Blame It on Bath: The Truth About the Duke Page 18

  He had flung back the covers but was still lying in bed, arms folded under his head and one knee propped up. Her throat closed up. He slept as naked as a newborn babe, she knew that; but this was the first time she’d gotten a good look at him in full light. He was magnificent, from the top of his dark, tousled head, over a broad chest dusted with dark hair, a lean belly and hips, and long powerful limbs, to the bottom of his big feet. It struck her anew that she had to be the most fortunate woman in England to have such a creature for her husband, in her bed, regarding her with knowing eyes from under his long eyelashes.

  “You like to look at me, don’t you?”

  She whipped around, mortified. “I didn’t mean to stare—”

  “Yes, you did, and thank God for it.” He snagged her wrist and pulled until she reluctantly sat on the edge of the bed. “You should like to look at me—not at other men, naturally, but it warms my heart to know you find me pleasing.”

  Pleasing. Her mouth was dry, and she could feel the wet heat between her legs. She dared to look again. Gerard was as pleasing as a man could be, to her eyes, whether clothed or bare. It shocked her that he lolled in bed naked and didn’t mind if she admired his body, but it gave her a burst of bravado. “I’ve only really seen you,” she said. “Do other men look the same?”

  “Not half as fine,” he scoffed. “How fortunate you are to have me, eh?”

  “I have never denied it.” Her gaze caught on one part of him, which was growing larger and harder as she watched.

  He noticed. “You like me here, in particular?” He stroked one hand over his organ.

  Kate blushed and looked away. “Yes. That part is also pleasing.”

  He chuckled softly. “Merely pleasing?”

  She stole another glance at it. Even wrapped in his big hand, it looked large. She remembered how it felt when he thrust inside her and squirmed a little. “Not ‘merely,’ no,” she managed to say. “Very pleasing.”

  He lifted his hand away. “Touch me, then.”

  She darted a shocked look at him. He was serious, despite the wicked smile that lingered on his lips. She reached out and gently touched him. “More,” he said, his voice deepening. She jumped, but lightly ran her palm down his length. “Harder,” he murmured. She hesitated, then gave him a firm stroke. To her surprise Gerard sucked in his breath and put back his head. “Again,” he growled when she paused. “Do that again, Kate.”

  She did, growing more confident with each stroke. He was satiny smooth, incredibly hot, and pulsing with life against her hand. “What do you call . . . this?” she asked.

  “A hundred different things,” he said, now breathing deeply and unevenly.

  “Like what?” She ran her thumb lightly over the swollen head, and his whole body jerked.

  “What do you call it?”

  She paused. “I don’t know. A man’s part, or organ.”

  He laughed. “Prim words! Prick. Tool. Cock.”

  “Prick?” She gave a small laugh in spite of herself. “Like a needle?”

  “Neither so sharp, nor so slender.”

  “I don’t like ‘tool,’ either.”

  “Darling, if you keep stroking it as you’re doing, you may call it anything you like.”

  “Cock sounds like an animal,” she said, and audaciously wrapped her fingers around him as he had done himself. “It doesn’t look like an animal at all.”

  In the blink of an eye Gerard rose, caught her around the waist, and flipped her onto her back. She looked breathlessly up into his face, dark and taut. “But it is a beast,” he whispered, swooping down to kiss her as he shoved aside the dressing gown she wore. “Wild, untamed, and voraciously hungry.” His hand was between her legs, his fingers exploring the dampness hidden in the dark blond curls there. “If you taunt it, madam, it may devour you . . . although I see you are a willing sacrifice.” He fitted himself against her and nudged.

  Kate arched beneath him, wantonly begging to be devoured. “What do you call that?” she asked, blushing anew. “That part of me you wish to—to devour.”

  “This?” He paused to touch her again, his thumb teasing lightly over the tiny bit of flesh that made her gasp and tremble. “The French call it le chat—the pussy. The Welsh named it quim. The crude English call it by its purpose: cock lane. But I . . .” He thrust forward, deeply into her. “I call it paradise.”

