“The Nun?” He strolled to one of the bookshelves that filled the walls on either side of the fireplace. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“A party. You danced with her.” She shrugged. “Some years ago.”
He turned to face her and leaned against the bookcase, arms folded. “And you remember?”
“You made a strong impression.”
“Good. As long as the impression increases your desire to kiss me. Now would be a good time.”
“You were the one who put a stop to the kissing in the carriage,” she said. “‘Not here,’ you said. ‘Too many clothes.’”
Though it wasn’t as simple as the one of Lady Charles’s that Olympia had worn to her lovely ruination, today’s bridal dress wasn’t nearly as elaborate as the one for the first wedding. It was white, yes. That part was easy. White dresses being fashionable, she had several in her trousseau. This, however, lacked the elaborate bows and cascades of lace of the original bridal ensemble. Under her mother’s and aunt’s supervision, two of the more skilled maids had fashioned a veil from segments of one of last year’s court ensembles.
The most elaborate part of her attire, the veil had ended up on the carriage seat during the drive home, before Ripley called a halt to the kissing and fondling.
“It’s our wedding night,” he said. “A hasty coupling in the carriage wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Her skin went prickly. “What had you in mind, Your Grace?”
“I thought I’d weaken your resistance first, duchess.”
She was still getting used to that form of address. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the way he said it, his voice so low and suggestive. “As though I have any,” she said.
“You don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know what I have in mind. I’m a notorious libertine, recollect. Done shocking things. Will continue to do them.”
She wondered what could be more shocking than what they’d done in the fishing house. And what had happened in the landau, en route to London.
But what had occurred in the vehicle hadn’t been quite so . . . so . . . fulfilling. It had been more naughty than anything else, she supposed, though she was hardly qualified to judge, and no, she wouldn’t have minded continuing to the logical conclusion. But Ripley had said the coachman would know, and that wouldn’t do at all, and so she’d settled for tucking herself into Ripley’s arms. Where she fell asleep, and woke, and fell asleep again.
In any case, it seemed her education was about to be broadened.
“The difference is, I shall do it all with you,” he went on. “Promised, didn’t I? ‘Forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her.’”
“I promised, too,” she said.
“So you did. Time to make a beginning, madam. With the kissing. I placed myself here, in front of a number of rare tomes—some possibly worm-eaten—to make myself more alluring to you.”
“Oh, Ripley.” She crossed to him and put the palm of her hand against his cheek.
“My plan seems to be working.” He turned his face to kiss the palm of her hand. Then his tongue was there, making little circles in the palm of her hand. Tingling shocks went up and down her backbone and spread out from there.
Then he released her hand to cup her face, as gently as though he held a bird in his hands.
“Blue,” he said. “Your eyes are blue at this moment. I like your eyes in all their colors.”
“My shortsighted eyes.”
“You saw me well enough,” he said. “You saw something in me you deemed worth having.”
“I saw you standing naked in a basin,” she said. “I’m not sure I was capable of deeming anything after that.”
He laughed and kissed her, but not as he’d done before, in the carriage, with so much pent-up . . . passion. Certainly it had felt like passion. It must have been. It was the same powerful feeling that had crushed her brain in the fishing house.
They had that. Desire. They gave each other pleasure.
Now she found something more. He kissed her this time with a tenderness so shocking, it left her trembling inside.
It made her heart ache, too.
She answered tenderly, sliding her hands up to clasp his arms, so powerful, yet so gentle. She’d watched him lift a man straight up off the ground. She’d seen the leashed violence in him.
Not a tame man.
But he could be tender. To her.
She remembered the way he’d smiled down at her as they said their vows. Seeing it through the mist of her tears, she’d felt that, whatever wrong they’d done, it had somehow come out to something that had to be right.
She kissed him, following his lead, learning how a kiss could be passionate yet tender and how the feel of his mouth and the taste of him could make a powerful blend of emotions, as though her insides were laughing and crying at the same time.
When he drew back, she was still dizzy, and she said, “There is more to this business of kissing than I could have supposed.”
“There’s more to kissing you than I could have supposed,” he said. “It’s a good thing I’ve had some practice.”
“More than your fair share is my estimate,” she said.
“Ah, but all the rest is for you, duchess,” he said. His green eyes wore their sleepy wolf look. “Every wicked idea . . . every devilish plan . . .” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Ah, the things I’m imagining . . . Probably not legal.”
She looked up into his eyes and, though she still couldn’t read them, quite, saw something that warmed and excited her. “I suppose it’s too late to run away now.”
“Definitely too late.”
“I’ve made my bed,” she said. “And now I must—”
“Yes. Bed. Better idea this night. We’ll save the library for later.”
He offered his hand. She took it. His long fingers closed about hers. His hand was warm but it was more than simple physical warmth. She felt it wrap about her heart.
And she thought, I am in a very bad way.
And, I’m glad, she thought as he led her out of the library.
Better to feel like this, to feel so strongly, and to have hope.
She went with him up the magnificent grand staircase and up farther still, to the second floor where the private apartments lay.
And of all the tumultuous feelings, the one she didn’t feel was the smallest urge to run away.
Ripley gave her time to prepare. She would bathe and her maid would pamper her, as was right.
This bedding must not be rushed. Her deflowering, passionate as it was, and as gentle as he was able to make it, had not been what it ought to have been. He needed to make amends this night.
He needed time, as well.
He had a letter to write to her.
He’d be gone in the morning, long before she awoke.
Usually, he scrawled his letters in haste, and his patience for the process rarely extended past a single page. He wouldn’t let himself make an exception this time. He was no poet. In any case, length could only lead to excessive sentiment, and the last thing he wanted was to be mawkish.
No, the last thing he wanted was for the letter to be necessary. It would be a particularly unamusing irony if the Duke of Ripley should finally find what he’d been missing for all his adult life, then not live to enjoy it.