Duke in Darkness (Wickedly Wed Book 1) Page 7

  “I’m sure it is,” he said gruffly. “But it will be easier this time, if just me.”

  Lilian’s cheeks pinkened, then she took a shuddering breath. “Very well.”

  He swallowed. Instinct demanded he mark her as his and fuck her rough and hard and deep. But he couldn’t. He had to be slow and gentle, and take her virginity as quickly and painlessly as possible so she wouldn’t be traumatized by the experience and reject any chance of pleasure in the act. Had he ever actually bedded a virgin? Before Bayonne there had been widows and high-end courtesans aplenty. But he couldn’t recall anyone inexperienced.

  Excellent. They both had no bloody idea, then.

  Gabriel partially parted his robe and fisted his cock, carefully smoothing the remaining oil over the length as additional lubrication to the moisture dripping from the head. Then he lowered himself down to the bed and braced his weight on knees and one elbow, rubbing his cock against Lilian’s labia, before positioning it at her entrance. “Lilian?”

  She nodded, and shut her eyes.

  Slowly, so slowly, Gabriel began to penetrate her. He felt her wince of discomfort—she was so damned tight—but he caressed her thigh reassuringly, and continued to inch forward. The sooner he got this part over and done with, the better. His breathing quickened, and perspiration gathered at his temples. Christ. The sensation of her cunt gripping his throbbing cock like a scalding hot glove was incredible. But more than that, knowing he was her first, that she would belong to him in this one special way forever…he’d never felt so primitive in his life. And yet he would cause her pain. Far more than the discomfort she currently felt, as he stretched her with the girth of his cock.

  “Sorry,” he gritted out.

  Then he thrust hard.

  Lilian arched like a bow, briefly pressing a hand to her mouth to muffle a sobbing cry.

  Momentum had him instantly buried to the hilt, and while he wanted to pause and allow her to adjust, he couldn’t stop himself moving, greedy for the warmth and exquisite friction of advance and retreat. Yet he wanted to make this good for her.

  Changing his angle, he ensured his groin rubbed against her mound on the down stroke, teasing her clitoris again and again. A soft mewling sound escaped Lilian’s mouth, her inner walls rippling around him, before she bit her lip and looked away, as though wishing herself a thousand miles from him.

  Don’t turn from me. I’m not a monster, even if I look like one. I’ll make you come. This marriage bed will be good for you, I swear…

  The words sat on the tip of his tongue, but then his cock surged again, pushing him past the point of no return. With a groan of dismayed ecstasy, Gabriel climaxed hard, his seed gushing inside her in several wrenching, blissful spurts. He allowed himself one moment of weakness; dropping his forehead onto the pillow next to her, and tentatively pressing his unmarked cheek against the silken softness of hers while he fought to catch his breath.

  Touch me.

  The yearning blasted through him, warring fiercely with his instinctive recoil. Perhaps he had indeed lost his mind. She didn’t love him. He didn’t love her. And yet the thought of a brief, light, affectionate stroke of his hair, a warm smile…

  A soft hand came to rest on his forearm, and wild hope roared through him.

  Instead, she nudged his arm away. “Exton, I do beg your pardon, but would you mind, ah, withdrawing? I’m a little uncomfortable. And I’m sure you’ll want to retire to your own chamber. The last thing we want is servant gossip.”

  Her words were like being doused in a bucket of icy water. Probably another duke and duchess rule.

  “Of course,” Gabriel said blandly, as though it didn’t matter a whit, balancing on his elbow again and carefully withdrawing from her. A little blood smeared her inner thighs along with trickling seed, and he hesitated. “Do you want me…to fetch a washcloth? Sit with you a while?”

  Lilian’s cheeks went scarlet. “No. No thank you. Dawn, my maid, will attend me. If you would just, ah, retire…”

  “You are well, though?”

  “Quite well. Goodnight, Exton.”

  And with that polite dismissal, he left her bed. The wooden floor seemed colder, the distance to his bedchamber further, and underneath his still thankfully secured robe, every scar he possessed burned mockingly.

