Educating Elizabeth, page 21
When they reached the end of the room and were about to turn to view the remaining portraits, Elizabeth was having great difficulty in finding anything at all to say. But whenever she stopped talking, Gervase withdrew his attentions from her needy body. Only her increasingly distracted comments about the paintings were rewarded by the sure touch of his hands and his mouth.
She gazed blankly at a portrait of King Charles the Second arrayed in a monstrous black wig, cradling a Diable Delamere godchild. She tried to think of something to say as Gervase's hand stirred beneath her skirts, inched up her thigh, and settled over her mound. He spread his long fingers and cupped her, pulling her slightly up onto her toes and back against his chest.
"That is King Charles the Second," she managed to gasp as his fingertip stroked back and forth over her sensitive bud. "He was known as the merry monarch."
Gervase increased the tempo of his fingers his voice a mere whisper in her ear. "Why was that, Elizabeth?"
"Because," Elizabeth was reduced to balancing on her toes as Gervase thrust his fingers inside her, "Because he had so many mistresses...please, Gervase, please..."
She didn't know whether she was pleading with him to stop or to continue, she only knew that she would start to scream if he didn't do something to end her plight soon.
He turned her around and kissed her hard. She barely repressed an unladylike desire to climb his breeches and wrap her legs around his hips. She was panting by the time he pulled back and studied her face.
"If you would only listen to me, ma belle," he said patiently. "I've told you before that anticipation is a major part of the fulfillment of passion. You are always in such a hurry."
His calm voice set her teeth on edge and she backed away from him, her hands behind her back, her fists clenched. "I do apologize, Your Grace, I'm obviously far too inexperienced for you to bother about." She gave him a curtsey. "I will relieve you of my presence."
His hand shot out and he hauled her back against him. "That is exactly what I'm talking about, Elizabeth. Rather than think about the merit of my words, you immediately fly into alt."
She pressed her forehead against his waistcoat and went still. He could not discover that she feared to give him any more of herself. She knew in her soul that if she allowed him to seduce her completely then she would be lost. She didn't want to turn into one of the no-doubt legion of women who had begged the duke to love them.
"I'm sorry, Gervase. Maybe I don't have the necessary passion to become a good courtesan."
"Passion? You have passion in abundance, ma femme." His voice deepened and he speared his fingers through her hair before kissing her again. "Give it to me," he commanded. "Give me all of your passion."
He drew her in front of an ornate mirror that hung on the end wall of the picture gallery. Elizabeth scarcely recognized herself in the tumultuous, tousled, sensual woman who stared back at her.
"Lean forward, Elizabeth, and put your hands on either side of the table and keep looking into the mirror."
Mindlessly, Elizabeth obeyed the duke's command and bent forward. She watched him reposition the candles until her face was illuminated and his remained in the shadows. The soft whisper of silk reached her straining ears as he lifted her skirts and petticoat and folded them neatly at her waist.
She shivered as the cold air hit her naked skin and Gervase made a sound of approval. She inhaled the hint of citrus from his cologne mixed with the scent of his arousal and relaxed against the supporting table. He ran his hands from her hips to her ankles and then sank to his knees. She could no longer see his intent face in the mirror, only the top of his head. She tensed as he grasped her ankles and began to kiss his way up the insides of her legs.
When his mouth closed over her most intimate flesh she moaned but he held her still, his tongue a flicking, probing torment that made her arch her back and brazenly seek the devilment of his touch. Pleasure consumed her and she started to tremble as he gave her one last lascivious lick and slowly rose to his feet.
He held her gaze in the mirror as he unbuttoned his breeches and leaned over her. "Watch me, Elizabeth and let me watch you."
He filled her slowly, keeping his gaze locked to hers, allowing her to see the blatant lust that colored his expression. She sighed as his flat, furred stomach pressed against her back and he was completely buried inside her. He held still, waiting for her to relax and accommodate his cock. When her tight grip eased a little, he withdrew and then repeated his long, smooth drive inwards. He brought his hand up from her hip and ran his fingers down the side of her throat until they settled over her breast.
