The Rusticated Duchess (37 page)

Glory blinked. Clare watched her, noted the way she interpreted his father’s words, then glanced down at the ring on her finger.

It would never be over for her, now. If they hadn’t married, she’d be free, or at least a ward of her son’s guardian. But now, with Lauderdale’s lawyers involved, there would be no concealing the marriage and no ending the marriage.

“I sent an announcement to
The
Times
as well,” Lauderdale was telling her. “And a note to your mother so she won’t be in shock. Best to have it in society properly before Chancery hears of it, you know, or some
grande dame
or another will want to make a scandal come of it.”

Glory’s face was blank as she absorbed Lauderdale’s speech, and Clare shifted uncomfortably. He had to hide his distaste when she concealed her thoughts behind that mask, shutting him out of her thoughts and emotions. “Will there ever come a time when I don’t have to consider what the women of London will say before I decide how to live my life?” she fussed, the words brittle.

Clare’s instincts flared at her aggravated tone. Thinking as quickly as possible, he shifted uncomfortably in the bed, drawing the attention of his family.

He couldn’t pause to think about how right that word felt.

After spending the morning listening to his servants praise Arwyn’s strategic refinements to Clare’s defensive arrangements, Clare had a new respect for his son’s military capacity—though he’d move mountains to keep the boy out of any uniform. “Arwyn, we should put the footmen and menservants back to their regular duties, and knock off the patrols and guards to their accustomed schedule. You should have enough time. Can I trust you to see that done before dinner?”

“You can’t come down to dinner!” Glory objected. Clare soaked up her reaction on his behalf but smiled at her. “I’m not missing my own wedding dinner, Lady Clare,” he returned, satisfied by the surprise in her eyes and the consideration that quickly followed it. “Arwyn can help me down the stairs, if the three of you will excuse me for not wearing a jacket to the table.”

“You shouldn’t even be out of bed!” she fumed, pulling her hand from his, only to stand and place it on her hip.

Clare considered her for a moment, then said, “And Father, if you do not object to the mundane, could you check on Eynon and Jenson? I should think Jenson ought to join us at the table tonight. Flannery and Cook will need informed as well.”

Lauderdale took the hint, and stood, gesturing to Arwyn. “Right then, m’lad, we have our orders. Best you do yours and come back to help him down the stairs.”

“If he can’t get back up them, he’ll have to spend his wedding
night
in the drawing room,” Glory uttered severely, in a low tone that made Clare want to chuckle. He caught Arwyn’s raised eyebrows and shook his head at the boy, who shrugged in return and retreated after his grandfather.

Lauderdale at least remembered to close the doors to the corridor behind him.

“Come here.” It was not a question. He slid over in the bed, spread out his good arm, and to his surprise, he didn’t have to say another word. He’d been prepared to lure her, to convince her, but she flung herself into his side, one arm wrapping around his waist tightly and the other clutching what she could between them.

He wrapped her tight into his side and said the first words that came to his mouth and head. “I’m so very sorry. You must have been terrified. I never intended for them to get that close to you.”

Gloria jerked up her head and stared at him. He was serious, his eyes darker than usual and his face troubled. “I fully expected them to come up to the Castle in the usual way.”

She was relieved. But her nerves were tingling. She was aware, she thought, of how everything had changed that day—and how near to ruin they’d been. How close she’d come to solving her problem without marriage—instead they’d been wed only a few minutes.

It was odd that she’d never even considered the possibility of ending or concealing the marriage, until Lauderdale had announced he’d pre-empted further legal action by sending to
The Times
and Lauderdale’s firm. Of course, he’d been right to do so. The details of their encounter at the border crossing would become a matter of public record soon enough, and it was better that those details be presented with her as Lady Gloria Blessing, Marchioness of Clare, rather than as Lady Gloria Swenson, Countess of March, underage and alone in a carriage with a gentleman.

Clare’s eyes were still on her face, and Gloria flushed as she realised her mind had wandered. Gently, she shifted to a more acceptable position, sitting at his side, but his arm slid across her thighs, preventing any escape.

