Page 23 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

T he distance to Sweet Clover Manor was not nearly as far as that to Torrance Park, but Plimpton had decided to make the journey in two easy stages rather than all in one day as he normally did.

He was relieved he had decided to split the journey. Because even though they stopped well before nightfall, the dark smudges beneath Winifred’s eyes, which had been only hinted at earlier that day, had grown considerably more pronounced.

She had mentioned earlier—after much gentle prying—that she had been ill most mornings until just a few days ago. That would explain her weight loss, which he had noticed immediately today.

Plimpton had experienced a familiar and unwanted gnawing in his belly when he’d asked about Winifred’s pregnancy. Because whenever he had inquired into Cecily’s health, she had seen it as a sign of his concern for the baby, rather than any real interest in her.

By Cecily’s third pregnancy Plimpton had learned not to ask her anything, relying only on whatever the doctor told him.

Winifred had seemed embarrassed by his questions, but not angry. But then she was a completely different sort of woman than his dead wife. That was clear by the way she cared so much about her stepdaughter Miranda that she had gone into decline when she had believed the girl to be dead.

Cecily—

Plimpton caught the thought before it could fully form. Cecily was his past; Winifred was his future. He had been given a new opportunity and he needed to put his dead wife behind him.

But just because he forgot about Cecily did not mean he could forget how fragile some women became during pregnancy. This was no normal wedding night; his bride was already carrying his child so there was no need to rush a consummation.

That is what he told himself.

He also told himself he was going to leave Winifred to rest tonight, no matter how badly he wanted her.

Plimpton had not believed he would have the strength of will to stick to his resolution until Winifred had almost fallen asleep over her custard during dessert.

“Come,” he said when she had yawned for the third time in as many minutes. “I will escort you to your room. You should have an early night as we will be leaving at first light tomorrow.”

She blinked up at him, clearly nonplussed that he wasn’t going to insist on his conjugal rights. Plimpton was nonplussed, himself. And disappointed that he was exercising such restraint. What sort of man did not take his new wife to bed on their wedding night, regardless of whether she was breeding or not?

But as he led her up the stairs, he could see her feet were so heavy she could scarcely lift them. No, he could not, in good conscience, importune her tonight.

“Oh, by the by,” she said, the second by split by yet another yawn. “I wanted to thank you for Compton. I believe we shall deal very well together.”

“I cannot claim the credit for your new maid; that is all Digby’s doing.”

“Please thank him for me.”

“Of course.” Just what his already smug, arrogant valet needed: praise from Plimpton’s new wife. “I arranged for a bath to be prepared while you were at dinner. A good soak will relieve some of the aches caused by travel.”

“How kind of you! Thank you.” Her eyelids lifted and the smile she gave him was radiant and went a long way toward erasing signs of her weariness.

It also went a goodly way toward erasing his self-restraint.

“You are welcome,” he said hastily, pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead once they had stopped outside the room Digby had reserved for her—the best the inn had to offer. “This is a well-run establishment—and safe—but you must still lock the door once you are inside. I doubt your maid will know that as she is as green as new grass.” He hesitated and added, “Lock the door between your room and hers once she has retired, just to be safe.”

She gazed up at him with a teasing, sleepy smile that made him instantly hard. Or, harder, rather. “What about the door between my chamber and yours?”

“That should be the first door you lock. I will wait here until I hear the tumbler turn.”

She laughed. “Good night, Your Grace.”

“Sleep well, Winifred.”

Plimpton really did wait until he heard the sound of the tumbler turning in the lock before making his way down to the taproom. It was going to be a long, long night. There was no reason to face it entirely sober.

***

By the time Plimpton tottered up to his room three hours later he was both a trifle disguised and still just as aroused as he had been earlier from thinking about his wife sleeping above his head. Mingled with his desire was a feeling of virtuousness at his own self-sacrifice.

As morally rewarding as that feeling was, he could not help wishing he had not behaved quite so virtuously. Indeed, a far smaller amount of virtue—taking her only once tonight rather than the three or four times he had envisioned—would have sufficed. But then he had never done anything by halves, had he?

Plimpton fumbled with the key, jabbing it futilely at the lock several times before sliding it home. The symbolism of his clumsy thrusting did not escape him. It was probably just as well he had not made love to Winifred tonight.

