Duke Takes All (The Duke's Secret, #3), page 14
The coach rolled to a stop and it was all she could do to keep from cursing. Would he answer her? Now that they were about to be interrupted?
Max kept her hands in his. . . then intertwined them.
And in that small gesture, he gave her the entire world. It felt as if her soul had been lit ablaze.
She held on to him then as if her life depended on it. Her happiness certainly did.
The door opened and Max quickly jumped down. As if frightened that she might take back her bold words, he whisked her down from the coach and swept her into his arms.
Apparently uncaring if all the world should see, the Duke of Raventon carried her up the steps to his ancestral London home.
Abbot dutifully opened the door immediately and she could have sworn the older man looked pleased at Max’s sudden departure from decorum.
Abbot’s look delighted her. For it seemed to suggest that Abbot thought she was the answer to Max’s happiness, too.
It was a testament to his strength that Max took the many steps easily.
His breath broke not at all as he strode down the long hall in the dancing shadows. He did not pause until he stood before his chamber door. Easily, he touched the gold-plated door handle, allowing the ancient panel to swing inward.
A fire had been lit in the great hearth. It was a hearth that was the size that was in most great halls.
The logs blazed with a crackling heat, warming the room in its fiery glow.
Max took her to it and set her down on the thick, soft Axminster rug before it.
The ribbons of her cloak easily gave way to his skilled persuasion and the thick folds fell from her shoulders in a green cascade.
It was then that he paused. A dark look danced through his gaze.
“What is it?” she whispered, desperate that the spell not be broken.
“You’re certain?” His voice was a rough whisper. “You do not mind. . . you do not mind. . .”
In the time that she’d seen him, she had never witnessed his vulnerability. Not like this.
“Mind what?” she asked gently.
“My scars are. . .” He grimaced, no doubt, loathed to mention them. “Well, they are not sightly.”
“I saw yer scars the first night we met,” she reminded him, stunned that he should be concerned about them when he was such a marvelous man. “Ye ensured it, thinking it would upset me. They didna then and they willna now, my love. They are an outward symbol of yer noble heart, of yer strong soul.”
The relief in him was all but palpable.
And to prove what she said was true, she raised herself to her knees and took the folds of his coat in her hands. With less skill than his, she worked the thick, but buttery soft fabric from his shoulders.
Then, slowly, she worked the buttons of his waistcoat until it, too, was shrugged to the floor.
His linen shirt hung easily about his beautiful body now and she tugged his starched cravat free, unwinding it slowly. . . oh so slowly.
His gaze never left her face as she disrobed him, looking for any sign of displeasure or lack of acceptance.
It nearly broke her heart that such a strong man should fear being rejected for something like his scars. She loved every single one. For each one was proof of the man he was. A man that she admired more than any in the entire world.
The perfectly-pressed cravat dropped to the floor with a gentle whooshing sound and then. . . oh then, she dared herself to do as she desired, to not be afraid, to live as she hoped to live.
With as much boldness as she could, she clasped his shirt in her hands and tugged it free of his breeches.
He bent slightly, allowing her to whisk it over his head. She dropped it then, the fabric fluttering down beside them.
There, in the firelight, she gazed upon the duke who was her husband, her hero, and a man who sought acceptance and love.
She slid her hands to his chest, gasping slightly at the warm, firm touch of him.
His muscles jumped as if he, too, was astonished that being skin to skin with her should be so evocative.
But it was. She could scarcely breathe as she traced her fingers over the sinew of his torso, then downward and to the side, to touch the mass of scars that twisted that side of his body.
“Does it pain ye?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he confessed, hesitantly. “It never quite healed properly.”
“Ye hide that from the world,” she said softly, her heart aching for the suffering he’d endured. How she wished she could have been there then, to soothe him, to take away his pain.
“I do not desire pity.”
“Then ye willna have it,” she replied simply. “I shall simply instruct ye to do the sensible thing and take care of yerself.”
His eyes widened and then he laughed softly. “Indeed?”
“Och, aye. What else is a wife for except to see that her husband takes the best care of himself so that he can do well in the world? And, I shall take care of ye and, thusly, ye may take of yerself. . . so that ye may take care of others.”
His lips curved in a slow smile. “I thought it was the husband who takes care of the wife.”
The delicious sound of his voice caused his chest to reverberate against her palm.
“We must take care of each other,” she said sensibly before she lost the ability to reason properly. “Now, mon, how does one undo yer breeches?”
A groan, half-torture, half-desire escaped him and he pulled her against his chest, easily taking her down to the floor.
A peel of surprised laughter bubbled past her.
“I thought love making was meant to be a very serious affair,” she pointed out.
“Life is already serious for something so wonderful to be without laughter,” he replied, leaning over her.
His dark hair had tumbled boyishly free from its pomade and he stroked his fingertips along the side of her face. “I have never known anyone who could make me feel as you do,” he said before he angled her head to the side.
