CHAPTER 42

A DUKE'S FUNERAL WAS always a complex, elaborate affair. Harold, always the conscientious planner, had left explicit instructions to follow for his funeral upon his demise. She appreciated the provisions, and Gabriel's help, for even with her husband's efficient arrangements, there was still much to decide.

The house needed to be prepared. Invitations to the funeral service needed to be sent to family and friends. And then hospitality had to be offered to those who attended the funeral. Gabriel took charge of preparing the duke's body, with the help of Harold's valet, and also helped her oversee the myriad other details that needed attention. He chose to stay at an inn, so as to not give cause for gossip, but visited every day. His presence a sturdy support upon which she could lean.

Before a week was out, half of London descended on the abbey for the service to be held at the estate's chapel. She could excuse herself from attending, since social conventions allowed widows to stay in seclusion. But she felt like she owed it to Harold to attend. Even if their love had not been a passionate one, she had profound respect and affection for her husband.

Unfortunately, attending the service also meant she had to sit in the front pew of the chapel, next to Neil Blackwell. As he was the only other close relative, that was the proper arrangement, and inevitable.

She tried to ignore him and concentrate on the words of the vicar, but it was difficult to do when she felt the ill will radiating from Blackwell.

There's nothing to fear , she reminded herself. Friends and family surrounded her. Gabriel was sitting just a few pews back. There was nothing Blackwell could do to her in this environment. She just had to make sure she remained around people and not allow him to catch her alone and away from others.

"You may fool all these people, but those widow's weeds don't fool me. I know inside you must be rejoicing, thinking that all your plans went so splendidly," he told her sotto voce.

She ignored the venomous comment. But he didn't stop there.

"Well, don't celebrate victory just yet. I plan to sue you for adultery. I have proof and witnesses that you were conducting an affair around the time you conceived. Expect to receive correspondence from my solicitors. I will have your whelp declared a bastard and claim my rightful title."

To any observing them, Blackwell's expression gave nothing away of the malice he spewed in a low voice, just for her ears. She had to fight to remain impassive while inside her chest, pain, fear, and fury were waging a terrible battle.

Her training came to her aid. Even if inside she was screaming and wishing Blackwell would leave, on the outside, her face never lost the somber but serene expression everyone expected of the Duchess of Stanhope.

She couldn't remember a word of the service or the burial after. At last, when they were about to retire to the house, she broke her silence.

"Do not come to the house. If you do, I'll have you thrown out like the vermin you are."

With that, she turned and preceded the guests into the coaches to return to the house and the refreshments arranged there.

GAbrIEL HAD TAKEN REFUGE in the nursery for the latter part of the funeral reception. He was not officially a mourner, so there was no reason for him to linger. Instead, he chose to spend some time with his son.

During the week he had spent coming and going, helping with the funeral arrangements, he had made it a habit to visit the nursery at least once a day. The nurse had been flustered the first time he had shown up in her domain, but he had explained that the duke had made him guardian of the child, and he wanted to check on his ward. The duchess had given her approval. If the young nurse found this strange, she kept her opinion to herself.

He treasured these moments. Moments that any other father could take for granted but were precious to him. And some days, the only thing that helped him deal with his sorrow over the duke's passing was holding his son in his arms. He had not expected to feel such a degree of grief and didn't know how to manage it. But while holding little Sam, he felt somewhat connected to the old man.

He had left the baby sleeping over an hour ago. Now, he hung back in the shadows, waiting for all the mourners to leave the house. There were so bloody many of them. He waited, impatient. Not for his sake, but for Hannah. She was exhausted. Hanging by a thread. Couldn't people see that? She was never less than beautiful, more dear to him than the blood in his veins, but the shadows under her red-rimmed eyes, her pale complexion, her stooping shoulders... They were signs of fatigue and grief that made him long to take her in his arms, carry her to the farthest bedchamber, lay her on a soft bed, and hold her until she fell asleep in his arms.

