Page 81 of Rough and Rugged

“Well then! If you have seen my bare chest, I insist on seeing yours.”

“What are you doing?” I screech. But I am too late.

Philip pushes down my filmy sleeves and plays with the swell of my breast above my stays, lifting one and kissing the tip. I purr; his touch makes me weak with desire and fills my veins with honey. I lean into him and try to breathe.

His voice sounds wobbly. “A fitting reward. Beyond my deepest imagination.”

All too soon, he restores my bodice to its proper place and kisses my shoulder. “Now my darling Meg, I must leave you before your father sees us.”

Sadly, I know he is correct.

When the duke returns from the woods today, I meet him in the Great Hall. He compliments me on how the house is coming along. We’ve scrubbed the floors, washed window glass, and brought in a few of the barn cats to rid the corridors of mice. Mrs. Peterson found a sweep in a neighboring village to begin cleaning the chimneys of soot. We are currently sitting on a newly polished bench, gazing at the vast fireplace large enough to roast an ox.

“Do you think they fed hordes of people here?”

“Probably. If this part of the house came from the time of the Tudors, I’m sure all the nearby residents gathered here. Someday we can try roasting a couple of hogs and invite the entire parish.”

I nod and he reaches his arm around me in a half hug. “Anyone could walk in here,” he whispers. “Maybe your brother.”

“I know.”

“I want to kiss you, Meg. Will you come up with me?”

“Yes.”

We hasten up to his bedchamber and close the door behind us. I collapse into his embrace.

He knows what I crave. “My dearest, my Meg, my love.”

When he lifts me onto the soft bed, I welcome his warm weight against me. My pulse thumps so rapidly I know he can feel it. I arch closer, his heart throbbing against my breast. Lost, I sink into the waves of desire pulsing through every pore of my being, from my panting breaths to the deepest place in my secret core. His fingers find my breast and stroke the nipple into a tight point of ecstatic sensation. My urgent sighs, almost moans, match his murmurs as our kisses turn to probing passion that drives us further into the yielding mists of surrender. He is hard against my thigh and slides his hand under my skirt to caress my legs, then moves to touch the lips of my center, the fount of my essence. His fingers make me tremble, tormented by the exceptional urges shimmering through my body and stealing my consciousness.

“So warm, so wet,” he breathes into my neck. “Ah, Meg. I am helpless; I cannot stop.”

“Please, please,” I whimper, not knowing what I mean. More touching, or stopping before it is too late? Tears fill my eyes. From delight or fear?

He kisses them from my cheeks and pulls away, breathing deeply, tossing his head back and away from me, then straightening my skirt. “We cannot risk it, my darling, no matter how much…” His voice fades. He closes his eyes and stands to press his forehead against the cool window.

“I know. I know.” Slowly, my pulse diminishes, my body grows calmer. I am beginning to understand how this mysterious merging of bodies drives all humanity. I want more. I want all of it. I want to feel that overwhelming secret release I’ve heard about from the whispers of a few married friends.

“I will not take your innocence, Meg. It would be wicked, dishonorable.”

I cannot disagree.

That night, I try to sleep. But I am in a fog, lost in a mist of confusion. From now on, we cannot hide in his bedchamber or cower in Bowen Hall’s Drawing Room. In the twilight, we’ll take long walks or linger in the kitchen garden long ago gone to seed. We’ll consider what needs pruning, where there should be rows of lettuce or vines in bloom with beans or peas. No more should I feel his hard arousal and almost abandon my inhibitions. Stopping earlier was not from the fear of pain one expects upon losing virginity, not at all. I still feel the emptiness of my private places crying out to be filled. Oh yes, I’ve heard many stories, some of pain and blood, but others of achingly beautiful passion to fulfill a hunger like no other. I cannot expect he will allow his passion to override his decency. And I do not wish to tempt him, either. Nevertheless, my tears flow as I slip into oblivion, dreaming that my body swells to meet his, but in reality, it encounters nothing. Just emptiness.

And so pass the first weeks of summer.

Chapter Five

Betsybegsmetobe present when her grandmother arrives. The Dowager Countess of Broadmoor is an imposing figure in Society and the absolute ruler of her family of several sons and married daughters, including her fourth born, Mr. Preston, our vicar.

“Grandmama is coming to see the new duke. She will decide if she wishes to arrange his marriage to one of my cousins, either Lady Regina or Lady Caroline. She will consider only the two daughters of her eldest son, the present earl. The rest of us granddaughters are ineligible, in her opinion.”

“Lady Broadmoor thinks she can dictate her terms, snap her fingers, and the couple will be wed?” I ask. “Even if his property is derelict and almost worthless?”

Betsy shrugs. “She knows all about that. She knew the old duke when he was in his prime. This is Grandmama’s opportunity to be a brilliant matchmaker.”

Once she settles in a chair and holds a cup of tea, the Dowager Countess of Broadmoor directs the vicarage, shrinking the figures of her son and his wife. She makes a striking impression, dressed in a gown fashionable in the last century, set off by her silvery hair piled high, for all the world resembling a powdered wig. Her long rope of pearls gleams in the folds of ebony satin. Lady Broadmoor announces her views as if she sits upon a throne. “The new Duke of Aberfeld has a great deal to make up for in the foolishness of his uncle, his predecessor,” she declares. “For the last decades, he did nothing but damage his holdings, as is well known among theton. The new duke needs a duchess who can organize his life, provide him with heirs, and reestablish the family’s prominence in Society.”

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