CHAPTER 6
E smeralda was relieved.
One never knew how such encounters might proceed, though there had been promise in the earlier intervals of intimacy with the Duke of Haynesdale. There might have been too much promise. Hopes might have been so high that satisfaction could not be attained. She knew that her own expectations had given her concern.
On this night, though, the duke had proven himself to be a considerate and skilled lover, and she surrendered her last crumb of concern over the terms of repayment of her debt to him.
Her visit to Haynesdale would be fine. It would be more than fine, at least in the bedroom, and she knew better than to wish for more. She was assured of Sylvie’s safety as his ward and trusted the duke to find her a good husband. Sylvie would not only be spared the prospect of sharing Esmeralda’s trade – the one foisted upon her – but would be free of any taint of Esmeralda’s involvement.
The situation could not have been more ideal.
She watched him doze and wondered how many of her fears he had discerned. More than she might have expected, to be sure. What of his own?
Why trouble himself with her life and her sister? There was a riddle.
Had desire driven his choices? A man might do a great deal to tempt a woman to his bed.
And now? There had been an undeniable heat between the two of them, though now its power might wane for him. He had possessed her and one night might suffice for him. Men were by nature disinclined to lengthy unions, after all. It was novelty that drew their hungry gazes, which explained the vast number of imperiled marriages – and men seeking pleasure beyond their own bedrooms.
Esmeralda was not sated, but that was not pertinent.
It might be safer if he lost interest now. She could return to London and strive to forget about him.
She knew she never would.
He dozed now and she slipped from the bed. Perkins had brought scalding hot water just before she retired for the night and Esmeralda was pleased that it had cooled to a comfortable temperature. She poured some from pitcher to bowl, and soaked a thick cloth. She cleaned herself first, letting the duke slumber, then rinsed the cloth and went to him with it and a bowl of clean water.
He was magnificent, even in sleep, his body so lean and powerful that he might have been a younger man. There was a welcome solidity about him, though, an indication that he was no longer a youth. She approved of whatever exercise regimen he had, for it had ensured his stamina. She smiled in recollection as she began to clean his skin.
As anticipated, his dark lashes fluttered and he stirred slightly. She felt the weight of his gaze upon her but did not look up from her task.
He would ask one of several questions. Men always did. Which one they chose first was invariably an indication of their character.
Esmeralda waited.
“Were you well pleased?” he asked softly and she smiled, for it was her favorite of the possibilities.
“Can you doubt it?”
“I can and I do,” he said to her surprise, then sat up. His hand closed over hers and he claimed the cloth, rising to his feet to continue washing himself. “You are not my servant, Esmeralda,” he said with a quick glance toward her.
How interesting to be chastised.
How very very uncommon.
She could not deny the appeal of this novelty.
“It is a kindness, no more and no less,” she said lightly.
“Is that truly the sum of it?” he asked, no less perceptive than he had been in other situations.
“You seem to have guessed it is not. Need we speak of it?”
“I would know how you think. I would know what you think. And I would know what questions fill your thoughts.” He frowned. “Why wash a man? It makes sense that you would prefer to look upon a man you intend to take to bed, lest there be marks upon him of any illness.”
She winced. “We need not discuss such earthy matters.”
He granted her a quick glance. “I like that you are sensible and clever.”
Esmeralda did not know what to say to that. She turned away instead. “And we do not have to confine our activities to the bed, Your Grace.” She retrieved her chemise and donned it, giving more than necessary attention to the fastening of the tie above her breasts.
He did not correct her this time. He simply waited. She heard the splash of the water and stole a glance at him as he finished and placed the cloth in the bowl. He, too, claimed his nightshirt and tugged it over his head, but not before she saw that he was aroused again.
She could only admire such…enthusiasm.
“I was surprised you did not find a reason to look before we were intimate,” he said when she did not speak.
Esmeralda shook her head and smiled. “What reason is there for us to discuss these concerns? You have already divined my inclination.”
