She was looking up at him, into those dangerous green eyes, and all she saw there was love. His beautiful mouth curved into the smile that could so easily warm a woman’s heart, and lower down.
He truly did love her. After all she’d told him. He truly believed she could do anything.
“And if I don’t?” she said. “If this sticky little matter proves too much even for my guile and imagination—”
“We’ll live with it,” he said. “Life isn’t perfect. But I had much rather live it imperfectly with you.”
“Th-that is a very f-fine s-sentiment.” The sob was filling her chest.
“I didn’t practice it at all,” he said.
“Oh, Clevedon,” she said.
He opened his arms. She walked into them. There was no choice, no choice at all. His arms closed about her and she wept, stupidly, but it was days and nights’ worth of bottled-up fear and worry and sorrow and anger and hope.
Against all odds, hope. Because she was a dreamer and a schemer, and one didn’t dream and scheme without hope.
“Does this mean I’ve won?” he said. Tears were all very well, but he needed to be absolutely sure.
“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled against his waistcoat. “Although some might argue that you’ve lost.”
“Will you marry me?”
A long pause.
His grip of her tightened. “Marcelline.”
“Yes. I’m simply not noble enough to say no.”
“Don’t be noble, I beg you,” he said. “I think nobleness of spirit . . . and morals . . . and ethics . . . and scruples . . . those sorts of things are all very well in their place. To a point, you know. But beyond a certain point, I think they make me bilious.”
She looked up at him. Tears shimmered in her eyes but there was laughter as well, and it curved the corners of her beautiful mouth.
“It doesn’t agree with me,” he said. “I tried to be good. I tried not to be my father. I tried to live up to Lord Warford’s standards. Then one day I realized it was pointless, and I’d had enough. That’s when I set out with Longmore on a Grand Tour. But when he decided he’d had enough of the Continent, and wanted to come home, I didn’t think I could stand coming back. Then you came into my life and everything changed. Because you were right. For me. Are. Right. For me.” He slid his hand down her back. He heard her breath hitch.
That was all it wanted. That little sound. He had waited for so long. He’d suffered the tortures of the damned.
He tipped up her chin and untied her bonnet. He tossed it aside.
She winced. “That was my best bonnet. It took me forever to decide which one to wear.”
“You? But you always know what to wear.”
“I never had to confess to anybody before,” she said. “That’s my confession bonnet. I even trimmed it special—and you toss it aside like a soiled handkerchief.”
“You confessed,” he said. “It was beautifully done. Like everything you do.” He quickly untied the black lace thing around her neck.
She caught his hand before he could throw that down. “Clevedon, what do you think you’re doing?”
They’d waited long enough. They’d made each other miserable for long enough. It was time for happiness.
“You know very well what I’m doing,” he said.
“You didn’t even lock the door,” she said.
“Right.”
He let go of her hand, picked up the nearest chair, and pushed it under the doorknob.
Then he led her to the sofa. He draped the lace thing over the back, and brought his hands to the fastenings of the layered cape.
“You can’t undress me,” she said.
He looked down at the layered cape and the great puffed sleeves and the belt, and he remembered what was underneath, layer upon layer. He remembered watching her undress herself. He remembered the way she’d set her leg on the bed, against his hip, and rolled down her stocking.
For a moment he couldn’t breathe. His heart was pumping too fast and his breathing was too quick and that was nothing to the excitement stirring down low.
“Right,” he said. “Another time.” He drew her down onto the sofa and gathered her in his arms. He kissed her until her body went all soft and yielding and her arms wrapped about his neck, and she kissed him back in the same fierce way.
He lifted his mouth an inch from hers. “I’ve been wretched,” he said.
“I’ve been wretched, too,” she said. “I’m no good at being good.”
“I don’t want you to be good,” he said. “I want you to be you. Marcelline. The woman I love.”
She caught hold of his head and brought his mouth to hers.
It was a long, searching kiss, and a lifetime seemed to pass in that kiss, and a lifetime opened up before them. He’d very nearly ruined his life and hers, but they’d found their way at last.
He eased his mouth from hers and said against her cheek, “One of these days—soon—we’ll have time for leisurely lovemaking. I’ll spend a delicious forever taking off your beautiful clothes. “But for now . . .” He found the bodice fastening under the cape and he unhooked enough of the bodice to get to her corset and chemise, exposing a few inches of her velvety skin. He kissed the hollow of her throat, and the smooth curve of her neck, and she sighed, and arced back, like a cat stretching simply for the pleasure of it.
