Susan Johnson - Again and Again

“And you’re not likely to now, either, unless I hear an apology,” she retorted, not moving.

“You think I and my guards can’t throw you in the carriage?”

“I think I need an apology. And then I’ll consider whether I want you or your guards to touch me.”

He was standing beside the bed, his smile benign, all suddenly right with his world. ‘Tour father has much to answer for, darling. I’ve never known such a difficult, obstinate female.“

“My hearing is very good, however.” She put her hand to her ear once again.

“Good God, I apologize. Now, may we leave?”

“Why should I?”

Because he had no intention of allowing her out of his sight, he wished to say and he no longer had reason to stay. The unknown Will was now free to fuck whomever he pleased. It wouldn’t be necessary to kill him. “I thought you might like to pay Daphne a visit,” he said instead, his grin a flash of mischief.

“You do know how to tempt a woman,” Caroline murmured, a sportive light in her eyes.

“And then there’s mother. You two could discuss the disposition of the Hargreave jewels.”

She laughed. “Perhaps for that, I’ll harness the horses myself.”

“And as an added fillip, I could introduce you to the publisher, Bothwick. Gore knows him well.”

“Bothwick! You don’t mean it! If you’re teasing me, Simon, I’ll never forgive you. Do you know how many wonderful authors he publishes?”

“I have no idea, darling, but I’m sure Gore will know. Are we agreed then?”

“I don’t really have to see your mother, do I?”

“Not without me for protection. I promise.”

“Will you come with me to Daphne’s?”

“If you wish.”

“Why are you being so cooperative?”

He was quickly dressing. “I’m always cooperative,” he said with the perverse presumption of a man who bent the world to his will. “Do you want me to send up a maid?”

“I haven’t been to London in five years.”

“It looks the same.” He glanced at her. “You’re not worried about”-he made a dismissive gesture-“what would you be worried about?”

“Nothing, everything… I don’t know.”

Moving to the bed, he sat down and drew her into his arms. “You’ll enjoy yourself, darling. And I’ll keep the Daphnes away if you’re worried. And mother too.”

“I don’t know if I’m worried or not.”

And he didn’t know why he couldn’t live without her. But he couldn’t so he understood a measure of her incomprehension. “We’ll see Bothwick first thing,” he promised, offering her an indulgence sure to please. “What do you think?”

She nodded, jettisoning her apprehensions about the viciousness of the ton, and Simon’s patterns of amusement. He was offering her a lavish world and a place by his side. She’d be foolish to refuse on principle. And Bothwick. She couldn’t help but smile.

Twenty minutes later, they were traveling south.

The news of Simon’s marriage had raced through the ton within hours of their arrival at Hargreave House. But all the curious callers were turned away until the new duchess had a suitable wardrobe-a process much accelerated by Simon’s wealth.

In the meantime, though, as promised, the publisher, Martin Bothwick was sent for immediately. And for the occasion, Simon presented Caroline with an at-home gown he’d had the modiste who made her wedding gown deliver to Hargreave Home in his absence.

“How did you know I’d be coming back?” Caroline asked, her life one of uncertainty and transience for so long, she still didn’t think in terms of the future.

“I was hopeful, of course.” The ultimate politesse from a man who would have abducted her from the dungeons of hell. Try it on. We can have some adjustments made before Bothwick arrives if need be.“

“Bothwick is really coming here today?” she said, still in awe. “Do you know how important he is- how influential?”

“He must have had time in his schedule,” Simon replied casually, more aware than she perhaps of a wealthy duke’s position in the hierarchy of influence. The moss green silk gown fit well, as did the matching kid slippers; and the cashmere paisley shawl that was all the rage was so delicate and fine it could be drawn through a ring.

“You look good enough to eat,” Simon said with a wolfish grin, lounging in a chair in Caroline’s dressing room while she finished her dressing with the addition of beaten gold earrings. “A shame we don’t have time.” He glanced at the clock. “Although…”

“Don’t you even dare think of it,” Caroline interjected, shaking out the folds of her shawl so they draped over her arm properly. “I’m not going to meet the important Mr. Bothwick with my hair all atumble and my face flushed from lovemaking.” She pointed a finger at him. “You stay right there.”

