When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 18





Grace waltzed with the first man she had ever loved: her father.

While it was not customary for the bride and groom to attend the evening ball usually held on the day of their wedding, she’d wanted one more dance with her father, and her husband had been inclined to indulge her whim. She suspected he would do quite a bit of indulging over the coming years.

While the orchestra played, she and her father were the only ones on the dance floor. He moved with ease, as he had no worries about stumbling into anyone. He was tall and handsome, and she could easily understand why he had swept her mother off her feet. She hoped he still had enough vision remaining that he could see her joyous smile and the sparkle in her eyes. She had never known such happiness. And she knew it was only the beginning.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, “so much like your mother on the day I married her.”

She could not have received a compliment that would have pleased her more, but she knew the truth of it. “Love does that to a person, I hear.”

Grinning, he bowed his head in acknowledgment. “It does indeed.”

“You should know that as Lovingdon has no need for my dowry, we’re going to use the land to establish a sanctuary where women can heal when faced with surgeries about which people will never speak. They can confide in each other, draw comfort and strength from similar tribulations. We’re going to place the money that comes with the dowry into a trust fund to cover the expenses of the upkeep and servants.”

“I suspect even if Lovingdon were in need of funds, he would still allow you to do with your dowry as you pleased. He loves you, Grace. For him, the dowry was never a consideration.”

“I know.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from smiling broadly. “I’m the most fortunate woman on earth.”

“I may be a bit biased, but I say he’s the fortunate one.”

Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Lovingdon led her mother into the dance area and swept her across the floor. She and her mother did favor each other. She hoped that she would still have an opportunity to dance with Lovingdon when her hair had faded and lines created by years of joy creased her face.

Lovingdon caught her gaze, and with smooth yet swift movements managed to change dance partners. The Duke and Duchess of Greystone now waltzed together, while Grace waltzed with the man she loved.

“I do believe this is the longest song I’ve ever heard,” he grumbled.

“I asked them to play it twice, without stopping. Thank you for delaying the start of our wedding trip so that I could dance with my father. It means a great deal to me to have a final waltz with him.”

“I love you too much to deny you anything, Little Rose.”

Her heart somersaulted, once, twice, thrice. She would never tire of him saying the words, and it seemed he wouldn’t tire of saying them. He never missed an opportunity to remind her that to him she was everything.

The music drifted into silence. He brought her gloved hand to his lips and held her gaze. “I would very much like to take my wife home now.”

His wife. She was his wife. She could hardly fathom it. She nodded. “I should very much like for my husband to take me home.”

As they journeyed in his coach through the dark London streets, Lovingdon kissed Grace sweetly, gently, and she knew that he was holding his passion in check. She also knew she had no reason to be nervous, and yet she was, just a bit. While he’d been healing, they’d shared an occasional kiss but nothing more. Tonight they would finally be alone, but more than that they were allowed to be alone. His restraint made her worry that perhaps the hunger of their previous encounters had been a result of doing things they shouldn’t. Now they were legal. Now she was his wife, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he viewed her differently.

While she viewed him quite the same. She could hardly wait to be in bed with him. She could look at him to her heart’s content. Touch him, snuggle against him.

The coach came to a halt. A footman opened the door. Lovingdon leaped out. When she leaned into the doorway, he slid an arm around her, lifted her out, and quickly placed his other arm beneath her legs. She wound her arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Carrying my wife.”

“But your injury—”

“Is completely healed.”

She nestled her head against his shoulder and protested halfheartedly, “Whatever will the servants think?”

“That the Duke of Lovingdon loves his wife to distraction.”

He climbed the steps. Another footman opened the door, and Lovingdon carried her into the foyer. She’d expected him to put her down there, but he continued up the wide sweeping stairs to the upper floor.

He stopped before the door to his bedchamber, and she thought of the long-ago night when she had knocked on it. She couldn’t help but wonder if a secretive part of her had wished then that she would end up here.

“You need to take me to my chamber so I can prepare myself for you,” she told him.

He grinned broadly at her, and she couldn’t help but believe that she had managed to put joy back into his life. “I’ll see to preparing you.”

