The Widow and Her Duke: The Grand Hotel: Book One Page 6

  Alas, she was no longer a girl of sixteen. She was thirty-five, and to all intents and purposes a woman of sound mind and good sense. But the sheer strength of the excitement that ran through her, that still made her quiver despite Richard’s absence, made her feel like a green girl all over again.

  She had missed this feeling. This sweet, sensuous intoxication that was meant to be every woman’s introduction to romantic life. Thanks to a loveless marriage and a social role she had been forced to fit, she had lost a piece of emotional education that only now she could recognise as valuable beyond measure.

  A single tear slid down her cheek, dampening the rug as it splashed downward. Too late to cry now, far too late, but her body didn’t know that. Grief suddenly filled her; she held a hand to her brow, stifling the rush of new tears that threatened to fall.

  ‘Come on.’ She whispered stiffly to herself. ‘Too late now, old girl.’

  Martha’s quick, practical knock sounded on the door. Serafine sniffed, all self-indulgent urges towards grief abruptly extinguished. ‘Come.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Martha bustled in, a newspaper in her hand. ‘Forgive the late hour of my arrival—but then, you haven’t rung. I decided to come anyway, but later—I know how much you enjoy reading the Mayfair Herald before beginning the day. But–but goodness, are you well?’

  ‘Well? Of course I’m well.’

  ‘But your eyes, ma’am. They’re red.’ Martha’s face filled with concern; Serafine half-turned, desperate to remain unobserved. ‘Oh, Lord, has something happened?’

  ‘Happened?’

  ‘A death, or an illness?’ Martha clutched her hands together, her lips already silently mouthing one of her usual stock of prayers. ‘Oh Lord preserve us, preserve us in your infinite–’

  ‘Absolutely nothing has happened, and I’ll thank you to stop.’ Serafine often tried to be patient with Martha, but her voice came out much more harshly than she intended. ‘You do fuss.’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am.’ Martha pursed her lips. ‘I was merely trying to help.’

  ‘I know. But nothing has happened, nothing will happen, and any prayers supporting that won’t change that essential fact despite the consideration involved in saying them.’

  ‘You—you seem quite short, ma’am, if you forgive me saying so.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can forgive such a remark.’

  ‘Well… you’ll have to.’

  There it was again, that latent danger lingering in Martha’s voice. As if Serafine had poked a cat with a stick, only to see it was in fact a lion. Despite the bright sunlight streaming onto the Turkish rug, the room suddenly felt darker.

  Why do I do this to myself? Serafine tried to glare at Martha, but a part of her was simply too frightened to do so. Why do I let her take all my power away?

  Was it because she felt guilty for not loving Peter? For not wanting to be a good widow after so many stultifying years of being a good wife?

  ‘You seem out of sorts, ma’am. Melancholy, as I said–and your eyes still look red.’ Martha stepped forward, looking narrowly at her; despite herself, Serafine shrank back. ‘This place isn’t good for you. Not for your body, not for your soul. And if you refuse to listen to my sound advice, then on your own head be it.’

  ‘Martha, I–’

  ‘I’m going now. I know where I’m not wanted.’ Martha’s sullen tone acquired a sharper edge. ‘I pray for the day we’re back home, and you remember who you are.’

  Before Serafine could respond to such an outrageous provocation, the maid turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Serafine sat rooted in her chair, staring at the door with a hammering heart, before holding a hand to her brow with a slow, shuddering sigh.

  She couldn’t think the worst of people. She had never been that sort of person, and any temptation to become one had been thoroughly extinguished by her late husband’s suspicions about every person who had business dealings with him. After living with such sly cunning, choosing to think the best of someone felt like a much nobler path–but when it came to Martha, the practice was infinitely more difficult than usual.

  The woman was tired, in unusual surroundings and out of sorts. There was room for forgiveness there. But–but her manner! Her defiance, her anger that burst forth whenever she spoke…

  No. She couldn’t think about it. Not now, when the tangled threads of her scandalous plans needed to be gathered into order once again.

