Chapter Eleven

HE SHARP RAP at the door to the bathing room didn’t surprise Anne, but it did rouse her from drowsiness. She blinked and sat up, water sloshing around her. She had dozed off in the bathtub with her head propped on the curved rim.

A hand landed on the door again. Not in a knock but with a hard, angry slap. “My brandy, love. What in blazes have you done with it?”

The duke had come himself. Anne jerked up on her knees in the tub so swiftly that water splashed onto the floor. She might lose everything for this, but she knew—knew in her heart—she was doing the right thing. “I instructed your footmen not to give it to you anymore.”

“They take orders from you, Cerise?” His voice rumbled through the closed door. “I know you were having my liquor watered down, but each night I had the stuff poured out and replaced. This time, when I insisted one of them bring a bottle to me, they all refused.”

“Your Grace, I told them they must do that. It is not their fault—”

“Apparently,” he barked, “they are more afraid of you than of me. I’ve never known my servants to cower like this before my mother, never mind a—” He stopped abruptly.

Never mind a tart. He did not say it. He didn’t need to. It was what he meant. She stepped out of the tub and wrapped a thick white towel around her. She padded to the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the gleaming wood. With her hand on the key, she took a deep breath. He was furious. She was trembling, but she opened the door.

The duke was leaning on the lavish molding. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The tails hung out over dark trousers. He’d left his feet bare.

“It’s not me they are afraid of,” she said simply. “I told Treadwell it could hurt you to supply you with liquor endlessly. That’s why they are not fetching your drink. It hardly helps you.”

“I happen to think it does.” He slumped against the frame. He didn’t look like a man preparing to hit a woman. Instead, he looked like a man at the end of his rope.

“You don’t need it,” she insisted. “I think it makes your nightmares worse. Last night, when I read to you, you seemed happy. After, when I left you to sleep, you didn’t have a nightmare, did you? You do not need the liquor. I could read to you each night.”

“You read for hours, Cerise. Until close to dawn. I can’t ask that of you each day.”

“Why not? I am your mistress. It is what I am willing to do.”

“You are my mistress. Not a slave. I will not make use of you like that.”

With that, he pushed away from the doorframe, turned, and walked away.

She stared after him in astonishment as he strode down the corridor, swinging his walking stick ahead of his steps. He moved with so much more confidence now. In only a handful of days, he truly had changed.

Last night he had relaxed enough to fall asleep in her lap. He’d stopped her reading Sense and Sensibility, though, and made her read a manual on horse breeding, which would put anyone to sleep.

She was his mistress—she was supposed to be available anytime he wanted, for anything he desired. Yet he’d just told her he would not make use of her. Should she be pleased or worried?

Was she right?

Devon let one of the footmen put on his greatcoat. He could feel the weight of it dropping on his shoulders. He held out his hand for his beaver hat and drew it on ruthlessly. Once he cared about his appearance. He had no right to anymore, not when a choice he’d made had cost a good soldier his life, which meant the man’s wife and child had been thrown into grief and poverty. And now they had vanished somewhere in London’s slums.

He needed his liquor, but Cerise’s warning kept hammering in his brain. Was the brandy hurting him more than it helped him?

He’d thought drink would dull the pain, grief, and anger. When he didn’t soak his mind with liquor, his nightmares were soaked with blood and echoed with screams. Brandy turned them into vague and formless things he couldn’t grasp but that still tormented him. Admittedly, it had never once given him the gift of a night’s sleep.

Perhaps she was right.

If he couldn’t escape in liquor, he had to do it another way. There was sex, but he wasn’t in the mood for an activity that required him to act more like a human and less like a growling, guilt-ridden blackguard. Anyway, he sensed there was a wall between them, forged by his determination to drown his anger and guilt in drink and her equal insistence that he stop. Intriguingly, the only way to tear down the wall was for one of them to win.

Instead, he was going to ride. This time he would take more care. He couldn’t throw his life away by breaking his neck.

Guilt twisted his gut hard at how close he had come to killing himself. Thousands of men had died in war. Likely all of them would trade positions with him in a heartbeat. Besides, his mother would expect him to produce an heir before accidentally killing himself—

“Yer Grace.” The puffing voice was Treadwell’s. “Another letter has arrived from Her Grace, yer mother. Should I give it to you or to Miss Cerise?”