“But I bought a lovely lace nightdress to wear for you.”

“Why bother putting it on when I’ll only tear it off you?”

With a light laugh, she tightened her arms around him. “I feared as my husband, you might get all proper on me.”

“Because I only kissed you in the carriage? I’ve been anticipating this night too much to ruin it on the journey here. I want you in my bed.” His eyes darkened. “Open the door.”

Leaning over, she released the latch and he kicked the door open. As he carried her in, she was assailed by a faint familiar scent.

“I smell paint,” she told him.

“Yes, I had some work done. I was hoping it would all air out by now.”

She glanced around. “But your walls are all papered.”

“The ceiling isn’t.”

Glancing up, she released a bubble of laughter. “The nymphs!”

Gone were the voluptuous maidens who had greeted her before. These vixens were slender and long-limbed, every one of them. Their red hair—the exact shade as hers—cascaded wildly around them.

“Oh, Lovingdon.” She planted her mouth on his, kissing him deeply and passionately. She was vaguely aware of him walking, then carrying her down to the bed. Without breaking from the kiss, he stretched out beside her, cradled her face with one hand, and began to ravish her mouth with all the enthusiasm she’d hoped for. She didn’t know if he could have done anything that would have pleased her more.

But then his hot mouth trailed along her throat, and she realized that everything he gave her was going to please her.

“You like them?” he murmured against her skin.

“Very much so.”

Raising himself on an elbow, he began plucking the pins from her hair. “It was rather fascinating to watch as Leo transformed what was there into what I desired.”

“In spite of being up in years, he’s a remarkable artist.” She was familiar with him as he’d done several portraits of her family.

“He is indeed. I would lie here at night in torment because my favorite nymph wasn’t in my bed. Now you’re here, and I intend to make you very glad that you are.”

He rolled out of bed, brought her to her feet, and turned her so she was facing away from him. He went to work on her lacings, his mouth following the path as skin was revealed. His hands made short work of the tasks, and in no time at all, her clothes were piled on the floor. Cupping his palms over her shoulders, he slowly turned her.


It wasn’t fair that he remained clothed, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to reach for him, not when he was studying her as he was. He lowered his gaze, and she fought not to hide herself from him. Lovingdon loved her. He’d seen her scars. They weren’t a surprise.

Finally, he slid his hands down until one cradled her breast and the other flattened against her scars.

“These terrify me, you know,” he said quietly, “because of what they could portend.”

“Don’t think about that.”

He lifted his gaze to hers, and she was taken aback to see the thin veil of tears. “I also find them remarkably beautiful because they are part of you, your strength, your courage. I don’t know that I’m worthy of you, Grace, because I have neither your strength nor your courage. But I swear that you will never find a man who loves you more than I do.”

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth before sliding his mouth over to cover hers. The kiss was deep, hungry. It reached into her soul, caused everything inside her to curl inward like a rose closing up for the night, and then sensations blossomed like petals unfurling.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he trailed it along her throat, her collarbone, nibbling, licking, teasing.

“I want your clothes off,” she breathed on a heady rush.

Stepping back, he held out his arms and grinned. “I’m all yours to do with as you please.”

Her fingers were not as nimble as his as she worked to remove his clothing, but she took great pleasure in revealing him inch by inch until his clothes were resting on the floor beside hers. She flattened her palm on the puckered scar at his side.

“I always thought scars were hideous things, but I was wrong. You have these because you saved me. You have them because you lived. To me, they are quite beautiful.”

Cradling her face between his hands, he tilted up her chin until she held his gaze. “Nothing, no one is as beautiful as you.”

His mouth blanketed hers as he carried her down to the bed. She loved the feel of his silken skin against hers.

Once again, he began to take his lips on a sojourn along her throat. “I love the length of your neck,” he rasped. “Truth be told, I love the entire length of you.” He closed his hand over her breast. “I love the way you fit within my palm.” Kneading her flesh gently, he leaned over and kissed her scars.

She loved that he didn’t avoid any inch of her, that he relished every part of her. She had so hoped to find a man who would appreciate each aspect of her, and Lovingdon did. Just as she appreciated all of him. She ran her hands over his shoulders, through his dark golden locks. She skimmed her fingers over his jaw.

