She was wed. More or less.
The Duke of Hillsburgh curled a hand around the back of her neck and drew her close. His Grace’s breath was hot against her neck, and Tabitha’s toes curled in anticipation. She thought of that night with Cassius, where he had trailed kisses over her neck and down lower still.
He lowered his head, his large body bending towards her slight form. When their lips met, lightning seemed to trace down the path of Tabitha’s spine. Heat spread from her lips and down to her very core. She curled her hands in His Grace’s hair, acting on instinct. His lips were soft and warm against hers, and with each breath, she inhaled the sweet scent of citrus mingled with the faint sharpness of lavender. She kissed him, pressing her mouth insistently against his.
A dull ache formed in her core, and Tabitha pressed her legs together. A low groan, muffled by the kiss, tore from her throat. He tipped his head back, his breath audibly fast. “My duchess,” he murmured.
His duchess. Tabitha panted for air and tried to regain her composure. She felt utterly undone by his attention, and everything inside her was hot and ached with need. If Tabitha had not stood before a crowd of people, she might have reached between her legs right then and soothed the growing ache, but she could not. Any reprieve would have to wait.
“We have the party next,” he murmured.
Tabitha smiled, but her thoughts lingered on the wedding night. Would it hurt? Would he know that he needed to be slow so as not to hurt her, and if so, would he be? Tabitha did not imagine him purposefully hurting her, but the activities of the marriage bed were still something of a mystery to her. Even if she knew something of what such activities entailed, she still had no clear idea of how those ideas all worked in practice.
“Shall we?” her groom asked, offering his arm.
“Indeed,” she replied.
His shoulder brushed against hers, and Tabitha felt a shiver of delight. There would be a party to celebrate the wedding, which would take some time. But after that party was at an end, they would go to the wedding night, and Tabitha would discover something exciting and new. Her thighs quivered with the thought of what might happen in the future and all its possibilities. She and His Grace left the altar and walked through the church amidst the cheers and well wishes.
“I hope you are pleased with yourself, Your Grace,” His Grace murmured. “You are a duchess now, the envy of so many.”
Tabitha glanced at him, her attention lingering on his bright, enchanting eyes. Indeed, she was to be the envy of many. She was his wife now, the Duchess of Hillsburgh. The wedding night was fast approaching, and Tabitha’s heart raced. Heat curled inside her, fierce and enduring.
Chapter 8
The wedding reception was a blur of sounds and faces, and it took all Matthew’s strength of will not to compare it to his wedding reception with Rosemary all those years ago. He remembered that with sharp and sometimes disturbing clarity. Once they returned to the townhouse, his shoulders tensed. He had done it. He had wed Lady Tabitha—no, Her Grace. His duchess, Tabitha.
Tabitha. He did not want to call the young woman Your Grace or My Lady, even teasingly. That would be too much. It would be like he was replacing Rosemary with this new, younger duchess, and even though he had relented to his mother’s wishes, he had no desire to ever supplant Rosemary with another.
“Where is my room?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Adjoined to mine, but for the first few nights, I imagine we will both sleep in my room.. This way.”
Matthew led her upstairs and to his—their—bedroom. He swept open the door and waved her inwards. She entered slowly, her wide grey eyes taking in the expanse of their bedroom.
“This is it, then,” he said.
How romantic, he thought dryly.
Tabitha did not seem to notice, though. “It is lovely.”
“Yes.”
Matthew stared silently at her as she approached the bed and stared at it for a long time. “Are you going to leave for me to ready myself?” she asked.
The tension in the air was so thick that it seemed to Matthew nearly as if it were a physical thing, something that could be cut with a blade. He turned his back to her. “This will be sufficient.”
It seemed ridiculous to think of her modesty, anyway, given that he was about to see all of her entirely naked. The last time he had engaged in these activities had been with Rosemary. His heart ached, at odds with the heated desire curling in his loins.
He wanted Tabitha. He wanted to sheathe himself inside her and feel the hot, dampness of her maiden walls pressing against him, but when he thought of being intimate with Tabitha, his thoughts always returned to Rosemary.
He heard the rustle of clothing behind him as Tabitha quietly undressed. His body responded, his member hardening inside his trousers. He felt his pulse jump in anticipation. Would she be clad in her chemise and stockings when he turned around? Or would she remove everything and stand entirely nude before him? Either option sent a fissure of excitement through him, awakening all those dormant impulses at once. He felt as if she and Rosemary were the only two things that mattered in the entire world—
“I am ready,” she said.
He turned around. It was neither of the fantasies he had imagined. Instead, she stood in a nightgown, her slender body entirely concealed by the mass of fabric. Matthew’s fingers itched to tear the garment away and reveal all her soft, supple flesh to his hungry eyes.
“I see,” he said, keeping his voice level.
