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Page 24 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

A s the coach began to climb a gentle rise Plimpton gathered his papers, slipped off his spectacles, and put both into his lap desk before setting it aside and crossing over to sit beside Winifred.

She glanced up from her book as his body slid in beside her.

“Look,” he said, timing his command perfectly to when the carriage crested the slight hill.

He watched her, rather than the sight before them and was not disappointed.

Her lips parted and her eyes went wide with wonder as she got her first look at Sweet Clover Manor. “It is adorable, Plimpton! You did not say it was Tudor; wattle and daub is my favorite—and that jettied upper floor and those mullioned windows and dormers and—oh, I just love all of it. When was it built?”

“I am told it is a classic example of the mid-Elizabethan Period. Rather than E-shaped, Sweet Clover is laid out like an H, with a central hall connecting the two wings. It has many features that are typical of the era, such as flagstone floors rather than wood, and oak paneled walls and ceilings. There is also a coffin drop and—my favorite part—an inglenook fireplace in the library.”

“A coffin drop?” She frowned. “I have not heard of that.”

“It is a section of flooring on the second level that is removable so large items can be raised and lowered. The staircase, you will see, is too tightly spiraled to allow for moving anything too big.”

“What an interesting driveway. Is there a reason for the design?”

Even though the terrain was level and not heavily wooded, the narrow, crushed rock drive weaved back and forth in uneven zigs and zags.

“An ancestor, I cannot recall the name at present, believed such irregularity would deter evil spirits from reaching the manor.”

She laughed. “Because spirits only travel on well graveled paths.”

“Just so,” he agreed. As they neared the house, he saw that the Bensons, the married couple who took care of the house, had lined up the servants, who numbered no more than twenty, both indoor and out.

Plimpton had deliberately chosen Sweet Clover because it was the smallest of Plimpton’s houses by an order of magnitude. He had no interest in awing her with grandeur; he wanted to help her settle comfortably into her new life. To do that, they needed intimacy. Judging by the cozy feel of her London house, he thought Sweet Clover might feel more like home to her.

He had never visited the property long enough to encourage social calls, so they would not be bothered by neighbors. It would be the perfect place to become acquainted with each other.

Plimpton stole a gaze at her rapt profile as she gazed at the approaching building. He hoped she would not feel trapped or bored with only him for company.

If that proved to be the case…Well, it was better to find out sooner rather than later.

***

Freddie fell in love with Sweet Clover Manor on sight, and her affection for the charming old house only deepened in the days that followed.

It was cozy enough for the two of them, while still affording them enough space for their individual needs. There were very few servants to manage, and Mr. and Mrs. Benson did an admirable job of seeing to Freddie and Plimpton’s comfort without overwhelming them with attention.

Plimpton had chosen well; it was the perfect place for a bridal holiday.

The Bensons were an elderly couple who had managed the property since Plimpton’s father’s time and it was clear they were both overjoyed that the duke had remarried, and also that His Grace had chosen to bring his new wife to Sweet Clover before any of his other properties—even before taking her to Whitcombe.

Mrs. Benson, who showed Freddie to her room, was all but bursting with excitement. “Benson and I were thrilled the duke chose Sweet Clover for your bridal journey, Your Grace.”

“So am I, Mrs. Benson. I am already enchanted with the house.”

The older woman glowed at Freddie’s praise, as if Sweet Clover belonged to her. Freddie suspected it felt that way when one only saw the owner once a year for a week or two.

The housekeeper led her to an intricately carved door near the end of the corridor. “This is the mistress’s chambers.”

Freddie entered the red and gold room and smiled at the old-fashioned, but era-appropriate furniture and heavy velvet hangings. “It is lovely. And it suits the character of the house.”

Mrs. Benson looked gratified by her praise. “I have freshened it over the years. His Grace’s mother—the last to occupy the chambers, and that a good thirty years ago—requested I keep it as it was when she visited as a young bride.”

“I could not agree more,” Freddie said.

