Page 29 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

The bittersweet smile upon her face spilled joy through his heart. He tried to imagine how it would be if Christmas was a source of joy and light and love, as it was supposed to be. Taking the bowl, he stepped over to Miss Fields and poured his brandy mixture over the apples.

Octavius covered her hand holding the spoon with his, and together they stirred the filling.

He imagined it was him making circles inside her as he buried himself deep within her, imagined the way her breath would catch.

Her inhale wavered in her chest, and he became aware how close she stood, so small, fragile, and so wonderfully near that her unique scent tickled his nostrils.

They were both in naught but their nightclothes, and there was no one around them. The whole house was sleeping. It was her and him, the food, and the candlelight.

“What do you feel now, Miss Fields?” Octavius asked in a low voice.

“I feel safe,” she said softly.

She felt safe with him. In a strange way, she’d given him a gift.

“I’m honored,” Octavius murmured, “even though I told you I wouldn’t marry you. I’ve compromised you at least three times by now.”

She shook her head slowly. “Had you bothered to ask, Your Grace, you would have found out I am not interested in marriage at all. I will never be anyone’s wife.”

His stomach twisted in an unpleasant coil. “What are your objections to marriage?”

“Numerous ones.”

“Even if…say…a duke offered you his hand? Wouldn’t you want to be a duchess?”

“No. I wouldn’t want to be a duchess or a countess, or anyone. No one but Miss Fields.”

He nodded while still aching to know why she was uninterested in marriage. Most young unmarried women these days, it seemed, could think of nothing else but finding a good match.

As she didn’t elaborate, he didn’t feel he had any right to press her for an answer. “You are an independent woman. I like your spirit, Miss Fields.” He managed that much. “More than I should.”

Her lips parted and he couldn’t stop himself.

His resolve be damned, she drew him to her like nothing upon this earth.

Here was an invitation and Octavius leaned down and kissed her again, turning her to face him.

Just as he had imagined, he hoisted her onto the table while feasting upon her mouth.

Miss Fields’s arms wrapped around his neck and brought him closer.

Her legs wrapped around his waist and he felt her innermost intimate place hot and pressed against his stomach.

Her mouth…if there was a heaven, God had created it in between her lips. Octavius dipped his tongue into her mouth again and again, unable to satisfy his need for the taste of her, the smell of her.

And now the scent of apples and cinnamon and raisins in the mince pies…

The scent of Christmas food had been a source of pain and humiliation for him since the night his father used him for target practice, but it wasn’t at this moment.

His desire for her, his happiness at being in the same room with her was somehow wiping that pain away.

She was a healing balm for his jaded soul, and he needed more.

Until he began smelling something burning.

It was his roast.

He leaned back and kissed her briefly. “Excuse me, Miss Fields, I’m—my roast is burning.”

Octavius stepped around the table to the oven.

He took a folded cloth and retrieved the tray with the roast. It wasn’t burnt, but it started to brown a little too much for his liking, so it was the perfect time to take it out.

Her eyes widened as she saw it emerge with a cloud of steam and the hissing of the sauce and fat.

“Let’s finish up those mince pies, and I hope you’ll join me to enjoy this meat. ”

They finished preparing the mince pies and put them into the oven, and Octavius sliced the meat and plated it with some bread that was baked earlier that day. And there they sat, alone in the kitchen.

As she took her first bite, closing her eyes in appreciation, Octavius studied her.

Guilt still weighed at him, and her earlier words, It’s important we face our feelings, Your Grace , wouldn’t let him go.

He’d wanted to ask her about it, but her comment about ivory penises had rather caught him off guard.

The notion of observing his own emotions and not burying them under brandy and excess felt foreign, like stepping into a different world.

He supposed that she and he were opposites, and curiosity about her felt like hunger in his stomach.

Where had she learned such unusual wisdom?

What kind of upbringing resulted in a woman who could speak so frankly about feelings while standing in her nightgown, making mince pies?

“So your father allowed you to talk about emotions?” Octavius asked, part of him feeling unsettled at the oddness of the topic and abrupt change of subject.

“Not just that,” Miss Fields said warmly.

“He told me early on how important it was to observe my emotions, whatever I felt. ‘Don’t judge them,’ he said.