He chuckled. “I would hear it from your own lips.”
“I look,” she admitted, folding her arms across her chest as she faced him. “I look that I might have some assurance as to a man’s health and cleanliness. You are right that usually it is my custom to wash my clients, which allows me the opportunity to do this.”
“To check for sores and rashes.”
Esmeralda grimaced, then nodded. “As I said, there is no need to speak of it. It is simply cautious.”
“Prudent, I would call it, if not clever.” He perched on the edge of the mattress, considering her. “But not so on this night. Why not?”
“Perhaps your reputation has preceded you.”
“If it had done so, you would have been doubly encouraged to check. I was wild in my younger days.” He fixed her with a piercing glance. “I was certain you knew of it.”
“It is years since you were a notorious rakehell. More than a decade, even. If you had contracted the pox, there would be signs quite readily visible by this time.”
He waited, as if realizing that was only part of her explanation.
“A kiss would reveal what I could not see,” she said and he nodded once, still waiting. She exhaled then said what he wished to hear. “And in this instance, I know myself to be beholden to you. I could not have halted our union, no matter what I found, so perhaps it was best not to know in advance.”
“A woman of your word then.” He clearly found satisfaction in this. His dark eyes gleamed as they only did when he was well pleased.
“Yes.”
He nodded approval. “Then we are two of a kind, Esmeralda.”
“I hardly think so, Your Grace.”
“Yet I do and will not be readily persuaded otherwise.” He gestured to the bed. “And what of it? Were you pleased?”
“You asked as much already.”
“And you evaded the question, which might persuade me to conclude that you were not.”
“Why would I lie or be evasive?”
He lifted his brows and shrugged. “Because I might not find the truth palatable?” He glanced about them. “We are two secured in a chamber alone and I the stronger. To annoy me might not be the wiser choice.”
The man was too perceptive, to be sure. “You need not worry of that. I was well pleased, sir, as I hope were you.”
“You know that I was.” His smile turned wicked. “It may be that the entire household knows of it. They will be wondering how I managed to sneak a woman into my chambers.”
“Perhaps they might conclude that you dreamed, or pleasured yourself.”
“Perhaps, as never before.” His gaze locked upon her. “I ask that you always tell me the truth, Esmeralda, whether you believe I will like it or not.”
“I have.”
“Have you? In your trade, it might be prudent to feign greater pleasure than you felt.”
“It might well be, particularly in some situations.” She crossed the floor and sat beside him, placing her hand upon his. “Fortunately, in this instance, I can simply tell the truth. It was lovely.”
“Fortunately?”
“For you are unusually perceptive, sir, and if I was compelled to tell a falsehood, you might well realize it.” She smiled at him. “That would not be lovely.”
“Again, you call me sir.” He turned his hand and locked his fingers with hers, his gaze boring into hers as he waited.
It was not easy to summon his name to her lips, but she managed it again. “Damien,” she said.
He shook his head, too observant by half. “I still hear a reluctance in your tone.”
“Damien,” she said more firmly and he bent to brush his lips across hers, as if to reward her. Esmeralda might have preferred to retreat, but she was not quick enough. That fleeting touch, as light as a butterfly wing, sent a delicious shiver over her flesh. He pulled back only slightly, his desire evident. “Damien,” she murmured, her voice husky, and was rewarded by his smile.
“Oh, I like when you say it thus,” he replied, granting her a kiss fit to curl her toes. When he finally lifted his head, she found herself in his lap, his heat behind her, his arms around her, his erection firm against her buttocks.
“It seems you do like it,” she teased and he chuckled.
“Tell me,” he invited, but she did not know his meaning. She shook her head and he kissed her cheek, his lips remaining beside her ear. “Tell me what might be done better.”
There was a question she seldom heard.
Esmeralda pulled away so she could twist around to consider him, wondering if she had misunderstood. “Nothing, of course. It was wondrous, as I said.”