She waited for his kiss and when he pressed his mouth ever so gently to her neck and not her lips, she gasped in surprise.
For the delicate touch was so very intimate she felt suddenly naked before him.
And in a few short moments, her gown and shift had joined his clothing. Now that she was laid out nude before him, she tingled with delight.
She felt no shame. Much to her good fortune, she’d been raised in a sensible Highland home where bodies were not an embarrassment but a gift of nature. Though she had never been nude before a man, she felt that this was right. Oh, it felt strange and new, but it felt oh so right with Max.
She stretched out before him, hoping beyond hope that he would enjoy what he saw.
It was a moment where it felt as if her entire life hung in the balance. She knew, too, that she had never been so vulnerable as she was tonight.
He slid his palms over her ribs as he kissed her shoulders and then the valley between her breasts.
“There are no adequate words, Diana,” he breathed against her skin.
It was the most heady feeling, his words whispered against her flesh.
Gently, his hands cupped her breasts, caressing them, but his kisses took him lower and lower until his fingertips skimmed her hips then delved between her thighs.
She knew what happened between a man and a woman. She’d read a great deal, after all. Ignorance was not for her. She’d read and understood it could be pleasant but the reality of it was so much more than anything she could have imagined, she couldn’t speak.
When he kissed the most intimate place between her thighs, she arched upward, drawing in a shaky breath.
“You like that, my darling?”
“Mmmm,” was all she was able to reply as he teased her body mercilessly. With each circle of his tongue, she felt as if he were devouring her and a pleasure so intense it verged on pain suddenly crashed over her.
Her hands curved into fists as she cried out and as she rode that crest of wonder, he lifted his body over hers.
“This. . .” His face was taut with desire, but he still said gently, “This might cause you some pain.”
In answer, she wrapped her arms about him, desperate not to let him go. She felt his sex at her core and the strange pressure of him rocking against her.
He thrust inside and a yelp of surprise burst past her lips.
“Does it hurt too much?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly at his effort to go slowly.
“It. . . it is. . . very different but the pain seems to be gone,” she said, trying to make sense of the feeling.
“Shall I stop?” he inquired, his voice half-breaking.
“Only if ye wish to displease me.”
He laughed then, a rich, tortured sound. “I only wish to please you, Wife. Always.”
And with that, he rolled his hips forward.
Her eyes widened and her thighs parted further as her body attempted to accommodate him. For several moments, she began to believe such a thing was impossible but then, suddenly, her body relaxed and he was home.
She smiled up at him, triumphant.
He did not smile but the pleasure he felt was clear on his face.
Half-hooded lids barely hid the intensity of his desire as he began to thrust urgently, deep within her.
Much to her shock, that wild pleasure began to overtake her again and she held on to him, feeling almost as if they were about to meld into one person.
Their breaths matched, ragged and hungry as their bodies strained against each other. Without warning, her insides tightened and wave after wave of perfect bliss claimed her.
And as she thought she could feel no more ecstasy, he called her name, his entire body collapsing. He held her so tightly, she almost could not breathe. But the moment was entirely clear to her.
She was his. . . and he was hers.
It was the most perfect she had felt in her entire life and she hoped it would never end.
Chapter 23
They laid before the dazzling fire, her head tucked upon his shoulder. Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin as their hands entwined.
The feel of her soft skin beneath his was heaven.
Tonight, he had been admitted into Paradise. Would he be allowed to stay? Surely, yes. After so much suffering, Paradise was his.
But he knew the vagaries of life. Surely such wonder and happiness could not last.
He shook the thought away. Yes, he was well acquainted with the precariousness of life and it would be idiotic of him to think of anything but this moment.
The feel of her against him. The way their bodies fit so perfectly together.
A log popped and the fire burst with bright cinders that floated upward into the chimney. It was the only sound in the room save for their breaths.
They had been thus for hours. Neither had wished to break the spell.
He had brought over his thick counterpane and wrapped them up. The silver tray that bore a decanter of red wine and two goblets had sustained them through the hours.
The urge to sleep escaped him entirely. This was a night he wished to last forever.
She turned in his arms, propping herself on an elbow. Almost reverently, she placed her palm on his cheek then slowly drew her forefinger over his jaw. “I ken yer heart. I ken yer soul, Max, Duke of Raventon.”
He kissed the tip of her finger, savoring this newfound affection.
“Tell me something I do no’ ken.”
He blinked then stared up at his ceiling, searching for some banal answer. Something she did not know? Where was he to begin? Could he begin? The vast vault of secrets he kept was largely unshared. Only the pertinent people knew. People who had to know.
“I don’t understand,” he replied instead. Unwilling to open a door which might lead to things he couldn’t anticipate.
“Hmmm.” She pursed her lips in exaggerated thought. “I shall help ye. Ah! Ye could tell me the name of yer favorite dog. Or horse. Or why ye went to Paris.”