“To me, damn it.” It was as though Treadwell had read his mind, had known he was thinking of his family. Devon stuffed the letter in his pocket. No doubt it would be another entreaty for him to fall in love and marry.

Hell.

He knew where he was. Probably.

Devon braced his hand against the rough bark of a tree, while Abednigo danced beneath him. As he soothed the horse, he tasted late afternoon in the heavy sweetness of the air, felt it in the heat of the sun beating across his face. Even blind, he knew the woods around him were drenched in the gold of the dropping sun. He would likely never see it again.

Though there was a chance he would. He’d been to specialists in London, and no doctor could tell him exactly why he was blind. They had explained that a nerve ran from behind his eyes into his brain. He’d suffered a blow to his head. The doctors believed something was pressing on the optic nerve. A knot of blood, they speculated, or a splinter of bone broken off when a young soldier’s bayonet had slammed into his skull. His sight could come back, the doctors had told him, if the thing moved. But if it did move, it could also slice its way through his brain. It could kill him.

“Your Grace!”

Devon turned in the saddle toward the anxious voice that fell over him in a breathless rush. Skirts swished and boots crunched over fallen twigs. “You followed me on foot, Cerise?”

“Yes.” She let out her breath in a whoosh. “In a corset, no less. I can barely breathe. Why are you out here alone?”

Holding the reins, he dismounted. “I didn’t want you to run after me.”

“I wanted to ensure …” She hesitated, and her pretty voice died away.

“I can guess what you’re thinking, love. You’re wondering if I know where I am but you don’t want to hurt my tender feelings by asking me.”

“Your Grace, I thought I’d already proved I am not very mindful of your feelings.” Her tone was so wry it made him smile. Then she paused. “Do you know where you are?”

“Yes. I can smell apples. Behind me, the stream is rippling softly, not splashing noisily. Given those clues, I would say I’m in the woods, south of the apple orchard, near the path that heads down to the village. Where the stream is at its deepest.”

Her silence landed on him like a slap across the head.

There was only one reason she wouldn’t say anything. “All right. Where am I?”

“At the northern end of the orchard, I believe.”

He’d been completely wrong. “Damnation,” he muttered.

“You did excellently,” she said loyally.

“I don’t need false praise to make me feel better,” he said grimly. “I wanted to map out my property in my thick head, and I need to get it right—”

“You lost your sight. That hardly means you have a thick head. Let us work on this together. I will describe things to you as we walk along. Where do you wish to begin?”

Her crisp tones brought out guilt with an acrid twinge in his heart. He hadn’t expected her to leap so vehemently to his defense. But that was what she did, wasn’t it? She insisted he wasn’t mad, no matter how much evidence he gave her to the contrary. She risked injury to help him, risked his wrath to take his brandy away. Last night she had gone without sleep for hours so she could read to him, keeping him from falling into another nightmare.

Cerise was unlike any courtesan he’d ever known. Most would have run screaming. None would have worked so hard to help him. She deserved better than his bad temper.

He took a deep breath. “Angel, I apologize for my stupidity. Not about being lost, but for snapping at you. I don’t deserve you, but I need you.”

This time he didn’t know what to make of her silence.

He coaxed her to mount Abednigo and he swung up behind her. To fit on the saddle, he lifted her so she sat on his lap. Then they explored the woods.

Her descriptions amazed him. She explained how the path meandered through the trees, giving him details of every twist and turn. She pointed out where the oldest trees stood, their bark drenched in lichen. They reached the stream again and she gasped in pleasure.

“It is so … mystical,” she whispered. God, how he was aroused by her, by every squirm she made on his lap, by every ingenuous, luscious sound that fell from her lips.

“How is it mystical?” he asked, mainly to keep her talking.

“It makes me think of a fairy grotto, as though fey creatures must live within.” She described to him how the branches of ancient willows trailed in the water, how long grass waved along the edge of the stream and patches of silvery ferns carpeted the forest floor. She told him of the rocks in the stream, smoothed by the flow, that made a natural but slippery path across. Every word she said had his heart pounding.

“I used to leap across stones like this. Once I fell in. I was in terrible trouble, for it was just before church, and I was wearing my best dress—” She stopped and went stiff against him.

