“Then I must ensure that you find satisfaction in your situation,” Nicholas declared, pausing to kiss her nipple and coaxing it to pert attention.
“I believe we should consult the new pages,” she said, guessing his reaction. “To verify that all is correct.”
“You will not be reading on this particular night, my lady.”
Eliza laughed. “Not if I have successfully tempted you.”
“Consider it done,” he vowed and lowered his weight atop her, kissing her sweetly as he pinned her against the bed. Eliza ran her hands over him, happy beyond her wildest imagining, and gasped when he lifted his head to look down upon her.
“I believe I should give that book a recommendation,” he whispered. “For I am well content with the results of your consulting it.”
“Wait until I check the advice offered in these new pages,” she threatened and he laughed.
“Wait until I show you that there is no need of a book on this night,” he vowed and kissed her to silence.
“I love you, Nicholas,” she whispered when she could.
He ran a hand up her arm to her cheek and cupping her face in his hand. “And I love you, my Eliza,” he murmured, bending to kiss her soundly again.
Eliza let her hand slide down the length of him, her fingertips dancing over his flesh until she reached the area featured in the illustration. She heard him catch his breath as she wrapped her fingers around him, and felt him go still when she touched the spot at the base recommended for the cultivation of arousal. The way he whispered her name against her throat was most assuredly a testimonial to that counsel being correct.
Eliza had time to smile, then Nicholas caught her close. His fingers slid between her thighs with welcome surety, and she doubted she would sleep much at all that night.
Or perhaps not even the following morning. The nights of a temptress might prove exhausting but Eliza saw no cause to complain about that.
Epilogue
Roses, roses, and more roses.
Would that such flowers had never come into existence.
By the time the entire party left London for Haynesdale, it was not only a veritable entourage, but Helena was certain she had heard sufficient conversation about roses to last her until she became even more elderly than Aunt Fanny and Lady Haynesdale. Their communion over the flowers had progressed from mutual admiration through at least three intervals of heated disagreement—the first about the finest of all roses, the veritable queen; the second about the merit of the newest cultivars from the Continent; and the third, the most contentious yet, about the shape of the planned reflecting pond to be constructed at Haynesdale Manor. Helena was resolved to die before she reached such dotage that would require her to be fascinated with gardens.
The only mercy was that she was traveling in the smaller of the duke’s coaches, along with Aunt Fanny, while Lady Haynesdale occupied the larger coach, along with her daughter, now Mrs. Emerson. Nicholas had cruelly abandoned Helena on the journey, choosing to either ride Sterling alongside the party or join the other party in the larger coach. It was perfectly horrid of him to prefer his new wife’s company to that of his sister, but he only laughed at Helena when she commented as much.
Worse, the duke was yet away from England and no one knew when he intended to return.
What so occupied his attention? Helena wished to know.
How could she charm him when he was so persistently absent?
How could she utilize what she had learned from the treatise surreptitiously borrowed from the former Mrs. North? Those passages had been most illuminating and only made Helena more curious about intimate matters.
The duke would be captivated by her, if only he deigned to return.
As days and weeks passed, though, Helena began to be convinced that he would not.
Aunt Fanny talked endlessly as they rode north, first about the triumph of Nicholas’ wedding, then about their happy return to Southpoint, then about her vexation with Lady Haynesdale for refusing to share all of her views. She endeavored to solicit Helena’s interest in the cottage, which might as well have been a tomb at the end of the world, and failed.
Helena kept her face close to the window for miles as they departed, drinking in every detail of the city they were leaving behind. She would die an old maid, with blisters on her hands from tending roses, forgotten by every man of interest, a veritable orphan in the wilds of Nottingham. The duke would never return and even abiding in his own duchy would offer no opportunities to steal his heart.
As fates went, Helena’s was an undeservedly cruel one.
“You will like it well enough, once you meet some new friends,” Aunt Fanny declared, as if it was of no import to leave London behind. She was very content these days, and more inclined to treat herself to a sweet at tea than had recently been the case. “There might be any number of eligible young men in the area.”
Helena sighed. Doubtless she would be obliged to tend chickens or milk cows. Her silk slippers would be ruined.
But then, there was no cause for dancing in the duke’s absence.
