw Lucy asleep with a babe cradled in her arms. What the devil?

He looked about the room, finding no one else there. The babe stirred. Adrian inched closer to the bed, peering down and studying his wife and the babe nestled to her breast. What a sight. One he wanted more of—one he wanted to see when it was their child.

“Lucy, love,” he whispered, and she came awake with a start. She clutched the child protectively.

“You’re soaked to the bone,” she whispered. “And you have ice in your hair.”

“Yes. I’ll sit by the fire and let you sleep. What have you found here?” he asked, smiling as the baby stretched.

“This is Fiona, and she’s cutting teeth. She was in quite a temper when we arrived and I took her from her mother who was needed downstairs.”

“Ah, I see. Shall I take her from you so you can sleep?”

“Oh, no, certainly not. I feel much better. Here, help me up and I’ll set about getting you dry clothes. I assume your valet is boarded up at the other inn down the road.”

“Yes, but Lucy…” He stilled her. “You needn’t wait on me. I can be quite self-sufficient.” He had been for years, he reminded himself.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and she called, “Come,” and saw that it was Abigail.

“Oh, your grace, I’m sorry. Here, let me just—”

“There is nothing to worry over, Abigail. The child is fine, and as we are newly married we are both marveling at her, wondering when it might be our turn to have one.”

Their gazes met, and Lucy looked away, her cheeks red. How he couldn’t wait to get her with child.

“Well, they’re lovely, but not when teething.”

The babe fussed, but her mother soon quieted her.

“I think I’ll bathe now. There’s a tub room down the hall. The owner’s wife was going to see about setting it up for me.”

“I’ll just unpack,” Lucy murmured.

He wanted to kiss her, to tumble back with her onto the bed, but he couldn’t. One night, she had said. He had to make her wait.

“I
S THIS ROOM
satisfactory for a few more days, do you think?”

Stiffening, Lucy gasped and jumped.

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Her husband—good Lord, would she ever get used to that?—was lounging in the open doorway, fresh from the tub, his shoulder pressed against the frame. He had a bright red apple in his hand and she watched how he raised it to his mouth and bit off a large chunk. The crispness rendered the air, sharpening the quiet. They had already been married two days, and still she found herself jumping and starting at the sight of him. He hadn’t touched her, certainly hadn’t bedded her. He’d only given her a brisk kiss good-night, and she was taut and nervous because of it.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all, I am merely going through a few of my things.”

His head tilted to the side as he watched her. “May I stay?”

A frisson snaked up her back and her fingers trembled, fumbling with the cloth-covered object she held in her hand. Why, she wondered, would he be content to stand in the doorway and watch her unpack? Because he always watched her, she reminded herself, with those
mysterious knowing eyes, with their long black lashes that hid so much of his own thoughts.

“I am merely unpacking, my grace. It will hardly be entertaining.”

“It takes very little to entertain me,” he mumbled as he took another bite of his apple. “I must apologize for the room. If I thought we would run into such weather, I would never have left London.”

“Really, it’s fine. I rather like it, and the rooms are clean and the linen fresh. It’s amazing that this inn had a suite of this size.”

“You do not mind this room, despite the fact it adjoins mine?”

She did not look over at him, but continued unpacking the leather trunk. “We are husband and wife. Naturally I assumed our chambers would adjoin—just not in an inn.”

“Naturally.”

“You need not make use of the separate room again tonight. At least not on my account.”

He paused, and he caught her gaze. “Is that just a polite way of saying that you understand and accept your duty?”

“I’ve been raised properly, your grace. I do know my duty.”

He nodded, and she saw the light in his eyes dim. How strange his moods were. She had thought him utterly devoid of feeling when they had first met, but these past days had shown her that he was a man possessed of strange fits and starts. Lucy didn’t think she would ever come to understand him.

“I am not interested in duty,” he said as he tossed the
browning apple core into a wastebasket that sat beside the rosewood dressing table. He then proceeded to make a slow but calculated entrance into the chamber. “At least not in the bedchamber.”

He came to the bed and stood beside her, and she smelled him, felt the incredible heat that seemed to radiate off him. He was wearing only a waistcoat and shirt, and the shadows from the hearth danced along the black silk, illuminating the flesh of his muscular arms beneath the soft linen.

“Is that why you have not yet consummated this marriage?” she asked, finally getting up the nerve to inquire about the matter. She had thought of little else these past days. He had appeared eager enough at the House of Orpheus, but then, that was when he was attempting to secure her hand in marriage. Now that he had it, perhaps he found her lacking in some way?