Why? What had she feared she was going to reveal? He slid his hand higher, and he could feel her heart pound. “You said you grew up as a housekeeper’s daughter in a house in the country, then you lived in London’s stews. But your manners, your accent, the way you treat me, as if you’re a woman accustomed to managing—your story doesn’t ring true. You behave more like a lady than a servant.”

“I—I did work as a governess for the family before we went to London. I suppose I learned to manage then. But it doesn’t matter, does it? It was such a long time ago.”

How nervous she sounded. “Couldn’t you have become a governess again, Cerise, after your mother died?”

“I—no, I couldn’t. When we were living in the stews, my mother became ill. I knew I had to earn money, but my choices were thieving or prostitution, and she made me vow I would not do either. But my mother needed laudanum for pain. A great deal of it. So I … I had to break that vow to get money.”

This had to be the truth. She sounded as he had after battle—emotionless, almost distant.

“Was that when you went to work in the brothel?”

“Not then. It was after my mother died, as I said before. I hoped to become a gentleman’s mistress. I thought that would be the best way to survive, but I ended up in the brothel instead. Yet now I have become exactly what I dreamed of becoming. And we have reached the lawns, Your Grace. I can see the house. Come, we should go in.”

She didn’t wish to speak any more about it. It didn’t take brilliance to decipher that in her brisk tones. He understood why she would not want to think about the past, but he wanted to know more. Where was her family? Why had they not helped her? But he didn’t want to push her.

“I—I hope I did a good job of describing your woods to you,” she said shakily.

“You did, angel,” he murmured. He wrapped his arm around her waist. His heart ached for what she’d endured. He leaned forward until he felt the tickle of wayward strands of hair, then he kissed her bare neck. “Your descriptions were so lovely, so vivid, you almost made me see it.”

“Truly?” Her voice was rich, irresistible. “I am glad.”

There was one more thing he needed her to do for him. Fumbling, he found the pocket of his greatcoat and drew out the letter. “Another from my mother. Would you read it?”

She hated having to lie to him. Anne glanced at the duke’s face as she took the letter. His smile had vanished and the corners of his generous mouth were cranked down. He might be resisting his mother’s entreaties, but she saw how much it hurt him to do so.

“ ‘My dearest Devon,’ ” she began. Her gaze slid down the page, rapidly reading ahead. The duchess had poured all her worry for her son into the letter. Bewildered pain leapt from every word. “ ‘I cannot understand why you do not send any response to my letters, why you do not come home. Or why you do not at least go out into Society, so your friends could write me assurances and tell me you are healthy and well. I wish, I dearly wish, you would consider opening your heart to the idea of courting a bride. If Lady Rosalind had lived, she would have made a wonderful wife for you. She would have helped you heal. But you cannot shut yourself away from love because you have known loss. It has been three years—’ ”

“That’s enough, angel.” He put his hand on her wrist.

She stopped, as he requested, but she hated to think of the poor woman worrying about her son. For the three years the duke was at war, the duchess must have been terrified. Anne would have been. She remembered how she had felt when her mother was slowly fading away. She eventually forgot to eat or bathe, change her clothes, or care about herself. “I could write a reply to your mother, Your Grace. You tell me what you wish to say, and I will write it and have it sent to her.”

“I don’t know what to say to her. You’re a female. Would you be happy to get a reply that tells you I’m not going to do any of the things you want me to do? Do you think that would set her heart and mind at ease?”

“I suppose not,” she had to admit. “But perhaps your mother is right. About a wife, I mean.”

“Angel, I don’t need a harping mistress—” To her surprise, he stopped then and smiled—a hard, bitter twist of a smile. “All right, love, you’ve wanted me to confide in you. On this, I will. Do you remember the book you read to me last night?”

She frowned. “A Noble Treatise on Equine Breeding?”

“No, the other book.”

“You mean Sense and Sensibility.”

“Yes, angel. You see, that book wasn’t mine. It belonged to Lady Rosalind Marchant.”

“The woman your mother mentioned in the letter. You were … engaged to her?”

