The Rusticated Duchess (10 page)

Her heart thudded painfully. Clare would need help, even if she could get him to the inner wall that wrapped about the keep, through the gate and up the walk to the massive castle doors. So how to explain?

In the end, Gloria did the only thing she could do. She straightened her clothing and put herself to rights, so that she did not look as if she had been ravished. She cradled his jaw a moment, and murmured against his temple. “I have to go for help.”

He grunted in what she hoped was agreement and remained still. So she rose, walked boldly down the steps and hurried to the doors to the keep, where she pounded on the great panels of wood.

When the door swung clear, she ignored the studious blankness on the butler’s face and motioned with her hand. “Your master has slipped in the gazebo and hit his head on the stone floor. He needs help.”

The good man—assured of Gloria’s breeding by her cool conduct—swung into action. In fantastic time, he and three footmen had the marquess on his way to the castle. Gloria followed behind them, passing through the portals of the door. Clare was now groaning with every synchronised step the men took, a reaction that both pained Gloria and relieved her. They were halfway up the main stairs to the first floor when a shuffle of boots had them all looking up. The men went upward, but Gloria stopped short at the open astonishment on the face of the man who looked down on them. It was the steward she had faced alongside Clare days earlier.

He took only seconds to recover and moved quickly, running ahead and throwing open a large set of double doors at the end of the wide gallery that ran down the centre of the keep. Even as they approached, the man turned down the bed and gave orders to the various footmen, watermen, maids and other servants who were now appearing and stopping to stare.

Gloria approached from behind and moved to sit on the edge of a chair provided. Only when the room emptied of all but Gloria and the steward did the man speak to her. “Jamie Seton, my lady.” He bowed. “Mrs O’Hara will be bringing up what’s needed to fix up his lordship. Should you like a tea service to restore you?”

Feeling her shoulders droop in weariness, she offered the man a benevolent smile and agreed.

After that, the afternoon seemed outrageously
normal,
though from someone else’s existence. The housekeeper deferred to her as they worked together to clean the drying blood and apply a poultice to Clare’s head. Gloria excused herself for a few moments and when she returned, Clare had been stripped of his clothes and was in the bed in a nightshirt with a sheet drawn up over him. She’d washed and refreshed herself, and smiled as the butler delivered an elegant tea cart with a silver tea service and gravely thanked her for helping his lord.

Only after she’d sipped the first hot cup alone with Clare did the incomprehension of it dawn on her. They’d responded to her instantly, almost without thought. She frowned, but then shrugged her shoulders and set the teacup and saucer on the cart and turned to look at Clare.

His eyes were open and on her, so she smiled weakly and whispered, “Upon my honour, I did not do it.”

“I know,” he agreed in a low voice, lying very still but staring at her. She paced, awkward now, waiting for his judgement. Her stomach churned because he would be perfectly justified if he was angry. Angry enough to send for Winchester, angry enough to arrest Brody for assault, angry enough to destroy the peace of her little household? Guilt pierced her, then a separate regret that she had not been home when Eynon’s nap ended.

Eynon had Brody and Mrs Pitcher, Gloria reminded herself. And being here, with Clare, was as much to protect Eynon and Brody as it was to protect her own future. If she left, she would have no knowledge of Clare’s actions or his thoughts
vis-à-vis
her household.

Clare must have tired of her pondering, for he frowned and added, “Your guard did it. Brody. Without your knowledge or approval.”

Gloria drew a sharp breath, inwardly frantic, and paced again through the room. Clare’s eyes followed her restless movements through half-closed lids until finally Gloria stopped at the foot of his bed. The footboard and headboard were heavy scrolled oak, so she folded her arms across the top of the footboard and stared at him. At one time, Gloria would have spilt all she knew, begging him to understand, but the last two years had cured her of any desire to make impulsive confessions. It was yet another unwanted lesson from the sequence of events that had begun when Winchester had returned unexpectedly and discovered his wife in a compromising position with the neighbouring duke.