“No,” the duke said with resolve. “No, you exaggerate and I hear it in your tone.”
Vexing man!
She spun to rise from his lap but his arm locked around her waist, holding her fast. She glared at him, knowing he would release her if she truly demanded it. She poked him in the chest with a fingertip. “I knew you would be thus,” she muttered and he laughed aloud.
“Is it not irksome to be right?” he teased and his pleasure was too seductive.
This time, she laughed. Still she poked him again. “It is!”
“And so, we must take a vow to always tell the truth to each other.”
“A vow? My promise is not sufficient?”
“A vow,” he insisted, stealing a slow kiss. “Always, Esmeralda,” he growled.
Always , Esmeralda knew well enough, would endure only until she returned to London. It was an agreement that would not be binding for an overly long term, and thus an easy concession to make.
“We shall,” she said and offered her hand in agreement. Predictably, he claimed a kiss to secure their pledge instead, one that left them both breathless and entwined on the mattress. He braced his weight over her and smiled down at her.
“Tell me,” he invited again, his hand rising to toy with the tie of her chemise.
Esmeralda considered the wisdom of complying. In her experience, men might ask how they compared to her other partners, or how their skill ranked amongst their fellows. It was rare indeed to ask how they might better seduce a lady. She expected that such advice would not result in any change, however delightful it was to be asked. Men were creatures of habit, and more, once their own arousal was stirred, it triumphed over all other urges and inclinations in its drive for satisfaction.
This conversation could not be a winning proposition.
“You hesitate,” he said, his hand cupping her breast through the linen. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes, savoring the heat of his hand against her breast. She should have anticipated that his thumb would make mischief, but she nearly purred when it eased across the nipple, drawing it quickly to a peak. His lips were against her ear again, his breath upon her skin, his whisper so soft that it might have been within her thoughts. “Tell me.”
If she did not, he would think himself a perfect lover. What harm in that?
“Tell me,” he urged again, his thumb driving all sensible thought from her head. “Tell me, Esmeralda, or I will stop.”
“You would not.”
He lifted his hand away, rolled to his feet and strode toward the adjoining door with such purpose that she believed him.
What if she did tell him? What was there to lose?
Esmeralda sat up and he halted, glancing over his shoulder at her. “You storm the battlements,” she said. “With impressive resolve.”
He turned to face her, folding his arms across his chest as if he did not welcome such tidings. “This is too much?”
“There is an inevitability in your conquest, a sure surge toward your triumph and my release. Your gaze is locked upon your goal, so to speak.”
He lifted a dark brow. “Again, this does not sound like a good trait, Esmeralda.”
“It is good. It might be better, though.”
“Tell me,” he insisted.
“Predictability is the enemy of satisfaction,” she said. “I recognized the timing right away and could have anticipated the moment of my own capitulation.”
“And this is not good.” Despite being given the reply he had requested, he did not look pleased with her words. Esmeralda rose to her feet and went to him. She unfolded his arms, placing his hands upon her waist, then reached up to run her fingertip across his lips to soften his expression.
“One could be forgiven for not sharing such tidings when you look so grim.”
He took a breath and eased his expression, as if he strove to look welcoming. “I am not known to take criticism well.”
“And yet you invite it. It is not criticism. All is well.”
“But it could be better.”
She nodded and laid a hand upon his chest. “I find that surprise yields richer results.”
“I see. And how might one offer a surprise of a pleasurable type?”
She nodded. “You are astute in noting that not all surprises are good ones. In general, too much too fast is troubling. A slower and gentler caress will yield better results, but a steady caress halted at intervals offers the greatest possibilities.”
He visibly considered this. “You did that,” he recalled. “You halted when I was on the very edge, let me catch my breath, then began again.” His gaze locked with hers. “It was a most delicious torment.”
Esmeralda nodded. “You are not claiming a hill, sir. It is not a battle, nor even a war.”