The housekeeper looked relieved. She gestured to a door in the east wall. “This door was added much later than the original construction to form connecting chambers. This is His Grace’s apartment.” The room was almost identical in size and layout as her bedchamber. Mrs. Benson closed the door and crossed the room to the last door, on the opposite wall. “There were no dressing rooms in the original design, so an entire bedchamber was converted to make a commodious boudoir.”

“Lovely,” Freddie murmured.

“I have put your maid in the attic. There are just five rooms, so she is sharing chambers with Bessie, one of the parlor maids.” She gave Freddie a slightly apprehensive look, no doubt concerned not to offend the new mistress by slighting her personal servant.

“I am sure it will be fine. Compton was a parlor maid in His Grace’s London house and has not yet developed the expectations of a more seasoned dresser.”

Mrs. Benson laughed when she saw that Freddie was smiling.

“If there is anything you need, Your Grace, please let me know immediately.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Benson. Everything is lovely.”

Once the servant had left, Freddie wandered to the windows, which looked out over a charming back garden which buzzed—literally—with late summer life. The bee hives Plimpton had mentioned dotted the fields as far as the eye could see. It was clear the area was devoted to agriculture. Rather than woods, there were abundant orchards. And instead of decorative water features and man-made lakes, there was a river, or stream, rather, that helpfully snaked its way through fields and orchards alike, providing decorative, but practical, irrigation.

As she turned and surveyed her chamber for the next month—the period the duke had suggested they spend in the countryside before journeying to Whitcombe to begin their married life in earnest—she could not help feeling that the environment her new husband had chosen was delightfully…intimate. Sweet Clover, as beguiling as it was, must certainly be among his smaller holdings, and probably the by a long chalk.

His message in choosing such a location for the first weeks of their married life was clear: they would have the time and opportunity—if they wished to take it—to get better acquainted with one another.

A wave of heat spread through her body as she glanced at the ancient four-poster bed, the sight of it reminding her of last night at the inn.

She raised her hands to her hot cheeks at the recollection of her boldness.

Her new husband, so aloof in general, had proven for a second time that in the bedchamber, he willingly and eagerly cast off his restraint.

Freddie felt a giddy, hopeful smile stretch her lips. While she still had reasons to regret the need for her hasty marriage, she was quickly learning there was also much to recommend it.

***

They ate dinner in a small room which Plimpton had converted into a breakfast room years before.

“You probably did not notice it on your quick journey through the great hall—which also historically served as a dining room—but there is no source of heat there.”

She paused in the act of lifting a bite of trout—fresh from the stream on his land—to her mouth. “None at all?”

“None,” he confirmed. “It is not so terrible in the summertime, but in the winter the wind howls through the myriad cracks and crevices and rattles the windows all the way to the attic.” He pulled a face. “An unheated two-story atrium is visually stunning, but hardly conducive to comfortable dining. Now the hall is only used for dinner parties, so we will eat all our meals in here.”

“And do you have many of those—dinner parties, I mean?”

“There has not been a party at Sweet Clover since Simon and I were lads. My mother and father brought us here only once. I do not recall the occasion for the rare family trip, but I do remember the massive oak table in the entry hall was full at least twice.”

“And that was the only time your family traveled together?”

“The only time,” he confirmed. He did not tell her that the unpleasant occasion was burnt into his memory. His father, not easy to be around even at the best of times, had suffered a gout flare up during the journey. Traveling with him in the carriage must have been as pleasant as traveling with a nest of angry hornets for his mother.

Plimpton and Simon had been in the second carriage. He must have been eleven—too young to ride alongside the coach, unfortunately—which meant Simon would have been five or six. His brother had been a dreadful passenger and their nurse had spent the long journey both ways cleaning up vomit.

He looked up from his unhappy memory to find Winifred watching him. It occurred to him that she would have never traveled with her mother and father as they had died in a carriage accident when she was four or five.

“Your first wife never visited Sweet Clover?”

He blinked at the unexpected question. “No.” The single syllable sounded too abrupt, so he added, “At the beginning of our marriage Cecily did not care for travel. And then later on, her health prohibited all but the shortest journeys.” A more honest answer would be to say she had not wanted to go anywhere with him —or be anywhere Plimpton was—but he did not feel compelled to be that honest with his new wife.

