He was going to drive her over the cliff.
And she could not stop it. Could not contain herself. Could not wait one minute more. His fingers, his mouth, his cock. He was so deep, so perfect, and he completed her in a way she had never fathomed. In a way she could not have known before this, before him. Her husband.
God, yes.
More.
She wasn’t sure if she said it aloud or in her head. All she did know was that he increased his pace, sank so deep inside her it seemed he would forever remain there, and worked her sensitive flesh so that she could not fend off her climax for another heartbeat. She came apart, tightening on him, crying out, clutching him to her, wrapping her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper still. As deep as she possibly could.
And then he withdrew, slipped from her body as the blissful ripples of her pleasure still resonated through her, and held himself tightly in his fist, spilling his seed into the bed linens. For as much pleasure as he had given her, Bo watched him find his release somewhere other than inside her yet again, and something cold and hard lodged itself in her chest. Something unknown, mingling with emotions she found all too familiar: worry, fear.
He collapsed alongside her, breathing heavily, and she stared at the ceiling. He had brought her the sort of pleasure she had imagined was fiction, silly hyperbole in the forbidden books she devoured. He had shown her the height of ecstasy, had promised to be faithful to her, had stood before their families and God and taken her to wife. They had made love four times. Three times as husband and wife.
And yet, he had never spent his seed inside her. Not one time. Though most refined ladies of her age remained blissfully ignorant of the details of matters betwixt a husband and wife, Bo was not. She knew how children—how the heirs of a duchy—were created, and it was not by the duke spending his seed into the sheets.
The chamber was silent except for their mutual labored breathing. Bo allowed the enormity of her realization to settle within her. Turned it over in her mind. Waited a few more breaths until she could not contain it another minute more.
“You do not want children?” she asked into the false tranquility, staring at the ceiling.
“No,” came his clipped response.
She felt his answer like a blow to her midsection, and she did not know why. She had never given thought to having children. Indeed, she had never imagined she would marry. Had not wanted to, would not have married anyone had she not felt it was the best thing for her beloved family. For her sister and Thornton. And to help improve the consequence of her Lady’s Suffrage Society.
Why, then, did his revelation that he did not want to beget an heir—that he did not want to raise a brood of stubborn, dark-haired lads and spirited red-haired bluestockings—affect her so? It should not, she knew. She had not wished for this life with him. A lack of children would mean more time spent pursuing the causes she found most important. Indeed, she finally had her independence.
She was a married lady. A duchess. Free to enjoy the pleasures she had only read about. Free to pursue her dreams and goals. Free to be who and what she wanted. To make her lifehers. It was everything she had always wanted, there for the taking.
Why, then, did she feel so hollow inside?
She rolled away from Spencer, to her side, and waited for sleep to claim her once again.
This time, it never did.
Spencer could not stop staring at his wife.
A buffet of rich breakfast foods scented the air. His full plate beckoned: eggs and bacon,jambon de Bayonne, muffins, sauces, jams, plump sausages. So much food he could consume it all and have no need to eat for the remainder of the day. Servants hovered, eager to please the duke and his duchess on the first morning of their honeymoon.
He wished they had gone to Paris.
He wished they had never left his chamber this morning.
More than anything, he wished he had rolled her over on her back after waking for the second time that morning, kissed away the pinch of worry knotting her brow. He should have taken her slowly and deeply, licking and kissing every bit of her glorious skin, fucked her until she forgot about whatever caused the shadows in her eyes, the firmness of her mouth.
But they had not gone to Paris, and she had slipped from his chamber in silence, thinking him still asleep, and he had watched her go without saying a word. But he had felt the change between them. She had withdrawn, ever so subtly. Now that she had finally joined him at the breakfast table, some of the brightness was gone from her gaze, and the brief smile she flashed him had lost its luster.
Of course, she was beautiful as ever, turned out in a gown of indigo silk with a nipped waist and a tulle underskirt, trimmed with lace and bows. The necklace was gone from her throat, and though he knew it was far too sumptuous to be appropriate for this time of day, he rather wished she had chosen to wear it anyway. He waited until she was served a plate before dismissing the servants so that they had some privacy.
He stared at her, willing her to look back at him, when the last footman had gone. But she kept her gaze trained upon her plate, her fork in hand, prodding herouefs en cocottewithout actually consuming a bite. It would seem that he needed to make the first move in this impasse.
He cleared his throat. “Good morning, wife.”
Her eyes flew to his at last, delicate brows lifting as though she was surprised he had addressed her. “Good morning, husband.”
Stubborn as ever, it would seem. He had hoped she might offer him something more. While neither love nor children would ever emerge from their union, now that he had unleashed the flood of his desires once more, he had no wish for a passionless marriage. They were tied to each other for the rest of their lives, and he had meant what he said about remaining true to his vows.
“How did you sleep?” he prodded, knowing what the question implied. They had not spared much time for slumber.
A becoming flush colored her cheeks. God, she was lovely. It required every bit of willpower he possessed to remain seated and not rise from his chair, close the distance between them, and lift her to the table where he could have the true feast he wanted for breakfast. The thought had him shifting in his chair, attempting to ease the discomfort caused by his tailored trousers.