Quite a stir that would cause. So he waited, gritting his teeth, as the interminable line of people insisted on going on with parting words. She listened to all of them, accepting their condolences with grace. Never once showing by word or manner how at the end of her line she was. She would collapse before being any less than a gracious host. A perfect duchess.

At long last, the remaining mourners departed, and she turned, heaving a sigh. He walked out of the corner where he had been standing unobtrusively. Her gasp of surprise told him she had not been aware he had been there this whole time.

"Duchess." He bowed. "May I have a moment of your time?" he asked, coming to her.

"Ga—Brentworth. I-I didn't know you were still here." Her eyes darted around like those of a hunted creature. No doubt waiting for someone to jump out of the woodwork and overhear them.

"I couldn't leave without having a word with you. But now you are exhausted. You need to rest, Hannah."

"Shh. Don't call me by my given name here!" She looked around again. "Let's go to the drawing room. But I don't have much time. I need to go check on the baby. It's almost time..."

She trailed off, but he knew what she was about to say. It was almost time for the baby's feeding. He had ferreted out the information. It hadn't been difficult to do since it was the talk in the servants' quarters. The duchess was nursing the baby herself instead of using a wet nurse. It was almost unheard of among the aristocracy. She was such a wonderful mother, and he loved her all the more for that.

"I know. This won't take long."

He led her to the drawing room, where he had arranged for tea to be served. The tea arrived promptly, and when she made the move to serve it, he beat her to it.

"I will do the honors, if you'll permit me."

"It's a hostess's duty..."

"You've had enough duties for the day. Allow me."

It was a sign of how tired she was that she didn't protest more. He prepared her a cup, making sure it was the way she liked it, generous with the milk and one teaspoon of sugar. He then put a couple of sandwiches on a plate and brought them to her with the cup of tea.

She gave him a faint smile. "You spoil me."

"Someone needs to."

She took a sip of the bracing hot beverage, closed her eyes, and sighed in bliss. "Just the way I like it."

"I know."

"You are a man of many talents."

"You should know that already."

Her eyes opened slowly, and she smiled at him. A concession. "I do." As their gazes connected, something passed between them that they quickly suppressed. She took another sip, a larger one this time. "You wanted to speak to me?"

The words he needed to say were burning his throat, wanting to explode out of his chest. But this was not the time. She was fairly falling asleep, and he needed her awake and alert for this conversation. It was too important.

"It will keep. Finish your tea, then you should rest."

"Can't. Need to feed Sammy." But she obeyed and finished her tea while she nibbled the sandwich.

"I checked on little Sam about an hour ago. He was sleeping. He will be fine for a little while longer in the care of his nurse."

He stood and sat beside her on the sofa, threw an arm around her shoulders, and gathered her against his chest. "You should sleep too," he ordered.

"This is most improper," she protested, but he felt gratified that she didn't pull away.

"We are way past that."

"If someone comes in..."

"All the guests have left, and I ordered the servants to take a break themselves after bringing the tea. They must be exhausted as well. I don't expect anyone will interrupt us."

Her eyes were closing, and she burrowed deeper into his chest. So deep he fancied she could feel his heart whispering to her.

"In that case...maybe just for a bit. Five minutes, ten at most. I just need to rest my eyes."

"I know, love. Sleep. I'll wake you up in a little while."

She was asleep before he finished the sentence. When her breaths became deep and regular, he grabbed a large, down pillow from the sofa, placed it on his lap, and re-positioned her so that she was lying in a comfortable position. Contrary to what he had promised her, he had no intention of waking her up in a mere few minutes. She needed more time than that to recover.

However, not ten minutes later, much to his annoyance, the door opened. He put a finger to his lips to indicate silence, ready to glare at the servant who dared to disturb her. But it was his son's nurse. The young woman's gaze skipped fretfully between the duchess and him, unsure of what to do. He motioned for her to come closer.

When she was within whispering distance, he asked, "What is the matter?"

"The baby needs feeding, my lord," she replied in the hushed tones of one well used to the nursery and sleeping infants.

"Can you take care of it?"