He changed the subject to the walks and sights in the vicinity and dinner passed without further inquiry into his unhappy first marriage.

***

“Thank you, Compton. That will be all for the night,” Freddie said. Her new maid was very enthusiastic about her job and would have fussed for an hour with Freddie’s hair if she had allowed it. “Try and get some sleep tonight,” she added in a teasing voice. Last night the poor girl had stayed awake half the night mending Freddie’s dismal wardrobe. “His Grace tells me there is an excellent modiste in the village so we can replenish my wardrobe over the next few weeks.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” the girl said, looking as excited as if she were the one who would be getting new clothing.

Once her maid had shut the door behind her Freddie turned to the mirror and commenced giving her hair the requisite fifty strokes, a habit she had employed since girlhood.

Not surprisingly, her thoughts turned to Plimpton.

Last night at the inn was something of a fever dream. The duke might not have been drunk, but he had certainly been…loose. Never before had he smiled, laughed, or teased so much.

He had fallen asleep soon after gently cleaning her—an act that had been more surprising than spending on her breasts, which was something she had endured often in the past as Sedgewick had found it terribly exciting. Freddie had never understood the appeal or the eroticism of the act until last night. Something about watching her stern husband revel in marking her in such a primitive fashion had made her own climax more intense.

Freddie had slipped back to her room after Plimpton fell asleep and had laid awake until an hour before dawn, her brain churning.

Two hours later she had been red-eyed and woolly-headed as she had eaten breakfast across from her husband—who had been as reserved, courteous, and clear eyed as ever despite his night of drinking—and Freddie had wondered if she had imagined the entire episode the night before. Who was this man who could be two so completely different people?

All day long in the carriage they had read, relaxed, and spoken desultorily of casual matters. It was as if the day before—both the intensely personal conversation they’d had after the wedding as well as their torrid night of passion—had left them both exhausted.

Tonight at dinner Plimpton had continued his civil but impersonal conversation throughout the meal—as if he entertaining a guest—and then he had joined her in the library after enjoying his after dinner port and cigar.

For two hours she had worked on her new needlework design while he had sorted through the mail he had brought with him from London.

It had all shrieked of domesticity.

And then suddenly, half an hour ago, he had put away his letters, removed his spectacles, and politely—but firmly—informed her that it was time for bed. Yes. He had informed her, not asked.

Upon leaving her outside the door to her chambers he had said that he would come to her in half-an-hour.

Again, it had been an informing .

He bore no resemblance to the hot and fierce lover of the night before. She saw not even a glimmer of the man who had painted her belly, breasts, and even her chin with ejaculate and then sleeked it over her skin, admiring his work before tenderly bathing her clean again.

Freddie felt like there were two Plimptons, and neither of them knew anything about the other one, both living entirely independent lives.

She glared at her reflection as a confusion of emotions roiled within her. There was no denying that she desired him with an intensity which made clear thinking difficult.

He was not the handsomest man she had ever met, and he was certainly not the most equable or charming. Indeed, he was often taciturn, cold, and so remote as to be antisocial. But he was also physically superb, utterly masculine, clever and witty, and his quiet aura of power—even his untouchability and exclusivity—all combined to make him irresistible.

Indeed, if Freddie could have created a man herself, it would be Plimpton.

But that Plimpton only came out in the bedchamber. Only when their clothing came off did he allow her to see that he wanted her. But that was the only time he made his desire apparent.

Was that because sexual desire was all he felt for her? Is that how it had been in his first marriage? Would that be the blueprint for how their own marriage would progress? Well, with the notable exception that she might very well give the duke what he had always wanted: a son.

Regardless of whether she did so or not, he would live as he chose; Freddie knew that meant he would resume taking lovers. If she provided him with the requisite heir and spare, would she be allowed to take lovers, as well?

Why did such a future fill her with despair?

The sound of a door opening made her set down her hairbrush and turn.

The duke, garbed in a robe of dark gray silk, paused on the threshold his gaze lingering on her hair before his eyes slid to her face. “It is beautiful. It pleases me to see it down.”