Chuckling to himself, he opened the door. And then froze like a bird dog detecting game. Winifred lay atop the bedding on her side curled into a tight C shape with her arms holding a pillow to her midriff.

He carefully closed the door, wincing at the squeak of the hinges. But she did not stir.

Plimpton silently thanked his foresight in dismissing Digby earlier that night. Thinking of his officious valet made his gaze slide to the door that led to the adjoining rooms—not Winifred’s, but Digby’s. He scowled when he saw she had not thrown the latch, and a possessive, primitive displeasure spread in his belly at the thought of any other man, even his loyal servant, observing his wife as she slept. He took a step to remedy the oversight, freezing yet again as a floorboard groaned beneath his boot.

Blast and damn.

But when he looked at the bed, it was clear Winifred had not moved. It seemed his new wife was a sound sleeper.

By the time he had locked the door and removed his boots and coats, he had amended sound sleeper to sleeps like the dead. She had not so much as twitched at all the bumps, knocks, and squeaks he had created, even though he had moved with more care than a man trapped in a cave with a sleeping tiger.

Risking a few more noises, he poured himself a glass of the brandy Digby always provided for him when they traveled—complete with cut crystal decanter and glasses—and then lifted one of the wingchairs and carried it closer to the bed.

Glass in hand, he gingerly lowered himself into his seat with a quiet sigh and sipped his drink as he regarded his sleeping wife.

She wore the sort of high-necked, prim white nightgown that he had not seen in years. Cecily had worn something similar for his rare visits to her bedchamber. He only knew that because he had made the unfortunate mistake of lighting the candles in her room on their wedding night, eager to see his beautiful bride, a woman he had not-so-secretly coveted for close to a year before she had accepted his offer.

That night had been the first and last he had wanted any light in the bedchamber.

That had been the last night for a great many things.

Plimpton’s father and hers had been friends since the cradle and had all but arranged the union between themselves. It had been Cecily’s mother who had insisted on a Season for her daughter before she married.

Plimpton, by in large obedient to his father’s whims, had initially balked at marrying a woman of the duke’s choosing.

Until he saw Cecily.

Love at first sight was a common concept. During that Season and right up until his wedding night he had believed that is what afflicted him.

Only after he had accepted that there was a person behind Cecily’s beautiful face and desirable body, had he discovered the truth: he had been infatuated. And not even with her , but with her appearance. What he had believed to be love, had been shallow and fleeting, a product of his testes rather than his mind or heart. In retrospect, Plimpton could not blame Cecily for despising him; he had been no better than a hound in rut.

Cecily’s story, he discovered that first night, had been an all too common one. She had been in love with another man, a squire’s son who had neither the rank nor fortune to tempt her father to change his mind. Instead, Cecily’s father had sold his daughter, not caring that she had never wanted to marry Plimpton.

Because Cecily could not vent her fury on her father Plimpton became—until her dying day—a convenient target for all her wrath and hatred.

He studied the second woman he had forced into marriage. Her lips were slightly parted, and her chest rose and fell in a gentle, regular rhythm. The conversation they’d had in the coach that day had left him almost giddy with relief. Because it could have so easily gone the other way, cementing their enmity instead of easing it.

She had not only been gracious in her acceptance of his apology but had gratified him with one of her own. He had not needed her to acknowledge the error of her actions, but it had soothed some of the pain he’d been feeling.

Today, for the first time in years—decades, even—he felt hopeful of the future. Yes, part of that hope was because of the child in her belly. But the greater part by far was because of Winifred . Not only because of her beautiful face and desirable body. And not even because she epitomized what he wanted in his duchess. No, he was filled with excitement and optimism because she was everything and more when it came to what he had always wanted in a wife, companion, and lover.

Plimpton took a sip of his brandy and savored the pleasant burn that warmed his throat. Winifred’s words from earlier—those from her friend Lady Rotherhithe—came back to him. Today he and his new wife had planted a tree—the first of many, he hoped. And perhaps—just perhaps— that tree would take root and flourish.

***

Some awareness in her sleeping brain caused Freddie to open her eyes.

The first sight that met her bleary gaze was that of a man, coatless and cravatless, sprawled in an armchair beside the bed.

Not just any man; her husband.

Plimpton smiled. “The sleeper has awakened,” he said, his quiet voice tinged with amusement.

Freddie rubbed her eyes and pushed up into a sitting position. What had seemed like a good idea earlier—coming to her husband’s room—now seemed…awkward. “Have you been here long?”

