Chapter 21

"It is your choice," William murmured, battling every roaring impulse to kiss her, pleasure her, satisfy her, until she vowed never to disobey again. "If you can ignore my slight oversight in wording and understand what I actually meant, so can I. If you cannot, I think it only fair that I should not either."

Although he wanted her to follow his rules, there was a considerable part of him that felt like it might burst apart at the seams if she decided to ignore the accidentally ambiguous wording. Not that he really thought she believed the wording was ambiguous—she had known exactly what he meant, just as he did.

"I…" Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes shining with a hunger that fed his own. Her gaze flicked to his lips and back up to his eyes, fighting her own battle within.

"It is your choice," he repeated, gripping the velvet of the squabs to resist gripping her supple flesh, so close to his fingertips.

Her hand covered one of his, her bosom heaving with the strain of the decision before her.

But it was the driver and the arrival of her carriage that halted her contemplation, the sound of the carriage wheels on the driveway seeming to startle her out of the trance she had been in. William could have cursed, but that would have given him away.

She shuffled as far back against the squabs as she could and shook her head, giving him the answer that he had been dreading. Then again, it was probably for the best, considering their location. It would not have served either of them well if they had been spotted doing what William had hoped to do, and even if they were not seen, her cries of bliss would not have gone unheard.

"Very well," he said, returning to his side of the carriage. "In that case, you broke my rule this evening. You danced with another in public. For that, you may expect a severe punishment."

She gripped the edge of the squabs, just as he had done. "You will not hurt me, will you?"

"I am not a brute, Lydia," he replied, offended. "Your punishment shall match the crime."

She seemed puzzled by that. "Are you going to make me dance with you until I cannot dance anymore? Are you going to make me watch while you dance with another lady?" She paused, smiling in a way that confused him. "I have it on good authority that that can be more of a… titillation than a punishment."

What?

Who had taught her to think and speak that way? He did not know, nor did he know why he enjoyed it so much. Ladies had flirted with him before, but only she seemed capable of getting under his skin.

"And this is why I do not like the company you keep," William said, feigning a tut. "They are corrupting such an innocent young lady."

She met his gaze with more of her former ferocity. "No, Wolfie, I believe that was you."

He could not help but smile, wondering if she was imagining the way his fingertips had strummed her secret bud like the most delicate instrument, wondering if she was picturing him pressing against her in her bed, peeling away the bedlinens to more than fulfill his duties as a husband. Of course, she had stopped him, but he liked to think she had imagined it proceeding.

Unless she does not know?

It was a possibility, for though mothers and married sisters would usually take it upon themselves to inform a new bride of what she might expect, they did not always.

As he considered what knowledge she might and might not have, the driver pulled away from Bruxton Hall, with Lydia's loaded carriage following behind. Indeed, it begged the question of where, exactly, he intended to take his wife. Back to London or back to Stonebridge?

He banged on the side of the carriage and called out, "To Stonebridge."

"Aye, Your Grace," the driver called back as Lydia looked on in dismay.

Lydia watched Will as he slept, propped up in the corner of the carriage, appalled that he could simply doze away the hours after the indignity he had wrought upon her, not caring one bit about all of the explaining she would have to do when she saw her sister and her friends again. If she had not been so furious with him, she might have found his ability to fall asleep in an instant rather impressive. At present, she was more envious of the talent.

No, I shall not let him win by having a good rest either.

Gathering her courage, she kicked him in the shin.

He awoke with a start, cursing under his breath as he reached down and started rubbing the injured spot. "Did you just kick me?" he asked, grimacing.

"I was having a nightmare," she replied, her voice saccharine sweet. "I must have done it by accident."

He arched an eyebrow. "If you say so. I do not believe you, but if you say so."

Now that she had his attention, after simmering in silence for several hours, she was not going to waste the opportunity. "I thought you ought to know that I will accept my punishment, but first I shall say my piece. I might have broken a rule, according to you, but you have broken your promise to me."

"In what way?" He continued to rub his shin, his eyes fixed on her.

"You promised me freedom, but I do not feel free," she replied, her tone serious. "You marched me out of Bruxton Hall in a most unseemly fashion, you have informed me that you do not like my friends with a thinly veiled suggestion that I keep my distance, you are now dictating where I may go and when, and I am certain that when this month is over, you will return to your old ways, and I will be left humiliated and… lonely."

As she spoke, she realized that she meant it. Perhaps that was why her tone came out colder than she had intended.

He stopped rubbing the spot that would probably bruise. "Why would you be humiliated and lonely?"

"Because vows were taken, Will," she said tersely. "Vows that I take seriously. A husband and wife are supposed to be loyal to one another. Infidelity is a… blight upon the very institution of marriage, and while there are undoubtedly countless couples out there who do as they please and do not mind—goodness, perhaps it makes their marriage better, I do not know—I am not someone who is capable of that."

He sat back and peered at her as if she were speaking an obscure dialect of French that he could not understand. "But that is where freedom lies. You are free to find what I cannot give."

"You say that," she replied, her nerves jangling, "yet you have chosen to hate your mother for believing that very same thing. I do not know if the rumors about her are true or not, but you seem to believe them, and if that is so, why damn her for the thing you have just called freedom? Why damn her for doing the same thing that you want to?"

For a fleeting second, she saw his unflappable exterior crack. His eyes widened slightly and glazed over, his mouth going slack, a soft breath hissing out of the back of his throat as if she had winded him. But he recovered quickly, shaking it off as he put on a cold smile.