He moved lower, leaving a hot trail of kisses along her stomach. Lower still. Then he adjusted himself so he was at her feet and she couldn’t reach him at all. But when she protested, he simply said, “Patience.”

After massaging her feet, he ran his hands up her legs. “I love your long legs. I want them wrapped around me.”

She crooked a finger at him. “Then come back up here.”

“Not yet.”

He kissed his way along her calves, one then the other. He lingered at her knees, before giving attention to the inside of her thighs, again one side then the other. He kissed all of her, every inch, front and back, over and under. She felt very much like the coin he so often rolled over his fingers. Constantly being touched, constantly moving.

But she couldn’t simply receive. She had to give as well.

She began following his lead: caressing, tasting, exploring the peaks and the valleys, the flat plains. He was firm muscle, hot skin. He was perfection, scars and all.

Sensations became all-encompassing. Their breathing grew harsher, their bodies slick. There was no rush and yet there was a hunger that couldn’t be denied. Suddenly it wasn’t enough to be a tangle of limbs. She needed more and based on the tightness of his jaw, she knew he did as well.

Opening herself to him, she welcomed him, relishing his fullness as he sank into her. She would never have to resist again, never have to curb her passion, her desires.

Nuzzling her neck, he said, “You feel so good. So good.”

Bringing her legs up, she wrapped them around him and squeezed. He groaned, before proceeding to ravish her mouth. Every sensation was more intense, every aspect of their coming together was richer.

Because he loves me, she thought. Because I love him.

He possessed her heart, her body, her soul.

He began rocking against her, slowly at first, increasing his tempo as she urged him on with her cries. Scraping her fingers over his back, she wondered how it was possible that so many different sensations could be spiraling through her at the same time. They consumed her, just as he did.

The feel of his mouth on her skin, the caress of his hands, his growls, his arms tightening around her—all served to increase her pleasure as it rose to a fevered pitch.

They moved in unison, touching, kissing. He whispered sweet endearments, and she responded in kind. She wanted to give as much as he gave her, wanted him to take all she had to offer.

Undulating waves of pleasure began coursing through her, taking her ever higher. Beneath her fingers, his sinewy muscles bunched and bulged.

“Come with me, Grace,” he urged.

And she did. She followed him into a realm where there was nothing except sensations, where her body sang, her heart soared, and her soul rejoiced.

Breathing heavily, he buried his face in the curve of her neck. They lay there replete and exhausted. She thought she might never move again.

It was long moments before he rose up on his elbows and gazed down on her. With his fingers, he moved aside the damp strands of her hair.

“I hope you didn’t find that an empty experience.”

She laughed with abandon. “I most certainly did not.”

“Good. I didn’t either. Now, I have something wicked in mind that involves brandy. Are you up for it?”

She was the one who made use of the brandy, dripping droplets on his chest, then lapping them up like a greedy little cat, purring as she did so, a vibration in her throat that sent pleasure coursing through him.

He wondered why he ever thought he had the strength to deny his love for her. Why he had denied it, why he hadn’t embraced it sooner. She made life fun again, laughing and teasing him in bed. She was open to whatever manner he might devise to bring her pleasure. She was willing to learn all she could about bringing pleasure to him.

Not that he needed much. Kissing her, touching her, being buried inside her was enough. Sometimes he thought the heat generated between them would scald them both—but all it did was leave them breathless and anxious to rekindle the fire.

He nudged his wife over until she was straddling his hips. Then he plowed his hands into her hair and brought her mouth down to his. She tasted of brandy mingled with him, yet underneath it all was her own flavoring, so sweet. A man could never have enough of it, could never fill up on it. Her luscious kiss could bring him to his knees if he wasn’t already prone.

She wasn’t timid, she didn’t hold back. Her tongue parried with his on equal terms. He would not compare her to what he’d had before except to acknowledge that she was unlike anything he’d ever known. He hadn’t been able to keep up with her when she was younger. He hoped to God he could keep up with her now.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he dragged it along her silken throat. “I love you.”