  She doesn’t want you in return. She never will. Lilian loved Quentin. This is duty, nothing more.

  There it was. How a man could have a dukedom, a wife, countless servants…

  And still be utterly alone.

  Chapter 5

  April

  “So, Your Grace. Tell us everything about married life. And by everything, we mean everything.”

  Lilian glanced up from where she’d been inspecting a raisin pastry with the intentness of one of those gentlemen who studied bugs. The Exton House drawing room was ridiculously cavernous, and decorated in such a similar fashion to Grandmother’s fussy taste, with watered silk walls, hard, bottom-hating furniture, and many ugly figurines, that it made her uncomfortable even being in here. And that didn’t even consider the dried mud on the floor, less than sparkling windows, and dusty curtains. Her next task would be discovering what the large number of servants in this townhouse actually did each day, for it certainly wasn’t cleaning.

  But she had to navigate this smiling interrogation from her two remaining unwed friends, Lady Joy Ludlow and the Honorable Miss Leah Fenwick first. While a part of her was glad to have the company, another part wished they had waited longer before making a morning call. A wife of five days could hardly speak on the topic with any degree of authority. Besides, it wasn’t like she had achieved anything other than a disastrous wedding day followed by a disastrous wedding night, and several disastrous suppers. “There’s not much to tell.”

  Red-headed Joy raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

  “Yes, really. For heaven’s sake, it hasn’t even been a week.”

  “I think she is holding out on us,” said ebony-haired Leah, wrinkling her nose. “While I concede that less than a week isn’t enough to know it all, I’m sure there are certain subjects you are far more enlightened on than when we last saw you.”

  Lilian winced. Of course. They wanted to know about marital relations.

  Yet she couldn’t be called an expert on that, either, Exton had only visited her bedchamber the one time, choosing to stay away the previous few evenings. While her tender womanly parts were glad of the respite after the pain of losing her virginity, the rejection stung. It was just all so blasted difficult. She’d felt so vulnerable afterward, especially not knowing what to do once the deed was done, being sore and sticky, and far worse, quelling the urge to hug him or stroke his hair. It had been surprisingly strong, especially when his cheek accidentally brushed hers. For a moment she’d pretended it had been real affection. Just as quickly her mind had scolded her for being a twit, and she’d hastily asked him to retire before she made a fool of herself. For heaven’s sake, Exton had expressly forbidden her from touching him. He didn’t want that kind of marriage. She needed to accept it like a proper duchess.

  Well, if Exton allowed her to be a proper duchess. He hadn’t asked for her counsel on anything, so all she had to offer was the prospect of an heir, but she could hardly do that alone.

  “Certain subjects,” said Lilian, staring at the raisin pastry again, “are not for the ears of unmarried innocents. Or something like that.”

  “Oh, pooh,” said Leah. “Come on, Lilian, you would be doing us a great favor. I know I don’t want to have the talk from my mother, she and Father barely speak anymore and she doesn’t have a lover. She might not even remember what a cock looks like.”

  “Leah!” giggled Joy. “Hush, and let Lilian talk. Whatever she wishes to say.”

  Lilian grimaced. “I don’t wish to say anything.”

  “But you will. Because you love your friends and don’t want them to be ignorant henwits.”

  Somehow, Lilian managed to suppress her
snort. Yes, she did love them dearly, but this was entirely too embarrassing to discuss. Especially at this point in her marriage. “What exactly is it you want to know?”

  Both Joy and Leah sat forward on the gold embroidered chaise, their faces lighting up.

  “Exton is rather dashing,” said Joy. “He bowed to me in the entrance hall, and that cheek scar makes him look fierce. And wild. But he’s so huge.”

  Heat scorched across Lilian’s cheeks, and she took a hasty sip of tea. “I…ah…”

  “Very tall and broad shouldered. Rough. Not elegant like the previous duke. I think your husband could be used to prop up a house!”

  She let out a slow breath. Of course Joy hadn’t been referring to Exton’s man part. Good heavens, the fact that her mind had darted straight to that was extremely troubling.

  “Indeed he is.”