“You…this,”
he parroted as he ran his hand along the cotton wrapping that protected her most treasured item. “Why is it not ‘we,’ or ‘our’?”

He must have been drinking when he was down in the taproom talking with the men, for he wasn’t making a whit of sense. He also possessed that strange tautness in his body as he had that night he had abducted her from the street. There was something dangerous lurking just beneath the polished veneer.

“I beg your pardon?” she replied. “I am not following your line of questioning.”

He looked at her then, and she took a step back, astonished to see such deep emotion in his gray eyes. “Why is it you only ask why
I
have not consummated this marriage?”

“And what would be a better turn of phrase, then, your grace?”

His voice was deeply masculine when he replied, “Why have
we
not yet consummated
our
marriage?” He moved a step closer, reached for her and, stunned, Lucy could not move, could not breathe for the spell that was wrapping itself around her. Not even when he grazed the backs of his fingers along her cheek did she move. Just stood there, silent, watching, looking up into his face, which was austere now.

“You should ask, ‘Why haven’t we made love?’”

Her breath was coming too fast now, her mind whirling. “Why?” she whispered, not knowing if she meant to say it aloud.

“Because it is a duty to you,” he murmured. “A task to be completed.”

Swallowing hard, she met his gaze. What was there to say? It was indeed a task. A wife had a duty to allow her husband to bed her. It was a fundamental act in the marriage contract. A simpleton knew that. But that was not the question he was asking. Instinctively she knew that.

“I want you to want it,” he said. “I want you to need it.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulled her closer to him.
“I want you to ache for it.”

“Beg you, you mean.”

Closer he pulled her, the warmth of his hand seeping through the material of her night rail and wrapper. “No, that would not bring me pleasure.”

She rolled her eyes. “Then what would?”

“A mutual desire. A mutual need. You see, I want you to actually want to lie beneath me. To want to feel
my mouth on yours, my hands on your body. I want…” he said, his voice lowering until it was just a husky whisper. “I want you to accept me into your body not out of duty, but out of pure, carnal desire.”

She was breathless now, her hands gripping the edge of his waistcoat, holding him to her. She was dizzy with the effect of his words, his nearness, the passion she felt just beneath the caress of his breath as it whispered across her cheek.

“When you take me inside you, I want it to be because you need me—not just inside your body, but in your soul. I want to be there, Lucy,” he said, his voice pained as he pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear. “I want so badly to be in your heart, your soul, and yes, in your body. I want to show you pleasure, the real sort of pleasure that you can experience with someone who cares, who gives a damn about what you need. But…” He swallowed, and Lucy felt the faintest tremor flash through his big, strong body. “But you have to want it as much as me. You have to want it like I want it. I…won’t take anything less. I won’t let it be duty, when I know it could be so much more than that between us.”

Lucy shivered, and he pressed against her, molding his body into hers. “I’ll feel you shiver like that as I lay you onto the bed and follow you down, covering your body with mine. When we finally come together, not as man and wife, but woman and man, we will be performing more than a duty, Lucy. It will be the most sacred of acts, a union, a future for us. We might even create a life. No child of mine will ever be conceived out of duty. Never. So, I will wait.” He kissed her again, pulling away in slow increments that only
made her want to reach for him and grab him back. “I think I’d wait till the sands of life run dry for one night with you that was nothing but hot, slick need, grasping hands, searching tongues. Your hips rising to meet my thrusts.”

She wanted to whisper his name, wanted to relieve the pressure that pooled within her, but she couldn’t. She was held hostage by his words, the look in his eye—the deep-rooted passion in his gaze.

“Our first night together is too important. It can’t be anything less than what I’ve described. And for that reason, I’ll wait, and I might even pray, that one day—soon—you’ll see this marriage as something more than a duty forced upon you. And me, you’ll see me as a husband who could give you everything you need, a man who only wants to give to you, not take. Who wants to share everything he is with you, and have you do the same.”

H
E WAS DREAMING
—a nightmare. Lucy heard the cry, followed by another. Creeping from the bed, she padded across the cold chamber floor and to the connecting door. Peeking in she saw him tossing and turning and she went to him, touched his shoulder.

“Adrian?”

He jolted and turned over, his eyes wild. He was frightening like this, and she took a step back, but he reached for her and grasped her, tugging her into bed so that she was sprawled out on top of him.

“Adrian, you’re dreaming.”

“I must be,” he said, his voice dark and sleepy, “be
cause you’re saying my name, not ‘Sussex’ or ‘your grace.’”