She smiled, dropping her head back to give him easier access. “I adore you.”

“Then come to me.”

He lifted her up, settled her down, feeling her heat envelop him as she sheathed him. She felt marvelous. So tight, so molten. God, she was like a furnace.

She rocked against him, rode him. Unbashful, unrepentant, unapologetic. She was wildly beautiful when passion caught hold of her. Her blue eyes dazzled, her skin flushed, her hair danced around her like living flames. Red and copper.

His rose. A bud who had unfurled into something rare and precious.

She was his, as he was hers. For whatever time they had. He would relish every moment. He didn’t fear losing her. He feared wasting moments that they could have shared. She would no doubt grow tired of his constant attentions.

He cupped her breast. It barely filled his palm, but it was enough. Gently, he kneaded, his thumb circling the pearl of her nipple. She looked down on him. With his free hand, he cradled the back of her neck and brought her down.

“I love you,” he rasped again before taking her mouth. He should not be this hungry for her again, and yet he was. She stirred something deep inside him that had never been touched. Odd for a man who had loved as deeply as he had to discover that there were depths yet to be explored.

Breaking off the kiss, she pushed herself up, pressing her palms to his chest, leveraging herself, riding him with wild abandon. The pleasure built. Her cries echoed around him, her spine arched, and she threw her head back.

“Gorgeous,” he rasped, just before his orgasm shook him to the core.

She sprawled across him. He draped his arms over her, holding her near, while his heart settled into a normal rhythm, a rhythm that beat for her.

Grace awoke to an empty bed, something she’d not expected. It was still night. The clock on the mantel indicated that it was a bit past two. Reaching out, she touched the rumpled sheets where Lovingdon had lain. They were cool.

Slipping off the mattress, she donned her nightdress, but didn’t bother with the wrap at the foot of the bed. She wanted her husband.

She found him in the library, standing in front of the life-size portrait of his wife. It was no longer above the fireplace but perched in front of it. She didn’t resent it, knowing that Juliette and Margaret had shaped him, would always be part of him. But something inside her twisted. She’d hoped that at least on their wedding night it would be only the two of them in this house, in his bed. It seemed they could not escape the memories or the ghost of his previous life.

Lovingdon glanced over his shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to straighten his hair, mussed from her fingers. She wanted to muss it some more. “Grace?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

She hesitated, knowing she was being silly to feel as though she were intruding. This was her home now, their home. She forced herself to move forward. When she was close enough, he took her hand and drew her in against his warm solid body.

“I didn’t expect to find you gone from our bed,” she said quietly.

“I was just saying good-bye to Juliette.”

She looked up at him. His gaze wasn’t on the portrait, but on her.

“When I was unconscious, fevered, in pain, I kept hearing this strong, determined voice urging me to let go, of life I think.”

She nodded. “I wanted you to be happy.”

“But if I let go of life, it meant releasing you, and I could not find the strength to do that. So I let go of Juliette. I am not the man who fell in love with her. Nor am I the man with whom she fell in love.” Turning, he cradled her face. “I am the man who fell in love with you. God knows I didn’t want to love you. I think losing you would kill me—but the thought of not having some days and nights with you because of my own cowardice . . . I could not live with myself if I missed out on a single moment with you.” He kissed her then, gently, sweetly.

She understood what he was telling her. She was right for him, perfect for him. He had changed, and she loved the man he was now. She loved everything about him.

When they broke apart, she could have sworn that the smile on the portrait seemed softer, warmer.

“I’m going to put a portrait of her and Margaret in my study, so I don’t forget them. The rest are going into storage. You are my life now.”

As much as she relished his words, she couldn’t be so selfish. “I don’t want you to forget them.”

“I shan’t forget them; I couldn’t if I tried, but it is time for me to begin anew.” He lifted her into his arms and began carrying her from the room.

“I love you, Lovingdon,” she said against his neck.

“When I’m done with you, in an hour or so, you’re going to love me just a little bit more.”

She laughed. “What have you in mind, my wicked duke?”

He smiled at her, and she realized that she already loved him just a little bit more.