  She had already done the most difficult part of the work. Now that she had done something truly scandalous, doing the same thing with a decidedly lower-stakes target would be easy. More straightforward, at least–and much less likely to leave her in a confused, muddled state, like the one she was currently navigating.

  Looking at the bell for the servants’ hall with a shiver of horror, she began to dress. It took much longer than usual with the absence of a maid, and the newest of her gowns had to do plenty of work to conceal her lack of a proper corset–but finally, looking at herself in the mirror with flushed cheeks and a triumphant nod, she had to admit she’d done it.

  The gold gown with puffed sleeves was far too intimidating, even for a coffee house, but the peach became her very well. Serafine shyly adjusted her shoulder gauze, wondering if a shawl would be sensible.

  No. She would have to be brave. Bare collarbones were hardly the last word in scandal, but they would have to do.

  A cool, sunlit wind blew against her face as she stepped out into the street, nodding cautiously to the liveried doorman. The street was much more bustling than usual, or so it seemed; flower stalls and meat pie sellers jostled for space amidst well-dressed ladies and gentlemen diving into chop-houses and haberdashers, the air scented with a delirious mixture of hyacinths, roasting meat and freshly-ground coffee.

  Coffee. The coffee-house stood across the street, packed with raucously laughing people both inside and out. Serafine stood awkwardly beside the mock orange trees at the entrance to the hotel, trying to summon up the courage to walk across the bustling road and simply walk inside.

  She had already done it once, after all. But she couldn’t think about that–about him. Not now. She had turned him away after all, despite his fine words, despite that warm, passionate glint in his eye that seemed to promise so much more than his rakish reputation…

  Enough. Walking into a coffee house and anonymously choosing a conquest would be the easiest thing in the world.

  If only her hands would stop shaking, though. And if only she could fight the persistent drumbeat of thoughts in her head that said, in no uncertain terms, that this was a ridiculous idea. Thoughts that had been mysteriously absent when the Duke of Wenford was concerned, but had arrived in full force for this arguably much more innocent affair.

  Biting her lip, she crossed the street. Narrowly missing a ray of buns as they dropped into the road, nodding distractedly at a woman selling heather and avoiding two respectable-looking ladies standing outside a glove maker’s shop, she finally finished beneath the green and white striped awning of the coffee-house.

  Clenching her fists, trying not to appear too nervous, she peered through the smeared glass. The mass of people packed around the dark wooden tables felt impenetrable, a crush that no outside element could hope to loosen. But as her eyes adjusted to the dark, smoky interior, vague shapes became detailed. Women laughing, lolling on chairs, their bonnet-ribbons loosened… and men. Lots of men.

  Quantity, at least, would not present a problem. Quality was another matter. None of the gentlemen she saw had quite the same dashing air, the same swaggering handsomeness, as the man who had invited himself into her bed the night before.

  Apart from the man in the corner. The tall, dark-haired man who appeared to stiffen at the sight of her silhouette, rising from his stool as he stared.

  It couldn’t be. Oh, Lord, it couldn’t be. A fluttering hint of panic rose to Serafine’s throat, accompanied by a much larger wave of excitement.

  He was comin
g out. What would he do with her? And why, despite her spirited independence mere hours before, did she feel so profoundly relieved at the sight of Richard Oaks?

  Richard pushed open the door with barely-concealed violence. He strode over to her, not noticing the excited flutter of flirtatious sighs that came from a group of nearby women. Serafine forced herself to hold her head high, her dress suddenly feeling impossibly constrictive.

  ‘I’m not dreaming. It is you.’ Richard’s firm, clipped tone sent unwelcome sparks through her. ‘You, going into a coffee house, for all the world as if it’s a fine idea.’

  ‘And I don’t appear to be dreaming either. It is you. You, standing in front of me, casting aspersions on my behaviour for all the world as if you were my father.’

