Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

K enneth lay in his bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, his mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. The silence of the room was broken only by the occasional crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.

His eyes flicked towards the door that connected his chamber to Beatrice's, the temptation gnawing at him.

I shouldn't. It's better this way.

But the memory of her touch, her scent, and the way she looked at him kept pulling him back.

Damn it, Kenneth, have some control.

He rolled onto his side, exhaling sharply.

But why not? She wants you. You want her. Why pretend otherwise?

He clenched his jaw, trying to push away the images of her from earlier that day, the way her gown had hugged her curves, the fire in her eyes when they argued.

It's just physical. That's all it is. Don't complicate it.

Suddenly, the door to his chamber creaked open.

Kenneth bolted upright, his eyes widening as Beatrice stepped inside.

"Duchess?" he breathed as she closed the door behind her with a determined look on her face.

"Enough games," she said, her voice steady and resolute. "We both know we desire each other. And before you get any silly ideas that I'm fawning over you, let me clarify—it's purely physical. We should… help each other with this frustration."

Kenneth stared at her, stunned by her boldness.

She's serious.

He rose from the bed, his eyes locked on hers. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Beatrice."

She took a step closer, her chin held high.

"I am absolutely certain," she replied, her voice unwavering.

She untied her dressing gown and stood before him naked, glorious as an alabaster statue. Her breasts were perfectly sculpted mounds. The soft moonlight cascaded over her flawless skin, accentuating every curve and contour of her body. Her slender waist led down to hips that swayed with an enticing grace.

His whole body tensed, and his manhood hardened instantly at the sight of her delicious body.

As her dressing gown fell to the floor, the room seemed to hold its breath in awe of her beauty. Her luscious locks fell down her shoulders, framing a face that radiated both innocence and desire. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glimmer, inviting him into a world of forbidden pleasures.

Kenneth clenched his jaw, wrestling with the urge to take her into his arms.

She's right. This is what we both want.

He closed the distance between them, his eyes dark with intent.

"All right," he said, his voice a low growl. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Beatrice met his gaze, a spark of challenge in her eyes. "I won't."

Somehow, he became even harder at her words. The effect she had on him just by talking…

"I have thought of taking you since the moment I laid eyes on you," he whispered.

With a swift movement, he pulled her to him, his lips crashing down on hers, the tension between them igniting into a fierce, consuming kiss.

All the arguments, the doubts, and the reasons why they shouldn't do this melted away, leaving only the raw, undeniable desire that had been simmering between them from the start.

He pressed his lips to hers, coaxing and demanding a response. And she yielded to him. He wanted her. And it was no secret that she wanted him too. He felt a shudder run through her.

He slid his hands down over her bottom and pulled her hard against him, so she could feel his arousal.

Then his hands moved down her belly to the place between her legs. He slowly kneeled before her, and then his mouth replaced his hands.

Beatrice arched her back, and he added his thumb, increasing her pleasure. His tongue flicked over her folds, and he could feel her losing control.

She whimpered and bucked against him. "I want you, Kenneth."

His hand stilled.

"Do you now?" he asked with a smirk.

"Y-yes," she breathed out, her eyes the darkest he'd ever seen them.

Oh , he was going to enjoy this.

"You've done nothing but tempt me," he whispered. "You're going to have to ask for it. Beg for it."

"B-beg?"

"Yes."

"Please," she whispered.

He stood up and took her chin in his hand. "Come on, darling. You can do better than that."

"Please," she repeated, her breath shaky.

His member twitched in his trousers, her plea stirring him even further. Although he needed her, this little game, this final little game was too delicious to interrupt.

"Please what?"

Beatrice's breath hitched. "Please, Kenneth," she said, the words barely audible. "I want you."

He released a growl of satisfaction; that was exactly what he wanted.

Then, he slowly resumed his ministrations.

"Good girl," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "That's all you had to say."

He laid her down on the bed, climbed over her, and nudged her legs apart. Her fingers dug into his back, but he didn't stop.

He slowly moved inside her, allowing the heat to intensify between them. With each deliberate thrust, they moaned. The scent of their desire hung heavy in the air.

When Beatrice's movements grew more urgent, he stopped.

"Not so quick," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.

Kenneth lowered his mouth to hers, and she writhed beneath him. He moved down and took her nipple in his mouth. She arched her back, pushing her breasts up. Kenneth swirled his tongue around her nipple while he caressed her other breast. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown back as she surrendered to his touch.

Slowly, he began to move again, thrusting hard and deep. Beatrice ground her hips against him, and she clutched at his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin as his thrusts quickened, bringing her closer to the precipice.

When he slowed his thrusts once more, Beatrice let out a whimper of protest. "Please, Kenneth."

"Do you want more?" Kenneth growled. He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her.

"Yes. God, yes," Beatrice breathed. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Please, Kenneth."