She looked at the sleeping duchess, who had not even stirred during their conversation. A testament to how tired she was.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Yes, my lord. I could, of course. That's my job. But Her Grace likes to do it herself."

"She won't mind just this time." When the nurse looked unconvinced, he added, "As you can see, the duchess is indisposed right now. She is faint with exhaustion. Go feed the baby. I'll deal with the duchess."

The nurse bobbed a curtsy and left post haste.

There were no more interruptions after that, so he settled to watch her sleep, determined to protect her rest. After a few minutes, he realized how uncomfortable she must be in her corset. Should he loosen the laces a bit? Just to get her comfortable.

With practiced fingers, he undid the hooks of her gown and loosened the laces of her corset. She sighed and burrowed deeper into the pillow. He had done the right thing. She was at ease now.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. An hour perhaps? Time ceased to have meaning when he was with her. A light rain was falling outside, the droplets pelting the windowpanes with soft taps.

She woke with a sudden gasp, grabbing her chest and bolting to a sitting position. She looked so deliciously bewildered that he had to bite down a smile.

"How much did I sleep?" she asked, her arms still clutched to the front of her chest.

"About an hour, perhaps?"

"Oh no! Sammy—"

"Has been cared for. I ordered the nurse to feed him."

"You what?!"

Her expression was so struck that he felt a frisson of alarm. Had he done something wrong?

"You were fast asleep. And you needed your rest. The nurse said she could feed him."

"Well, yes. She could. But I needed to feed him myself." Her arms tightened over her chest as she whimpered and stood from the sofa.

Her behavior made no sense.

"Why, exactly, did it need to be you? I admire that you are nursing Sam yourself, but just for this once, couldn't you let the nurse take care of it?" A dark thought crossed his mind, and he bolted from the sofa. "Or is she not capable?" He marched towards the door. "If she is not taking good care of the babe—"

"Oh, stop! It's not that. I trust Maggie to take good care of my son. Otherwise, I wouldn't employ her."

He studied her. She was looking everywhere but at him while still clutching her chest.

"What is it then?"

She looked down, and just then noticed how loose her bodice was. Her gasp was loud while she tried to reach the back of her gown with one arm while still clutching her breasts with the other.

"What happened to my gown?"

"I loosened it so you could breathe better while you slept." He walked up to her, put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. "Hannah, what's the matter? I can't help you if I don't know."

She looked away mulishly, while high color flared on her cheeks. "Oh, blast it. This is so embarrassing."

"What is it? Tell me."

OH, THE MADDENING MAN . He would insist until he knew all her secrets. No matter how mortifying. And the worst part was, she might need his help. If what Maggie told her was true...

She closed her eyes as she searched for the words to explain. "The baby's feeding times and my body seem to be synchronized. My body produces milk in time to feed him at the appropriate times."

She peered at him, and he nodded his understanding. This was a feminine issue, and men were often uncomfortable discussing them, but he seemed genuinely interested. It encouraged her to keep talking.

"However, when I miss a feeding, the milk doesn't just disappear. It collects in my breasts, and it becomes...uncomfortable. Today, I've missed two consecutive feedings."

His focused gaze dropped to her chest, and she saw him make the connections. Thank goodness. She couldn't bring herself to explain her predicament.

"I see."

Gently, he reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the arm still clutching her leaking breasts. He looked at her, asking permission. This was Gabriel, she reminded herself. She could trust him. Her arm lowered, revealing her soaked bodice. She looked away. He didn't.

"Oh, my poor darling," he crooned. "Your breasts are so full they are overflowing. You must be very uncomfortable." And then in the same breath, "Come, I'll help you."

Still holding her hand, he walked first to the door, locked it, then went to the sofa, where he sat and tugged her to sit on his lap. He was lowering the sleeve of her gown before she could ask what he intended.

"Exactly what do you have in mind?" she hissed, tugging her sleeve back up.

He looked at her with an amused smile. "Sometimes we men can be very dense when it comes to womanly matters. But the problem here seems straightforward enough for even my male brain to comprehend. Your breasts need emptying; the baby is full." He shrugged. "I know how to suckle."

