A Duchess in Name Read online

  She slid down between the ice-cold sheets. Pulling the counterpane to her chin, she lay flat on her back, watching the dim light from the dying fire flicker across the canopy over her head. It was only now, in the last hours of the night, when the enormity of what had happened descended on her. She was miles from London, utterly alone, an insurmountable task ahead of her and without a friend to support her, especially not her new partner in life. Tears stung her eyes, but she battled them back. They wouldn’t help her now. There was nothing to be done but to face her future and deal with whatever came her way. Whether she lay alone in a strange bed as the wife of the Earl of Dunnley, Lord Sturridge or some other impoverished noble, this had always been her fate.

  * * *

  Andrew managed to get as far as her room, but stopped just inside the door, unable, for a moment, to go any farther. He’d been downing brandy for hours now, trying to gather the courage to cross the room, to open that door dividing their rooms. Now he was here and he couldn’t make himself go further.

  The flames in the hearth had gone out, but the embers still glowed. The room was nearly pitch-dark, only a few shapes edged in dark red. The bed loomed in the darkness, a massive black shape. Somehow he managed to cross the room, one foot in front of the other, until he stood beside it.

  He could see almost nothing of her, only a pale heap of blankets and the spill of her hair across the pillow. This was part of it, he told himself. It was expected of them, as much as uttering the vows or exchanging rings. The thing wouldn’t be done until they’d lain together, not truly. It had taken him hours to get this far and he still had to complete the deed itself.

  He was a man. His new wife was beautiful. He was drunk. His arousal had been stirred by this woman before, wildly so. It shouldn’t have been so hard to come to terms with what had to be done. But every time he thought about the deception that had landed him here, his rage nearly choked him. His wife’s beautiful face was a lie, hiding her hateful, greedy heart. He despised having to give her any part of himself, even if it was only a wordless fuck in the dark.

  He suspected she’d been asleep when he came in, but she was awake now. When the embers had popped behind him, they’d momentarily lit her face, her wide eyes, the glint of the whites as she stared up at him. She didn’t move a muscle. Despite his hatred of her, he knew she was, in all likelihood, a virgin, and that didn’t sit well with him either. She might be a grasping, soulless viper, but being taken like this for the first time, with no love or even lust involved, would be unpleasant. There was no way around it. The gentleman in him abhorred it, even as he unbelted his robe and let it fall to the floor.

  There was nothing for it. It had to be done. He’d spent all night getting just drunk enough to do it but not too drunk to fail at it. If he stood here much longer, she’d say something, and the only thing that could make this worse was conversation. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to know her. Not tonight, not ever.

  Without a word, he placed his knee on the mattress beside her and pulled himself up onto her bed.

  Looking away from her face, he reached out for the counterpane, drawing it down her body. She inhaled sharply, but she still didn’t move.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” he said, despite his resolution not to.

  “Yes, My Lord.” Her voice was husky with sleep and nerves. Whenever she spoke, it surprised him. It danced down his spine, sparking to life in him in spite of himself and he hated it—hated her for making him want her.

  Still, he reached for her, placing a hand on her thigh. She was trembling. He cursed silently. A little finesse would be required if he was ever going to live with himself after this.

  Leaning forward, he planted one hand by her head and levered his body over hers. Her chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. Now that he was here, close to her, it was coming back to him. The lust when he’d held her in his arms during the waltz and later, when he’d kissed her, was stirring again. His mind might hate her, but his body certainly did not.

  As he hovered over her in the dark, he wrestled with himself in his mind. His intention had been to come in here and take her quickly to get it over with. No enjoyment, and only enough contact to make him physically able to complete the task. But now that he was here, he couldn’t deny he wanted more from her. He wanted to take his time and explore. He wanted her to do more than lie still and stare at the ceiling while he did his business. Remembering how she’d responded to him the night of the ball, he was fairly sure he could stir her desire, make her want him, too. Then this coupling might be enjoyable. More than enjoyable. He’d been tormenting himself with fantasies of this night for weeks, until he’d learned the truth. If he wanted to, he could satisfy his curiosity, and have her just the way he’d imagined. His cock stirred to life at the thought.

  It was a terrible idea. If he took his time and made love to her, it would unnecessarily complicate things. And it wasn’t fair, since he had no intention whatsoever of being that kind of husband to her.

  But she’d made her bargain. She’d sold herself into this match to get what she wanted and now she had. So maybe it was all right if he took what he wanted, too. Just this once. He might still be debating with himself, but his body had already decided. He was hard, and his breathing had grown ragged. Before he could talk himself back out of this, he closed his eyes and bent his head to hers.

  Her mouth was tight with nerves, but the brandy had erased the edges of his inhibitions, so he kissed her hard, moving his lips over hers until she softened beneath him. Slowly, her lips parted, and he plunged inside. When his tongue found hers, her wavering resistance crumbled and the girl from the ball was back in his arms again. She took him in readily, stroking his tongue with hers, letting him drink his fill of her.

  Her acquiescence obliterated the last of his reservations. He wanted her. He’d wanted her for weeks. She wanted him, too. The rest—all the foul secrets he knew about her and her family—he would forget until morning. For this one night, he’d take what he wanted.