“Not quite. I fell in love with Rosalind, I stole her away from a very good friend, and I intended to marry her. But she died of a fever before I made my proposal of marriage. I fell in love, I betrayed a good man to get her because I couldn’t live without her, then I waited too long. And I lost her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sense and Sensibility was her favorite book. I used to watch her read it when we went on picnics. I read it myself—it was one more weapon with which to seduce her and win her away from my friend. When she fell ill and couldn’t leave her bed, I bought her that copy. Her mother gave it to her, since I wasn’t allowed to see her while she was ill. They would not even let me go into her room when she passed away. I barged in after she died, and that was when I got down on one knee and told her how much I loved her. I held her limp hand and poured out everything I felt, in the desperate hope she would somehow hear. Maybe I believed I could bring her back if I made her know how much I loved her. But I was too damned late. All the while, her mother was shrieking about the impropriety of it. Her father finally summoned servants to drag me out of the bedroom.”

“He did? Even though you were—”

“A duke’s son?”

“—so very much in love.”

“I understood. They were racked with grief. They blamed me—I’d created a huge scandal by coaxing Rosalind to break her engagement to my friend. Within a month, I’d met her, tempted her away, and convinced her to jilt him. She had never been strong, and her parents believed the scandal had made her ill again. Perhaps they were right. I used to be a wild rake, but once I saw Rosalind, I didn’t desire any other woman. I thought only about what I wanted. Even when she died, that was what I did—I took what I wanted.” He breathed deeply. “The book was in her hand and I grabbed it just before they hauled me out. I wanted to keep the last thing she’d touched.”

Anne’s heart stuttered as his lashes lowered and a regretful smile touched his mouth.

“She used to become so absorbed in a book,” he murmured, “she didn’t even notice the rest of the world around her.”

There was no doubt he had been deeply in love. She could see it in the way his eyes shut and he lowered his head, as though grief was weighing on him all over again. “I’m so sorry. When I read from the book, it must have reminded you of all that—oh, goodness! When you asked me to read from a horse-breeding book, it was to stop the pain of remembering, wasn’t it?” She had been so determined to do what she thought was best. “How stupid I was not to ask you what you wanted.” She had brought back all his sorrow over the woman he loved, then she’d taken away his brandy so he couldn’t find any solace. “You must be furious with me.”

“I’m not. It hurt at first when you started reading. I went to war right after Rosalind died. I did it so I could escape the pain. I thought with all the action and risk, I’d have no place for grief. That was a stupid mistake. When I made you stop reading Sense and Sensibility, I realized I’d made another mistake. I didn’t want to hide anymore—I wanted to remember her.”

Anne twisted in the saddle and cupped his face. His horse shifted beneath them, but the duke’s arm tightened around her waist. “Perhaps I shouldn’t do this,” she murmured. “Push me away if you want. But I need to kiss you, Your Grace.”

He pulled her to him until their lips almost touched and they shared the same swift breaths. “I loved Rosalind deeply, but no woman has ever treated me as you do, angel.” He moved that one last hairbreadth and kissed her.

The kiss in the rain had been dazzling, but this one …

His mouth touched hers gently, so tenderly that she had to close her eyes, had to grip his shoulders to keep from melting into a puddle and sliding off the horse. She had never been kissed like this. She’d never known what it was like to want to cry over the caress of a man’s mouth. Now she did. It was so wonderfully sweet she wanted to weep.

Slowly he drew back. “Read to me again tonight, love? Would you promise?”

“Of course,” she whispered.

No wonder the duke wanted to hide away here. No wonder he had nightmares and drank too much brandy. Anne paced in her bedchamber—the room that should be his bedchamber. She ached to help him, but she didn’t know what to do.

How terrible it must have been for him. He went to war to escape grief, only to end up surrounded by pain, violence, and death. He had not given himself time to mourn the woman he loved. It must haunt him now. Grief for Lady Rosalind must be in his heart, along with sorrow over his memories of war and the loss of his sight.

How could she help him overcome it? She didn’t know how to stop the pain. She still felt it for her parents, for her lost home. She’d refused to even think of Longsworth.

She couldn’t help but think about his mother. In her mind’s eye, Anne could picture her as a silver-haired woman bent over an escritoire, writing a letter to her son, brushing at tears as some dropped to the page. She could picture an untouched tray of food and a woman consuming herself with worry. Was his mother forgoing food, forgetting sleep, as Anne had done?

She didn’t know how to help the duke get over the pain of losing Lady Rosalind, but she did know what she could do for his mother. The duke would never have to know.