Freddie appreciated the way he couched his commands as compliments. It was another behavior Sedgewick had never learned. Or at least he had never employed it with her.

The duke closed the distance between them, not stopping until he was only inches away from her. He carded his fingers into her hair, his gaze on the pale locks as he sifted the strands through his fingers, his eyes growing dark with desire.

“You feel tense,” he observed.

Freddie was tense.

“Should I leave you and return three hours from now as I did last night?”

The Duke of Plimpton sober and teasing? No, that was not possible.

His eyes moved back to hers when she did not answer, and his lips curved into a smile that grew and grew.

A dimple she never would have guessed existed showed itself on his right cheek. The striations that were always visible at the corners of his eyes deepened as did the parenthesis that bracketed his lips. His eyelashes—the only soft part of him—were thick but blond-tipped and their lushness was not apparent until a person was close.

“A genuine grin,” she could not resist saying.

“You sound so surprised,” he murmured, his delightful smile sliding away as he eased his fingers into the fine hairs of her temple and gently combed through the loose curls. “I seem to recall smiling that day at the boathouse.”

“That was a smile; this is a grin.”

“Ah. Well, I hope to do more smiling in the future. And I hope you will, too. I want to make you happy, Winifred.”

It was an evening for shocks.

“I promise I will do all that is in my power to make you never regret our union,” he saud, stroking her hair until she all but vibrated with pleasure. It had been forever since anyone had touched her so…lovingly. Even that day by the lake Plimpton had not been so tender. True, he had taken his time with her, but it had been desire that guided him. Now she saw desire, but also affection.

Something in his steady gaze made her eyes itch and fill with tears so quickly that one slid down her cheek.

Horror, lightning fast, flickered across his face. “Winifred! My God…what is wrong?”

“It is nothing.”

“It is something.”

“Lately, I am emotional often. I have been told it is because I am—the, er, my condition.” She felt like a ninny for her inability to say the word pregnant .

“Ah.” He kissed her cheek, and when he pulled back, she saw his lips were wet. He slid his fingers through her hair again, but less carefully this time, and rather than comb through the curls, he caught a thick fistful and lifted it to his face, the ash-blonde cloud obscuring everything but his eyes; eyes that burned with raw desire as he inhaled. “Why do you smell so good?”

“I, er—”

He dropped the silken mass without waiting for an answer, lowering his mouth over hers, his blazing eyes keeping her pinioned in place as he devoured her.

Heat rolled through her body as his lids drooped and he cupped the back of her head, positioning her so that he could ravage her with a deep, searching kiss that left her breathless when he finally pulled away.

“As magical as last night was,” he began, his eyes glimmering with humor when her face flooded with heat. “Ah, you recall that, do you? I thought maybe you had forgotten.”

“I thought you had forgotten,” she accused in a choked voice. “You—you came down to breakfast this morning and looked at me as if we had never met!”

“Did I?” He kissed the tip of her likely bright red nose. “As magical as last night was,” he repeated, “I had planned on something a bit less selfish for our wedding night.”

“That was selfish? For you? Or for me?”

“You are sweet,” he murmured, kissing her again before studying her dressing gown, one of the new garments she had purchased for her tiny wedding trousseau. It was a pretty pale pink moire taffeta with blonde lace and buttons all the way up to the neck. “May I?” he asked.

She jerked a nod, her nervousness earning a curious look from him.

But then he reached the fifth or sixth button and caught a glimpse of what was beneath the taffeta and Freddie saw his throat bob.

He stopped unbuttoning and slowly parted the edges of the gown. “Uh.” His throat flexed again, and he lightly traced a finger down the narrow gap, his skin hot over the gauzy material.

His eyes lifted to hers and one of his eyebrows arched high. “I feel as though I must have been very, very good to deserve this.”

She gave a startled laugh.

He stroked the lace again, harder. “This is for me, is it not?”

Freddie did not think she imagined the slightly dangerous tone underlaying the question. “Of course it is. I would hardly buy such a thing for myself.”

His eyebrow cocked again.