Kenneth plunged into her once more, and his rhythm became unrelenting. His groans punctuated each thrust. When she cried out his name, he lowered his hand and rubbed her swollen bud. Beatrice let out a cry.

Unable to control himself any longer, he gave one final powerful thrust and climaxed, waves of ecstasy surging through him.

The room was filled with the intoxicating scent of their desire and the sound of their heavy breathing. Beads of sweat glistened on their foreheads as they surrendered to the overwhelming sensations coursing through their veins.

When their breathing had slowed, Kenneth collapsed next to her. He turned to her, his eyes softening as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice tender.

Beatrice nodded, a serene smile playing on her lips. "Yes, I'm more than all right," she replied, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on his chest.

He leaned in. "Good," he murmured, his lips lingering against her skin. "You are extraordinary, Beatrice."

She looked up at him, her heart swelling at his words. "And you, Kenneth, are not as brutish as you pretend to be."

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Don't let that get around," he said, his tone light and teasing. "I have a reputation to maintain."

Beatrice laughed, the sound like a soothing balm to the tension that had always seemed to hang between them.

"Your secret is safe with me," she promised.

Kenneth pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, savoring the sweetness of her response.

After he pulled away, Beatrice hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching his, and then pulled back slightly.

"I should go back to my room," she murmured softly, her voice trembling.

Kenneth gripped her hand softly and squeezed as excitement simmered inside him once again.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere, my dear," he said, his voice firmer, his grip on her tightening slightly. "I'm not done with you yet."

Beatrice slowly awakened the next morning. She lay awake with her eyes closed against the sunlight that was peeking through the curtains.

She stretched languidly and reached over to touch Kenneth, only to find the space beside her empty.

She finally opened her eyes, disoriented and unable to remember how she had ended up in her bed. The memories of the previous night flooded back in a rush, and her cheeks flushed with the recollection. She must have fallen asleep in Kenneth's arms, and he had carried her back to her bed.

Her maid, Anna, stood by the window, pulling back the curtains to let in the late morning sun.

"Good morning, Your Grace," she said, placing a breakfast tray on the table next to her bed. "I've been trying to wake you up for some time now, but you seemed quite determined to sleep in. It's almost lunchtime."

Beatrice sat up quickly, the covers falling away as she realized how late it was.

"Oh no, Lady Bernmere!" she exclaimed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

Anna smiled at her reassuringly. "The Dowager Marchioness left early this morning. She didn't wish to disturb you or His Grace. She asked the servants to convey her gratitude for hosting her."

Beatrice sighed in relief though she felt a pang of guilt for not seeing Lady Bernmere off. "Do you know where the Duke is?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

"His Grace left for the village of Dunford early this morning to meet with the tenants and see to some estate matters," Anna replied as she helped her out of bed and began to prepare her for the day.

Beatrice nodded. The events of the previous night had left her with a whirlwind of emotions, and she wasn't sure how to face Kenneth just yet.

As Anna helped her dress, Beatrice remembered the commission from the Dowager Duchess of Newden.

"I need to spend some time in the morning room," she said, choosing her words carefully. "There's something I must attend to."

Anna smiled and nodded. "Of course, Your Grace. Shall I bring your breakfast there?"

"No, thank you, Anna. I'll eat here and then head to the morning room," Beatrice replied, taking a deep breath.

She quickly ate her breakfast, feeling the urgency of the work ahead.

Once she was dressed, Beatrice made her way to the morning room. The room was bathed in light, the sea visible through the large windows, and she felt a sense of calm wash over her. She quickly changed into a plain dress, one that she wouldn't mind getting paint on.

Approaching her easel, she felt her fingers itch to create, to lose herself in the world of art where everything made sense. She stared at the canvas she had started, her mind racing with images and shades. Taking a deep breath, she dipped her brush into the paint and began to work, the outline of the cliffs taking shape under her skilled hand.

A few hours later, Beatrice was deeply absorbed in her painting when a gentle knock on the door broke her concentration.

Mrs. Whitfield entered the room, her expression slightly anxious. "Your Grace, there is a visitor. His Grace isn't here to receive him," she informed her.

Beatrice blinked, the transition from her world of art to reality feeling abrupt. "A visitor? Who is it?"

"Robert Boydell, Viscount Eastfold," Mrs. Whitfield replied. "I will help you clean up and change into a clean gown."

Beatrice nodded, feeling a rush of nerves. She quickly washed the paint from her hands and face while Mrs. Whitfield fetched her a suitable dress. Once she was presentable, Beatrice followed the housekeeper to the parlor.

As she entered, Lord Eastfold rose to greet her. He was a distinguished-looking man with a friendly demeanor and an eloquent manner that immediately put her at ease.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly and kissing her hand after the introductions, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Lord Eastfold," Beatrice replied with a smile. She rang for tea and then turned back to him. "I apologize for my husband's absence. I wasn't aware that you'd be visiting."