Two days later, as Anne finished her breakfast in the dining room, Treadwell approached. He waited respectfully, twisting his hands in front of him. She knew by now that the butler cared deeply for his master. His look of confusion instantly speared her with worry.

“Is something wrong with His Grace?” She was off her seat, ready to run.

“No, miss. Everything is … right with him. I came to tell ye that His Grace has not asked for brandy for the last two nights. Not before he retired for the night. Not after his dreams. I even … well, I was worried about him and thought a little nip couldn’t hurt him. I offered to bring him some, on the quiet, so ye wouldn’t find out, miss. But he turned it down.”

She lifted her brow at the butler’s admission, but she couldn’t help but echo, “He turned it down?”

“Indeed. He told me he believed ye would not approve.”

She blinked. She hadn’t quite believed she could convince him to give up brandy. He’d been so obstinate. Yet somehow she had touched him, she had made him see sense, she had helped.

“His Grace also wishes ye to join him this morning. It is his plan to make an excursion into the village, and he has asked for ye to accompany him.”

Her teacup hit the saucer with a clatter. “He wishes to go into the village?”

“Aye.” Treadwell grinned, his lips opening wide to reveal missing teeth. He winked. “His Grace has not been into the village once since he came here. This is a grand thing, miss. All of us—the staff—we’re all very pleased.”

She stood up from the table. “I’m very pleased,” she repeated, before she followed the butler to the front foyer, where she found the duke pulling on black gloves. Already he was dressed immaculately in a tailcoat, his beaver hat perfectly placed on his head, his snow-white collar points framing his handsome face.

“Where did you wish to go, Your Grace?” she asked.

He grinned so beautifully, her heart almost fractured. “You will soon see, angel.”

The duke’s carriage stopped in the narrow street in front of the dressmaker’s shop. Anne froze. She had never told him of her disastrous visit. “Why have we come here?”

“Treadwell informed me that no gowns have arrived for you and there have been no bills for clothes and bonnets. I assume you did not come here when I instructed you to?”

Embarrassment turned her cheeks to flame. “I did, but I could not stay. Respectable ladies were in the shop, and they guessed at once I am your mistress. The modiste was terribly nervous, but she made it clear I was making her patrons uncomfortable. So I left.”

“Indeed. Well, it is my duty as your noble protector to buy you gowns, my dear. I intend to see it through.”

She could guess what he wished to do, but she was not certain she had the courage to face it. “Your Grace, we will thoroughly scandalize this woman if you go in and buy clothes for me.”

He would not be deterred. His footman opened the carriage door, and the duke leapt out, then helped her down the steps. He held open the door to the shop and waited. Meekly, she went in before him. At once, the dressmaker hurried forward, a chubby seamstress trailing behind her. Both women curtsied. There were two other young ladies in the shop, and they dropped their handfuls of ribbons, goggling at the duke.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wimple,” the duke said coldly. He peered over both women’s heads.

As Mrs. Wimple rose, her face was as white as her bolts of muslin. She sputtered a greeting that dripped with deference. The duke quirked his brow, this time displaying aristocratic hauteur. “This dear lady is a close friend of my family.”

The modiste’s shoulders trembled before his measured yet ominous tones. He was rather frightening when he spoke so quietly, like the stillness of the sky before a storm exploded.

“Yet when I sent my dear friend to you,” he continued, in that deep rumble, “I believe she was not treated with the civility and deference I expected.”

The modiste quaked. “Your Grace, I …”

Anne saw the woman flounder. The duke turned to her, knowing where she was because she had placed her hand on his steely forearm. “My dear Miss—Miss Cerise, would you be so good as to fetch me a chair? I know the fitting of a lady’s gown is a long business, and I would like a seat.”

Anne flushed at his stumble over her name. She should have given him a last name. It had blown his lie apart in a moment: He would not search for her name if she was truly a close family friend. However, he appeared utterly unperturbed by the slip.

The dressmaker gasped. “No! No, Cherrywell will fetch a seat.” She waved frantically at the plump seamstress. “Hurry and bring a chair for His Grace. If you will follow me to the dressing rooms, Miss Cerise …” The woman’s gaze swept over her borrowed dress, and in a low voice she said, “You will want something bold, I presume, similar to the gown you are wearing?”