  “Blasphemy,” she managed to say.

  “Gospel,” he said, harsh and low. He pushed into her again, harder and deeper. Kate mewed, half in desire, half in alarm. “Shh,” he whispered, sliding one hand under her hip and tilting her to a better angle. “I’m doing penance.”

  “For—for what sin?” She clutched at his arms, trying to right herself under the onslaught of his desire.

  “Arrogance.” One by one he caught her hands and held them fast, spreading her arms to pin her to the bed. “Greed.” His hips flexed, and he thrust so deep, she thought he would split her in half. His lips brushed hers as he settled his weight over her, holding her down, open and helpless under him. “But my greatest sin . . . Ah, that would be lust,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “ ’Tis not a sin”—she gulped back a moan as he thrust again—“to desire your own wife.”

  “But to devour her?” He was moving again, nudging her thighs wider apart so he could drive himself into her even farther. Kate felt tears gather behind her eyelids as her insides clenched and shivered at the raw power of his possession. He had never taken her like this before, as if he couldn’t get enough and couldn’t restrain himself from taking it. He was right, though; she was a willing sacrifice to that desire, whatever he meant by penance.

  “Surely . . . Surely it was part of the vows . . .”

  His grin was savage. “If the curate said anything about this, I didn’t hear it.” He ducked his head and sucked at the tender skin below her ear. Kate bared the side of her throat and made a high, gasping sound as his teeth nipped her neck. He laughed, wickedly and quietly, surging into her even harder.

  This wasn’t love. She knew it wasn’t. But it was more than she’d ever hoped for, and for this moment, it felt like love.

  She writhed beneath him, her legs tangling with his before she hitched them up securely around his hips. He rode her hard, pulling her arms above her head at one point so he could hold her wrists with one hand, freeing the other arm to curl around her shoulders for greater leverage. His blue eyes glowed like lightning under his half-closed eyelids. His skin against hers was slick and hot. He flooded her every sense, breaching every bulwark she erected around her heart. It was hopeless; she loved him more than ever. If he never really loved her in turn, if this—this desperate need for the pleasure of each other’s bodies was all they ever shared, she would still be his, heart and soul. With a sob of anguish and joy, she gave in, throwing open the last locked door inside her heart. Her body tightened, strained toward him, and finally burned in climax.

  Gerard felt her break, and gritted his teeth as he pumped furiously into her. Good God. He had never felt so hard, so frantic with a woman in all his life. She was his wife, his to take whenever he wanted her, and instead of languishing under that matrimonial respectability, his attraction only grew stronger. Even as she trembled beneath him and threw back her head with a passionate little cry that made his ballocks draw up, he kept thrusting, harder and faster. He was addicted to the feel of her coming around him, so wet and sweet and unbearably tight. He was addicted to the white-hot sparks of pleasure that shot through his veins as his own release boiled over within him. And most of all, he was addicted to the dreamy little smile she wore when his vision cleared of the haze of sexual satisfaction. That smile was for him, and when she wore it, she was the most entrancing sight he’d ever seen.

  “Are you absolved?” she mumbled.

  “Oh, surely not.” He rested his head on her shoulder and cradled her close. He didn’t have the strength to do more. A moment later
her hands touched his shoulders, then her arms went around him, resting lightly on his back. God, this was as blissful as he could imagine being, with her body holding his like she’d never let him go.

  “Why not?”

  He sighed, rubbing his cheek against her skin. “It was too satisfying.”

  Her fingers combed through his hair, a delicate, tender touch that only amplified the contentment he felt. “That’s wrong?”

  “It must be. If everyone enjoyed penance that much, there would be no check whatsoever on sin and vice.”

  She went still, then began to tremble. Gerard lifted his head in bemusement, only to realize she was shaking with suppressed laughter. “What?” he growled playfully.

