Page 24 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

M ove? How exactly was she supposed to do that ?

Tory shifted a little, but that didn’t seem to be what he wanted, for he did that odd thing again where he tried to push her up off of him with his hands on her waist.

That was when it hit her. Move. The way he’d moved inside her last night, only upside down. Hoping she’d guessed right, she came up on her knees a bit, then lowered herself on him again.

“Ah, yes, sweetheart, yes, ” he murmured, his gaze seeming to melt before her very eyes. “Like that. Exactly like that.”

“So I’m doing it properly?”

“ Properly ?” he said with a strangled laugh. “No. What you’re doing isn’t remotely proper. But, damn, does it feel good.”

“In that case . . .” She moved again and realized it felt rather good for her, too. Almost as good as Jon’s mouth on her privates.

Almost.

But now she realized something else. She could make it be however she wanted. Because she controlled the motion, and she could do it as fast or slow as she pleased.

So, she did a bit of experimenting. And wasn’t that just wonderful? The more she moved, the more sensations she discovered. A pleasurable heat was building down between her legs that made her wish to squirm and increase the speed of her up and down motion. Sometimes, when she came down a certain way, she felt this little zing of a thrill. So, she did that more.

If he minded her experimentation, he certainly didn’t show it, for he was rocking with her, his eyes closing as a look of sheer bliss crept over his face.

And the carriage motion made it even more interesting. “I do think . . . I like this, Jon.”

“Good,” he choked out. “We’ll keep a carriage . . . just for this.”

He meant, when we marry . She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He was so sure they would. Yet she wasn’t quite as sure . . .

She thrust that thought from her mind. If this ended up being their last time to enjoy each other’s bodies, she meant to make the most of it. She wanted to send him to the same oblivion he’d sent her to, was sending her to. His hands were urging her on, so she followed his rhythm, moving faster . . . harder . . . more freely.

Heavens, but he was . . . a veritable wonder himself. The same feelings he’d provoked with his mouth he was now startling to life with his loins and other . . . parts, which had fallen into their own special pace. Soon she was climbing the sky with her private sun god on the same chariot he’d carried her up on before.

Good Lord.

“Tory . . . yes . . . like that . . . my sweet angel . . .” he chanted.

Meanwhile, her mind chanted, My darling . . . yes . . . like that . . . my love . . . my dear, wonderful love . . . as she abandoned herself to the motion.

He was hers now . . . her love . . . the only man she would . . . could . . . ever love . . . No matter what happened . . . he was hers . . . hers . . . Hers . . .

And with that she reached the pinnacle of her pleasure just as she felt him fill her with his essence. She clutched him to her as the delicious sensations of release held her in their grip. Then she slowly drifted back down, the two of them still joined together, and him murmuring soft, delightful words in her ears.

It took some time before her own words echoed in her consciousness. She’d called him her love .

Oh dear. She loved Jon. She truly did. She may not be able to marry him—she wasn’t even sure of that yet—but she loved him all the same.

Meanwhile, all the delicious words he’d murmured hadn’t included that one little word: love.

She wouldn’t think of that right now. She would just enjoy sitting here draped over his lap, being embraced by him and kissed by him. Because she loved him. But she dared not tell him, for he might use it against her to make sure she married him. She needed more answers to her questions to know if she would.

If she would ever do these lovely things with him again.

Not wanting to think about that, either, she slipped off his lap and onto the seat next to him, though she did pause to twist and pull her skirts down. Following her cue, he wrestled his drawers and trousers back into place and refastened them before tugging her into his arms.

They sat quiet a moment, with him brushing kisses to her hair, which was probably quite undone by now. Not that she cared. Her heart was starting to pound, making her nervous about what he was going to say to her questions.

“Have you . . . talked to your mother and Chloe about marrying me?”

He nodded. “Chloe, of course, was ecstatic.”

“And your mother?”

A sigh escaped him. “She’s . . . cautious. It turned out she was fully aware of Cyril and his problems.”

“What? How?”

When he explained that his mother had been spying on her, she wanted to be outraged, but at the same time she could understand the duchess’s concern. Chloe was her daughter, after all, and she had just been trying to protect her.

But that did make Tory nervous. “So . . . how does she feel about Cyril?”

He pressed a kiss to her head. “A bit wary. But she’ll come around, especially if she meets him. The lad is too sweet not to win Mother over.”

Tory wasn’t so sure. The duchess could be unpredictable. Still, they would cross that bridge later. Right now, she had more pressing concerns.

Like what he’d said about her father. “Jon, you told me Papa resisted escaping at first. I can understand why he would see the danger in it, but what did you mean when you said that Papa’s reasons for not wanting to escape were more ‘personal’?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, so quickly that she knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Please tell me, Jon. I need to know.”