Anne shuddered at the woman’s false smile. She wanted to walk out, but she couldn’t. She had no point to prove. She was a fallen woman and had accepted it. She knew exactly the kind of treatment to expect. Heavens, in the village of Banbury, near Longsworth, respectable ladies would cross the street if they saw a ruined woman walking on their side. As though ruination could be spread through the air.

The duke wore such a look of fierce determination, she didn’t want to disobey. He settled into the seat, close enough that she could whisper in his ear. “This isn’t necessary,” she hissed. “You shouldn’t be so angry.”

“Of course I’m angry. You deserve a hell of a lot better treatment than this.”

His words stunned her. She turned to Mrs. Wimple. If she must do this, she did not want to be stuck in the kind of garish gowns she used to wear for Madame. “I would like gowns with simple but elegant lines—” She stopped. There was a way to crack the tension. She turned an ingenuous smile on Mrs. Wimple. “I can see you have a superior sense of style. Why else would His Grace insist on your services?”

The words had an instant effect. The woman thawed, ever so slightly.

“Please use your discretion,” Anne went on. “I am sure your designs will be flattering and fashionable. I have no doubt your gowns will be the talk of London, when I return there.” A bold lie. She had no intention of being seen anywhere in London.

“Yes.” The middle-aged woman thoughtfully stroked her chin. “I do believe I can envision exactly what would flatter you best.”

Anne had no idea if it was true, but the woman was animated now instead of resentful. Mrs. Wimple was warming to the chance to impress the Duke of March. Before she disappeared behind the curtain to the fitting room, Anne glanced back at the duke. He waited patiently, sipping tea served to him by Cherrywell, while young seamstresses peeped at him from the workroom door. The sight made her smile. Her heart felt oddly … lighter. “Thank you,” she whispered. He couldn’t hear her, of course. Her thank-you wasn’t for the clothes; it was for insisting she be treated as more than a ruined woman.

The duke looked entirely too relaxed in places that sold women’s apparel.

At least, he had at the beginning. After they saw the dressmaker, they had to visit the milliner’s. It was obvious he’d done this with mistresses before, though perhaps not in this village. But Anne had seen disappointment flash in his eyes when she was trying on bonnets. He’d stood abruptly, told her to buy every one in the shop rather than spend time making a decision, then swept her out the door.

Now, in the carriage, he sprawled on the seat across from her, utterly silent, as they rumbled toward his home.

She knew he was not going to lash out at her, and it hurt her to see him look so grim and tense. Was it the reminder of his blindness? Or was his unhappy expression because he was thinking of the woman he’d loved and lost? “Your Grace—”

“Angel—” He spoke at the exact moment she did. They shared a nervous laugh, then she asked, “Would you come and sit beside me?” at the same time that he said, “Come sit on my lap.”

“Your lap? Why?” She was perplexed for a few seconds. Then he lifted his hips, the motion making his intent obvious.

“In the carriage?” she asked, astonished, for it jiggled and lightly swayed.

“Cerise, you are adorable. Yes, in the carriage.”

“Can it be done?”

“Very carefully,” he teased.

She moved to him, sat on his lap, and discovered he’d already opened the falls of his trousers. He bent so his lips brushed her hair. His voice came as a hoarse rasp. “Make love to me. I’ve discovered how much I need it. Angel, I don’t think I could ever do without you.”

Goodness. His words both broke her heart and set it soaring. With it pounding madly, she hitched up her skirts and climbed onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Never had she wanted him more. “You must tell me what to do,” Anne said.

“This, love,” Devon growled. “Take me inside, bounce on top of me, make yourself come.”

She was the only thing that could make him forget grief—grief for Rosalind, for the men who’d died in battle, for Captain Tanner, who had been lost to his family. He knew so much grief. He felt it even for the French soldiers he’d killed, their faces ingrained forever in his memory. For his father, who had died during the first year he’d been at war.

The carriage began to climb a hill, rattling slowly, and Cerise tightened her lithe arms around his neck. With just a sensual twitch of her hips, she took his erection inside. He shut his eyes, groaning at the sweet pressure and the weight of her bottom settling on his thighs. He was becoming addicted to her. More than he had ever needed brandy, he needed Cerise.