  “That makes no sense,” she said, barely holding back her merriment.

  “It makes perfect sense. Everyone sins because it is pleasurable. Penance atones for the sin, so it cannot be pleasurable.” He paused. “In fact, it seems highly likely we have both just sinned egregiously.”

  She burst out laughing. “You’re talking nonsense! We are married. Marriage exists as a remedy against sin. The curate most certainly did read that part.”

  “Did he, indeed?” Gerard lifted one shoulder and grinned. “It’s obvious why I went into the army rather than the Church.” And she only laughed harder.

  His new wife was slowly turning him inside out. When she’d offered a marriage of convenience in that small, dark parlor at The Duck and Dog, Gerard had been strongly tempted by her fortune and mildly intrigued by the challenge of melting her frosty demeanor. He never imagined such a passionate woman lurked behind her cool, expressionless gaze. He wasn’t even sure he would recognize that woman as his Kate. It was shocking what a flush of color and some animation did to her looks. She still wasn’t quite beautiful, but now her face caught his attention and held it, as he wondered what each new expression would look like. Far from the quiet, guarded creature he had married, Kate had bloomed into a lovely woman who smiled and spoke without seeming to weigh each word first. And now she was laughing. Gerard was bewitched. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed, and she looked so happy he couldn’t help smiling, too, even though she was laughing at him.

  “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh,” he said on impulse.

  She paused. “Oh. I never did laugh much.”

  “Why not?”

  Her face stilled, not in that blank, withdrawn expression he hated so much, but in honest thought. “Nothing much made me laugh before,” she finally said.

  Gerard studied her. Her first husband deserved an early death for not giving her anything to laugh about. Had he given her something to cry about? “What did Howe do to you?” he murmured.

  She blushed. “I always was a serious child.”

  That didn’t answer his question but made him certain he wouldn’t like the answer when he heard it. “All children laugh and play, even the serious ones. I’ve wondered for a while if . . .”

  “What?” she asked warily when he paused again.

  Gerard met her eyes. “Did he strike you?”

  Her gaze skittered away. “Only a few times. He never really hurt me.”

  “Damn it,” Gerard said through his teeth, trying not to curse at greater length. “I thought he must have. You would look so frightened sometimes . . .”

  “I was never frightened of you,” she said in a rush. “Only . . . uncertain.”

  “You have no reason to be frightened of me, Kate.” He rolled onto his side, taking her with him so they were still face-to-face. “Why did you do it? Ask me to marry you?”

  She smiled although a little uneasily. “Aren’t you pleased I did?”

  He gave her a leering grin. “Yes, but I’ve always wondered why . . .”

  “I already told you—because of your great charm and heroic deeds—”

  “Don’t forget my handsome face,” he added in mock affront.

  Her face was scarlet, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “And you looked so dashing in your red coat—”

  He didn’t feel like pressing her, not now. The question of why she wanted to marry him only made him remember how close he was to bringing her down into ruin with him. “And because I needed you.”

  The color faded from her cheeks. “I thought it would serve us both.”

  “It has. I did need you.” He sighed and rubbed one hand over his face. He didn’t want to admit his encroaching failure, but it would be cruel not to warn her. She would discover it sooner or later, the more they went out in Bath society. “But I have to confess, Kate, your gamble may not pay out well. Things are not looking . . . promising.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Have you made no progress in finding the man you seek? Are you really about to lose your inheritance?”

  He grimaced. So she did hear the whispers last night. “I have a description of the man who sent the notes that started this nightmare, and someone who claims he would know the man if he saw him again. But I have no name, and the man himself seems to have vanished into thin air.”

  “That’s progress,” she said. “Though not enough. Is there another angle to pursue?”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Of course—there are probably half a dozen. This was only the most direct. Find the blackmailer, and I’d be able to determine what proof or incriminating material he possessed. Relieve him of that, and he would be shorn of his hold over us. He could say whatever he liked, and it wouldn’t matter without the proof.”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “Where could he have gotten his proof?”