"Watch me touch you, ma belle." He rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb and eased his hips into the same light, tantalizing rhythm.
Elizabeth tried to endure his shallow, incomplete thrusts as best she could. His silvered eyes caught hers in the mirror as his hand slid around to cup her between her legs.
"Do you know why men like this particular position so much, my dear?"
Goaded well beyond her normal politeness, Elizabeth hissed. "So that they don't have to look at a woman's face and make conversation?"
He laughed. "That is highly amusing, ma belle, but not what I had in mind. And not what we are doing at all." He leaned into the small of her back, pushing her sex forward into the palm of his hand. "No, it is because a man has control. He can control the depth of his thrusts and his partners' movements."
"I can vouch for that," Elizabeth muttered as Gervase continued moving against her with his infuriatingly slow pace and frustrating, light rhythm.
"Ah, but you will glad that I made you wait in the end, Elizabeth, trust me on that."
As she hovered uncertainly on the brink of another climax, Elizabeth clearly heard the distant clanging of the front door bell and the sound of a carriage being driven around the side of the house toward the stables.
"Our guests are arriving, my dear. I wonder if my butler will send them down here to find us or make them wait in the receiving rooms?" She gasped as he drove deeply inside her. "Who would you prefer to find us like this? My butler or my mother?"
"Your, your mother is here?" She squeaked.
His fingers pressed once, twice urgently against her swollen flesh and she shattered for him. He quickly muffled her scream with his hand as he joined her in the fiery climax.
Before she could begin to breathe normally, let alone speak, he refastened her bodice, shook out her skirts and hurried her to the far corner of the huge room. He opened a concealed door and pointed up a narrow flight of stairs.
"Go up two levels and then look for a door on your right. You will find yourself in my bedchamber. You have ten minutes to make yourself presentable and meet me in the formal entrance hall, now go!"
Gervase shut the door behind her and returned to the mirror to attend to his own disheveled state of dress. He smoothed a hand through his disordered hair and drew in several deep breaths. As far as he knew, his mother was in Brighton. He was expecting a selection of local residents and vague relations whom he was duty-bound to entertain.
He smiled as he straightened his cravat, recalling Elizabeth's dismayed expression and hasty retreat. He wondered if she would have the courage to come back down and hoped that she would. His little brown bird had all the nerve of a fighting cock. He grimaced as his own particular cock responded to that notion far too well.
With a final glance at his now-immaculate reflection, Gervase pasted on a welcoming smile and strolled down the corridor to greet his guests.
Chapter 25
Elizabeth paused on the landing above the medieval hall and looked down upon the assembled guests. She patted her hair, pushed in an errant pin, and checked that the three flounces of her lavender silk dress were straight. Assuming a gracious smile, she made her way down the stairs, murmuring greetings to those near enough to hear her.
It took her only two minutes to find out from the helpful butler that the duke's mother was currently residing in Brighton and had not decided to honor her only son with a visit. She lifted her chin and, head held high, went in search of the duke. She found him in the gold drawing room, sleek head bent over a diminutive lady of indeterminate age who clutched determinedly at his sleeve.
Elizabeth smiled as she curtsied and let the duke see the retribution in her eyes. He inclined his head an indolent half an inch, a suggestion of smug satisfaction in his expression that made Elizabeth long to hit him.
"Ah, Mrs. Waterstone, there you are."
She winced as the duke raised his voice and shouted into the shell like ear of the elderly lady beside him. "Aunt Agnes, this is my guest, Mrs. Waterstone. I was telling you about her earlier."
"Mrs. Waterstone, this is my great aunt, Lady Cottlesmore. She lives in the dower house on the estate with her three unmarried daughters."
Elizabeth glanced over the duke's shoulder at the three drably dressed ladies clustered by the window. She nodded politely and they twittered to each other behind their hands as though she had said something daring.