His lips pressed into her, and he pulled the ribbon free that held her hair in its long plait. His fingers threaded through the strands before he pulled her head down and kissed her hard. Melting into him she kissed him; let him explore her mouth with his tongue, her body with his hands.

“Dark, cherry nipples,” he whispered. “I’ve been fantasizing about them since I first saw them.” Tugging the night rail over her head, he exposed her. Her naked flesh pressed against his, and before she could revel in it, he hooked his hands beneath her arms and lifted her up so that her small breasts dangled above his mouth. His eyes were dark, and she could feel the insistent pulse of his phallus against her core.

“Perfect,” he whispered, then tongued them.

She moaned, fisted her hands on his shoulders and allowed him to fondle her with his mouth and tongue. She was obscenely wet, aching, and she would have sat astride him if he would have allowed it, but guessing her plan, he lifted her off him and placed her on her stomach. His chest came down to her back, his lips nipping, searching, caressing, his fingers stealing around to her front, lifting her up so he could pluck at her nipples, pulling and tugging.

“I’ve wanted you forever,” he breathed hard against her. Her nipples were scraping against the pillow, making them harder as he rolled and played with them. “I wanted you before I even knew what sex was.”

“Adrian,” she moaned as he nipped at her neck and sucked.

“You thought me passionless,” he growled, “but you’re wrong. I’m full of it. Bursting with it. My gut has ached with it, and it’s all for you. The first time I saw you I knew I would have you.”

His hands left her, and she protested, but then he plumped up the pillow and lowered her until just the tips of her breasts grazed the cotton. He was rubbing his phallus against her bottom, and his hands were squeezing and pulling, letting him slip against her wet core.

“He didn’t even make you come,” he growled as he lowered his mouth and kissed her hip. “Didn’t even take the time to taste, when I would have died for just a lick of you.”

And then he was on his back, his shoulders between her thighs, and his hands parting her, smoothing and spreading. His breath was hot against her and she was shaking with desire and mortification.

“Lower,” he ordered, and she couldn’t, just could not do as he asked. But he growled the order again, and as she obeyed, his tongue came up to meet her, pushing deeply into her flesh.

She moaned, allowed his hands to curve her hips, his fingers to direct her movements, the rolling movements, the slow back-to-forward motions as he pleasured her.

“My God, I love the way you respond to me.”

She cried out when she felt him insert one, then another finger.
“Please,”
she gasped and begged, not knowing what she needed. It had never been like this with Thomas. It was all new, this frightening need to feel him moving inside her.

“Adrian, please, please,” she moaned.

“One night,” he teased, “you promised one night, and I promised to make it worth it.”

Oh, that silly taunt, she thought, then shivered as his mouth and fingers found the perfect rhythm. What a fool she had been to deny this, to ever think him incapable of this.

“I am dying,” she begged, increasing her rhythm, wanting more. “I need you inside me.”

Never had a woman made him so aware of his virility. Everything about Lucy pulled and tugged at the primitive urges buried deep inside him. The desire to take and plunder was strong, almost impossible to resist. All his senses cried out to take her, to sink himself inside her tight welcoming body and claim her for himself.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted Lucy at his mercy, begging him to fill her, to take her as no other man ever had, or ever would. He wanted to hear his name uttered in her husky voice when it was full of passion.

She rocked against his hand, his mouth, and he felt her reach behind her, touch him, try to grasp him, and he moved away, knowing he would never last.

He watched as she learned and responded to the rhythm of his touch, her hips moving seductively in time to his fingers. It would be even more erotic to watch her move when he was inside her, encouraging her to take all of him, watching her lush thighs encase his waist as he stroked her deeper with each thrust.

“Come then,” he whispered, pulling her down. Turning over, he said, “Open to me.”

Her tongue came out to wet her lips and he cap
tured it with his mouth, imitating what his body would soon be doing inside her. She mewled and struggled and slowly he entered her. His stroke was light, slow, purposefully not enough to give her release, but enough to make her plead for what she wanted.

“Is this what you desire?”

“Yes— No!” She twisted beneath him.

“No?” He removed her legs from his waist and rested them against his shoulders. “What about this?”

The minute Adrian set his mouth to that part of her, Lucy wished to scream. It was decidedly indecent and wicked, and decadent, and oh, she couldn’t think anymore, she didn’t want to concentrate on anything but the pleasure his mouth was giving her.

“Ah, this is it,” he said between flicks of his tongue. “Yes, this is definitely what you want.”

His words were arrogant, assured and laced with a lethal sensuality that Lucy was unable to resist. He was very male, and he made her feel very much like a desirable female.