  He dragged his hand up her thigh. The nightgown was silky under his fingers and it slid up her supple thigh easily. Tearing his mouth from hers, he slid his lips across her cheek to her ear, flicking the lobe with his tongue. She sucked in a breath, arching up underneath him, unwittingly driving her hips into his. He groaned. The hollow between her neck and shoulder was warmed by her hair and smelled heavenly. Flowers, the sweet, pure scent of orange blossoms one would expect from a wealthy young woman. But under that, something richer, spicy, some scent that was only hers.

  Her nightgown was bunched up across her hips now, baring her long, shapely legs to his touch. Her thigh was silk under his palm as he slid up its length, over her hip and around, his fingertips skimming the hollow next to her sex. She gasped and this time he drove his hips against her, pinning her to the bed. He brought his hand back down her body to her knee, hooking around the back of it and dragging her legs apart. As he pressed himself between them, she moaned softly, a helpless little sound of surprised arousal, making his whole body throb.

  He was still wearing his trousers and shirt, and she was still covered by her silk and lace wedding night confection. Well, half of that problem was easily dispatched. He reared up to sit on his heels, staring down at her. Her hands clutched the pillow on either side of her head, her luscious gold hair tumbling around her face. Her thighs were spread on either side of his legs. She made no move to close them as he sat back and examined her.

  Without thinking, he reached out for the hem of her gown, gathered across the tops of her thighs. The fine silk shredded with hardly any effort. Her gasp was louder than the soft whisper of rending fabric. He tossed the ruined garment to the sides. Her eyes were huge, but she still made no move to fend him off or cover herself. Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths, which drew his eyes to her magnificent breasts. Creamy flesh, perfectly shaped,
beautifully full, her pink nipples drawn in and hard. His cock throbbed, and like it had when he’d ripped the nightgown from her, his hand seemed to move of its own accord to cover one breast. The feel of it, the heavenly weight of it... He rubbed his thumb across her tight nipple, and she sighed, her eyes half-closing and her back arching again.

  She wanted him. In the back of his mind, he’d still battled with the wrongness of taking her like this tonight. But her response to him, although cautious, showed no fear. Any remaining guilt he had about this slipped away.

  With one hand, he wrenched his shirt over his head, flinging it behind him into the darkness. He pinched her nipple as he wrestled with the buttons on his trousers, drawing a strangled cry from her. She squeezed her eyes shut and writhed as he rolled her nipple between his fingers. He might be taking what he wanted from her on this night, but she’d be satisfied by the time he left her bed. He’d see to that.

  Lowering himself back down over her, he took her nipple in his mouth.

  “Ohhh.” It was the first sound she’d made approaching speech since he’d put his hands on her. Her hands came to his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her as he sucked her. With one hand, he shoved his trousers down his hips and kicked them away. When he slipped back between her thighs, his bare cock pressed against the juncture of her thighs. She made another strangled little sound of pleasure and he began to rock against her. His cock brushed the exquisite heat and wetness of her. God, how he wanted to bury himself in her, take her hard, slake himself with her body.

  Releasing her breast, he moved back up her, capturing her mouth again. Her kiss this time was abandoned. She was lost in her mounting desire. He slid a hand down between them, stroking her, first outside, and then slipping in to feel the slick heat of her. Beneath him, Victoria tensed, but he didn’t relent, kissing her with an almost obscene thoroughness as his fingers explored her. She began to writhe again, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly.

  She wrenched her head to the side, panting. “I...I don’t know...” she gasped.

  He kissed his way down the arc of her throat, hot, openmouthed kisses, dragging his tongue down her sweat-slicked skin. “Yes, you do,” he growled against her throat. He took her breast in his mouth again as his fingers took up a steady circling at the apex of her sex.

  Underneath him, she grew as taut as a bowstring. Then she cried out, bucking underneath him, whimpering helplessly as pleasure twisted through her. Triumph and lust surged through him, a heady mix that made him reel. She was still floating in her pleasure, her body slack underneath him, as he started to enter her, but she tensed when the pain came, her hands curling into fists against his shoulders.

  “Just...it’s only for a moment,” he muttered. And then he drove home with one powerful thrust, too far gone to be gentle about it. She whimpered. He wrapped his arms around her body, anchoring her against him as he began to move within her, long steady strokes that made his blood hum with pleasure. Good God. He had no idea it could feel so good, so silky and warm and tight. He groaned. His own climax was bearing down on him faster than he’d thought possible.

  A long, soft moan ripped from her throat, starting off as pain and ending in a breathy pleasure. Would she come again? Was she possibly that responsive? His cock swelled at the thought of it and he wanted it, to feel her tightening around him as she came undone again. With a grim, almost furious determination, he wanted to draw all of her desire out of her, wring her out and leave her limp and helpless.

  He slowed his pounding thrusts, gritting his teeth to hang on. Every stroke left her more pliant than the last, until her hips began to meet his, and she was actively chasing her own pleasure. He palmed her breast again, and rolled her nipple hard, as he rocked his hips against hers. Her gasp shattered the air around them, a surprised inhalation dissolving into whimpers. Her body pulsed around his. Like a wave at sea, it dragged him under and drowned him, pleasure so acute, it stole his reason. He came hard, his breathing labored and his heart pounding in his ears.

