Behind the Duke's Door Page 4

  She laughed at his recollection. When her brother arrived home on school holiday with his handsome new friend, heir to a dukedom, she’d followed them around like a puppy. They’d allowed it with grudging tolerance, but one afternoon they’d crept off by themselves. She’d been unable to resist following. And look where it landed it her. Privy to the duke’s most personal secret and now his wife.

  “All right,” she agreed. “A walk it is.” Calm spread through her as she claimed the right to her husband’s bed for at least a few more weeks.

  A few hours later, her nausea having subsided, she and Harry strolled arm in arm through Hyde Park. The sun shone overhead and the chirp of mama birds to their hatchlings was truly divine.

  For appearances, Arthur strolled a few paces back with a young debutante and her overprotective mama. He was marvelous at lavishing attention on all young women equally, while never giving false hope to any one of them. Or more importantly, their mothers. Being a third son, with few prospects other than his charm, he was viewed as a boon escort around Town, but not a target for the marriage mart. Which was just as he liked it.

  Elizabeth and Harry strolled, nodding and calling greetings to other walkers. She couldn’t help but notice that most return greetings were punctuated with whispers, giggles and stares. She glanced up at Harry to see if he noticed the strange behavior. What could be the cause? Some overzealous mothers even pulled their daughters out of their path so as not to be tainted by conversing with or acknowledging them.

  This was certainly different treatment then she’d become accustomed to. Had Lady Violent made good on her threat to discredit her? Elizabeth thought not. Lady Hesterbridge’s on dit about catching the elusive duke in flagrante delicto with his new wife had been on the lips of every member of the ton for the past weeks. Surely Finchley and Violet couldn’t think to discredit and disparage Harry now.

  As if on cue in a theatrical or farce, Lord Michael Finchley sped up in a brand-new, gleaming phaeton. Lady Violet sat cozied up next to him. He pulled back on his horses to stop alongside Harry and Elizabeth. From behind, Arthur quickened his pace so as not to miss a word.

  “Hallo, cousin,” Finchley said. “Enjoying the weather?”

  “Very much,” Harry replied in a flat voice. He tugged at her hand and made to turn around, but Finchley’s next comment froze him in place.

  “I’m surprised you’re out walking this afternoon. What with all the rumors swirling.”

  Harry raised a brow. Often Elizabeth thought heirs to dukedoms must take lessons in eyebrow raising. It seemed the higher one’s rank, the farther up the forehead one’s eyebrow could climb. Harry’s very near touched his hairline.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied to Finchley’s strange remark.

  Lady Violet giggled behind a lacy lavender glove.

  “The rumors about your wife… What? Oh, I didn’t see you down there, Lizzie.” Finchley tossed off the remark casually, though the glint in his eye said he’d been planning this moment for some time.

  “You will address my wife as Lady Elizabeth or Your Grace,” Harry said. “Though it will please me if you do not address her at all. Good day.” He turned to leave, but Arthur stopped him with a quiet word.

  “Harry, there is a vicious lie circling the ton. I only heard of it just now.” He gestured back toward his debutante companion and her mother, who eyed the group with suspicion. “They couldn’t discredit you, so they set their sights on our Lizzie. I suspect Finchley is the source of the rumor.”

  Harry’s grip on her arm tightened and a muscle in his face clenched. He exchanged a long, silent communication with Arthur, who nodded in accord.

  “You will tell me now of any unfounded rumors regarding my wife,” Harry ordered.

  Violet chose this moment to insert herself in the conversation. “Oh, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry your husband has to hear this way.” She coated her words with sugary sweetness, but her eyes and hard edges of her mouth told a different story. Delight filled her at any misfortune to Elizabeth.

  “What does the duke need to hear?” Elizabeth asked sharply.

  “Why, about your indiscretion.” Violet giggled.

  “My what?”

  “Sorry, Your Grace. Guess you weren’t man enough in the bedroom for her,” Finchley said.