The matter-of-fact manner in which he explained it surprised a scandalized laugh out of her. This was the solution the nurse had recommended a few months ago when her baby was not pulling properly and her breasts had needed emptying. With a saucy wink, Maggie had explained that her husband sometimes helped to finish the job when she produced more milk than her little one could drink.

Of course, she could not have gone to the duke with such a request. So her breasts had become so full and painful she couldn't tolerate the brush of even her shift's fabric. But now here was Gabriel. Willing and able to perform the service. And she hadn't even had to ask. He had surmised the situation and offered with alacrity.

Did she dare? The idea still scandalized her a little. It seemed so...intimate. No more so than what she had already done with him! Besides, what was the other option? Let her breasts get painfully swollen? It had taken two days of warm compresses, gentle massages, and nursing her son to relieve her the last time.

While she hesitated, Gabriel had resumed lowering the sleeves of her gown, until her bodice lay pooled at her waist. Her breasts were now covered only by her chemise and the edge of the loosened corset. She should not feel embarrassed. Gabriel had seen, caressed, and loved every inch of her body already. Oh, but it had been so long ago. And her body had changed...

"May I?" he asked, toying with the string that held the neckline of her chemise.

At her brusque nod, he pulled the string and loosened her chemise. Her corset presented no difficulty, for it was soft and quilted, not rigid. Loosened as it was, he had no trouble lowering it to expose her swollen breasts.

With the utmost reverence that bordered on adoration, he cradled the mounds and, lowering his head, closed his lips over one engorged nipple. The first pull surprised a gasp out of her, while her hand tightened on his hair. She felt the rush of liquid, his swallow, then the easing of her discomfort.

"Mmm, you taste even sweeter than I could have imagined," he murmured.

Her other breast overflowed in sympathy. Gabriel noticed and repositioned her so he could reach and give the other breast the same attention. He licked the droplets that had spilled before closing his lips over the nipple and pulling.

This time she was ready for the sensation, but still could not help a small mewl of pleasure. It mingled with his deeper moan. His mouth worked so differently than the baby's. He suckled deeper and yet was gentler. And in between suctions, his tongue twirled and teased her nipples.

Now that he had somewhat relieved both breasts, he came back to the first and settled in for another pull. His hand cupped and massaged her breast with exquisite tenderness, while his tongue tormented and soothed at the same time. Good God, she felt aroused. He was so tender, so gentle. And yet his mouth was suckling with such wicked shamelessness.

He now moved from one breast to the other, alternating his attentions, kissing a path between her mounds as he moved.

"You must tell me when to stop," he rasped. "Left to my own devices, I might never do. I would feast from your breasts until you are dry."

That made laughter bubble out of her. "Don't worry. They will fill back up soon enough."

"Hmmm, what a marvel the female body is," he said as he nuzzled from breast to breast before closing his mouth around one nipple and sucking again. This time, he pulled less. Her breasts were almost empty now. They felt almost normal. Except for the tingly sensation that traveled from the tip of her nipples to her womanly core.

Oh, goodness' sake, how inappropriate. This was not supposed to be a sexual act. She had been in a predicament, and he had offered to help. This was the same action her baby performed, and yet...and yet, it was so different when Gabriel did it. She never experienced this tingling, this arousal. This madness.

She squirmed, trying to relieve the sensations swirling through her, and felt it. Even through the many layers of her skirt and petticoats, she felt the hardness of his rod pressing against her backside. Goodness gracious, he was aroused as well. But he had not tried to grope her. He had not sought to take advantage of the situation, even though she would have allowed him.

Allowed? She was practically begging for it.

He grunted, then let go of her nipple to rest his forehead against her chest. "Don't pay it any mind. My rude cock has a mind of its own," he rasped, before going back to her breasts.

The pleasure was reaching an excruciating point. It was terrifying. She pulled at his head. Her moan was something incoherent that he was able to correctly interpret, for he let her go. Leaning back on the sofa, he gathered her in his arms. Cradling her against his chest.