“Not very long.”

Freddie’s gaze moved down his bare throat, across his broad chest, out to the glass—empty—that he held in a negligent grasp. Her eyes darted back to his face.

“I am not cup shot, if that is what you are wondering.”

It had been. And she was relieved to hear he was not. Sedgewick had been nasty at the best of times, but drink had exacerbated his propensity for cruelty.

She saw that her hem of her nightgown had ridden up and carefully pulled it back down, trying to hide the action.

Based on the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, she failed to hide her bid for modesty.

She tossed aside the pillow she’d been clutching and wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. “What were you doing?”

“Watching you sleep.” His eyes, usually so piercing and aware, were heavily lidded, their expression relaxed and almost lazy.

Freddie should have contrived a plan of action rather than simply coming to his room and waiting for him. But then, she had not expected to fall asleep and—

He unfolded his length from the chair with fluid grace and set his empty glass on the nightstand. “Why are you here, Winifred?”

It was not the question she’d anticipated—indeed, she’d expected no questions—and she cleared her throat. “Er, you said—at Torrance—that I should come to your chambers when I was ready.” Freddie felt her blush spread over her entire body, not just her face.

He stared at her broodingly.

“I am sorry,” she said, scrambling for the edge of the bed.

“Stay,” he said quietly.

She stopped, feeling like a fool.

He reached out to touch her face and she startled.

“ Shh ,” he murmured, tracing the line of her jaw with one finger. “Look at me.”

She inhaled deeply and looked up, not even trying to conceal her confusion and embarrassment.

“I was attempting to be a considerate husband by leaving you alone tonight.”

She nodded, pinioned by his gaze as she so often was. “I know.”

“I had removed myself from temptation.” His finger slid over her chin and rested on her lower lip. “But temptation has come to me.”

“Do you want—should I leave?”

He cocked his head. “Do you know, Winifred, that I do not believe you could leave at this point. One self-sacrificing gesture per day is my limit.”

A nervous laugh slipped out of her. “That is a good thing for a wife to know.”

He held out his hands. “Come here,” he urged when she hesitated.

Once he’d brought her to her feet, he stroked the thick rope of hair that lay over her right breast. “I want to see it loose. Does that bother you?”

“No, not at all.” It took a great deal of time to brush it out, but Freddie suspected he would make it worth the effort.

“I will do it,” he said when she reached for the plait.

He untied the ribbon Compton had used to secure the end, his eyes tracking the motions of his fingers, as if his task was worthy of his complete attention. The softness he had displayed on rare occasions once again tempered his stark features as the plait came apart and the curls sprang free like prisoners liberated from their shackles.

The same rapt look she had seen the last time they’d been together slowly spread over his face. Once he’d freed her hair he finger-combed it until it was a thick, heavy curtain that hung to her waist. “It is still damp.”

“Yes. It takes hours to dry, and I was too impatient to sit by the fire.”

“I am impatient, myself.” His fingers moved to the row of buttons that ran down the front of her best nightgown.

Freddie’s breathing quickened; he was going to strip her naked, as he had the last time. She both yearned for and dreaded being bared to him, her skin tingling with excitement when his fingers brushed against the fine muslin.

Once he’d reached the bottom button he looked up. “Over your head or down your hips?”

“It will only fit over my head,” she confessed, blushing furiously at the admission that her hips were too broad.

“Is that so? What a lucky man I am,” he murmured, slowly bunching the fabric with his fingers but not taking his eyes from hers.

Freddie was very aware of her breathing—the speed of it and the harshness—and was pleased to note that his chest was rising and falling faster than before.

She closed her eyes when he raised the nightgown over her head, keeping them closed when it was gone.

“Are you shy, Your Grace?”

Her eyes flew open, and she found him regarding her with lazy amusement. She also found him fully clothed.

Stifling her cowardice, she reached for his shirt. “It is my turn, now.”

He looked pleased by her eagerness, watching her intently as she tugged the long hem of his shirt from his pantaloons. He raised his arms without being asked and Freddie leaned close, standing on her toes to lift the garment over his head.

The scent of him caught at her. Not lake water this time, but clean starch, cologne, and the nutty, faintly sweet aroma of brandy.