  ‘For a moment I was sure I’d imagined you. Of all the—Christ, it doesn’t matter.’ Richard shook his head, sighing with a world-weariness that irritated Serafine almost as much as his sheer proximity did. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Whatever I like!’ Serafine stared at him defiantly, trying not to notice just how handsome he was without a cravat. She could see the broad, sun-touched line of his neck; memories of touching him assailed her, making it difficult to speak. ‘That was the arrangement!’

  ‘The arrangement, as I understand it, was for you to take pleasure without suffering the consequences. Here the consequences far outweigh the pleasure.’

  ‘The maid informed me that any woman could enter the coffee house under a false name and find any number of diversions.’

  ‘Any woman could! You can’t!’

  ‘And why can’t I?’ Serafine bit her lip, anger coursing through her like wildfire. ‘Tell me why I can’t, without sounding like the most petulant sort of child!’

  ‘I am no child. I am a man, as much as you would seek to deny it.’ Richard stepped closer, a hint of a growl lingering in his voice. ‘And you are not old, Serafine, however much you maintain that deception.’

  ‘You’re avoiding my question. Tell me why, in your esteemed opinion, I can’t enter that coffee-house and take my pleasure as I wish.’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to.’

  ‘Exactly as I thought.’ Serafine tried to bite back the sense of triumph that flooded her. She didn’t need his concern, his protection, and certainly hadn’t asked for it—so why did it feel so exquisite? ‘The reasoning of a child.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re not used to someone actually giving a damn about you, Serafine, but—’

  ‘What do you mean by that remark?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me what you meant.’

  ‘No. I’ve already made a great quantity of very detailed plans, and your unexpected arrival has thrown a large spanner into all of them.’

  ‘Then go back inside, attend to your detailed plans and allow me to seek unsupervised self-fulfilment in peace, if you would be so good!’

  ‘No. I won’t, you can’t make me and–and my plans concern you, you absolute goose.’

  ‘I am the furthest thing from a goose you’ve ever met, and I’ll thank you to remember it!’

  ‘Come with me. We’re going into the alley.’

  Serafine blinked. ‘Why are we going into the alley?’

  ‘Because if we keep arguing like this, and I have to stare at you in that divine dress and listen to your voice, I’m going to do something unspeakable to you in the middle of the street.’ Richard stepped closer, his voice a deliciously seductive growl that made Serafine’s core tighten. ‘Make your choice.’

  The idea of choice was ludicrous when faced with a man who aroused such sentiment. Such sweet, delirious energy that made her feel so desperately alive. Serafine, devoid of any words that could express the torrent in her, walked towards the small, dark alley to the left of the coffee house without reply.

  Richard quickly fell into step behind her. Serafine only had time to walk a few steps into the alley, the hubbub and noise of the street dwindling away to nothing, before his hands slipped around her waist.

  ‘Stand against the wall.’

  ‘I don’t have to obey your orders.’

  ‘If you don’t, you’ll have nothing to lean against. And you’ll need it.’

  Biting her lip, sordid visions from the previous night weakening her knees, Serafine obeyed. The cool, moss-scented brickwork hit her shoulders, her body surrendering to the moment with swift, startling pleasure as Richard pressed himself against her.

  They had only been apart for a matter of hours, but feeling his hands on her again felt like coming home after a long, long absence. Richard’s grip on her waist, his soft, ceaseless kisses to her forehead and cheeks, made her shiver with ecstasy that she had never believed possible.

  ‘If you can tell me that you don’t want this–don’t want me–with even a hint of honesty, I’ll go.’ Richard moved his hands upward, cupping Serafine’s breasts with the same fierce, pleasurable intensity that he had used in her bedroom. All Serafine could do was whimper, forcing down the tide of pleasure that came. ‘I mean it.’

  She couldn’t lie to him. She didn’t want to. Her independence, her plans, her careful march towards faceless sin–none of it felt important anymore. Not compared to Richard holding her, teasing her. Claiming her. ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘I know.’ His lips were on hers, his voice a hoarse, low mutter as he kissed her. ‘I know.’

  He knew. He seemed to know everything about her, her wants, her burdens–even the secret thoughts that she tried to keep hidden. If she allowed him this power, this privilege of knowing her… oh, her world would be so much lighter. Her crosses would be so much easier to bear.

