The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(91)
“—markable man,” he finished for her, crushing her to him, yet again. “Ah, Jane, what a devil of a time I have given you, and you so deserving of a whole, capable husband who would love you without hesitation. You’ll forgive me this morning’s cruelty, surely, because I can’t bear the thought of hurting you.”
“Yes, I forgive you, and I’ll never again mention that you called me mannish.” She paused. “To be fair, there is a little truth to it, which is undoubtedly the only reason it was so dreadful of you to say it. I even sound like a man at times. I despise it, but one must deal with what one is given.”
He kissed her then, and murmured against her lips, “I love your voice, Jane. On several occasions, you’ve said something without intention of sounding seductive and I have grown hard, simply because your voice is so appealing.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, truly.” He kissed her again and willed his cock to not respond, but of course, as always with Jane in his arms, with the scent of lemons in his nose, his body was powerless to resist. “Ignore it,” he whispered. “I wish to kiss you, and it’s an unfortunate result I can’t control.”
“I’ve yet to rinse my mouth.”
“I’ve yet to care.” He covered her mouth with his, plunged deep within and kissed her with great passion and tenderness and the closest he would ever come to love.
Chapter 12
The rest of the day and all of the following passed much as the previous days, with one notable exception. Although he kissed her often, frequently embraced her, seemed always to have a hand upon her in some fashion, whether holding hers, or riding his large palm against the curve of her spine, or gently stroking her hair, they didn’t couple. His nearness, despite knowing he couldn’t take her, was terribly endearing, and his sad, horrible tale of his father’s madness had catapulted her the final distance. Jane was deeply in love with her husband.
She chose not to say so, certain he would feel bad for his inability to return her love. Instead, she was content to know he held her in his affections. Most of her anxiety fell away and she became ever more comfortable with him. She noted he laughed more, that he hid a wicked sense of humor, and at his core, he was truly a gentle, kind soul. He took great pains to mask it, to present a hard, cold, aristocratic face to the world, but she wasn’t fooled one iota.
Remembering Julian’s tale of the suspicion that swirled around Blixford’s mother’s death, and that of the neighbor, the old Viscount Radcliffe, she wondered how it fit with what Blixford told her. Were the rumors only cruel lies, or was there some element of truth to them? If the old duke killed his wife because he believed she betrayed him, and yet he loved her, would his crime not drive him mad? It certainly seemed so, but Jane couldn’t believe it. The duchess had been friendly with Radcliffe, who was shot by a highwayman just after she died in childbed. It was a tragic coincidence, surely.
Two days after she’d begun her courses and they’d had their heart to heart, they were having breakfast when Clive brought a silver salver into the dining room and presented it to her. “You’ve a letter from town, Your Grace. Appears to be from your father. I hope he’s well.”
“Yes, thank you, Clive,” she murmured, stifling a grin. He and Hester were very dear, not like servants at all, always conspiring to provide opportunities for romantic interludes for her and Blix. They evidently found their marriage enormously entertaining, frequently making comments that were not too forward to be impertinent, but not exactly respectful either. They’d been at Beckinsale House since they were very young, had in fact married while in the old duke’s employ, and clearly considered themselves something beyond mere servants.
Jane agreed, and found it charming in her husband that he held them in high regard. She’d noticed he was especially kind and thoughtful to all the servants, had taken an interest in young Harry’s ability at carpentry and suggested he would support his tutelage in the craft, if he had a mind to pursue it. Harry was still mulling over the prospect, and obviously had a good amount of hero worship for Blixford. They all did, in truth. He couldn’t retain his aristocratic hauteur, no matter how hard he tried.
She broke the letter’s seal and began to read, becoming a bit breathless as she did so. “Blix, are you aware that Lucy remained in London after we left?”
He was concentrating on slathering his toast with marmalade. “Yes, she mentioned it in her letter of a few days ago. Did I not tell you?”
“If you did, I don’t recall. Sherbourne says he’s squiring her about, determined to find her a suitable match, and wonders if I think Blaisdale too dull, or March too wild, or Dowling too self-important. Good heavens, Blix. My father, a matchmaker? This is absurd!”