She still had one hand tangled in his hair while she moved the other over him, taking possession of him the way he took possession of her, so easily and naturally, with a touch. He heard the brush of her fingers over the wool of his coat sleeve and the rustle of his starched neckcloth as her hand moved downward. When she came to the waist of his trousers, he caught his breath.
She slid her hand down, and his cock swelled and rose at the touch, and “Mine,” she said softly. “All this manly beauty. All mine.”
He caught hold of her dress, the embroidered flowers feeling almost alive under his hand. He dragged it up by fistfuls, a great mass of dress and petticoats that billowed over his arm. He stroked over her drawers, upward over her thighs and between her legs to the opening of her drawers. He cupped her and she shivered. “Mine,” he said. “All this feminine perfection. Mine.”
His mouth found hers again and he kissed her and drank in the taste of her and the feel of her mouth and her tongue, and he took it all in like a man starved. And while he kissed her, he slid his fingers into the soft cleft between her legs. She was wet there, and her legs trembled as he stroked her, and then he was trembling, too. So much happiness.
“What a lucky man I am,” he said.
She let out a throaty laugh. “You’re about to get luckier.”
She unfastened his trousers fully and grasped him. “I want you,” she said softly. “I want you inside me. I want you to be mine and I’ll be yours.”
“Yes, yes, yes, whatever you say.” He pushed into her, and he seemed to fly up into the heavens. He saw stars, and “Oh,” she said. “Your grace.”
“Gervase,” he said.
“Gervase,” she said, and she made it a whisper, and the sound made him shiver. “Mon amour.”
Then in French: murmured words of nonsense and love and pleasure while they made slow love, then faster love, until there was nowhere farther to go, and they seemed to leap to a blinding happiness, like flying to the sun. Release came in a cascade of sweetness. Then he was sinking onto her, burying his face in her neck, and murmuring her name.
For a time they simply lay together.
Quietly. At peace.
So hard to believe, after so much turmoil. But here he was, in her arms, and there was her heart beating steadily in her chest and filled with happiness.
She held him, relishing his weight and the feel of his silky hair against her skin and the scent of him, while her breathing quieted, and th
e world came back.
“That was much more fun than self-sacrifice,” he muttered.
She laughed. “Yes, cheri, it was.”
He raised himself up to look at her. “Cheri,” he repeated. “Why does it sound so delicious when you say it?”
“Because I’m delicious,” she said.
“The delicious Duchess of Clevedon,” he said. “I like the sound of that. I like the feel of her better,” he said. “And the scent of her. And the sound of her voice. And the way she moves. I love her madly. I would like to stay here, and count all the ways I love her, and show her all the ways I love her. But the world calls. Life calls.” He kissed her, so tenderly, on her forehead. “We have to put our clothes on.”
It took only a minute or two, since they hadn’t taken very much off. For her, a slight rearrangement of her undergarments, a few hooks to fasten, a stocking to pull up, a garter to tie. For him, a quick business of pulling up his drawers and trousers, tucking his shirt in, and buttoning a handful of buttons.
He found her black lace fichu, and she tied it.
He collected her hat from the corner it had bounced to. He brushed it off, and attempted to straighten the plumes.
She watched him for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, Clevedon, you’re the dearest man,” she said. “Give me that thing. You’ve no idea what to do with it, but I do love you for trying.”
He stilled briefly. Then he looked down at the hat and back at her. “Isn’t that it?” he said. “Trying? If we try with all our hearts, do you not think we can make a go of this—of us? And then, even if it doesn’t come out quite as we wish, at least we’ll know we tried wholeheartedly. That’s the way you do everything, is it not? With all your heart. And look how far you’ve come and all you’ve achieved. Only think what we can do together.”
“Well, there’s that,” she said, gesturing with her hat at the sofa. “We did that very well. Together.”
He laughed. “Yes. And don’t you think that a man who could do that—after a fight and a night of maudlin drinking—don’t you think he could take on the ton? I may not be much of a duke, but I haven’t given any time to the job. Only think what I might do, once I set my mind to it—with madame la duchesse at my side.” He grinned and added, “And under me or on top of me or behind me as the case may be.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Behind you, your grace?”
“I see that you still have some things to learn,” he said. He straightened his waistcoat.
“I was married very young, for a very short time,” she said. “I’m practically a virgin.”
He laughed again, and the sound was so sweet to her ears. He was happy, and so was she. And so she dared to hope, and dream, as she always did. And she dared to believe, that it would all come out as it ought, somehow, eventually.
He took her into his arms, crushing the hat.
She didn’t care.
“I have a plan,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Let’s get married,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Let’s conquer the world,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. No one in her family had ever been accused of dreaming small.