  Not knowing how to say something so raw, so unmistakeably intimate, she kissed him as hard as she could. Kissed him with all the naked, open want she had allowed herself to display in the darkness of her bedroom. Richard’s startled gasp, his deep moan as he pushed her harder against the wall, was a more perfect reward than she ever could have hoped for.

  Yes. Let him run his hands over her body, her corset-free curves aching for his touch. Let him grip her skirts hard enough to rip the fabric—yes, let him lift her as he did now, her gown little more than useless froth as she wrapped her legs around him, drawing him closer, urging him to caress her wet, aching centre as she moaned softly against his chest.

  ‘The way I see it, Serafine, we have two choices.’ Richard gently, wickedly pressed against her, his hard member so teasingly close to her entrance that Serafine half-wondered if it were possible to die of lust. ‘I can take you here, against this wall–and we’d both enjoy it very much. It would certainly be a scandal, if anyone happened to see us. Or I can take you in my arms, carry you through the servant’s entrance to the Grand that’s conveniently located at the end of this alley, and take you to my suite. An infinitely larger scandal.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. Here would be a much larger scandal.’

  ‘Not if you consider the things we’ll do in my suite.’

  Serafine couldn’t help but laugh. The man really did always have an answer for everything–and he certainly didn’t give up. ‘Then I would have to choose the second option.’

  ‘Well done.’ With an easy, graceful movement of his arms, Richard gathered Serafine to his chest. Her feet left the ground, a dizzy feeling of agreeable weightlessness overcoming her as he arranged her to his liking. ‘There. Like a princess being rescued from a tower.’

  ‘I’m hardly the correct age for a princess, and this coffee house doesn’t count as a tower.’

  ‘True. I’ll pick a different fairytale.’ Richard moved towards the servants’ entrance to the Grand Hotel, its door half-open, the corridor agreeably unattended. ‘Little Red-Cap, lost in the dark woods… and taken by a wolf.’

  Thank God the vast majority of servants were either attending church or cleaning the rooms of the guests. Serafine hid her face all the same, finding it a delicious excuse to press her face to Richard’s broad chest
as he strode through the tangle of corridors that made up the servants’ quarters of the hotel, but there was less need for secrecy than she had imagined. Yes, there was the occasional startled cry or shadow at the end of the hallway, but nothing ever materialised into an open challenge.

  The only unusual part of the whole business–apart from being carried through a public place by a duke some years her junior–was the brief instant where the hotel’s maid, Sarah, walked out into the corridor. Richard halted, Serafine peeping through her hands at what was likely to be a disastrous meeting.

  Instead, with a swiftness and grace that could have put any dancer to shame, Sarah turned and walked straight back into the room from which she had emerged. Serafine could almost have sworn she saw a smile on the woman’s face as Richard began walking again, holding Serafine even more tightly.

  After a shorter time than she had predicted, with Richard’s arms giving no sign of weakening, she felt a light kiss on the top of her head. When she looked up, the door of the Regent’s Suite was in front of her.

  ‘As the Prince isn’t visiting, they gave it to me to use.’ Richard murmured in her ear, pausing to kiss her temple. ‘Rather good of them, no?’

  ‘It certainly won’t help with your delusions of grandeur.’

  ‘I’m a duke. They’re hardly delusions.’

  ‘You promised me infinite scandal inside this suite, and all we’re doing is talking outside of it.’

  ‘Be careful, Serafine. If you’re not careful I won’t bother closing the door.’

  ‘That’s meant to be rather thrilling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Under my nose all this time, and I never saw this side of you. I imagined it, but never saw it.’ Richard turned his head, kissing her softly as he spoke. ‘I’ve wasted ever so much time.’

  ‘You’re wasting time now.’

  ‘Time speaking to you is never wasted.’ Richard pushed open the door with his shoulder, Serafine laughing in his arms. ‘But for now, my only goal will be to keep you incapable of forming words.’