The duke smiled winningly at Elizabeth and transferred his aunt's hand to her gloved fingers. The duke's aunt looked up at her, avid interest in her shrewd brown eyes.
"Mrs. Waterstone, the duke has told me that you are related to the Diable Delamere family." Her old and quavery voice sounded worse than a badly played violin. "Was your mother one of Matilda's girls?"
Elizabeth lightly fluttered her fan and glared at the duke over the top of it before striving for an airy laugh. "I married into the family, ma'am and cannot consider myself well acquainted with all the branches."
The duke bowed and stepped back. "I shall leave you two ladies to reminisce. I'm sure you will have a lot to talk about."
Elizabeth resigned herself to an uncomfortable half an hour as she led Lady Cottlesmore to the nearest couch and sat down with her, an attentive smile fixed on her face. While the old lady debated family history, mainly to herself, Elizabeth observed the duke as he circled the room, making himself pleasant to his guests.
He seemed more at ease here than he ever did in London. She wished she had a similar refuge and suppressed the unbidden yearning that her refuge could also be his.
With gentle patience, Elizabeth allowed Lady Cottlesmore to talk herself into accepting Elizabeth's relationship with the family before she gracefully made her escape. The duke stood alone by the door after having showed two of his guests outside.
Elizabeth stormed up to him and gave her best curtsey.
"Thank you, Your Grace, for a most stimulating half an hour. I feel as though I'm indeed part of your family now."
"You are quite welcome, my dear. I knew you would enjoy flexing your admirable wits."
Before Elizabeth could answer, a footman appeared and opened the series of connecting doorways that led through to the picture gallery. Several of the guests wandered past them and the duke glanced down at her. "Shall we finish our tour?"
She allowed him to lead her into the picture gallery and stopped dead when her eyes focused on the end table where the duke had abandoned the extra candelabrum. His quiet laughter stirred the soft curls at the nape of her neck and other unmentionable areas.
"It is all right, ma belle. No one would guess you had been made love to in front of that very mirror not an hour ago. You look perfectly respectable, not even a ruffled feather on my little brown bird."
"Your behavior was inexcusable, sir. How dare you pretend I was about to meet your mother?"
The duke spun her away from him and dropped a light kiss on the back of her gloved hand. "I've told you before, Elizabeth, it is one of my ambitions in life to silence you. I can only congratulate myself that my strategy worked so well."
Unable to contain her agitation, Elizabeth moved sharply away from the duke and almost collided with the butler. Her abrupt movements brought her up against the family portraits that she hadn't seen on her previous visit. She stilled as she stared at a wistful young Gervase clutching a puppy, his father's protective hand on Gervase's shoulder.
Elizabeth almost missed the next portrait, which was half hidden in the shadows. In it she recognized the duke and his wife, Imelda. Between them stood a little boy of maybe two or three. Drawn by a strange compulsion, Elizabeth moved closer to study the family grouping. Gervase's son was dark-haired and his eyes slanted up at the corners.
Elizabeth jumped when the duke's hand touched her shoulder. "That is my son, David. I'm told he bore some likeness to me."
She glanced back at the duke but his expression was as devoid of emotion as his voice. "He was a beautiful boy, Your Grace. A credit to his name and his father."
Something flickered in the depths of the duke's silver eyes and his grip on her shoulder tightened for the merest instant. "Thank you, Elizabeth. He was my soul."
"Your Grace?"
The butler stepped up to the duke and Elizabeth turned away to gather her shattered defenses. She had a strange yearning to draw the duke into her arms and comfort him. Instead, she kept out of his way and circled the portrait gallery, stopping to exchange opinions on a family likeness to an old portrait or listen to stories about the duke's parents.
By the time the duke came to find her, she had regained her composure and was able to lay her hand on his arm with calm assurance. He led her back to the dining room where a buffet awaited the guests. He helped her fill her plate and brought her a glass of wine. As she looked around for a place to sit, he gestured toward the opened windows.