“It is a conquest.”
“But since many will only surrender the once, the most must be made of that capitulation.”
“Well, then, Esmeralda,” he murmured as his finger joined his thumb and pinched her nipple gently. “I must beg permission to try again, the better to hone my skills.”
Esmeralda laughed, her hands once again in his hair as she pulled him closer for a kiss. “I invite you to do as much, Your—” He pulled back to grant her a fierce look. “ Damien, ” she corrected and he smiled approval. “Though when you look so determined as you do in this moment, I must wonder whether the pupil will exceed the teacher.”
“Now there is a goal worthy of a sleepless night,” he murmured, then claimed her mouth in a kiss that was both rough and sweet. She responded in kind, loving how he carried her to the bed again and lowered himself over her with purpose. She saw only the glint in his eyes before he bent and claimed her with a kiss, his wicked tongue making her gasp aloud, then Esmeralda abandoned herself to the duke’s tutelage.
With pleasure, to be sure.
When the duke had returned to his chamber, believing Esmeralda to be asleep, she remained in the bed for a long interval, staring at the shadowed canopy overhead.
There was a shred of fear in her heart, for she knew she could come to care for this gruff yet tender man.
Caring would be a folly beyond all.
Worse, it would make her vulnerable to his appeals, whatever they might be. Aye, there was a contentment about him after their second encounter, one that Esmeralda knew well enough to dread.
Contented men were troublesome.
She sat up when she was certain he must be asleep and lit a candle. She even set a rug against the gap below the adjoining door, so he might not notice that she was awake. Then she settled before the fire with her small traveling desk and, in the light of that single candle, she began to write.
Upon the peril of contentment…
Though each of us yearns for a relationship of permanence, a lover upon whom we can utterly rely, today and forevermore, such unions are rare in their incidence. It is far more probable for the attraction between a couple to burn hot, to flare to brilliance for a short incendiary time, then fade. It may become a steady flame but in many, many instances, that attraction is extinguished. An enduring love is a rare situation, and I have come to believe that is because of complacency.
Like a rose in a garden, affection must be tended so that it survives, more so to ensure that it thrives. A neglected rose is likely to wither and die, no matter the beauty of its flowers, or how robust its growth might initially have been. The enemy of the rose’s longevity is complacency, or even indifference.
So long as we admire the rose, we will see to its needs. We will pamper it and tend it. We will shelter it from the storms and guarantee that its situation is ideal for it to prosper. As soon as we are content with the rose, as soon as we take its beauty and even its existence for granted as an element in the garden, its future must necessarily be compromised.
We forget to tend to it, for we assume it will flourish forever.
When a lover is content with his situation, that individual ceases to court the favor of his partner. That lover assumes that all is well with the object of his affection, and worse, assumes that it will continue to be well. The relationship has no need of the lover’s attention and he is free to pursue other interests, confident that affection and satisfaction will remain available, whenever he has desire of it.
Although either partner can fall prey to this contentment and its resultant confidence, I use a man as my example since, in my experience, men are far more likely to be convinced that a permanence has been achieved than women tend to be. Perhaps the nature of our world is responsible for that, as men are more likely to determine their own circumstances than women, and also more able to steer their own course toward their objectives. I cannot say, but I have come to recognize the peril of contentment.
It is the first sign of blight in the garden, the first reminder that autumn follows summer, the first hint that even a union that surpasses all others in its pleasures may come to an abrupt end. Let contentment be your warning sign that your happiness must be defended. Let it prompt you to nurture what you have come to appreciate – lest it vanish when your attention is diverted and never be found again…
Esmeralda read the passage again and nodded to herself in approval. The duke was content. All proceeded according to his plan. And she had lived in the world long enough to doubt that his scheme, whatever it might be, would prove to be to her advantage.
No, his contentment with their situation had to be challenged.