“I was frightened,” she agreed. “But I was frightened for you. I was frightened you would be hurt.” Her bottom lip trembled and her voice dropped to a whisper. She looked down at his arm over her thighs, and all that it symbolised. They’d passed the bounds of the socially correct and were intimate. He had every right—every expectation—to touch her as he pleased, and Gloria admitted to herself how very much she enjoyed his touch. She traced the sensitive skin at his wrist thoughtfully. “And you were hurt. I never wanted that. I wanted to confound and trick them and have them go away and not find us, and I almost believed that they would not. Then they were there, and I thought for an awful, frantic moment that he had killed you, Jeremy.”

A fraught silence stretched between them until he removed his hand from her hip, slid it behind her head and pulled her down.

Gloria opened her mouth in surprise, and he kissed her. Hungrily, he sought the solace she needed, too. Instinctively, she reached for his shoulders, but realisation struck as her fingertips grazed his bandage. Instead, she gripped the back of his neck and her head remained in his hand. It was a welcome relief to experience his passion without the constant worry that had haunted her for months in the back of her mind.

Jeremy filled her with warmth and life and to her surprise she found tears welling in her eyes again. They spilt and dripped onto his cheeks, so he bit her lower lip softly and drew her back to rest against his shoulder. “Tonight, I want you to come here, to my bed. You need to be here, beside me, where I know you’re safe and where you know I’m resting properly.”

Gloria made a disbelieving sound. Then, to her surprise, she acquiesced without an argument. “Yes, all right, after Astrid has left of course.”

“It’s hardly more than a scratch,” he informed her, a whisper of amusement finally threading into the low, quiet tones.

“Do you think you could manage a smile for me, angel?” Clare coaxed, and Gloria nearly laughed.

He sighed, the flirting tips of her lips enough for him. “Stay for now, rest here,” Clare asked, and Gloria nodded because she couldn’t move anyway. His arm wrapped tightly around her waist and held her there.

So she fell asleep in his arms, and he woke her when it was time to dress. Dinner was a quiet affair in the small dining room, and for the first time Gloria was able to look about her and really see it.

Clare coped and she plotted. Jenson reported on Eynon’s uninterested observations of the morning’s excitement. Gloria asked Lauderdale for news of the
ton
, and he provided a few anecdotes from the clubs and Parliament. A chance question by Arwyn as to the background of a Lord led to a vibrant discussion among the four males as to the relative qualities of Oxford and Cambridge.

When the main courses were finished, Clare pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m afraid I must retire before I tire more.”

Gloria immediately rose and offered to accompany him. Arwyn and Lauderdale stood and son looked to father, but Gloria was surprised to see father give son a quelling look.

She paused, particularly when Arwyn’s face coloured with surprise and blanked.

Were fifteen-year-old youths able to conceal hurt and disappointment?

Gloria paused, remembered all that Clare had given her without asking for so much as a cup of tea in return. She smiled at Clare’s son, and he returned a tense version of the same expression.

“Arwyn,” she intervened, “if you could help your father on the stairs, I’ll run up ahead and light the lantern and ring for his valet. That way you can help him straight to bed—or at least to the chair beside it where the pair of you can help him.”

“I suppose,” Clare drawled in a dry tone, “that I wasn’t thinking all the possibilities through.”

Gloria refrained from acidly informing him that he should not alienate his son in favour of Gloria’s company, even though she had to bite her inner cheek to restrain herself.

A half-hour passed before she was sure that Clare had been left alone. Astrid had come and gone, and Gloria had changed again, fingering the silk that draped her. She remembered the colourful negligees her sister Abigail had ordered, and so she and Astrid had taken the extra lengths of silver and turquoise silk and fashioned a somewhat unconventional wedding night gown. Ribbons tied on her shoulders and held it over her corset-free breasts. It flowed down and over her hips and reached to her knees, but no farther.

At the last moment, Gloria almost baulked. She stared at her black dressing gown, considered, then decisively shook her head. He’d seen her in this fabric earlier and been transfixed. She drew a deep breath and remembered, again, all that he’d given her. And how little she’d returned.