She stepped away with reluctance and tossed his shirt over the chair he had just vacated. When she looked at him, she saw his eyes were on her body, his face hard with desire. She indulged herself with an inspection of her own, pleased that her memory had not exaggerated his muscularity or his… proportions.

She swallowed down the moisture that pooled in her mouth as her gaze hovered over the thick ridge distorting his tight pantaloons. Freddie loved fine clothing and the fabrics that comprised it—seeing it, feeling it, and even reading about how it was made.

Pantaloons, for example, were cut on the bias, a procedure which created the stretching effect that made for such a flattering fit. Or at least it was flattering when stretched over a fine body.

And the duke had exceptionally magnificent thighs and calves.

She leaned closer so that she could reach behind him to unlace the gusset that gave the pantaloons an even snugger fit.

He hissed when her erect nipples grazed the thin skin of his torso and his arms closed around her. “Are you trying to unman me?” he asked in a low voice, nuzzling her temple and ear with his nose.

“I am trying to un dress you,” she corrected, her voice every bit as strained as his.

Her fingers finally located the ends of the laces and tugged. The fabric sagged slightly and Freddie slid her fingers between warm linen and hot satiny skin and eased the garment down over his narrow hips.

The duke moaned and his teeth nibbled her ear, startling a giggle out of her.

She bit her lower lip, mortified at the sound.

“A giggle? Why Your Grace, I never would have believed you capable of making such a sound.” His hand slid up her spine and cupped her head, turning her slightly so that he could claim her lips. The kiss was slow, deep, and so drugging that Freddie forgot all about his pantaloons.

He pulled away after a long moment. “I am thrilled that you came to me, Winifred.”

She swallowed and nodded.

He gestured to his pantaloons, which had slid down just enough that the slick crown of his erection was peeking over the top, like a helmed soldier peering over a wall.

“Oh,” she said, enrapt by the erotic image.

The duke’s hands came to rest just above his waistband, the gesture causing muscles all up and down his abdomen and chest to flex. He cleared his throat and Freddie’s head whipped up.

“They go down over my hips, rather than up over my head,” he pointed out helpfully.

Freddie couldn’t help laughing. “And here I thought you could not dress or undress yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows, his regal, haughty stare, utterly at odds with the twinkle in his gray eyes and his jutting arousal.

She had barely shoved his pantaloons to his thighs when he caught her up in his arms again, trapping the hot brand of his erection against her belly.

“Get on the bed,” he said, his voice raspy, no laughter in his hot eyes now.

Freddie scrambled backward with more haste than grace, wanting a good vantage point to watch the duke’s doings. She arranged her arms and legs so that she was as modestly covered as possible. But the duke was not paying her any mind at the moment. He had shoved down his pantaloons and drawers in a rush and was now cursing beneath his breath when he could not pull the narrow bottoms over his feet.

Freddie could not resist making a tsk ing sound. “I see I was premature with my praise. You need to unbutton the ankles, Your Grace.” She cocked an eyebrow. “You probably were not even aware there were buttons, were you?”

“Hush, wife,” he retorted imperiously. “Of course I knew they had buttons.” A slight flush stained his cheeks and a rueful smile pulled at his lips. “I have seen Digby buttoning and unbuttoning them times beyond counting.”

Freddie laughed and, acting on impulse, shed her modest pose and pulled him onto the bed. “You sit,” she ordered, and then—before she could lose her courage—she slipped from the mattress and lowered herself to her knees.

Not until she looked up and saw Plimpton’s expression of shock as he gazed down at her did she realize the audacity of her action and how exposed it had left her.

But it was too late to change her mind, so she lowered her bottom onto her heels and bowed her head as she took the hem of the pantleg closest to her. Rather than the more common cloth-covered buttons, the duke’s were nacre; a lovely dark gray shade that matched the color of his pantaloons—and his eyes—perfectly. The unexpected elegance of the buttons surprised her. The duke’s clothing was always of the finest cut and fabric, but his style was one of almost Puritanical simplicity. These buttons were unlike him.

“What are you doing down there?” he asked peevishly.

“Examining these lovely nacre buttons.”

“Nacre?” he repeated, visibly betwattled.

“Nacre is a type of—”

“I know what nacre is,” he retorted.

Yes, he was definitely peeved.

“Are these special pantaloons, Your Grace?”

“What are you driving at, Duchess?”

“Did Digby purchase them just for today?”