  Leah leaned over and selected a cream cake from the tray between them. “It’s such a shame about Exton’s limp. I’m sure he would have been a marvelous dancer. All the soldiers are.”

  “You shouldn’t tarry so long with them at balls,” Lilian replied, sharper than she’d intended. Her friend probably hadn’t meant any slight toward Exton, but she had no idea how bad his injuries were.

  “Why ever not? They always look splendid in their regimentals. And far less likely to squeak because their belly is strapped into a corset. I swear, sometimes I think I’m being chased by a horde of mice when I’m in a country dance. Squeak squeak! Squeak squeak!”

  Lilian grinned reluctantly. Her friend spoke a truth. Some men spent more time preparing for an evening out than the ladies did. And they could be a trifle silly when it came to accepting that an article of clothing simply did not fit. Her late fiancé had been such a—

  Stunned at the disloyal thought, she blinked. How could she even think such a thing? He’d been the perfect duke, and gentleman.

  “If I dream about an army of corset-wearing mice tonight, it will be your fault, Leah,” Lilian said swiftly.

  “Yes! And who cares about old men anyway?” said Joy, lounging back on the chaise. “I want to hear about Exton. Is he an admirable kisser…a-ha! He is! Your cheeks give you away.”

  Leah hooted with laughter. “Ruby red! I’d wager His Grace is more than admirable. Well, well. Then it stands to reason he might be more than admirable in other ways also. Do share.”

  Snapping open her fan, Lilian attempted to cool her burning cheeks. Blast it all, her friends had only asked about kissing, and she wanted to crawl under the table. How could she discuss anything more intimate?

  Especially as she remained so conflicted about the experience.

  When Exton had prepared her with the scented oil, his gentle, sure touch had been so alarmingly pleasant she’d been forced to halt him lest she behave like a harlot. It had almost been a relief when he entered her, and the discomfort that Grandmother spoke of began. Then the sharp, awful pain when Exton took her maidenhead, and she’d failed at staying silent and still. But after the initial pain dulled to an ache and feeling of overwhelming fullness, each of her husband’s thrusts became even easier to bear. When he’d shifted slightly and rubbed against that tender spot at the top of her mound…horrifyingly, it had made her feel warm and tingly and restless. Like it might become sinfully good. Thankfully Exton had spilled his seed not long after, heaven knew what might have happened otherwise.

  “Lilian! Helloooooo!”

  She blinked, startled. “Do excuse me.”

  Leah rolled her eyes as she selected a second cream cake from the tray. “Only if you share more information. Tell us the truth. Are the whispers correct? Is it awful the first time?”

  Lilian hesitated. “It is certainly unpleasant when one’s, ah, barrier is breached. But if you have a considerate husband, he will do his best to minimize the pain.”

  “I’m relieved to know Exton is such a man,” said Joy abruptly. “I know your family are delighted with the match, but it all happened so fast and he is your late fiancé’s cousin. I was worried about you.”

  “Oh, dearest, do not,” said Lilian, reaching across to take her hand. “I admit there are…difficulties…being married to a near-stranger, but His Grace has shown me nothing but courtesy thus far. I think in time we could even develop a real friendship.”

  “What about love?” asked Leah pointedly.

  Joy scoffed. “Oh please. We are daughters of the aristocracy. We marry where we are told to, and if we are very fortunate, we don’t out and out hate our husbands. That is the price of a title.”

  A strangely hollow sensation gripped Lilian’s chest, but she ruthlessly suppressed it. Joy was correct, loving marriages were rare in the ton. Her own parents had been the exception and her mother hadn’t survived it. “Exactly. Now, who would like more tea?”

  The estate ledger in front of him might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics for all the sense it made, and Gabriel was so damned tired of striving to be a good duke and achieving precisely nothing because his body or mind failed him.

  Rubbing a weary hand over his raw eyes, he sat back in his library chair. Last night had been yet another bad one, where not even all the beeswax candles in England were sufficiently bright. Where every creak and groan of a townhouse built nearly one hundred years ago reminded him of the torture room his captors had so enjoyed dragging him into each day. Where his wound sites ached and itched, and an unrelenting chill that no fire or heavy greatcoat could warm, steadily shoved him toward insanity. Where his hands trembled, chest tightened, and sweat dripped down his neck. On nights like that, the temptation to take his own life just to halt the waking nightmares grew far stronger.