Firming her chin, she placed a candle on the bureau near their connecting door, doused the light and pushed open the door.

As she’d expected, Jeremy had left a lamp burning beside his large bed. He’d switched sides, so that more than half the bed was available for her to curl against him.

The sheet was drawn up over his chest, but his shoulders were bare and gleaming pale in the light.

Gloria licked her lips, even as Jeremy’s eyes narrowed and he sucked in a deep breath.

“Heaven help me,” he said breathlessly. “I won’t sleep all night.”

Lust pulsed between them and Gloria’s breath caught before she remembered. “Yes, you will,” she assured him, drawing on every ounce of courage and lowering her chin to look up at him through her lashes. “At least, after I’m finished.”

She stepped around the bed and licked her lips, then watched the muscles on his face contract. “Glory,” he choked.

Gloria knelt on the bed and drew the linen sheet down his body, being sure the edge scraped over his chest, and somewhat lower over his sensitive groin.

It already rose proudly, sweetly. “We’ll get to this, too,” Glory assured him.

Jeremy made a noise that reminded her of choking, but when she looked, he seemed content to simply watch her, until she saw his hand clench into the sheet, and her gaze rose to meet his eyes.

She beamed.

Clare’s entire body jerked in reaction to her brilliant smile, and an extraordinary rush of energy that might have been joy tumbled down his spine and into his groin. But then she bent forwards and her lips traced his collarbone. Ever so slowly, her palms and lips explored his torso and he nearly cried at the evocative reaction of her lips and fingers on his skin.

He tingled, he burned, his innate masculine arrogance demanded he lift her atop him and plunge into her.

But he couldn’t. His damn arm throbbed and the bandage prevented him from grasping her.

In any event, he realised in a moment of clarity, he didn’t want to end the glorious feel of her lips and tongue moving against his navel, or her teeth playfully tugging on the hairs along his lower ribs.

She was studiously ignoring the hardest, most urgent part of him. “God’s teeth, Glory,” he moaned, unable to resist shifting. His right hand slipped up to her nape and higher into her hair, helpless to do anything to grip her scalp.

He felt her shudder and responsive jerk, and they moaned in near unison. Clare knew what it did to her, could almost feel the power shift between them, when his hand clamped on her scalp. She stretched out against him.

Clare tried to pull her up, to taste her lips, but the urgency in her was palpable. She wanted something, desperately.

Gloria wanted him.

He knew it with earth-shattering truth the moment her mouth found, and eagerly licked, the swollen, aching cock thrusting up from his pelvis.

She rubbed her lips over it and he couldn’t help but guide her until her mouth slid over it. Clare closed his eyes in bliss as her lips pressed downwards until his cock filled her mouth, even the last inch that she seemed desperate to press against the back of her throat.

He clenched his hand a bit tighter and listened to the hungry little noises coming from deep in her throat and around his cock.

Her tongue rubbed against the underside of his shaft, encouraging him to thrust, and he had to resist with every muscle between his lungs and his knees to keep his hips from obliging her. “Mary Mother,” he shuddered, and clenched his ass to keep still. “Breathe through your nose, angel.”

She shifted over him and he couldn’t resist withdrawing and thrusting that last inch in again.

He moved his hand on her scalp, pulling out the pins that kept her golden halo settled on her head. The tresses spilt out over her shoulders and stroked his thighs, his stomach, his knees.

It was almost more than Clare could bear. He tried to prevent himself from thrusting deeper, and managed until she gave a greedy, self-satisfied purr as she adjusted the angle of her head. He withdrew and thrust again.

“Come here,” Clare grunted, the words as low and carnal as he’d ever said any words. “Let me pleasure you.”

He felt her head shake, both in his hand and in the intimate caress of her mouth. But Clare had spent the entire afternoon reliving Gloria’s actions at the border, alternating between pride at her foolish courage and fearful anger that she’d endangered herself by shooting at Winchester. Just as he suspected her enthusiastic loving was a reaction to the emotional chaos she’d experienced, he
needed
to touch her, to kiss her pink lips and scrape his palms over her sensually responsive skin.