This time, he would make her come for him. On the grass, in the field, he’d thought … he’d imagined he was close. She had felt so relaxed, so creamy and hot around him. But she had been so quiet, he was afraid he’d hurt her and she was trying to hold in sounds of displeasure. This time he would be gentle. And make it good for her.

Balancing against the motion of the carriage, he held her slim waist and thrust inside her. He ground his molars to hang on to his control and arched his hips with deliberate slowness, in a gentle, teasing rhythm, until she whispered throatily, “Harder. Please. I want it … hard. And fast.”

Focused so intently on her, he could hear her over the rattle of the wheels. And her wish was his command. He made love to her so vigorously that he lifted them off the seat and set the carriage bouncing on its axles.

Her lips found his and she kissed him hungrily. Greedily. Did it mean she liked it, or was she playing mistress? He didn’t know, but he answered with a hot, open-mouthed kiss of his own. He couldn’t see her breasts, but he felt them brush his chest as she bounced. She panted into his mouth, but she didn’t make a sound. The carriage grew hotter, though, hot as wildfire. He wanted to make her explode, hungered to give her a climax that would make her howl her pleasure.

He slid his hand between their tight bodies, working by feel, and pressed his thumb to the apex of her slick, steamy cunny. She gave a shocked gasp, then a soft, melting moan.

“Yes.” He panted through each wild, hard thrust. “I want to bring you to your peak. Tell me what it takes for you to get there, love. I’m yours to command.”

“I—I don’t know,” she moaned. “This … this is so good. You are. You made me come when I never thought I could …”

Her words touched him like no other caress had. He drove deeply into her, trying to do the exact thing she apparently liked. Then she gripped his shoulders and took him at his word. She bounced, wriggled, and found a rhythm that pleased her. The carriage echoed with her moans. A lovely feminine “Oh, oh, oh!” rang by his ear, then she jerked on top of him and gave a wonderful, earsplitting scream.

It set him off like a fuse to a cannon. He braced—for they were going downhill—and arched up, burying his cock to the very hilt, and his muscles seemed to melt like wax as he came.

“Oooh.” She slumped against him. “Mmmm.” She drank in fierce breaths.

He was holding his. She sounded content, honestly so, and he wanted to know her sweet sounds were real, not faked. “Did you come?” He sounded like an uncertain lad.

“Yes.”

“For the first time?”

“Not quite. I—oh, I’m so sorry, but you were right. I didn’t come before. But I did this time. And I did in the field, when I was so quiet and you became angry. That was my very first climax. It wasn’t your fault before. It truly wasn’t. I thought I would never have an orgasm.”

“You aren’t flattering me?”

“No! This is the truth. I never knew my muscles would flutter inside when I came. Or that my heart would pound so much. I never knew my nipples would grow so plump and hard at the peak of pleasure. Does that make you believe me?”

Their carriage stopped and familiar voices, those of his grooms, shouted up to his coachman. Devon stayed seated, wrapping his arms around her. “Yes. I’m glad I gave you pleasure.”

“I—I am too.”

Yes, hell, he was completely addicted to her.

From outside, there came a cacophony of sound. A man’s shouts, loud pounding, and a rumble like the clatter of fast wheels on gravel. Devon jerked up from the seat, shifting Cerise on his lap. He turned for the window, then remembered. “Angel, you’ll have to look. From the sound of hooves and the crunch of wheels, I’d guess it’s a carriage. One barreling up my drive. You’ll have to tell me who it is.”

Anne’s heart thundered in her throat as she slipped off the duke’s lap and pressed her face to the window. They were indeed on the drive in front of the duke’s house. Pulled by four galloping grays, an elegant white coach rattled up the drive. It stopped beside them. There was something on the door—a gilt-trimmed crest, partly obscured by dust.

Anne swallowed hard. It was a member of the aristocracy, not someone from Bow Street.

The carriage door opened and a woman stepped out—a woman wearing a blue silk pelisse and a deep-brimmed bonnet that shielded her face. The lady slowly turned to their carriage. Anne saw an oval face, very pale, and lovely features. She saw the woman hesitate and chew her lip.

“Who is it?” the duke asked.

Anne started. In her shock, she’d forgotten he was dependent on her eyes. “It’s a lady with dark curls and a very beautiful face. I think she must be your sister.”