‘Watch them like clouds passing by over your head.’ How important it was to be balanced—that’s what my father taught me and how he taught me to be. ”

“So you never felt any rush of anger or intense sadness?” Octavius asked, fascinated as he ate another piece.

The governess chewed and rewarded him by closing her eyes in pleasure, giving him that moan he’d ached to hear from her—a moan that had his cock hardening right away.

That was how he’d get to this woman: food.

“No. When I was young and had any intense fears, he’d just sit with me upon the floor and patiently ask me to describe the sensations precisely.

Like, ‘What does fear feel like in your body?’ And I’d say that it feels tense and dark and cold and square.

Or I’d say, ‘It’s between my chest and my stomach,’ and he’d say, ‘Very well, observe it like a cloud in the sky. Allow it to be and let it pass.’”

Octavius nodded as he chewed thoughtfully. “I would have loved to meet your papa,” he said. “My father was the opposite, I would say.”

Miss Fields raised her eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well, your papa told you to observe fear or anger like clouds in the sky. My father was the cause of anger and fear. Do you know why I don’t like Christmas?”

She shook her head.

Octavius swallowed. He had never told anyone this before.

“My…my father liked to get very, very drunk. Over twenty years ago on Christmas Eve, when I was ten, he called me into his study. I knew I shouldn’t have gone, but I was already a huge disappointment to him—I couldn’t read properly, couldn’t make sense of letters upon a page, couldn’t memorize Latin conjugations no matter how many times I was beaten for it—and if I disobeyed, he would punish me.

Call me a pig, a stupid, worthless oaf. Apparently he had a duel the next morning, and he wanted to use me for target practice in his study.

So he had me stand against the wall in his study and put an apple over my head… and began to shoot.”

Miss Fields’s face paled and Octavius’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to tell her this, but he also felt like he had to.

“And so, dead drunk, he sat in his chair and began shooting, aiming for the apple. I stood there crying, whimpering, begging for him not to do it. Bullets flew one after another, the room boomed with shots, splinters scratched my face. One bullet grazed my shoulder, which was so painful, but none of them hit the apple. I could feel this warm, sticky stuff flowing down my arm. And then he said to me, ‘You afraid, little piggy? You afraid, little piggy?’ And the butler stood right next to me, doing nothing, just stood there with a tray of food…and then my father came over and began shoving Christmas pudding into my mouth. Making me drink wassail so that I stopped shaking. ‘Here, little piggy,’ he said. ‘Here, little piggy, eat, eat.’”

It was why he hadn’t touched pork since nor would he have it in his house.

Octavius remembered the sick feeling of nausea in his stomach, the way the pleasure of the sweet, delicious pudding mixed with the intoxication, fear, and sharp sensations of pain.

He couldn’t do anything, yet somehow eating helped to distract him from death, distract him from the acute sense of being unsafe and afraid.

“I think…it was then that I learned that pleasure distracts from pain.”

From a long way off, Miss Fields squeezed his hand gently. “How confusing that must have been for a child—finding comfort in the very thing that was being used to hurt you. No wonder you struggle with excess. Your body learned to associate pleasure with survival.”

He swallowed hard. “No one in my whole life has understood me better than you do, Miss Fields.”

“Your father was a cruel man.”

“He was. I’m so afraid to do the wrong thing for James and Margaret and Sophie.”

She shook her head. “You could never?—”

“I could.” Octavius tried to ignore the tension roiling in his gut.

“I don’t know how to be a good guardian.

I never had a good role model—even my mother betrayed me.

It was she who had driven him into such rage.

Earlier that day, she took my newborn sister and ran away with her.

That’s why my father had been like that. Drinking.”

It was then that Miss Fields stood and did yet another thing he didn’t expect. She pushed him back from the table, stepped between his thighs, wrapped her arms around his neck, and hugged him. The hug felt like…like coming home.

Octavius wrapped his arms around her and brought her to him, burying his face between her neck and her chest.

There were other secrets…despicable things he’d done while drunk. Especially one dark secret that would haunt him forever. If anyone found out…

But he was safe for now.

For the first time in his life, he watched the pain pass, like clouds flying in the sky. He could feel it, like something dark and cold and sharp in the middle of his stomach—and yet he could observe it and let it be.

Finally facing it had tears rolling down Octavius’s face. For the first time in his life, he didn’t run away from the terrible pain, didn’t stop the tears, but wept straight into Miss Fields’s neck.