“Let’s bring the beau monde to its knees.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s make them beg for your creations.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Is tomorrow too soon?” he said.
“No,” she said. “We’ve a great deal to do, you and I, conquering the world. We must start at once. We’ve not a minute to lose.”
“I love hearing you say that,” he said.
He kissed her. It lasted a long time.
And they would last, she was sure, a lifetime. On that she’d wager anything.
Epilogue
The dresses were brilliant in the extreme; and it afforded us much gratification to notice that those worn by her Majesty and the Royal Family, as well as many others, were chiefly composed of British manufacture.
The Court Journal, Saturday 30 May 1835
The Duke of Clevedon married Mrs. Charles Noirot at Clevedon House on Saturday the 16th of May. In attendance were her sisters, his aunts, Lord Longford, and Lady Clara Fairfax.
The two latter appeared in defiance of their parents—but Longford had never been noted for filial obedience, and Lady Clara had lately developed an invigorating habit of defying her mother. She’d worn a Noirot creation to the Queen’s Drawing Room the previous Thursday, which caused a most gratifying stir.
When her brother had taxed her with aiding and abetting Clevedon’s lunacy, she said, “He’s still my friend, and I scorn to hold a grudge. I certainly shan’t cut off my nose to spite my face. You know that no one has ever or will ever make me look as well as Mrs. Noirot does. Do stop acting like Mama.”
That last remark brought Longmore around.
The duke’s aunts presented a more formidable challenge. As soon as they received his message regarding his impending nuptials, they hurried to Town and took possession of Clevedon House, determined to bring him to his senses. On Wednesday afternoon, they’d settled down for a bout of tea drinking and bullying their nephew when Halliday ushered in his grace’s prospective wife and in-laws and, as heavy artillery, Lucie. The aunts might have withstood the Noirot charm alone, but charm combined with mouth-watering dresses weakened their defenses, and Lucie, at her winsome best, routed them utterly.
On the Monday following the wedding, the youngest aunt, Lady Adelaide Ludley, visited the queen, with whom she shared a given name and was on warm terms. Her ladyship extolled the new duchess’s deportment and taste. On learning that the queen had admired Lady Clara Fairfax’s dress, Lady Adelaide pointed out that Maison Noirot patronized British tradesmen almost exclusively—a cause dear to Their Majesties’ hearts. She mentioned that the Noirot sisters were founders of the Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Females—another point in their favor.
Lady Adelaide agreed with the queen that the Duchess of Clevedon, in intending to keep up her shop, presented the Court with a social dilemma. On the other hand, said her ladyship, the duchess acted on good moral principle in being unwilling to abandon either her customers or the young women she was training as seamstresses. In any event, as the duke had pointed out to his aunts, one could not expect an artist to give up her art.
In the end, Lady Adelaide received permission to present the new duchess to the queen. She did so at the Drawing Room held in honor of the King’s Birthday, commemorated on the 28th of May. At one point during the festivities, the king summoned Clevedon, and spoke to him privately. His Majesty was heard to laugh.
When Clevedon returned to his wife’s side, she said, “What was that about?”
“The Princess Erroll of Albania,” Clevedon said. “He asked after her.” His smile was conspiratorial. “I think we’ve done it. They’ve decided I’m eccentric and you’re irresistible.”
“Or the other way about,” she said.
“Does it matter?” he said.
“No,” she said. She bent her head, and the sound was soft, but he recognized it. “Duchess,” he said, “are you giggling?”
She looked up, laughter dancing in her dark eyes. “I was only thinking: This has to be the greatest trick any Noirot or DeLucey has ever brought off.”
“And to think,” he said, “this is only the beginning.”
Not many days thereafter, in the course of a promenade in St. James’s Park, Miss Lucie Cordelia Noirot allowed the Princess Victoria to admire Susannah. The doll, as would be expected, was dressed for the occasion, in a lilac pelisse and a bonnet of paille de riz, trimmed with white ribbons and two white feathers.
About the Author
After a heroic attempt to be an English major forever, LORETTA CHASE stoically accepted h
er degree but kept on reading and writing. As well as working in academe, she had an enlightening if brief life in retail and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she succumbed to the charm of a producer, who lured her into writing novels . . . and marrying him. The union has resulted in what seems like an awful lot of books and quite a few awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA®. To learn more, please visit www.LorettaChase.com. To get in touch, please e-mail her at
[email protected].
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By Loretta Chase
Silk Is For Seduction
Last Night’s Scandal
Don’t Tempt Me
Your Scandalous Ways
Not Quite A Lady
The Last Hellion
Lord of Scoundrels
Captives of the Night
The Lion’s Daughter
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Loretta Chekani. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.