"Would you care to sit out on the terrace? It is quite mild."
With a bow, the duke allowed her passage onto the marble-floored terrace. There was no mist this evening and scarcely a breeze to ruffle the leaves on the trees or the skirts of the ladies.
Elizabeth sat and the duke took the chair opposite her. She studied his face in the half-light as he toasted her with his glass.
"You like it here, don't you?" she asked as she sampled one of the delicate lobster patties the duke had heaped on her plate. At his reluctant halfnod, she continued. "Then why do you come here so rarely?"
"Because if I stay here, I begin to regret the man I have to be in London. I begin to doubt that I can continue the masquerade."
"And when does the masquerade stop? When can you simply be yourself?"
His face grew shuttered and he sat back in his chair. "It is not something that needs to concern you, my dear. You are, after all, only here on a temporary basis."
Elizabeth rose and put her wine glass down onto the table with a sharp click. "I hate it when you do this, Gervase. I hate it when you shut me out."
The duke shrugged one elegant shoulder and tilted his head back to look up at her. "My dear Miss Waterstone, hate is such a strong word to use for the emotions than run between us."
"Is it, Your Grace? Then let me bid you goodnight." Elizabeth bobbed him a curtsey and turned to leave. He made no effort to follow her. She walked inside and bade a distracted good night to the remaining guests before retreating up the stairs to her own bedchamber.
The tranquility of the room reached out and embraced her as she closed and locked the door. She kicked off her slippers, walked across to the diamond paned window, and closed the curtains against the darkness of the night. Deep in thought, she drifted her fingers through the dried flower petals in the shallow bowl on her dressing table and breathed in the scent of a long-dead summer.
After a long while, as she listened to the murmur and bustle of the departing guests below her, she undressed. The duke's cutting words reverberated in her head as she tried to consider how to deal with them. She had already glimpsed the man beneath the smooth, harsh façade he presented to the world. She knew that he always regretted her seeing his vulnerabilities and struck back hard to remove all traces of her interest and concern.
She paused before struggling out of her corset. Was she willing to be snubbed again? And when had it become so important for her to break through the duke's reserve? As was often the case, the duke's barbed comments held an element of truth. She had never intended to stay with him forever.
By the time she managed to rouse herself to get into bed, it was past midnight. She pulled out the pins from her upswept hair and arched her spine as her hair rippled down her back. How could Gervase make love to her with such passion and then cut her dead when she ventured to inquire about his future?
She had to decide whether to follow his unspoken command and retreat or risk all in an advance that might prove fatal to her very soul.
As she contemplated her options, the door to the duke's suite opened and the duke appeared, clothed only in his black silk dressing gown. She'd known he wouldn't leave her to sulk, had even anticipated it.
Suddenly afraid of what he might see on her face, she turned away and walked to the window. He came up behind her on silent feet and placed his hands on her shoulders.
After a long, slow, deliberate breath, Elizabeth turned to face him. She parted his robe and stroked his muscled chest. His stomach tightened as she traced a subtle weaving path around his navel and then up to his tangled black chest hair. She found his nipples and touched them with her tongue, then angled her fingers downwards.
"No harsh words for me then?" he murmured.
"No, Gervase. Only this."
His hand clenched on her shoulder as though he would draw her back up but she shrugged away his demand and sank to her knees. Only then did she venture a glance up at him as her hands came to rest on his thighs. His eyes were closed and his face held a wary blend of anticipation and apprehension that delighted her.
Gervase stared down at Elizabeth's bent head as her fingers trailed up his inner thighs and gently cupped his balls and cock. Her low murmur of pleasure as his shaft thickened made his throat dry. Words became impossible when she took him into her mouth, her tongue skimming his heated flesh, drawing him into the welcoming warmth. He hadn't allowed her to service him in that fashion before.
His hand clenched in her hair, not sure if he could stand it.