  “Elizabeth, I was so torn when I saw you in the garden at the Hustons’ rout last week.” She shot a glance at Arthur. “But I knew it my duty to tell Finchley, His Grace’s heir, when I saw you engaged in an indiscretion with His Grace’s dearest friend. After all, he’d want to know if you carry another man’s child.”

  Elizabeth had never wanted to be a man more than at that moment, so she could challenge Violet to a duel. She’d be tempted to laugh if it wasn’t so deadly serious. As if she and Arthur had done anything private without Harry’s complete knowledge. Perhaps Violet had seen something in the garden, but she’d missed Harry standing behind a bush, about to join the tryst.

  Harry was remembering the incident as well, if his clenched jaw was anything to go by. “Finchley, you go too far,” he warned. “You’ll name your seconds or take back this lie about my wife.”

  His words spurred elation in Finchley, who grinned and said, “Done. I’m feeling generous. I’ll even break form and allow you to pick the weapons.”

  “Sabres.”

  A slight flicker of his smile was Finchley’s only hint he knew of Harry’s expertise with sabres.

  Elizabeth listened to the turn of events with horror filling her. He couldn’t fight a duel over a ridiculous lie. He mustn’t. She tugged at Harry’s coat.

  “Elizabeth, don’t you see, I have to do this for us? All three of us and any future children.”

  She turned a mute plea to Arthur, to have him make Harry see reason. But the reckless traitor was already nodding eagerly and agreeing to be Harry’s second.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elizabeth threw down the ridiculous little book of poetry with disgust. A restless energy alternating with lethargy consumed her. She’d been up all night pleading with Harry to abandon the duel over her honor. If he lost, she’d argued, all they’d accomplished would be for naught, and Finchley would get the estate.

  Finally, Arthur kicked her out at midnight so Harry could get some sleep. Perhaps her husband found comfort in his dreams, but she’d lain in bed all night silently arguing with the cherubs on her ceiling. At last she’d dozed, and woken to a houseful of servants, but devoid of Harry and Arthur.

  They’d left at dawn for a fencing studio where they would face Finchley. Women were strictly verboten. How Elizabeth wished for some company, anything to distract her from this endless waiting. Surely no morning had ever moved this slowly before. So now she sat in the library, staring at open books without seeing their words.

  A clatter of hooves on the gravel driveway and the creak of a metal gate opening had her rushing up and out to the front hall. The butler frowned at her haste, but softened his expression. It seemed the servants knew how their lot may change if Harry had lost this morning’s duel.

  Oh, God, please let her husband be all right. She squeezed the fabric of her dressing gown tightly in her fists to contain her nervous energy. Arthur’s voice carried through the imposing wood door, but she could hear nothing of her husband. Just when she’d reached out to fling open the door herself, Arthur did the job.

  The two men entered, windblown and flushed with victory. A minor scratch marred Harry’s cheeks and Arthur wore no cravat.

  At her questioning glance, he frowned and explained. “Had to use my cravat to stop Finchley’s blood.”

  She felt faint at his words. “Is he…dead, then?” Horrible scenarios assaulted her mind. Harry stripped of his title. Or arrested for murder. Or worst of all, Harry arrested, then hanged for murder and sodomy.

  “Nope,” Arthur proclaimed cheerily.

  “He has some serious injuries, and he will think twice before speaking ill
of me or you in the future.” Harry spoke for the first time. He continued walking toward the stairs. “If you’ll excuse me, dear, I wish to bathe before breakfast.”

  She and Arthur followed in his wake. When they arrived at his rooms, Harry entered, Arthur on his heels. For some reason, she paused at the threshold. She hadn’t been invited in. Not really. But perhaps the men were feeling an excess of energy they’d be looking to work off.

  The door opened a crack and she stepped into the entry in time to see Harry push Arthur onto the bed and yank his trousers down. Without ceremony or preliminaries, he ripped open his own trousers and released his engorged cock.

  She bit her lip at the sight of Arthur’s arse in the air, waiting to be plundered. Harry reached into a night table drawer and removed a small bottle of something he rubbed into his hand, then onto himself.

