When a Duke Says I Do (17 page)

Read When a Duke Says I Do Online

Authors: Jane Goodger

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical

BOOK: When a Duke Says I Do
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“It’s far too soon to talk of remarrying, don’t you think?” Elsie said after Diane had left.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Elsie gave Alexander a dark look, not liking his neutral tone at all. She wanted him to be as outraged as she was. “Well, it is.” She scowled at the dancing pair, her mood lightening greatly when she saw the look on her father’s face. He seemed almost ... happy. She might not like the idea of her father remarrying, but seeing him smile like that almost made such a thought palatable.
“The waltz?”
Elsie looked up at Alexander, hearing an almost desperate tone in his voice. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead and his beautiful mouth was set, his jaw bunched as if he were clenching his teeth to ward off some great pain.
“There is one next,” she said, worriedly searching the eyes behind the dark mask. “You don’t have to do this, you know. In fact, it makes me feel horrible knowing that this is so torturous for you.”
Suddenly, he smiled, taking her breath away. “My dear, if dancing with you is torture, then please torture me to death. Please, Elsie, I am fine. I do not like being here, I will not lie. But any discomfort I feel is worth it to have you in my arms.”
The orchestra began a Strauss waltz and Alexander laid down his pallet on a nearby chair, gave Elsie an elegant bow, and led her to the dance floor. She would never forget this dance, feeling as if she were the center of his world, the only thing on earth that mattered. He gazed at her with such intensity, Elsie had to physically stop herself from drawing him down so she could kiss him. It was torture to pretend he was a mere acquaintance when she wanted to dance close, feel his body against her. But he kept them apart, and danced like a man used to balls and waltzes.
“You’re a wonderful dancer, Lord Firth.”
“Grueling lessons as a boy. Obviously, one does not forget. My last dance partner was my mother,” he said, with the smallest of smiles. “It truly was my favorite part of the day, because I could be with her. My father would only allow her time with us when it was absolutely necessary. Although, sometimes she would sneak up to our rooms and tell us stories. She would make them up, and make us the characters.”
His story made her long for her own mother, and wonder what it had been like for him, a young boy, kept apart from his one loving parent. “I have always felt sorry for your mother. I suppose because she was married to your father.”
Alexander laughed, and pulled her a bit closer than propriety allowed. He bent his head by her ear. “I do love you, you know.”
Elsie looked up at him, her eyes shining with emotion, and nodded. It was the most wonderful dance she’d ever danced, and she prayed this moment would stay with her forever. She wished she could capture it, put it in her heart to take out whenever her life turned ugly.
Remember this
, she told herself.
Remember this moment
.
The dance was over far too soon, and it was clear that Alexander wanted—even needed—to leave. She walked him to the terrace doors, and he bowed to her, holding her gloved hand in his a bit too long before departing. He was still descending the stairs, Elsie watching him go, when one of her dear friends came up to her.
“Who was that?” Charlene Bennet gushed. “I didn’t recognize him at all.”
“I don’t really know,” Elsie said.
“He came here just for that one dance. Surely you must know who he is.”
A deep sadness swept over Elsie. She couldn’t claim him, couldn’t tell her friend who he really was, that she was in love with him. She could never be seen with him again, or they would cause gossip and questions she wouldn’t be able to answer. He was a phantom.
“It doesn’t matter who he is, does it?”
“Maybe not to you, but to everyone else. Come now, who was he?”
“No one.”
Charlene gave Elsie a look of pure exasperation. “Perhaps he was beyond ugly under that mask. Horribly scarred or had a mashed nose.” Her friend was obviously baiting her, trying to glean some information.
“I really wouldn’t know,” she said mysteriously, then giggled.
“You already have a marquess and now you have a man of mystery. You should share a bit, you know, Elsie.” Charlene gave her a look of mock anger. “Speaking of your marquess, is he here tonight?”
“No. He usually doesn’t attend the squire’s events.”
“Too far beneath his notice?”
Elsie shrugged. “Perhaps. Personally, it’s my favorite ball of the year and I shall insist we attend after we are married.”
Charlene moved closer and whispered, “Have you a date set?”
“May tenth.” It seemed as if that were her date of sentencing, not her wedding date.
“Are you nervous? I would ever be so nervous. When are you announcing it?”
“At my birthday ball.”
Charlene grinned. “I received my invitation. It’s lovely. Fit for a marchioness.”
Elsie shot her a look of exasperation. “Stop. I really want to stay Miss Stanhope. I cannot think of myself as a marchioness, certainly not a duchess. It actually makes me a bit queasy.”
“I suppose you’ll get used to it.”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
 
