Page 13 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 13

T he procession of carriages—one borrowed from the Duke of Brandon and one a new purchase, thanks to the influx of funds from Rosamund’s dowry—rumbled up the rutted approach to the sprawling seventeenth-century brick facade. Stuart opened the Venetian blinds completely as the carriage turned and jolted to a halt before the rounded oak double doors.

He hadn’t been inside his country seat in some time. The large edifice needed repair in its older wings, and he preferred to be in London. When he did venture to the country, it was usually to Wingfield Hall, where the Wicked Dukes Society held their infamous house parties. He had always preferred to leave the estate in the hands of his steward, who sent him regular reports. But he had wanted to spirit Rosamund away for a honeymoon, and that need had been underscored last evening when Wesley had caused mayhem at dinner.

Rosamund was seated opposite him, a covered cage containing her parrot on the floor between them.

“Welcome to Gilden Hall, my dear,” he said. “Such as it is.”

“Gormless shite,” Megs announced from beneath her covering.

She had been relatively quiet for most of the journey, so he supposed he ought to feel grateful for that small mercy.

“Megs,” Rosamund chastised softly. “You are meant to behave.”

“What a pretty bird,” Megs chirped. “Megs want pistache.”

“And you shall have one when we are inside,” she promised.

“Have you ever considered gifting the feathered menace to a friend?” he asked.

“Of course not.” His wife shot him an indignant look. “Megs is my companion.”

And the thorn in his side.

He said nothing as Rosamund’s eyes narrowed on him. “You are joking, are you not?”

Only partially.

Stuart smiled. “Quite. How could I possibly live to see another day were I not insulted by a bird every other hour?”

“Perhaps she believes it’s a term of endearment,” Rosamund suggested. “Have you ever thought of that?”

“I applaud your attempt to make me believe the plumed pest secretly adores me,” he drawled. “But I’ve seen the way she looks at me. It’s a death glare, rather as if she were plotting my demise.”

“Megs does not give you a death glare.”

He raised a brow. “She most certainly does.”

“Gormless shite,” Megs chirruped happily from her cage.

“Ever so much more talkative now that we’ve come to a halt,” he grumbled.

The carriage door swung open, bringing with it sunlight and fresh country air. Stuart descended from the conveyance first, landing on the stone drive, and turned to offer his hand to Rosamund. In typical Rosamund fashion, however, she was fretting over her bloody parrot and attempting to carry the cage herself.

“Leave it, my dear,” he commanded. “One of the servants will carry the cage inside.”

“But what if someone drops her?” she worried.

He recalled the anxious manner with which she had presided over the delivery of Megs to the carriage early that morning. She had fluttered about the pair of strapping footmen, wringing her hands as she worried one of them might lose control of the cage and cause her precious bird injury or distress.

“Would it make you feel more at ease if I were to carry the cage?” he offered.

She turned to him, indecision written on her countenance. “Would you?”

“Anything for you,” he promised with ease, realizing the veracity of his words as they left him.

He would indeed do anything Rosamund required of him, whether it was carting her insult-spewing parrot about or bringing her to this moldering family estate so that she might have some semblance of a honeymoon. Or giving her children. His prick twitched at the thought of that. There was something about getting her with child, filling her with his seed again and again until his mission was accomplished, that made him ridiculously randy. He was going to have to think of something else now just so he could walk through the great hall bearing the damned parrot.

“Thank you,” Rosamund said softly, apparently having made her decision as she took his extended hand and allowed him to help her alight from the carriage.

Her perfume wrapped around him, mingling with the fresh scent of country grass and trees and damp earth. She was wearing a cool gray gown accented with brown lace and ruffles that was far too alluring to be a travel gown for the way it clung deliciously to her curves. Her hat was a jaunty gray with an upturned brim and satin ribbon. Not for the first time, he noted the lack of feather ornamentation on her millinery—curious, for many women were perpetually festooned in so many feathers they could well be mistaken for avian themselves.

By God, she was beautiful, bathed in warm afternoon sun and surrounded by the verdant beauty of the country.

And his wife.

“Is something wrong with my hat?” she wanted to know, her nose crinkling as she looked up at him.

Christ, he’d been standing there mooning over her like a love-sick swain.

“Not a thing,” he told her smoothly. “I was merely wondering at the lack of feathers in your hats.”

“I don’t wear feathers,” she told him firmly. “Have you any notion how many poor, innocent, lovely birds are murdered each year for the sake of adorning hats?”