His eyes narrowed when he realized she was roasting him. “You think I lack the style necessary to choose nacre buttons.”

She bit her lip. “Not at all.”

His gaze dropped from her face to her chest, which she had forgotten was bare.

She gasped and lifted an arm to cover herself.

“You will hardly be able to unbutton those nacre buttons with only one hand,” he taunted.

She took great pleasure in proving him wrong, unfastening four in rapid succession and then tugging on the hem hard enough to yank the fabric over his foot. “You were saying?”

“ Hmm ,” was all he replied as she switched arms over her chest and unbuttoned the other side just as deftly. “Impressive.”

“I feel certain a man of your abilities could learn to do it given enough time and practice.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Impudent minx.” He shoved off his pantaloons and kicked the tangled garments off his feet. Moving swiftly, he took her hands and lifted her from her knees. “Straddle me,” he said, his eyes locking with hers.

“But—”

“No but s.” He nudged her thighs with one of his knees. “Do it, Winifred. I promise I will make it worth your while.”

His gaze was so searingly commanding that her clenched legs spread without further urging. He nodded, his eyes still on hers. “Good. Now, put your knees beside my hips. Go ahead,” he said when she once again balked.

As if in a trance, she complied with his scandalous order and he immediately slid his hands up her outer thighs and around to her bottom, gently but firmly pulling her closer and spreading her even wider in the process.

He lowered his gaze and his jaw muscles flexed beneath the taut skin of his jaw. “Look at us, Winifred.”

***

His wife’s body trembled beneath his hands. Plimpton knew part of that was from embarrassment at the vulnerability of her position. But part of it, he could tell by the hammering pulse at the base of her throat, was from pure excitement.

Her forehead brushed against his face as she gazed down to where they touched. Her almost inaudible grunt of arousal was more erotic than the sound of her screaming his name.

Although Plimpton would have that from her as well, before the night was finished.

He reached down to where his cock jutted up from her dark blond curls and the lips of her sex were parted by his shaft. Carefully, he exposed her slick, swollen peak, dipping his finger into her slippery heat and using the copious moisture her body was producing to caress the thrusting little nub of flesh.

A shudder racked her body and one of her hands lifted to his shoulder, her touch as light and tentative as butterfly landing on a flower.

Her other hand closed around his cock.

“God, yes,” he whispered as her slim, cool fingers tightened around his hot length and she pumped him firmly from root to tip.

He hated to admit it, but Sedgewick had taught her well. Just like the last time she’d handled him; she knew how much pressure to exert and exactly where to employ it, stroking beneath his crown with each caress.

Plimpton slid his finger through the swollen petals of her sex until he reached her tight opening and buried himself to the third knuckle, working her until he was slick with her arousal and then adding a second finger.

At first the only noises in the room were ragged breaths and occasional grunts or moans. Soon, the sound of wet flesh joined the erotic symphony.

Rarely, if ever, had he been brought to the point of climax so speedily and he shook with the effort of containing his orgasm. Between her skilled hand and her tight, wet body his control frayed just as quickly as his virtuous intentions had done.

Before he could shame himself, the pumping of her fist began to falter so he intensified his own efforts and was rewarded when her body suddenly went stiff and froze.

“ Wyndham ,” she gasped, a shudder rolling through her slender frame as her cunt squeezed his fingers, one convulsive wave after another, each less powerful than the last.

Not until the last one had faded away did Plimpton withdraw from her and close his hand around the one of hers that was now only resting lightly on his cock. He used her fist to stroke himself, cupping her hand tightly. It took barely a half dozen pumps of their joined hands before he exploded, emptying his long-suffering ballocks against the soft curve of her breasts, painting her with his seed.

Plimpton collapsed against her, sapped of energy, his hand falling away as Winifred milked him until there was nothing left.

He leaned back just enough that he could admire his work, sliding his fingers into the cooling ejaculate and spreading it over her breasts and belly until she was liberally coated.

Rather than be repulsed, she arched her back to give him better access. Plimpton had rarely seen a sight as arousing as that of his hand stroking her small, perfect breast, its tip erect and dark pink, the pale globe glistening wetly.

But then he lifted his eyes and encountered an even more satisfying sight: Winifred heavy-eyed with satiation, her lips curved into a tiny, smug smile.

A man, Plimpton decided, could become very accustomed to seeing that expression. Indeed, he could quickly become addicted to it.