The ease which had relaxed him just moments before began to slip away and he hated that. He hated that it was already dissolving. He wished he could beg her to not ask. To leave all questioning aside. But how could he do such a thing? It was unreasonable. For she was his wife.
“My favorite dog was a Setter named Rosie. She was most loyal and affectionate. I did not have favorite horses though I find them to be beautiful. No. I preferred walking to riding. And Paris?”
He swallowed. How honest should he be? For he could give her an answer which took but a moment, or he could speak the rest of the night.
Clearing his throat, he replied simply, “I went to Paris because, while I agreed with the Girondist movement of the revolution, I saw that the extremists of the Jacobin party were going to slaughter anyone who stood in their way.”
She waited silently, leaning patiently over him.
Did she expect him to reveal more? And as the silence stretched, he realized that yes, yes she did.
“My darling,” he said softly. “The past. . . the past is the past and I don’t particularly like to dwell on it.”
She gazed down upon him, her eyes wandering over his face as if she could somehow will him to share himself with her, but she did not beg or recriminate. Instead, a sadness that was not there before shadowed her gaze.
“I understand, Max,” she said gently and without censure.
“You do?” he asked, stunned. Was it truly to be so simple? And yet. . . something felt amiss.
“I do,” she assured softly. “There is a part of ye that will always be hidden from me.”
The words hit him like solid blows. They were made worse by the fact that he could not deny them. They were made brutal by the fact that he was certain she did not intend to cause him pain with them.
“I—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’ve chosen ye, Max. I. . . I love ye. I can choose to rage against yer secrets. To feel as though ye dinna trust me. But that will only leave me bitter. So, I must do what I must. I must accept the mon that ye are. Ye are a mon of secrets. Ye always will be. And while ye will be mine, there will always be a part of ye that never is.”
Each word cut like the slash of a saber against his once guarded heart. How he longed to argue, to protest. Yet, he couldn’t. Was he prepared to bare himself to her?
No. For so long, he had hidden himself. For so long, he had kept his secrets. They were a part of him.
How could he ever tell her that he was The Hawk?
How could he explain that, even now, his entire life was devoted to secrecy and to setting about souls to save people from disaster?
How could he ever bring himself to speak of Tommy Adams, who had taken half of Max’s heart with him when he had died in battle?
If she could accept who he was, the secrets he kept, then surely, they could be happy. Couldn’t they?
But even as he thought this, he knew that their happiness would never be complete. It would mirror her lack of possession of him. A part of him would always remain elusive, and so would their happiness.
He closed his eyes, realizing, as she realized that he had chosen a life of service, that it would always come first, as it always had done.
Yet, for some reason, she was willing to make the sacrifice, even though he could sense her pain.
Why did he suddenly suspect that his life’s work might now prove to be the source of his greatest disappointment?
She did not leave him when his silence continued. She did not pull away. On the contrary, she laid down and rested her head against his shoulder.
“I love ye, Max,” she whispered.
As those words slipped through the night air, he felt them drawing them apart, instead of bringing them together as they should have done.
Paradise disappeared in that moment, as he knew it would do. And while he held her in his arms, he knew that he had lost something truly dear. And it was no one’s fault but his own.
Chapter 24
Morning light spilled in through the tall windows and over the great bed. It flickered over her eyes and she blinked awake.
Her body felt deliciously used, but her soul felt far more delicate. She curled onto her side and realized she was alone.
No doubt, he had been needed quite early at the House of Lords.
Christmas was almost upon them and, today, she and Abbot would supervise the decorating of the house.
She quite liked Christmas. It had always been a merry holiday in Scotland but, this year, she had a feeling that it would be. . . very different and not quite so jolly as her years as a child.
She gripped the sheets, willing herself not to regret the choices she had made.
The night had not gone at all as expected.
Perhaps, she should have said nothing. Asked nothing.
But that wasn’t who she was. It never would be. No, she could not regret being true to herself. It was better that her husband knew how she felt.
Now, somehow, she had to learn to accept that she loved a man who spent a good deal of his life in the shadows, serving others. And he always would. She’d never truly thought about what it would be like to be married to a man with such power. A man who truly did run the country and who would have to keep a vast deal from her.
But she did know that all he did was for the good of others. And that was something to be proud of, even if it did leave her feeling lonely.
It was part of the reason she loved him, of course.
Yet, in addition to the loneliness, she could not ignore a hollow feeling where she had hoped to feel full.
Diana drew in a breath and pushed the thick counterpane back. She shivered as the cold, December air wrapped about her night rail-clad body.
There was nothing for it but to hope and keep on. It certainly wasn’t what she’d longed for, the distance between them that came with his secrets. But nor would she wail like a spoiled child denied a toy.
Her husband was a great man who helped people. She couldn’t deny him that. It was who he was, who he had always been. She kept repeating this to herself, determined to let it soothe her.
She’d known that when she’d married him and she’d known it when she’d declared her love for him.