No, but he had a feeling she was going to tell him.

“Millions,” she proclaimed, shaking her head. “It is a horrid practice, and I shan’t add to it. Silk flowers and satin ribbons suffice.”

He might have known his generous-hearted wife couldn’t bear to wear feathers when she doted over her African grey as if she were a child.

“Of course,” he agreed, inclining his head toward the doors, which had opened to reveal the servants anticipating their arrival. “We ought to make our way inside so that the carriages can be unpacked. I’ll fetch the feathered one.”

Rosamund glided elegantly toward the entrance to Gilden Hall, and Stuart dutifully clambered back into the carriage to extract the bane of his existence.

“Gormless shite,” the parrot chirped as he carried her heavy cage into the front hall.

If the butler, housekeeper, and assorted maids and footmen awaiting them heard, they gave no indication. Now that he was within the ancient edifice, he was once more reminded of just how dilapidated it was. And damned drafty too, even on a warm day like this one. He settled the cage on the floor and performed a formal introduction to the domestics after he and Rosamund had handed off their hats and gloves along with her wrap.

“I present to you Her Grace, the new Duchess of Camden.”

Beneath the covering on her cage, Megs made kissing sounds. He inwardly sent up a prayer that the winged demon would hold her beak.

Rosamund smiled brightly, and he forgot about the outlandish parrot. She was lovely on any occasion, but when she exuded genuine happiness, she was nothing short of breathtaking. How had he ever seen her as anything less than blindingly beautiful?

He cleared his throat, realizing he had yet to finish his obligation, and gestured to the elderly butler, whose white hair had noticeably thinned since Stuart’s most recent visit. “This is Mr. Fitzsimmons.”

A few old family retainers had remained here at Gilden Hall, but many of the faces greeting them were new, having been hired in anticipation of his nuptials. Yet another sign of how Rosamund’s dowry was already at work.

The butler bowed stiffly. “Your Grace.”

“The housekeeper,” Stuart went on, “Mrs. Lumley.”

Mrs. Lumley had been the housekeeper for the last twenty years at least. Streaks of silver shot through her dark hair, yet another reminder of how long it had been since Stuart had come to Gilden Hall.

The housekeeper curtseyed, her chatelaine jingling. “I would be more than happy to see Her Grace to the blue chamber, which we have readied at Your Grace’s request.”

The blue chamber adjoined the ducal apartments. It was located in the newer wing of Gilden Hall, less prone to drafts and leaks. As its name implied, all the furnishings and wall coverings were shades of blue.

“That would be most appreciated, Mrs. Lumley,” Rosamund told the housekeeper with a warm smile. “After all this travel, I find myself quite fatigued.”

“One of the footmen might carry the birdcage for you,” Mrs. Lumley suggested. “Where would you have it placed, Your Grace?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Rosamund said brightly. “His Grace will carry Megs for me. She is partial to him, you understand.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the housekeeper relented instantly, as if it weren’t just a bit unusual for the master of the house to be carrying a birdcage about like a servant.

Dutifully, Stuart took up the cage and followed in the wake of his housekeeper and his wife.

“Gormless shite,” Megs announced as they ascended the grand stairs.

So much for his prayer the feathered devil would behave herself. But Mrs. Lumley, to her credit, didn’t hesitate. She simply carried on as if Stuart hadn’t just been insulted by the bird he was transporting. Grimly, he turned his attention to the mesmerizing sight Rosamund presented as she glided up the staircase in her gray silk. Her hips gently swayed, her glorious hair plaited into a braid and then coiled over her nape. He longed to press his lips to that tantalizing swath of skin, to inhale deeply of her scent, to feel her soft warmth beneath his mouth.

He wondered how weary she was from their travels. A gentleman would allow her to rest. Perhaps a nap and a bath. Certainly some sustenance. But there was nothing gentlemanly at all about what he was feeling toward his wife at the moment. He wanted nothing more than to tear that demure silk from her tempting curves and to suck her nipples and stroke her pretty cunny until she came all over his fingers.

The only sustenance he wanted was her. Her pussy on his face, her cream on his tongue. He wanted to devour her until she was limp and sated, and then he wanted to sink his cock deep inside her and fuck her until they were both crying out and he pumped his hot seed within her.

Damnation, these thoughts had to stop. His cock was pressed uncomfortably to the placket of his trousers, and each step dragged the linen of his drawers against his aching erection, which was already leaking. He made a sound in his throat, gripping the cage more tightly in an effort to distract himself.