  After a moment, his head cleared enough to realize he was practically crushing her. He pulled out and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. As the pleasure ebbed, reality crept back in. Yes, their coupling had been astounding, but he was already beginning to hate himself for it. Not only that he’d done it, slaked his lust with this woman who’d ruined his family to marry him, but that he’d been such an animal about it. The shredded remnants of her nightgown were still twisted around their bodies. He’d stripped her naked with his bare hands. She’d been willing, but he couldn’t deny to himself he’d been angry. He’d taken her the way he had, hard and relentless, because he wanted to punish her for making him want her, to turn her desire back on her. He’d wanted to tear her apart with her lust.

  And now that he had, he didn’t feel so much as a hint of satisfaction. As the brandy he’d drunk slowly curdled in his stomach, a bleak self-loathing settled in. He couldn’t even bear to look at her, to see the results of his actions.

  When he could feel his legs again, he stumbled out of the bed, snatching at his robe where it lay puddled on the floor. He needed to escape, both from her and from himself.

  “Good night.” He hurriedly shrugged back into his robe. He didn’t look back at her. He couldn’t. He simply crossed the room, aiming for the adjoining door and escape. When he was back in his own room, he finally exhaled, trying to forget what he’d done. But it was no good. Her scent was all over him, spicy and sweet and arousing. He could still feel her body underneath his, hear her breath in his ear.

  In moments, he was on his knees, bringing up all the brandy he’d consumed into a chamber pot.

  * * *

  Victoria tried to speak as he lurched from her bed. She wasn’t sure what to say, but she had to say something. Then he muttered that gruff “good night” before positively bolting from her room. The separating door slammed, and she let out a shaky exhale. And then she couldn’t seem to inhale again.

  She was hollowed out, both her body and her mind, as if she’d been ruthlessly taken apart piece by piece and left that way, scattered heedlessly across the floor. And the worst of it was, she’d enjoyed it. He’d torn her to pieces and she’d lain back and let him, welcoming every touch and stroke. She’d nearly begged him for more. He’d shaken her to her core, made her helplessly bound to her own pleasure, and then he’d left, as if she was nothing more than a vessel he’d spent himself in without a thought.

  Humiliation rocketed through her, banishing the last tendrils of aching pleasure. Her limbs grew rigid with shame. All she could do was gasp in tiny, shallow breaths as her body began to shake uncontrollably.

  Finally, she was able to reach for the counterpane, the one her husband had dragged down her body what seemed like hours ago, and pull it back up over her nakedness. Her body was scarcely her own anymore. Had these hands curled into his hair? Had those nipples ached under his tongue? Had these legs trembled as she came apart underneath him? She was a stranger to herself.

  She turned onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. A twinge between her legs asserted itself, another place he’d left an indelible mark on her. Her shaking grew worse. She fisted her hands and pressed them against her mouth, stifling her gasping breaths. Hot tears leaked out under her lashes. She fought them back for a moment, but she was overcome—exhausted, scared and humiliated. Turning her face into the pillow so no one would hear her, she sobbed until she was empty. As unconsciousness finally stole over her, she swore to herself this would be the only night she cried. Tomorrow she would face the day dry-eyed and resolved.

  Chapter Seven

  As the train drew steadily farther away from Basingstoke and closer to the coast, Andrew tried hard not to dwell on what he was doing. Fleeing in the early dawn this morning had been the work of a moment. He hadn’t let the servant boy unpack his trunk the night be
fore, as he’d known he was leaving again immediately. He’d never intended to stay for long after the wedding, but once he’d learned about the railway, he’d become determined not to spend a single night under the same roof as his wife.

  The dig honestly needed him. He’d lied to her in the carriage the day before. They’d finally found something this month, a small bronze statue of a horse and chariot rider. It was a far cry from an untouched tomb, but it was a fine piece, undoubtedly Etruscan, which proved they’d been right where he’d said they were. They were at a critical juncture, and for that reason, he needed to return to Italy. That was what he told himself for the whole of the morning.

  Outside the train window, the southern countryside was washed with morning sun. Over and over, he told himself he had nothing to feel bad about. Victoria—the countess, Lady Dunnley now—had gotten her part of the bargain. She was titled, a member of one of the oldest noble families in England. He’d gotten what he needed—money to save his sisters. They had nothing more to say to each other, and if there was any luck to be had in the world, she might already be with child. An heir would negate their ever having to deal with one another again.

  That was when his gut twisted with shame. Leaving a ravished virgin alone in her bed was extremely ungentlemanly, even when the woman was his hated wife. Her weeping had carried through the closed door even as he cast his accounts into the chamber pot. It would have been impossible to feel worse at that moment. And if she was with child, his child... An unexpected ache bloomed in his chest. He’d never intended to marry or father children, not after the travesty of his own childhood. But of course, the choice had been taken away from him. If a child did result from this cursed marriage, he could hardly abandon it. A child would tie them together in ways he didn’t want to consider.