“Thank God,” he whispered, as his fingers brushed the curls, making Alice gasp and hold her breath, hardly daring to move as anticipation held her in thrall.
“I’d never dishonour you, love, but… but let me give you this pleasure. Let me take this much, and no more… I swear.”
The words became a breath of warmth against her skin, stirring the silken curls as Alice clutched at the seat. The luxurious, thick velvet of one of the duke’s travelling coaches, so plush under her palms, felt rough and prickly compared to his lips, to his tongue. Oh, good heavens, his tongue. She was going to die.
Except she didn’t die. Certainly not of embarrassment. Quite the reverse. Instead, she shifted forward on the seat, inviting him to take more, an invitation he was only too happy to accept. The heat she had thought a blaze became an inferno, her stays a prison holding her body captive when she wanted freedom above all else. Odd sounds escaped her lips, breathless gasps and mewls and she thanked heaven for the rumble of the carriage wheels and the endless clatter of the horses' hooves and prayed it was enough to drown out her cries of pleasure as he pushed her on, further and higher than she’d dreamed possible.
On and on it went, until she was mindless, a sensual being who existed only for the touch of his hands, his mouth. It was too much, too intense, she was drowning in pleasure, certain she could not endure a moment longer. She opened her mouth to beg him to stop, but her breath snagged in her throat, her body arching off the seat as pleasure exploded through her. Waves and waves of velvety darkness crashed over her as she spiralled in some starlit sky, lost, yet not lost at all, for Aubrey was with her, his touch gentle but reassuring, anchoring her and showing her the way home.
It took some time for her to return to her senses, such as they were. She felt certain she would never string a coherent sentence together again, for she could do nothing but gasp and gaze at him in wonder.
Aubrey, not above looking very pleased with himself, put her to rights, tugging down her skirts and smoothing out the wrinkles, though that was a hopeless endeavour. He sat beside her again, and pulled her into his side, gazing down at her with fond amusement.
“Can you speak, love, or have I scattered your wits?”
“Devil,” she whispered, the word shaky and breathless.
Aubrey laughed, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Well, now, there’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
Alice smiled at him, hopelessly besotted, and for the first time in her life quite certain that the future was full of possibilities. “I think I shall like being married to you, Aubrey Seymour. Indeed, I think I shall like it very much.”
Willow Cottage, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 20thJanuary 1816
Clara gazed at the fire, her slippered feet propped on the fender, sipping a hot toddy. To be truthful, it was her third of the evening. She had taken Benny out for a walk earlier in the day only to get soaked to her skin in a downpour. Having tried the duke’s recommendation on the very day he had delivered the brandy and lemon, she had no hesitation in making herself another warming brew this evening. It was a delightful concoction. The lemon and honey mixture was sweet and tart, and the brandy added depth, not to mention a delightful sensation that slid through her blood and eased the tension in her stiff muscles. Indeed, she could feel almost friendly towardsthe austere duke for having introduced her to such a delightful tonic.
Benny gave a contented sigh, curled up before the fire. He was no less pleased than his mistress by the convivial scene. Aunt Edna had gone to sleep early, as was her habit, and these hours of the late evening were precious to Clara, for they were entirely her own.
“I really ought to thank him.”
Benny looked up, cocking his head to one side.
“Don’t you agree?” Clara bent down and stroked the dog’s head. She often solicited Benny’s advice. He was an excellent listener, and it wasn’t like there was anyone else she could apply to for an opinion. “His grace is a busy man and did not need to come by in person. He could have sent a servant.”
Clara frowned, wondering why on earth he hadn’t. The sight of him standing on her aunt’s doorstep had embedded itself in her mind, so unlikely it was akin to waking up and finding a dragon curled up in the vegetable garden. If not for the brandy and lemon, she would have convinced herself she had made up the entire episode.
The brandy eased her troubles, though, a feeling of pleasant well-being suffusing her and making her more assured in her decision making. She got to her feet, opened the small writing desk and set out the ink and the blotter. Benny got up too, trotting over to sit beside Clara, his expression curious.
“It’s only polite,” she said, setting out a clean sheet of paper and dipping the pen in the ink. She hesitated, her brow furrowed in consternation. “How does one address a duke in writing? Your grace? Your dukeship? No, that’s certainly not right.”
Dear Duke,
Clara gazed down at the words uncertainly. “Well, it’s surely close enough.”
Just to be sure, however, she clarified:
Please forgive me if that is not the correct salutation with which to address you. (Most noble and esteemed, sir?) I am not in the habit of writing to dukes ornoblemen, and am somewhat out of my depth.
I wished to thank you for the brandy and lemon that you so thoughtfully supplied me with, though. I have today been caught in the most torrential downpour and was frozen to the marrow by the time I reached home. Three hot toddies, however, have had a most invigorating effect upon my constitution and I feel remarkably well.
Might I commend the dowager Duchess on her splendid orangery. I was privileged to be given a brief tour recently and found it a delightful place. It must be a wonderful thing to know you will never be short of lemons to go with your brandy. Do you keep bees too? I like bees; they are such busy, industrious creatures and they never seem short of company. I miss the sound of them buzzing about the garden. The winter is so long and dreary, and the days so short. I am being very wicked tonight and burning a candle to write this. My aunt will scold me dreadfully if she finds out, for she is a frightful nipcheese and cannot abide spending a farthing more than she must on anything.
If I had any money, I should enjoy spending it, I think, and sharing it too.
Clara stifled a yawn and looked down as Benny got up and padded to the door. He wanted to pay a visit to the garden before they went to bed.
“Coming, love. Just let me finish this,” she said with a smile, and returned to finish the last lines of her letter.
She carefully sanded the missive and only scattered a small proportion of the sand over the floor, then sealed the letter with a blob of red sealing wax, and set it aside on the kitchen windowsill, where the delivery boy from the village would pick it up first thing in the morning.