"It is different when one side is loyal and the other is not," he replied.

"And that is precisely my point," she shot back, rather pleased that he had tumbled headlong into her trap. "I do not want a disloyal, philandering husband. I did not agree to that. I do not want to be the lady that everyone whispers about behind their fans."

She affected a high-pitched voice. "Oh, is it not awful that the Duchess must share her husband with leagues of women? Oh, what a poor creature. Oh, how do you think she bears it? Oh, I am so glad that my husband is faithful." To her unease, the mere thought of being the source of nasty gossip sent shudders through her. "They will mock and pity me, and I cannot stand either."

The carriage hit a rut at that moment, jolting her sideways. Will looked like he was about to lunge to help her, but as the carriage steadied itself, he sat back, leaving her strangely disappointed.

"But you did not want me as a husband either, and you have overcome that," he said with a faint note of uncertainty in his voice. "You will overcome your shyness about lovers too."

She groaned, throwing her hands up. "How many ways must I say it? I do not want a disloyal husband! I do not want to take lovers! I do not want to be left in a distant estate while my husband does whatever he pleases with whomever he pleases, hopelessly waiting for him to come home! It goes against everything I believe in and have always believed in." Her opportunity was racing toward her though not quite in the way she had anticipated. "That is why I think it would be best if we?—"

His lips silenced her in a fierce, fiery press. His arm wrapped around her, pulling her to him while his other hand braced against the squabs.

She should have pushed him away, she should have kicked him in the shin again, she should have insisted on finishing what she had to say while she had the chance… but that graze of his mouth on hers chased away all reason and sense.

In an instant, she was kissing him back with equal fervor, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. She ran her fingertips through his silky dark hair, smoothed her palms over his stone-hard chest, and gripped his lapels, all the while crushing her mouth to his in a frantic, desperate kiss.

Heat smoldered in her belly, embers pulsing up into her chest, setting her lungs ablaze as she gasped down shallow breaths. She did not care about her rule, she did not care about his rules, she did not care about anything but kissing him, holding him, seeing what more he had to offer her.

He seemed to share in her eager abandon as his lips drew away from hers, trailing searing kisses down the curve of her neck, the column of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone, and across the straining rise and fall of her chest.

Each one tingled on her skin, igniting trails of a delicious sensation that could only be described as friction through her veins. The tingling trails converged in her chest and cascaded down into her belly and beyond, the promise of pleasure sparking a rush of heat between her thighs.

Groaning in the back of his throat, he drew his tongue up the valley between her breasts. "I would taste this sweet flesh," he murmured, "but I cannot bring myself to ruin such a gown as this."

His hand smoothed over the rise of her bosom, caressing her through her dress. "I cannot even disturb this neckline, lest I rip it."

He kissed the swell of her breast and sat back on his haunches, kneeling before her on the carriage floor. Holding her gaze, he trailed his fingertips from where his tongue had been, to her abdomen and her thighs.

With a wicked smile, he reached her ankle.

Slowly, he began to draw his hand back up. It took her a second to realize that his hand was no longer above her skirts but beneath them, his touch running up the back of her calf until his hand closed around her thigh. A gentle grip. A reminder of past moments. An invitation to tell him to stop if she so wished.

When she did not, he pushed her skirts higher, all the way to her hips.

Before she could ask what he was doing, though she had a sneaking suspicion thanks to one of her banned books, he bent his head and kissed the milky skin of her thigh.

It was quite something to see him kneeling and bent over her like that, but although it should have felt like she was the one with all the power, she knew that he had it all in his possession. She was at his mercy, and she would not have wanted to be anywhere else.

"Oh…" she gasped as his tongue moved along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, his hand sliding across the top.

She had read of things like this, but as his tongue flicked against that sensitive, hidden pearl, what she knew from her books came to a sudden and incendiary end. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced or imagined, every nerve in her body suddenly alert, every part of her attuned and impatient to feel the next strike of his tongue.

When it came, she was not even remotely prepared.

Her breath hitched, her neck arching, her hands gripping the edge of the velvet squabs as he tasted her again—a slow, teasing stroke this time, as if he were truly savoring her. Meanwhile, his hands explored, grasping and caressing the supple flesh of her thighs, her hips, her backside, holding her as she began to tremble.

He must have known the effect he was having on her as she began to gasp and moan, responding eagerly to every roll of that gifted tongue, as skilled at repartee as it was at… whatever this glorious thing was.

Soon enough, she felt that familiar sensation rising within her, building higher and higher to the command of his tongue and touch. But it was not quite like what she had experienced before, when he had strummed and circled that swollen bud. It was far greater, rising up to higher heights, transporting her further and further into that mysterious realm of pleasure.

"Oh, Will!" she cried out, feeling it racing toward her. "Yes, my wolf. Yes…"

That euphoric wave was seconds from crashing over her when he suddenly drew his tongue away and turned his head to press a kiss to the inside of her thighs.

Slowly, with a cunning smile, he eased her skirts back down over her legs, adjusting them so they were exactly as they had been before he had begun his thrilling endeavor.

"But… I… What did…" Lydia fumbled for any words that might string a sentence together, her mind still dazed.

Will got up and sat back down on the opposite squabs, drawing his thumb across his lower lip.

"I… do not understand," she finally rasped.

He sighed and closed his eyes, grinning as he said, "Consider yourself pardoned."