Gloria and Clare could have been caught—had been caught—in a position just as compromising. Guilt and shame warred with the remembered brightness that Gloria had experienced in the gazebo. For the first time, she understood the impulses that had drawn her mother into Lennox’s arms, and perhaps the desire that had kept her there for nearly two decades. The pleasure she’d experienced with Clare had been beyond anything her imagination could have conjured.

“It will happen again,” Clare assured in that low, pain-altered voice.

Startled, Gloria blinked, but Clare only cleared his throat and offered, “You cannot dissemble well, Gloria. You were thinking about how I touched you, what you felt. It shows on your face.”

Gloria stopped breathing. No one
ever
knew what she thought, and she intended that no one would. She had the stoic face, the one which revealed nothing. No one saw her pain, not even her mother and sisters. Not even March, except perhaps when it had been his mission to break her composure.

A knot of panic formed in her stomach.

“Do not be ashamed,” Clare said then. “Not even of being discovered. He won’t discuss it with anyone.”

“He may already have,” she said softly. “He will have to tell them something, to explain his return without me.”

“The price of my silence and his freedom,” Clare murmured, “is his discretion.”

“You
cannot
arrest him!” Gloria insisted, gripping the footboard in her anxiety.

“He is hardly an outraged father or husband,” Clare said. In the room, with his eyes half-closed, Gloria could not examine the depths of his eyes. She could not tell him, could she? Would acknowledging the truth do any harm?

“He is my brother,” she spat out fiercely after a moment. “A brother by blood if not by law.”

Clare stared at her a long time, apparently digesting that statement. Finally he murmured, “Open your bodice.”

Gloria stared back at him, aghast.

“I’m in no position to chase you down,” he reminded her. “Open your bodice. Show me those plump, luscious breasts, Gloria. I want to see what they look like in the light. Make me dream about them, because my head aches too much today to contemplate all the scandals you need to explain.”

Gloria gripped the footboard so hard that her knuckles turned white and heat rushed up through her arms and settled in her upper back.

Undress for him?
She didn’t think anyone but March and her maid had ever seen—and that was only when she hadn’t yet turned out the light or in the early morning—and even then he had only leered and grabbed—

“You’re beautiful, Gloria. Your face, your hands, your lips, your hair. Show me that the rest of you is as delicious as your lips. Show me. Now.”

Gloria swallowed. As requests went, it was outrageous. And strangely, tauntingly tempting. The months of loneliness washed over her, reminding her of the isolation, of a lifetime of doing her duty with little or no reward.

Here—he—was a change, she thought. He had given her pleasure instead of just taking it at her expense. He was suffering for his gift to her. Her eyes swung around the empty room, but the double doors of oak at the far end were firmly closed.

She hesitated, her fingers on the buttons of her bodice. She glanced again at the door, and to Clare, but his eyes did not waver. They remained fixed on her. Was it a threat or a challenge or a boon he requested?

Gloria did not know if she even cared.

Her breathing suddenly shallow and short, Gloria shivered. She toyed with the prim, black buttons and the top one came loose. The second one followed almost without thought, then the third. It was easy, Gloria thought, to undo the fastenings over her breasts. The fabric stayed mostly in place, shaped by the tailoring, stiff lining and weight. Even unbuttoned, he’d see nothing—unless she removed it altogether to reveal her chemise.

He’d felt it, in the gazebo, knew it was thin silk. He probably knew, too, that she hadn’t worn a corset. It was difficult to walk while wearing a proper corset, even without the prospect of meeting Clare.

Pink heat flared in her ears and cheeks as Gloria traced her own breasts through the fabric. She stole a look at Clare, and her eyes widened as she discovered his teeth clenched together and his nose flaring with short, harsh breaths. Colour had formed along his cheekbones, and his half-open eyes sparkled beneath the lids.

“Open it,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, but just as low.

Gloria held her breath and listened to the sound of him, lying so still in the bed. Clare’s hands were clenched tightly into the sheet that covered him. If not for his breathing, silence would have echoed in the brightly lit room. Exquisitely aware that he would do nothing to stop her if she turned and left the room instead, Gloria slowly gripped the front panels of her bodice and pulled it apart, her eyes on Clare.

He didn’t even pretend to meet her gaze. His chin lowered and his eyes brightened. The colour in his cheeks changed to a deeper red.