  Elizabeth’s legs wouldn’t support her much longer, and she sank down onto the plush carpet, relieved that she wore only a light spring dressing gown. Without fear or shame, she lifted her hem and spread her legs. She’d done this only once before, in the secret dead of night, when her girlish body had first begun to change into womanhood.

  Now she felt the subtle differences, and with a surer hand she parted her fuller lips and rubbed one gentle finger over her tiny pleasure nub. Excitement grew as she watched Harry press his front to Arthur’s backside and sink his cock deep inside.

  Wetness spread easily on her finger and throughout the delicate folds of her sheath. Her legs spread wider and her back pressed against the wall for leverage. The silk carpet abraded her bare buttocks. The faster Harry moved in and out of Arthur, the faster her finger circled that special tiny point, which grew taut with stimulation.

  When Harry wrapped an arm around Art’s waist and took his partner’s cock in hand, it was her undoing. She took an exploring finger and probed herself while rubbing a thumb over her clitoris, as Arthur had called it.

  Still watching the men, she continued squeezing one finger tight with her inner muscles and pleasuring herself. Thousands of pulses of pleasure broke her apart and she sobbed out in delight.

  The two men whispered to each other in their own language of love. A language, she was coming to realize, that did not include her. They had eyes only for the other and did not take note of the lonely woman in the corner. At last she understood the difference between making love and being in love. Harry and Arthur were in love. She rose and slipped away to her bedroom, leaving her two males to seek their own joy.

  EPILOGUE

  One year later

  Elizabeth circled the ballroom, champagne flute in hand, delighted to be back in the glittering whirl of the season. Though she missed her son, Reed, safely ensconced at home with his governess, it was good to be among grown-ups again.

  She nodded to Lady Hesterbridge, holding court in the center of the room, and averted her eyes from acknowledging Lady Violet, now Lady Sewells, who stood frowning while her portly husband eyed the buffet table.

  Debutantes gazed in rapture at Arthur’s grace on the dance floor, while Harry stood in the corner talking to a small group of men. Politicians, no doubt. And, hmm, one tall American sea captain. Elizabeth made her way over to the tight circle.

  As soon as he saw her, Harry extended a hand to draw her in, and smiled at her, brown eyes tracking her movements. Reed’s eyes. What a wonderful father Harry was, and what a wonderful friend. He and Arthur were making good on their promise to help her find a true love like they shared.

  “Gentlemen, may I present my lovely wife?” He placed a possessive hand on her bare shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You’ll remember Captain James Bradington, here from America.” He raised up to make the introduction.

  Elizabeth found herself acknowledging a greeting from the tall, dark-haired man. Almost taller than Harry and a bit more muscled in the shoulders, Mr. Bradington was a presence in the room.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise,” she murmured.

  “Elizabeth, Bradington was just commenting on how he’s never seen a true English garden. I would take him on a tour myself, but I don’t know a dahlia from a daisy. Why don’t you escort him and show him?”

  The gentleman in question looked startled. “I’m sure we would be able to see nothing at night.” Then his tone lowered. “But if the lady has anything she wishes to show me, I’m delighted to partake.” He reached out to hook her hand onto his arm.

  She flushed at his double meaning, but felt intrigued enough to latch on to him and allow herself to be propelled out of doors. As she reached the exit, she turned to capture Arthur’s gaze. He tossed her a wink and made a shooing motion with his hands.

  A delighted peal of laughter escaped and Mr. Bradington peered down to discover the joke. She smiled back up at his handsome face. For months both before and after delivering Reed, she’d held no interest in bedroom sport. But recently, her body had reawakened to its potential.

  “It is a lovely evening, is it not?” They grinned in accord and strolled out to find some privacy in the moonlit garden. Yes, James Bradington would do quite nicely to welcome her back into a world glowing with pleasure and the possibility of love.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-5729-4

  Behind the Duke’s Door

  Copyright © 2011 by Linda Heller

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