“Good morning, all,” Elsie said, entering cook’s sunny kitchen on the morning after the masquerade. She’d begged her father to return early, and spent the night in Alexander’s arms, which made her world all brightness and light. The staff, having completed their morning chores, sat drinking their tea at a little table near the back door. It was a cozy spot, and Elsie had spent many hours sitting there watching the staff work and helping when they’d allow it. “Maryand I are planning a little picnic this afternoon and I wondered if I might have a small basket made up.”
“Of course, Miss Elizabeth. We’ve got some nice cold chicken and an apple beet salad I made with the first of the apples. The apples are a little tart, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, no, I love tart apples. And beets,” Elsie said, grinning. She walked over to the table and fished one of the beets out of the jar, popping it into her mouth with a grin. She didn’t know why something so tasteless as beets tasted so good to her, but she’d always loved them and this day, they made her smile even more. She was always smiling it seemed. She loved tart apples and wormy apples and rotten apples and bland beets. She loved everything, she thought, and tried not to giggle out loud.
“Don’t you be putting your fingers in the food,” cook said good-naturedly.
Elsie laughed and walked from the kitchen to search for her little sister, inhaling deeply the smell of paint and Alexander as she passed by the ballroom.
Elsie found her little sister in the nursery playing with her old wooden blocks, the painted letters faded and chipped. Miss Lawton sat nearby darning one of Mary’s littlesocks, putting her sewing aside when Elsie came into the room.
“Miss Elizabeth,” she said, standing.
“May I borrow Mary for a picnic today, Miss Lawton?”
The older woman smiled, no doubt appreciating the fact that her charge had an older sister who was always “borrowing” Mary. “Of course,” she said. “You’d like a picnic with your sister, wouldn’t you, Mary?”
“Picnic. I love picnics,” Mary shouted, jumping up and down.
Elsie held out her hand, loving how her little sister automatically put her soft little hand in hers. “Shall we hunt for bunnies today? I saw some this morning eating sweet clovers.”
“You saw a bunny, Elsie? Really? Can we bring it in the house? Do you think Papa would mind? I don’t think he would,” she ended thoughtfully.
It was amazing to Elsie how quickly her little sister was mastering the art of good conversation. It seemed only yesterday that she was babbling nonsensically, and here she was sounding quite grown up.
The two had a wonderful picnic, even though there were no rabbits in sight. Elsie ate every bit of apple and beet salad, unable to convince Mary that, even though it looked “horrid” it was really quite good. Instead, Mary filled up on a small apple tart and more chicken than Elsie thought she could eat.
Afterwards, Mary climbed up on Elsie’s lap to listen to the story of
Little Red Riding Hood
. Mary was delighted with her gruesome descriptions of the wolf’s appetite for grandmas and little girls. Soon after, Mary got drowsy, her soft, downy head getting heavier and heavier, until she was sound asleep. Elsie, looking down at her brown curls, felt the sharp prick of tears, and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. No matter what, Mary would always need her, always be a part of her life. Even marchionesses loved their little sisters. Even duchesses. Perhaps she could convince Lord Hathwaite to have Mary live with them.
At the thought of Lord Hathwaite, that hidden little bit of ice in her stomach grew.
No
, she told herself,
I will not think of it. I will not.
Elsie pressed a kiss onto Mary’shead and took a bracing breath, desperate to push back the tears that threatened. For she knew if she let them flow, she might never stop crying. And that would never do.
 
“The mural is nearly done.”
Elsie ignored him, kissing him instead. They had just finished making love and he was stroking her hair, his eyes on the dark ceiling above them. He was miserable and she was pretending that their time together wasn’t at an end. He swallowed down his misery, kissing her again, closing his eyes as if that would somehow sear his brain with this memory.
“Did you hear me?”
“I don’t like it. The mural, that is. I think you should start over,” Elsie said, teasing.
“I have some small touch-ups. Two days at the most. And then we’ll be leaving. Monsieur says we are to travel to Bristol. The marquess there has commissioned a mural for his dining room.” Bristol seemed like the other side of the world, and it might as well be.
“I don’t want to speak of it,” Elsie said, as if that would stop him from leaving.
“We must. You must. Elsie, I am leaving. We have one or two nights together, and I ...”
She turned around and put her hands over her ears like a child, but he gently removed them and kissed one ear.
“I just thought if I pretended hard enough, it wouldn’t happen,” she said, her voice watery. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to marry Hathwaite. I want to run away with you and never come back.” A small sob escaped her throat. “But I cannot.”
“Please, don’t cry,” he said, feeling helpless.
“Don’t cry. Don’t smile. Don’t pretend. How else am I supposed to cope with what is happening?” she whispered harshly, and he knew had they been elsewhere, those words would have been shouted. “I love you, but sometimes I hate you.” The moment after she said it, her eyes widened in horror and she clamped a hand over her mouth.
Alexander looked away, unable to bear seeing her so hurt. “I deserve your hate,” he said with utmost sincerity.
Elsie stared miserably at him, then lay back down, her hand seeking his and holding on tight. “Being star-crossed lovers isn’t nearly as romantic as I’d imagined. It simply hurts.” She sniffed loudly and dashed the tears away with her free hand. “Two days?”
“Three if Monsieur doesn’t lose too much patience with me. It’s done, actually. I could leave tomorrow. But, there are things I can add. Change. I will insist and he will let me.” He sighed, bringing her hand up and kissing her palm. “I don’t think...”
I can bear to lose you.
He stopped, knowing that to complete his thoughts would only hurt her more.
“You don’t think what?”
“I don’t think I can stay longer than that.” Suddenly, he brought her against him, kissing her deeply, trying to capture her essence with his mouth, his hands. She arched against him, moving her hands to his back, moving her hips upward. He growled, low and hard, entering her, relishing her gasp, the way she lifted her hips to meet him. He turned so that she straddled him, giving him access to her center. He loved looking up at her, at her drowsy eyes, her hair touching his chest, her thighs smooth and taut beside him. He loved watching her become aroused as he touched her between her legs, the way her mouth opened, the way she moved against him, the intoxicating sounds she made. She moved up, bringing her breasts to his greedy mouth, and he groaned at the sensation, the slick friction on his arousal. She moved frantically against his hand, seeking her release, knowing it was coming. He guided her, he watched her come, that beautiful moment of complete and utter bliss, when everything was erased but the pure pleasure of the present. He loved feeling her muscles clench around him, the spasms that squeezed him, that made it near impossible not to simply thrust into her and find his own release.
But he would not take the chance that he would leave his child inside her. What he was doing was bad enough, God knew, he could not, would not make her pregnant. Staying inside her, he turned them again, thrusting deep and hard, letting the sensations take over his mind, erasing all other thoughts. He pulled out, giving a guttural sound, his seed spilling harmlessly onto yet another furniture cover.

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