With a groan, he threaded his fingers through his hair. “I shouldn’t have said anything. He wouldn’t have wanted me to.”

“Did he ask you not to?”

“Well . . . no, but he kept his secret even at the end, so I assumed he did so because he feared I might tell someone and didn’t want me to.”

The word “secret” alarmed her. She pulled away from Jon, her breath sticking in her throat. “Mr. Beasley said that some détenus created new families in France. Is that what . . . what happened with Papa? Did he—”

“No, nothing like that.” He hesitated a moment longer, then sighed. “But he did have a very close female friend—a Frenchwoman named Mademoiselle Bernard.”

“Oh, yes! The one Mr. Beasley mentioned, to whom Papa taught English.”

“Um, yes. I’m not sure he was teaching her English, though. She was . . . is about three years older than you. They spent hours together, and I couldn’t help but suspect—”

“That he was breaking his marriage vows to Mama with her,” Tory bit out. “You thought this Mademoiselle Bernard was his mistress.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She moved to the other side of the carriage, needing more distance from him, needing space to breathe. The thought of Papa turning to another woman for solace . . .

No, he wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t. “Was there any proof?” she asked, her heart faltering. Now she wished she hadn’t begun this discussion. But she’d needed to know why Papa wouldn’t be eager to come home to them.

“No,” he said with a pitying look.

At least that was something. “Was she . . . pretty?” When he hesitated, she added, “Tell the truth, Jon. You’ve gone this far. You might as well give me the rest.”

“She was reasonably attractive, yes.”

She stared at him. “Did he put her in that codicil to his will? The real part of the codicil, I mean, not the part you had Mr. Beasley forge.”

At least he had the good grace to wince. “No.” When she arched an eyebrow, he added, “I swear. There was no mention of Mademoiselle Bernard in the codicil or the will. Actually, that rather surprised me. I was afraid he might have left something to her. They seemed very . . . close. They were ‘friends’ almost from the beginning of our stay in Verdun, so if he’d wanted to, he could have sent a letter to Trimnell to revise his will. Clearly, he didn’t.”

That was interesting. “And what about Commander Scovell and Lord Heathbrook? Do they agree she was probably his mistress?”

He let out a frustrated breath. “Scovell is keeping an open mind about it. Heathbrook is convinced she was not.”

“So, why are you so sure?” she asked, now curious.

Jon crossed his arms over his chest. “It wasn’t like him to spend so much time with a young woman.”

“It also wasn’t like him to have an adulterous affair. Perhaps he really was just teaching her English,” she said petulantly. “He and Mama were always so close, so happy together. I refuse to believe he would have a mistress for any reason.”

Jon reached over to clasp her hands. “Sweetheart, after eight years away from home, any man starts to long for a woman’s touch. Many of the men in the camp took mistresses, and as Beasley also mentioned, some—even the married ones—built families in France and stayed there after the rest of us were released. It’s not impossible he yearned for some female companionship.”

“And preferred this Mademoiselle Bernard to Mama, who, by the way, was quite pretty and only thirty-four herself when Papa left England?”

That seemed to shake him a little. “Yes, but your mother would have been forty-two by the time we were discussing escaping.”

“I do hope you’re grasping at straws to bolster your argument,” she said, slipping her hands from his. “Otherwise, I’ll have to start worrying how you’ll feel about me when I reach forty-two. Assuming we do marry.”

A hint of alarm showed in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply women are . . . are unattractive past a certain age. I just meant that your father might have preferred . . . that is . . .”

“You’re saying that Papa would have chosen to stay with the young Frenchwoman rather than return to his slightly older wife and his child. I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that. I can believe he might have been concerned about the feasibility of your plans. Papa was always overly cautious. But to stay for some woman—” She shook her head. “Did you take a mistress?”

He threw himself back against the seat, clearly frustrated. “No. The English women who were in the camp were there for their husbands, and their daughters were . . . chaste. No one laid a finger on them. So, that left French women, and I just couldn’t bring myself to consort with the enemy in that way. Heathbrook did, but I couldn’t.”

“Yet you think a man you claim to have admired, a man you thought of as a father, took one,” she pointed out, “even though he was happily married.”

He stiffened. “Plenty of husbands who claim to be happily married also take mistresses. Plenty of wives take lovers.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” she said.

He cast her a wary look. “What do you mean?”

“I overheard Papa tell Mama you were sent on the grand tour to get you away from London’s vices, which were tempting you to do such things as, among others, bed a married woman and nearly get shot by her husband. Is that true?”

She regretted her words the moment she saw the mortification and self-loathing in his expression. She hadn’t meant to wound him so . . . just to make him see how unfair he was being to Papa.