"Please, no need to apologize," Lord Eastfold said, waving a hand dismissively. "I did send a note to His Grace, but I must admit I arrived a bit earlier than planned. I should be the one apologizing for the inconvenience."

Beatrice smiled warmly. "Not at all. It's a pleasure to have company. Are you friends with the Duke?"

Lord Eastfold chuckled. "We're more like business associates, actually. I help him with the curation of his art collection."

Beatrice's eyes lit up at the mention of art. "An art dealer? How fascinating! I've always had a keen interest in art myself."

"Is that so?" Lord Eastfold asked, clearly delighted. "His Grace has excellent taste, and it's been a pleasure to assist him in building his collection. Do you have a favorite artist, Your Grace?"

Beatrice hesitated for a moment, thinking of her secret identity as Eric Westback. "I admire many artists," she began carefully, "but I'm particularly fond of Turner's landscapes. His use of the light is simply mesmerizing."

"Ah, Turner," Lord Eastfold said with an appreciative nod. "A master of his craft, indeed. His ability to capture the essence of a scene is unparalleled. But tell me, have you heard of Eric Westback? He's an up-and-coming artist with a style similar to Turner's that's been catching quite a bit of attention."

Beatrice felt a thrill of excitement at the mention of her pseudonym. "I have, actually. I've seen a few of his works. He's quite talented."

Lord Eastfold leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that made her uneasy. "Indeed. But don't you find it strange, Your Grace, that an artist of such caliber chooses to remain anonymous? It's quite rare in the art world, wouldn't you say?"

Beatrice's breath hitched, her heart beginning to race. "Perhaps he simply values his privacy," she suggested, trying to keep her tone casual. "Not every artist seeks fame or recognition. Some prefer to let their work speak for itself."

Eastfold's gaze sharpened, his smile taking on an edge that sent a chill down her spine. "Or perhaps he has something to hide. Anonymity can often be a cloak for less savory intentions, wouldn't you agree?"

Beatrice swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "I don't think that's necessarily true, My Lord. Many artists choose to remain anonymous for personal reasons, to avoid the distractions and the pressure from the public."

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. "Personal reasons? How intriguing. One has to wonder what sort of personal reasons would drive an artist to such lengths."

Beatrice's heart was pounding now, fear and anxiety twisting in her gut. She knew she had to tread carefully, to not let her investment in Westback's anonymity show.

"Westback's work stands on its own merit," she stated, her voice steady despite the churning of her stomach. "Why should it matter who he is? His art speaks for itself."

Eastfold's eyes narrowed, a calculating gleam in their depths. "But don't you see, Your Grace? The mystery is part of the allure. People are drawn to the unknown, to the idea that there's a secret to uncover. And I, for one, am determined to uncover it."

Beatrice felt a chill run through her, a sense of foreboding that settled heavily in her bones. If Eastfold was truly intent on discovering Westback's identity, it could spell disaster for her carefully guarded secret.

"But why?" she asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. "Why are you so determined to uncover his identity? What does it matter?"

Eastfold leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Because, Your Grace, knowledge is power. And in the art world, power is everything. Imagine the prestige, the influence that would come with being the one to unmask the great Eric Westback."

Bile rose to Beatrice's throat. She knew all too well the value of secrets in their society, the way they could be bought and sold and used as weapons.

Lord Eastfold sat back, his demeanor shifting back to one of polite interest. "But enough about that. Tell me, what did you think of Westback's latest piece? The one with the stormy sea and the golden light breaking through the clouds?"

Beatrice forced a smile, trying to calm the racing of her heart. "It was stunning," she replied, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "The use of light was masterful. The emotion it evokes is… powerful."

As Eastfold launched into a detailed analysis of the painting, Beatrice barely heard him. Her mind was racing, scenarios of exposure and ruin playing in her head.

The footman entered with the tea, and Beatrice poured a cup for each of them. As they sipped their tea, they continued their animated conversation about art, discussing various artists, techniques, and the latest trends in the art world.

Lord Eastfold leaned in slightly, his expression earnest. "It's rare to find someone who shares such a deep appreciation for art. His Grace is fortunate to have a wife with such refined taste."

Beatrice blushed at the compliment. "Thank you, My Lord. It's a passion of mine, one that I hope to indulge in more now that I'm here at Dunford."

"I have no doubt you will," he said warmly. "And if you ever wish to see some pieces I've acquired, I would be delighted to show you. Perhaps we could arrange a visit to my gallery in London."

Beatrice's eyes sparkled with interest. "I would love that. Thank you for?—"

The door to the parlor opened abruptly, and Kenneth strode in, his expression cool and collected.

"Where exactly were you planning on taking my wife?" he asked, his tone deceptively calm.