It was lunacy to feel this way, to engage in these activities when she had buried her husband a mere few hours ago. What kind of woman would frolic with her lover on the same day of her husband's funeral? She needed to put an end to this. But Gabriel's embrace felt so good and provided such comfort. She couldn't relinquish it just yet. She needed a bit more. The grief, the exhaustion, the need...they were all swirling with shame inside her head.

"Stop it. Whatever you are thinking. This between us is not wrong. It does not negate our love and respect for the duke."

"How can it not be wrong? Harold is not long dead, and we—"

"He wanted us to be together, to be happy. What would make you happy, my duchess? I'm yours to command."

When he spoke like that, with that mix of sensuality and reverence, she could not resist him. For a year now, he had been suppressing his desire around her, out of respect for the duke. But that did not hold him back any longer. He wanted her, and he was letting her see it.

"Gabriel, I-I need you. It's been so long..."

"Yes, it has. I've been starving for you. For your touch, for the feel of your skin under my hands and lips."

As he spoke, a hand stole under her dress and caressed up her leg, painting a trail of desire. This! His touch. She had not allowed herself to dwell on it. Her pregnancy, delivery, and being a new mother had provided distractions. But now she was awakening again under his hands. She had been starving as well. Not only this last year, but her whole life before meeting him. Only he had awakened her passion.

His hand had reached the juncture of her thighs. "Open for me," he ordered.

She complied. How could she not? The first touch of his clever fingers over her aching flesh had her moaning and opening her legs wider, the better to give him access.

"You are so wet, so soft. So ready for me."

With that, he clamped his free hand around her nape and took her mouth in an incendiary kiss. A kiss full of need, hunger, sorrow, and solace. It was desperate and hopeful.

And all the while, his fingers never stopped caressing her. Sliding sensuously amid her slick folds, caressing the point where all her sensations seemed to coalesce. He harnessed, directed, conjured them. Made them rise to a crescendo and gave no quarter as she exploded, capturing her scream with his mouth while he stayed with her throughout her crisis.

After he had brought her safely back to earth, he held her tight, asking for nothing more, even though he was breathing hard, his flesh an iron bar under her bottom.

How could he be so generous? Give so much of himself while expecting nothing in return? She wouldn't stand for it. Reaching between their bodies, she grabbed the waistband of his trousers and started undoing his buttons.

He lay passive beneath her. Not helping, but not stopping her, either. When at last she freed his member, she closed her hand around it, tearing a strained groan from his chest.

"Take me," he whispered, flexing in her hand.

She didn't hesitate. Repositioning herself on top of him so that she was straddling him, she notched it at her entrance and sank down upon that wonderful shaft.

Her moan of ecstasy mingled with his. Their mouths sought each other in a kiss of welcome. Of new beginnings.

"I love the way your flesh clasps around mine. It feels so damn good."

Such an ardent declaration soothed her doubts a bit. Despite that, she had to ask.

"Does it feel the same? My body has gone through childbirth—"

He swallowed the rest of the sentence in a consuming kiss. "It feels better. Every time with you feels better than the last. Your body is a marvel. It's my home. I could die happily buried between your legs."

"No talk of dying today, please. I want you to live. Live happily between my legs, and in my heart."

And then there were no more words for a while, because their bodies were communicating in a much more satisfying way, in a much more ancient language. Straining, sliding, pushing, and pulling. Drawing ecstasy from each other, until she felt him go rigid. A moment later his hands lifted her from him, his member sliding out heavily to spend outside her body. She knew he had done it to protect her. They were not trying to make a baby anymore. This lovemaking was just for its own sake. For the pleasure they found in their bodies.

She loved him even more for it. For his consideration and the presence of mind he displayed, even in the midst of such a maelstrom of desire.

In the aftermath, he rested his forehead against hers.

"Hannah, marry me, please."

The words were like a dousing of cold water, jarring her from the warm afterglow of pleasure.