The noise didn’t go unnoticed by Rosamund, who glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Is something amiss?”

Yes, something was amiss. His brain had clearly rotted, because he was carrying his wife’s parrot and all he wanted to do was shag her all day and all night long. They had made love again last night, and in the early hours of the morning, he’d been forced to take himself in hand, concerned he would make her sore. And still, he could think of nothing other than making her spend and then filling her with his cock.

He gritted his teeth. “Nothing at all, my dear.”

She frowned, still paused on the stairs. “Is the cage too heavy for you? I’m sure the footmen could manage quite well.”

Did she think him a puling whelp?

“The cage scarcely weighs anything,” he countered for the sake of his pride.

It was an exaggeration, but never mind that. He wasn’t about to have the footmen take over now, and particularly not when he required the cage to shield his erection from any watchful gazes.

With a thoughtful look, Rosamund nodded, and they resumed their climb. Thank God there were separate dressing rooms and sitting rooms off the blue chamber. His feathered nemesis was going to find her temporary home in one of those spaces, on the other side of a closed door, as quickly as possible.

After what seemed an eternity, they reached the blue chamber, and Stuart dutifully deposited the cage on a table near a window that overlooked the gardens. He excused himself to give Rosamund a moment alone with Mrs. Lumley so that she might discuss whatever it was that the lady of the house spoke about with her housekeeper.

He needed to take a long walk.

And perhaps a swim in the cold Gilden Hall lake to cool himself.

Rosamund was at last settled in to what would be her temporary bedroom during her honeymoon with Stuart. Bayneham had finished unpacking and putting away all the garments, boots, books, and watercolors she had brought with her for the next fortnight. So much upheaval in so few days, coupled with travel and a wedding, had left Rosamund unusually weary. She stood at the mullioned windows in her chamber now, looking down at the overgrown garden of Gilden Hall.

Like most other parts of the estate—and Stuart’s town house too—the garden would require a great deal of work and rejuvenation. It was plain to see, even with the most casual observation, that the Dukes of Camden had been cursed with meager funds for many years. The burden had not been brought on by Stuart, but he had inherited it, much like his title.

During her betrothal to Wesley, she had never visited Gilden Hall. The London town house, however, had been in far better form than it was presently. There had been no denying the shabby, though genteel furnishings, worn carpets, and faded wall hangings. However, the stark absence of pictures on the walls, when three years ago there had been many, was a clear indication, like the state of Gilden Hall itself, that the straits in which Stuart found himself had recently grown worse.

She thought about his troubling revelation the day before, that he was being blackmailed, and wondered if that was the cause for the further devastation of his coffers. Whose secret was Stuart so intent upon keeping, if not his own? Who would he want to protect so much that he would pay any price for his blackmailer’s silence?

Rosamund had been turning the matter over in her mind during the journey to Hertfordshire and as she and Bayneham had overseen the unpacking. And there was only one reasonable conclusion for her to reach.

He was protecting his mother.

But why? And what could the dowager duchess’s secret be?

A slight knock at the door adjoining her bedroom to Stuart’s interrupted her musings. She turned away from the gardens. “Come.”

The door swung open to reveal him on the threshold, still dressed as he had been earlier for travel, and so unfairly handsome that she had to remind herself of her need to maintain her restraint. It wouldn’t do to become too fond of him already.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, casting a glance around the room as if he were looking for someone.

Bayneham, she realized.

“Of course not.” She smiled, and it was genuine. “Do come in.”

She was pleased to see him. More alarming, however, was the realization that she had missed him. Good heavens, Rosamund , she chastised herself inwardly. It has only been a few hours. You must gather yourself and stop acting like a hen wit.

“Your lady’s maid has finished the unpacking?” he asked, crossing the room to her.

“She has.”

He stopped before her, taking her hands in his and bringing them to his lips for an ardent kiss that sent heat flooding between her thighs. “And the feathered she-devil? Has she been settled as well?”

“If you mean Megs,” she said pointedly, “she is comfortably settled in the dressing room. Traveling here has left her tired, I believe. I haven’t heard a sound from her.”

“Excellent.” He tugged her gently forward, into his embrace, and she went willingly. “I’ve missed you, these last few hours.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, trying not to admire their breadth and strength and failing. “Has it been a few hours? I hadn’t noticed.”

She was being wretched and she knew it. But she couldn’t allow him to charm her. He was too dangerous to her heart. Rosamund refused to allow herself to have tender feelings for a man who had married her for her fortune. They had a contract, she reminded herself sternly. This was a business arrangement between them, nothing more.