Fortunately, Mrs. Oliver was in attendance at Haynesdale Manor and Mrs. Oliver never retreated from a challenge. Esmeralda smiled in anticipation of the next day’s activities, stretched and returned to her task.
She had so much more to write.
Despite an almost complete lack of sleep, Damien found himself cheerful when the sun rose, so cheerful that he had to disguise his uncharacteristically merry mood lest suspicions be aroused. He dared not whistle. He could not swagger or even hum. He glowered at Townsend as was his custom and was dismissive of three choices of waistcoat, striving to be as tetchy as he could be in the morning. Townsend’s brows did not even rise, which meant he achieved precisely the right note.
His newspaper had arrived when he reached his place at breakfast, which meant he could not complain about that. He harrumphed and noted the rarity of good service, a sentiment to which Farrell agreed with a sage nod. Breakfast was hot and abundant, he had no pressing mail, and truly a more ideal beginning to his day could not have been contrived.
His mother appeared at breakfast, which was unusual, and fair warning that something had been noticed. Damien feigned fascination with his newspaper as she fluttered over her choices. When she sat down, he felt her gaze fixed upon him but ignored it. Her manner was expectant but he pretended to be oblivious, frowning at some article of apparent interest.
“Damien,” she said finally, speaking so crisply that the single word might have cut glass.
He glanced over the top of his paper with obvious reluctance.
His mother looked determined. “I must speak with you.”
“I believe you do speak with me, Maman.”
Her eyes glinted and he knew he had been too flippant. She sat back, considering him. “What has made you so merry?” she demanded. “It cannot be that creature in the room beside you. What on earth possessed you to invite her as your guest?”
“I was not aware that you had met.”
“We have not. She did not even come to dinner, but I saw her from the window when she arrived. And I heard her last night.” His mother jabbed at her eggs with her fork as if they were responsible for all the woes of the world. “God in Heaven, Damien. The noises .”
Damien felt a dull heat rise up the back of his neck, but he scowled at the paper. “Truly? I heard nothing.” His mother’s chamber was immediately above the blue room assigned to Esmeralda, and at this time of year, his mother would leave a window open at night. How had he failed to consider such a detail?
What could he do about it? Nothing, so far as he could see. He did not want Esmeralda to move to another room, and if he changed chambers, the household would be in complete uproar.
“Then you are struck deaf,” his mother said. “She howled like a she-cat rutting beneath the moon.”
Damien blinked. Had they made so much noise as that?
His mother continued. “It was appalling and indecent. How do you even know such a woman? Who is she?”
“The aunt of the Earl of Rockmorton.”
“So you said, but I cannot believe it. There was no one more gracious than the countess and this creature defies description!”
“On his father’s side, I believe, though estranged from the family for some years.” It did not come easily to Damien to fabricate tales but he tried.
“Why?”
“A scandal of some sort. So many years ago, Maman. I might not have been born.”
“Well, I most certainly was, and I recall no scandal associated with the Montgomery family. I would have known. I would have heard .”
“Perhaps it was hushed up. She has been married any number of times, so Montgomery confided. Perhaps one of her choices did not suit her family’s ambitions.”
“Hmm.” His mother consumed her eggs, clearly still thinking. “And she has been abroad you said?”
“Yes, for some number of years. Truly, Maman, you know I have no interest in gossip. I cannot recall the details.”
“Yet you felt compelled to invite her here, as your guest, for a fortnight. You, who have never invited a guest to Haynesdale Manor for so much as a night.” She peered at him, her suspicion clear. “It is the strangest thing. If I did not know better, I might imagine it was a jest of some kind, yet you sacrificed any sense of humor with your commission…” To Damien’s relief, the dowager duchess abruptly fell silent.
She was precariously close to divining the truth, despite his attempt to provide no helpful details. He had only a second to be relieved that she was distracted, until he realized why.
Mrs. Oliver herself stood in the doorway, her manner so expectant that he could only dread what might happen next.