  “That’s a harder question.” He shook his head. “A number of places, from a number of people, I suppose.” She listened so earnestly, with no judgment one way or the other. His brother Edward thought he was rash and a bit foolhardy, charging off to find a blackmailer who’d avoided their father’s investigators. His brother Charlie no doubt just thought he was an idiot. His father, he thought, would approve, but only of his choice of action; he could almost hear Durham’s impatient prodding to find something useful or make some key realization that would break the puzzle.

  “Perhaps if you search those places, you’ll discover who else might have it and how he got it.”

  “True. It won’t alter the fact that someone has it and means to use it against us.” He propped his head up on one hand. Kate gazed up at him, her eyes pure sapphire blue. Suddenly he found himself telling her—wanting to tell her. “You heard the rumors about my father? Sadly, they’re true, in most respects. When he was a young man, he made a rash, clandestine marriage with a young woman of high temper and low rank. The marriage was conducted by a reverend of questionable piety in a tavern near the Fleet, of all places. Too late they realized how foolish it was, but neither had the money for a divorce, and my father was ashamed of the mistake he’d made. They simply agreed to part ways, and that was that.

  “Father claimed he tried to find her again when he inherited the dukedom. It came to him after his great-uncle died; he never expected to be a duke, or else he likely wouldn’t have been allowed enough freedom to do such a damned foolish thing in the first place. But when he became one, he knew he must marry and have an heir, and he knew very well that first marriage would cause trouble. Despite his efforts—and knowing my father, they must have been thorough—he never found her. It had been twenty years. Finally he married my mother, and there was nary a murmur of any impediment. For decades he believed the first wife was dead, or so far removed from England she might as well be dead. Only a year ago did he learn otherwise, when a letter arrived saying simply ‘I know about Dorothy Cope.’ ”

  “His first wife?”

  Gerard nodded. “I gather it set Father off on a frenzied search. So few people had known about the marriage at the time—only the minister who conducted it, his clerk, and of course my father and the woman herself. The only record would have been in the minister’s register—my father burned whatever form of certific
ate he received, and there was no license. But this woman . . . God only knows what she’s done and what she’s said in the last sixty years. She could have told any number of people. She could still be living.”

  Kate was quiet for a moment. “So might the minister or his clerk.”

  “True,” he granted, “but far less likely. The minister must have married hundreds of people. Would either remember one couple?”

  “He doesn’t have to remember, he has their names in a register. He might have come across it by chance and seized an opportunity.”

  “He’d be a very old man by now. If he wanted to blackmail my father, why wait?”

  “Perhaps he just discovered it recently and realized what it might mean. Or his family might have uncovered it when he died.”

  He laced his fingers together and rolled onto his back, cushioning his head on his hands as he thought. “Possible. But it doesn’t fit with the letters. The first arrived a year ago, with that one cryptic line. The second came three months later, and said Durham’s secret would be exposed. The third asked for money, which was never collected, and the fourth merely restated the writer’s intent to reveal Durham as a bigamist. If you suddenly discovered evidence of such a thing and decided to act upon it, would you patiently wait a year? Would you ask for money and make no effort to claim it?”

  “Perhaps he was prevented.”

  “Then wouldn’t you send another letter, making a new demand?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  For a moment they were both quiet. Kate’s brow puckered up in thought, very appealingly in Gerard’s opinion. “If I were the clerk’s granddaughter,” she said slowly, “or the minister’s, or any innocent person who came across this mysterious proof, I’m sure I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to blackmail someone. Undoubtedly it would take me a while to work up the nerve to do it. Perhaps I would suffer pangs of remorse. I’m certain I wouldn’t want everyone to know of my actions, which would mean taking care to conceal it. And how would I explain a large sum of money?”