  Only Hobbs knew of the worst times. Never would Gabriel permit Lilian to see him like that, so he’d stayed far away from her chamber, instead remaining in this library until dawn. Then he’d gone upstairs, completed his limb-stretching exercises, bathed, changed clothes, had Hobbs shave him, and returned here for the first of several meetings. The stewards were impatient to meet him after being put off for several months, and eager to insist they were dedicated and competent in managing his various inherited properties.

  “Your Grace? Would you like to take a breather? I am sorry, my wife warned me not to ramble, and here I am raving about wheat crops.”

  Gabriel smiled faintly at the earnest, barrel-chested, salt-and-pepper haired man on the other side of his heavy oak desk, unable to even remember his name. He hailed from some estate up north in the county of Rutland and did seem both knowledgeable and hardworking. Damnation. If only his mind wasn’t so foggy from lack of sleep. “Not at all. But perhaps some tea?”

  The man blinked, his surprise obvious. “I would be much obliged.”

  Leaning forward, Gabriel rang a silver bell, and eventually a knock sounded at the library door before a senior footman poked his head around. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Refreshments, if you would. Strong tea for me. Fruit cake.”

  “Of course. How do you take your tea, Mr. Fairlie?”

  Fairlie. Of course.

  The steward smiled. “Same as His Grace would be right nice.”

  “Yes sir.”

  When the footman retreated, Fairlie turned back and resettled himself in his chair. “If you don’t mind me saying, it’ll be a pleasure to drink real tea, not the weak milky brew that so many enjoy. I’m sure the stuff I drank on campaign quite destroyed my insides, but I cannot stomach anything else.”

  “You’re an army man?”

  “Yes sir. I mean, Your Grace.”

  “Either is fine,” Gabriel replied, the thought of a fellow ex-soldier addressing him by the much-missed ‘sir’ like cool water to parched earth. “Where did you serve?”

  Fairlie shrugged. “All over the place. The colonies, Mysore, France…then I took a few bullets to the shoulder in the Irish rebellion of ’98 and was honorably discharged with the rank of sergeant because I couldn’t swing a sword or shoot a rifle properly anymore. M’wife say
s I’m the most accurate weather predictor in the county…oh lord, I’m rambling again.”

  “What led you t-to…to…” Frustration tore through Gabriel as his jaw seized up, and his words slurred. Why now? Why here? “To Rutland?”

  The steward paused, then softly replied, “You might dismiss me for saying this, sir, but I read the Gazette, and I’ve kept in touch with my old army brothers. I know this country owes you the greatest of debts, for what you did in Spain and France, and what you sacrificed to save so many others. My shoulder scar took a long time to heal, but before it did, what a bloody nuisance. Always itching and throbbing and pulling. I imagine it’s much worse when it is your face and you keep stretching it when talking.”

  At the wholly unexpected comment, Gabriel stared at Fairlie, who stared defiantly back. “Blunt speaking, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

  “Aye, sir. Tis my fault—”

  A knock sounded again, and the footman walked in with a tray of steaming, fragrant tea and a platter of sliced fruit cake. As soon as the man had departed, Fairlie cleared his throat, then continued, “Tis my fault, and I’ll answer for it to God, but all I’m saying is you needn’t be shy about pausing or talking slower to me if your scar aches. I understand.”

  Shock almost froze him to the spot. Apart from Hobbs, he’d lost so much being medically discharged from the army after twelve years’ service. A way of life. Structure. Friends closer than brothers that he’d trusted with his life. And suddenly, from an unlikely source…empathy. Not disgust, not feigned coddling or pity, just brisk acknowledgment from a man who knew. Fairlie had served for a long time, and had probably witnessed terrible things, before his career abruptly ended through injury. This was someone a colonel-turned-duke could breathe easily around. And there certainly wouldn’t be many like him amongst the ton.