What would he think of the black silk she wore? Gloria could detect no censure or disapproval, only an animalistic expression on Clare’s face.

Gloria was well aware that most men would be surprised by her chemise. Her mother had vociferously disapproved of the expensive garments when she had discovered Abigail and Gloria with the private seamstress. Abigail had simply smiled and continued on discussing the merits of red silk for a robe and vivid turquoise and dark purple laced with white ribbon for corsets and chemises, unperturbed by any idea that Meriden might disapprove. Gloria had determinedly ordered only black—if for no other reason than the year of mourning which had only just begun—but she had secretly envied Abigail’s confident demeanour.

From the beginning, Gloria had loved the fine garments against her skin. Now she was doubly glad she’d fallen in with her sister’s scheme. Clare’s mouth opened a bit, so she pulled her arms from the sleeves and let the bodice fall behind her, well aware she’d done more and less than he’d asked. Her breasts felt tighter, and the peaks he’d sucked were hard and poked through the screening fabric.

She touched the black ribbon that held the silk bound over her breasts. It laced both above and below her breasts, and pulling the bow would completely reveal what was now partially obscured by the translucent black fabric.

Gloria gasped, realising suddenly what she was doing, what she was going to do. Her eyes flew from her fingers to his face, but all tenderness had left his expression. He grunted, a sound she could only interpret as encouragement.

Obligingly, all conscious thought subsumed beneath the intense expression on Clare’s face, Gloria tugged the ribbon loose. The silk chemise slid down until the top hem caught on her nipples. The swish of the silk rang in her ears until he groaned, a desperate sound that accelerated Gloria’s heartbeat until it thumped hard inside her. She whimpered. The slight vibration of her rib cage caused the silk to graze her aching nipples and fall forgotten around her waist.

Heat spread from her ears to her cheeks and lower. Gloria couldn’t bear the embarrassment. She lifted her hands to cover herself—

His voice was harsh and loud in the stillness. “Don’t hide them. You’re so lovely, I’d love to have you brazen and bare for me all the time. Cup them, squeeze them for me, as if my hands were touching you. Show me how to pleasure you.”

An unfamiliar noise came from Gloria’s throat, and a hot flash of aching pleasure shot through her abdomen and womb even as her hands obediently shifted and cupped the firm mounds. She didn’t look down, but kept her eyes on Clare as she squeezed the flesh in her fingers, pushing them together.

“Pinch your nipples,” he demanded, finally shifting in the bed. Gloria’s eyes widened as he moved restlessly, and the evidence of his reaction momentarily disturbed the sheet around his hips. “Show me how firmly I can pinch them, tug on them, bite them.”

A roaring thunder built in the back of Gloria’s mind, and hot flashes of pleasure shivered down her spine at his words, even as her lips opened to deny his claim. She slid her fingers beneath the swelling tissue as she followed his directions and pinched, then rolled the peaks. Instinctively she did as Eynon had done in the first weeks and grasped the base of the nipple at the areole, tugging it hard until it lengthened, the colour a brighter pink to attract him. Streaks of pleasure shot through her torso, and her lips closed after a mere moan of desire slipped from her.

“Yes,” he growled, starting to sit up. The desire on his face was beautiful, Gloria thought wildly, tugging harder as a tingling fever spread over her, demanding
more
.
More what?
she wondered frantically, her fingers tightening.

“Tomorrow you will take off your skirts too, Gloria,” he breathed, and at those words Gloria knew what was missing, what she needed.

“Yes,” she agreed, the thunder building to a dark cacophony. She licked her lips and shifted her hips restlessly against the footboard. In desperation, she pinched and pulled even harder, until pain rushed those same nerve endings and the tingling fever exploded in pleasure.

Gloria’s mind was filled with beautiful white heat and went curiously blank.

She felt herself moving, then sliding to the floor beside the bed, even as Clare sat up painfully and reached for her. His fingers found her head and stroked soothingly and she rocked herself a bit, reality gradually returning.

With reality came an unwelcome realisation of her wantonness. What must he think of her, to be so shameless as to not only bare herself for him but to find such wicked pleasure in it?