The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(63)
He recalled he hadn’t had a particularly restful night either. His valet had awoken him while it was still dark to deliver Jane’s urgent note to meet her in Rotten Row at first light. Odd to think it was only that morning. It seemed days past.
The scent of lemons and sex curled about his nostrils. Lovely. He sighed, relaxed and closed his eyes, unaware when he faded into slumber.
Chapter 9
Not far from the Red Lion Inn, they had turned off of the Dover road and onto a country lane that wound its way through fields of newly sprouted barley and wheat just beginning to thrive in the warmth of spring. Occasional copses of trees along the way provided welcome shade as they passed beneath. Jane took notice of everything, finding delight in the journey, in the day, in all that had transpired.
She also found herself prone to shyness, a discovery she faced with astonishment. Each time she recalled the afternoon, she blushed anew and paid particular notice to what lay to her right, keeping her face averted from him, trying to hide her immature bashfulness. He would surely admonish her, and why not? Good heavens, it was preposterous, this funny feeling of shyness after all they had done.
But fully clothed, in the bright light of outdoors, it was easy to forget the intimacy they shared and not focus on her shocking behavior. She had awakened to find him asleep, his face in repose very peaceful and handsome. Such a feeling of affection and attraction had bubbled up within, she shamelessly moved atop his slumbering body to caress and kiss him boldly, until he awoke and made love to her all over again. It had been the same, yet very different. He’d been more aggressive, more powerful, moving her body with authoritative control, bringing her to the peak of passion until she was limp with exertion.
It was incredible.
He was incredible, her path to redemption in the eyes of society, but also, unexpectedly, the way to healing the hurt she’d carried with her since that afternoon in Cousin Elizabeth’s pavilion. What a grand gesture it was of him to insist she tell him all, to listen and comprehend the abject misery she endured. He did, she was certain, and sought to alleviate her fear through gentle wooing and a patient hand.
Her instincts had been right. The Duke of Blixford was a man of vast complication, deep emotion, and strong character. He was not at all a stick.
How easy it would be to fall wildly in love with him. She suspected she would, despite the rationale behind not allowing it and her best intentions. It would take a very long time, if ever, to bring him round to love her. He would resist vehemently, according to Lucy, who knew him as no other. The years and his experiences appeared to have mellowed him considerably and lessened his strict demand for proper, ladylike behavior. He had raced her in Rotten Row, something he’d never have done four years ago. But he remained guarded in his affection and she didn’t doubt that loving him would bring her much pain.
Much better to hold him in high regard, enjoy his company, and his bed, and live her life earnestly and helpfully. What did it matter if he loved her to distraction? Or if she lived and died by his love? Love was a fickle emotion, even at best. Theirs would be a marriage of mutual respect and friendship, bound by law and what transpired in their bed.
“You’re very thoughtful, Jane.”
“Yes, I was wondering what crops you grow at Beckinsale House, and if you might take me about to see the fields. I do so love to look at them. It’s terribly elemental, growing things that will clothe and sustain people.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “It’s also quite nice to earn money from them, but I shouldn’t say so and point out my more mercenary character. You’ll think me avaricious.”
“I don’t find the prospect of earning money to be avaricious. In fact, I’m rather keen on the pursuit of income, from all sources.”
“Tell me about your investments.”
He did so, though not in great detail. There were several captains whose shipping ventures he supported, along with a conglomerate of other gentlemen. He was also invested in a woolen mill in York, a steel smelt in Manchester, and a coal mine in Wales. Perhaps most interesting, he dabbled a bit in the literary world, funding a small publisher in London. “Mr. Pipkin is slowly gaining some notoriety, though earnings are still not close to balanced with expenses. It’s more of a hobby or an interest than a real investment. I suspect it will never earn anything, but continue to be a black pit of lost funds.”
“How noble of you to support the literati, Blixford. Are you something of a bibliophile, then?”
He looked at her and raised one brow. “Something of the sort. You’d be interested to know that you perused one of the first books we published.”