“My pride is wounded,” he said softly, his head dipping toward hers. “It requires the sweet balm of your lips to restore it.”

Their mouths connected in a chaste kiss that was somehow gentle and seductive all at once. She promptly forgot all the reasons she must guard herself. All the reasons she must not allow herself to be vulnerable, as malleable as bread dough in his knowing hands.

Because his tongue glided along the seam of her lips, and nothing else mattered. She opened for him, giving him her tongue as well. He tasted like tea, and she supposed she must as well. A tray had been sent up for her by Mrs. Lumley. One must have also been provided to him. She pressed nearer to him, her nipples hardening in her corset, aching for his touch. All the exhaustion that had been gathering within her was dispersed by a potent rush of desire so strong and furious that it made her knees tremble.

How could she want him so much? How could he feel as necessary as the air she breathed, as water? This was dangerous territory indeed, and yet she was helpless, hopelessly in his thrall.

He tore his lips from hers to drag them down her throat, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses in his wake. “Tell me you haven’t missed me just a bit,” he murmured against her skin. “I cannot be alone in this all-consuming desire.”

She licked her lips, tasting him, and tipped her head back. “You’re not. I… Oh heavens, that is…”

He had sucked on her throat and then nipped her with his teeth, and a molten bolt of need had gone straight to her core.

“God, I love it when you get flustered,” he murmured, his lips finding their way to her ear now. “It makes my cock hard as marble.”

He licked the hollow behind her ear, and she couldn’t contain her moan of pure, unadulterated need. Every swipe of his tongue tightened her nipples, as if he were sucking them.

“It…it does?” she managed breathlessly.

He hummed against her ear, his breath hot and humid. “Would you like to feel?”

Here was an invitation that her inner wanton could not refuse. She liked touching him. Liked knowing the effect she had on him. Heavens, who was she fooling? She loved that she, a previously untried virgin, could wield so much power over a wicked rake.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Show me.”

She was still too hesitant to touch him so intimately without his direction, and he seemed to understand this, taking her hand in his and lowering it between their bodies, settling it over his rigid length.

“Feel what you do to me. I’ve been thinking of making love to you again ever since I woke this morning. Sitting in that carriage with you was pure agony. All I wanted to do was toss up your skirts and lick your sweet cunny until you spent and then fill you with my seed.”

Her sex throbbed at his forbidden words, the description of what he had wanted to do to her as vivid in her mind as if it had happened. Because she had been thinking of it too.

She stroked him through his trousers, growing bolder as he sucked her earlobe. “Why did you not do it, then?”

“Because the feathered menace was taking up half the bloody carriage,” he growled.

She laughed at the thwarted desire in his voice and continued her exploration of him below. “I suppose it was prudent of me to make a place for her in the dressing room, then.”

“God yes,” he groaned, jutting his hips forward, pressing himself into her hand. “How are you feeling? Please don’t tell me you’re tired and sore. I’ll die if you do.”

She had been tired until he had appeared, making her want him so desperately. As for soreness, her body was tender in new places, but that didn’t prohibit her from needing him. Smiling, she rubbed her cheek along his, enjoying the rasp of the whiskers shadowing his jaw against her skin.

“I’m feeling like I want you to peel me out of this dress.”

“I’ll die another day, then.” His lips sought hers, eager and demanding, and she lost herself in his kiss.

Working as one, they tore at each other’s clothes. This was no slow and steady seduction. It was a frenzied need to be naked. Buttons came undone. Laces were untied. Silk and cotton and linen fell to the floor. By the time they were lying together on her bed, they were both breathless. The bed was stiff and unforgiving beneath her, but the bedclothes were soft enough, and when Stuart buried his face between her legs, the mattress beneath her and everything else in the room—in the world, even—ceased to exist.

Parting her swollen folds, he licked her, his tongue gliding over her aching flesh in long, relentless swipes. She tangled her fingers in his thick, dark hair, holding him to her as her hips undulated beneath him, and he devoured her. He groaned into her as if she were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, the vibration echoing in her pearl, and then he rubbed his face against her sex. His stubble teased her highly sensitive flesh, making her gasp with pleasure as his tongue swirled over the bud of her sex. With another low sound of desire, he latched on to her pearl and sucked hard, simultaneously slipping a finger deep into her channel.