“Jon,” she said softly, “we both know you had a ‘misspent youth.’ I don’t blame you for it—you were young and young men often rebel. Yet you didn’t even take a mistress as a bachelor in France, something many of your rank do routinely in London. So, surely you can see that Papa might not have chosen to do so, either.”

She reached over to take his hand. “Or perhaps it’s precisely because of your misspent youth—and what you saw in the camp—that you have such a cynical view of marriage.”

“He was just so secretive about it, damn it!” Jon cried, snatching his hand from hers. “I was his closest companion for years and stood by him at every turn. But he . . . he wouldn’t admit why he was close to her. That says to me he was ashamed of it.”

“Yet he didn’t hide it, either?” she asked, truly confused. “You knew, as did Mr. Beasley and your friends, that they were spending time together. Usually, a person hides something if they’re ashamed.”

That seemed to bring him up short.

“Can’t you just trust me when I say I know my father’s character and my parents’ marriage, and it wasn’t what you think?”

“Tory—”

“But you can’t trust me, can you? The truth is you have a rather poor view of marriage in general. First, you give me a secret dowry to ensure you can fulfill your promise to my father to get me married, which implies you didn’t think I could find a husband without the fortune.”

“I never once thought—”

“Then,” she cut in, “you offer to marry me yourself, but only because we shared a bed.” A lead ball had settled in her stomach, making it hard for her to go on, even though she knew she must. “And finally, you inform me you believe my father broke his wedding vows because he had a woman friend, even though there is no evidence whatsoever of any kind of . . . lurid relationship between them.”

She dragged in a heavy breath. “Yet you expect me to marry you, when it’s clear you don’t have much faith in the institution yourself.”

“I never said that,” he protested. “Besides, my feelings about marriage are immaterial. I took your innocence. We have to marry.” He winced. “I mean—”

“That is what you mean, Jon. That’s the problem. Because we don’t have to marry. We have a choice.”

He muttered an oath under his breath. “But you need to marry. At least admit that. Your dream of an art school for women aside, you need to take care of Cyril, and I can do that for you, however you wish it done.”

“What about love? Does that play no part in your plans?” When he gaped at her, clearly caught off guard, she added, “I guess I know my answer. But the thing is, I love you. I shouldn’t say it when it makes no difference to you, but I do.”

She flashed him a sad smile. “And loving you means I don’t want half a marriage. I want a real marriage, my darling, not one chosen out of your guilt or my need for Cyril to be cared for. I want a husband who’s marrying me because he loves me, too. So I’m afraid this must be our last time alone together.”

“You can’t mean that,” he said hoarsely. “I want you—”

“And that is lovely, not to mention quite enjoyable. I want you, too. But I also love you, and that beats everything else.” Realizing she was on the verge of tears, she reached up to open the panel. “Will, would you please let me off here?”

“We need to talk about this more, damn it,” Jon said.

The carriage shuddered to a halt. “I don’t,” she said. “I-I need to go figure out what I’m going to do from now on.”

A bleak expression crossed his face. “At least take the dowry money . . . for your school. I’ve put you in your present pickle regarding your reputation, so the least I can do is fix that by giving you those funds.”

Her heart melted. Somewhere in that stern, unyielding body of his, he clearly felt something for her. But as long as he couldn’t admit it to himself, it wasn’t real to him.

“I don’t think it wise for me to take the money,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Papa left me a little money in his will, and I can always find another post as a governess or an artist or something. Now, I have to go home.” Before I make a fool of myself. Or worse, change my mind.

“Then I’ll get out. You can’t be let down in the middle of Hyde Park alone. It’s not safe.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he growled, “This isn’t negotiable, Tory. Either I get out or we both do, and I walk you back to the cottage.” Without waiting for her answer, he leaned forward to say through the open panel, “Will, take Miss Morris to wherever she wishes to go. I’m walking home.”

Then before she could protest, he jumped from the carriage and strode off, clearly angry and upset. She was tempted to call him back . . . or join him in walking, but that would just prolong the pain.

After giving the coachman the address to her cottage, she closed the panel and burst into tears. Anyone would tell her she was a fool. She could have a duke for a husband. It was what every woman in Society wanted.

But she’d never been part of Society, not really. She’d been raised by a professor and an artist, and she’d been skirting the edges of respectability ever since. It was time she returned to where she’d come from. Somehow, she would find her way again. Without him.

She fished out her own handkerchief to blot her eyes and blow her nose, then straightened her back. She’d be fine. Truly, she would. She had her dear Cyril who loved her and Mrs. Gully who spoiled her. She might even still have her friend Chloe to spend time with . . . assuming Chloe didn’t side with her brother in this.

And if sometimes Tory couldn’t help dreaming of a certain fellow with golden eyes, a teasing smile, and a hundred ways to make a woman swoon . . .

Well, a cat could look at a king, couldn’t she?