Freddie felt like an idiot. “Oh. You did not mean me. I bought it this week.” Why was she babbling? Probably because she had never, ever owned such a garment in her life. She would not own it now if not for the fact that Madam Therese, a woman Freddie had brought a great deal of business to over the years, had not commanded her to purchase it—and then made it impossible for her not to do so by lowering the price of the garment to almost nothing. Well, since it was composed of almost nothing that seemed appropriate.

“You bought it for me?” he said.

Freddie almost asked whom else she would have bought it for, but then saw way the corners of his mouth had curled, his tiny smile so pleased and smug that she did not have the heart to crush it.

“Yes, I bought it for you. Wyndham.”

He inhaled deeply and then lowered his gaze and continued with the buttons.

***

Plimpton feared that his fingers might stop working before he reached her waist. If they failed him after that, he was certain he could get the dressing gown off her body one way or another. But if they stopped before…He would have to tear the blasted thing off her and buy her another one.

Thankfully, it never came to that because the buttons suddenly stopped beneath the cloth belted around her narrow waist.

He parted the garment, made a noise unlike anything he had made in his life, and rasped, “Good God.”

She glanced down at herself, as if she had somehow forgotten the devastating garment she had obviously purchased from Satan’s own clothier. “Do you not like it? Madam Therese said—”

“I like it.” Plimpton’s fingers shook as he pushed the dressing gown from her shoulders, like a man unveiling a priceless masterpiece.

The taffeta slid to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

Plimpton swallowed. And then did so again, his throat strangely parched while his mouth was flooded.

The gown was like gossamer, the color a shade too dark to be called cream, perhaps closer to very milky tea. Such a description did not do the color justice. Whatever one called it, it somehow managed to make her look more naked than naked.

Her breasts were clearly visible beneath the filmy fabric, which was gathered at each shoulder and then plunged to the waist, where it was tied with a ribbon of the same shade and then billowed out like fog swirling around her legs and feet.

Her hard nipples thrust against the gathered gauze, looking sharp enough to puncture the fine fabric.

Plimpton reached out and lightly caressed one of the tiny pebbles with the palm of his hand.

She drew a shuddering breath, the action causing her breasts to shiver in a way that made him feel as if he had been clubbed over the head.

He wanted to rip the gown off her body.

He wanted to ravage her while she wore it.

He could not decide what he wanted to do…

“Plimpton are you—”

“ Shhh ,” he murmured, gently turning her around until she was facing the dressing table mirror. He stood behind her, drinking in her reflection. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen Winifred.”

At his words, a slow tide of pink spread from her chest up her throat.

“No,” he amended. “ Now you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

She twisted around, until she was facing him, and then burrowed into his chest. “You are embarrassing me.”

All he could manage was a less than articulate, “ Ugh.” Because now the mirror showed what he had somehow not noticed: the back of her body.

The gown was almost laughably simple in construction, but the way the voluminous gauze both hid and exposed at the same time meant a complicated design would have been superfluous.

Her elegant shoulders tapered to a waist he could almost span with his hands before her hips swelled, the luscious globes of her buttocks pressing against gossamer. There was a thin shadow where her legs were pressed together, leading from the cleft of her delectable arse down to the floor.

She squirmed closer and he groaned when his rock-hard erection pressed against her soft belly.

“On the bed,” he growled, finding her hand and pulling her toward the four-poster monster that took up fully half the bedchamber.

She hesitated, gesturing to her gown. “Should I take this—”

“God no. Leave it on.”

She seized handfuls of diaphanous material, lifted it to her shapely calves, and ascended the steps to the mattress.

“Lie down on your back, darling. I’m afraid this first time will be fast.”

“First time?” she asked, a teasing glint that he liked very much lighting her eyes.

Plimpton pulled the sash on his robe and shrugged it to the floor before climbing onto the bed.

He flung up her skirt and spread her thighs wide with indecent haste, sliding his finger through her slick folds just enough to assure himself that he would not hurt her. And then he lined himself up and buried his cock all the way with a single thrust.

Her arms and went around him when he stilled and she lifted her knees to take him deeper.

“My God, Winifred,” he breathed, his heart almost pounding its way out of his chest as he struggled for control.

And then she wrapped her legs around him and tightened her inner muscles and he was lost.