It was exquisite, his long finger finding a place inside her that made wild bursts of pleasure rocket through her. But he didn’t relent, suckling and adding another finger, thrusting in and out of her until she could withstand the sensual torment no more. With a cry, she came violently, shuddering beneath him as the force of her pinnacle roared through her like a train bustling down the tracks.

She scarcely had enough time to recover before he was rolling her onto her stomach, his big hands palming her bottom, giving both cheeks a gentle squeeze. Still breathless, her body pulsing with the aftermath of her release, she looked over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying your beautiful arse.” He lowered his head and kissed the indentation of her spine.

She liked that. Liked it very much, in fact. And she also liked the gentle massage he was giving to her rump. It felt forbidden, however.

“Are you certain you’re meant to…to…do such a thing?” she ventured. “It seems quite wrong.”

He gave her a smoldering look that melted her insides. “I can assure you that I am, and that there is nothing at all wrong with admiring my beautiful wife’s equally lovely bottom.”

He kissed her left cheek, then gently bit, and she arched her back instinctively.

“Oh,” was all she could manage.

“Rise up a bit, sweetheart,” he urged, gently guiding her. “Onto your knees. Yes, just like that.”

“How will this work?” she wondered.

And then he astonished her by licking into her from behind.

“Oh sweet heavens,” she gasped helplessly as desire flooded her.

“A bit like this,” he said and then sank his tongue deep again while he found her pearl and stroked, his fingers firmly swirling over her. “Mmm, and like this.”

She panted, needing more, about to lose control again. Desire was a coiled spring, ready to fly apart at the slightest provocation. But then, he withdrew from her, and she felt a different sensation at her entrance as the blunt tip of his cock pushed through her wetness. He stroked himself up and down her seam, the slippery sounds of her desire joining her ragged breaths in the silence of the room.

“Surely you cannot…from behind,” she managed.

“Of course I can.” He worked his length over her faster, with more insistence, his voice strained. “With this angle, I can go deeper inside you and bring you greater pleasure. And I can watch my cock sinking inside your sweet pussy.”

Dear God. She was incapable of speech. Perhaps for the rest of her life.

All she could do was moan and present herself to him, lifting her back end higher.

“You like that, don’t you, my filthy girl?” he asked, his voice low and dark and decadent as velvet. “You like that I’m going to watch as I fuck you, and then I’m going to fill your pussy when I come. I’m going to give you so much.”

As he spoke, he had aligned himself with her perfectly. One thrust, and he sank inside her, and she was so needy from his words that the sensation of him stretching her was enough to make her spend again. A tremor shook through her, and she cried out with her release, her walls clenching on him.

“I knew it,” he said, withdrawing from her only to thrust deep again. “You were made for me, sweetheart. Your cunny is so fucking perfect. So tight and wet and hot. You feel so good.”

Heaven help her, but she liked when he described that part of herself. Liked hearing how she felt. It was wicked, she knew. But she didn’t care. She began to move with him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he ground out. “That’s it. I love watching your pretty pink pussy take every inch of me. Come on my cock. I want you to coat me with your cream.”

She felt dangerously near to doing so. Her body had never been so unbearably stimulated. It was as if every part of her was intensely aware, her nipples tight points that abraded the bedclothes with every thrust, her bottom connecting with his thighs, his cock impaling her. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to sensation, becoming one with him. His fingers delved between her thighs again, stroking her pearl, and that was all it took.

She flew apart, pleasure arching through her, her cry throaty and animalistic, torn from some primitive place within her that she hadn’t known existed. He moved faster, groaning low, pumping in and out until he sank deep and then the hot rush of his seed flooded her. Her heart pounded as he collapsed, his chest a hot wall at her back, his lips brushing over her nape, her shoulder, his cock still filling her.

“That was incredible,” he said raggedly, dropping another kiss on the side of her throat before he withdrew from her body. “The way we are together, it’s madness.”

He rolled to his back at her side, his skin flushed from his exertion, so masculine and beautiful. She was too sated to move, so she remained as she was, admiring him.

“The best madness,” she managed, finding her ability to speak once more.

He cupped her cheek, giving her a slow smile. “The best, indeed.”

Stuart drew her against his side, lifting the bedclothes over them, and she snuggled against his warmth, her earlier weariness returning. He kissed her crown tenderly. “Get a bit of rest, sweetheart. You must be exhausted after all this travel.”

She was, and he felt so wonderful.

“Perhaps for a few minutes,” she allowed with a yawn.

He stroked her bare back in soothing motions beneath the covers, and within moments, Rosamund fell headlong into slumber.