“Yes, ma’am. And if I behave, will you lift up your pretty green skirts for me later?”

“I may if you don’t embarrass me with Bothwick.” “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” he murmured, grinning.

Her look was one of reproof. “I mean it, Simon. This is very serious. I don’t want any of your sardonic or disparaging comments.” “Me?”

“Simon!” She turned back from the mirror. “Promise me this instant or you’ll have to stay in your room.”

He laughed. “Now that I’d like to see.” Her answering smile was seduction incarnate. “And I know just what to offer you to have you

His mouth quirked. “I suppose you do at that. Very well. I promise to behave.” He had something to say to Mr. Bothwick as well, although his conversation would be by necessity, private.

The duke was extremely kind to their visitor when he arrived. He went to meet Bothwick in the entrance hall and personally escorted him into the drawing room to meet Caroline, a mark of distinction that didn’t go unnoticed by the publisher who was never invited to ducal homes.

Martin Bothwick was a plump little man, clearly nervous despite Simon’s amiability, but as he and Caroline began discussing several of the authors he’d published, his disquietude subsided. They spoke at length of various books that he’d brought to prominence; Caroline had read them all. They spoke of plots and dialogue and pacing through several cups of tea while Simon listened and occasionally offered a comment. Caroline was surprised Simon was so well read in terms of the newest fiction; she would have considered him too busy with carousing.

Martin Bothwick was equally surprised. He hadn’t thought the Duke of Hargreave dedicated to intellectual pursuits. But apparently, he’d read a great deal of contemporary English literature as well as that of France and Germany. There was absolutely no doubt he knew the best tailors. Even a man of Bothwick’s background who professed no interest in sartorial matters found his gaze returning to the Duke’s elegant lounging form. He might have such a coat made for himself, he thought, sitting up a it straighter to hide his paunch. Black would be slimming too.

Sometime later, when Simon brought up the subject of Caroline’s manuscript, she immediately blushed. “It’s not in the least ready yet, Simon. Really, Mr. Bothwick, it’s in the very earliest stages.”

“When you’ve finished it, Lady Hargreave, please allow me to have the first look.”

“There’s no need to be polite, sir. I’m the most rank amateur,” she protested, all her dreams of writing paling into insignificance against this man’s accomplishments.

“Nevertheless, I’d be remiss as a businessman if I didn’t take advantage of this meeting with you. You understand, writers from the ton are very rare. And of great interest to the world.”

“There, you see, darling,” Simon interposed. “Mr. Bothwick has a point. And who better than he to know the literary landscape?”

“Thank you very much.” Caroline could scarce catch her breath. “I’m thrilled, of course.”

The manuscript is in Yorkshire at the moment, but we’ll have it brought to London,“ Simon remarked.

“It’s not at all ready, though,” Caroline quickly noted.

“When it is, Lady Hargreave, I’d be delighted to read it”

And for the remainder of their visit, Caroline was floating on air.

The men spoke briefly once again as Simon walked with the publisher to the front door. And whether His Grace could actually read minds or whether Bothwick’s inspection had been too obvious, the duke said, “Let me send my tailor to you. You’ll enjoy him. And it would give my wife pleasure.”

The publisher attempted to refuse, but the duke was ingratiating and winning and Bothwick was ushered from the house, quite charmed.

Hargreave was in love with his wife, Bothwick understood as he paused curbside a moment later, waiting for a footman to open the door of the duke’s carriage that was there to drive him home.

Although he wasn’t sure His Lordship realized it.

Perhaps he’d been the byword for vice too long to recognize the gentler emotions.

Simon’s reputation gave pause to many in the ton as well, when at the end of the week, the duke and duchess were finally at home to visitors. The shock of Simon seated in the drawing room beside his new wife was almost as astonishing as news of his marriage.

Many might understand a man’s eventual need for a wife. Or more pertinently, a man’s need to marry an enceinte lover, but for the Duke of Hargreave to actually make an appearance at tea was definitely in the nature of a miracle. Not that he went so far as to actually drink tea-the brandy at his elbow his preferred choice-but his mere presence spoke volumes.

His choice of Caroline Morrow for his wife caused enormous tittle-tattle and rumor. Was she not already married? Although certainly, the duke had enough money to buy off a husband or two. But five years wasn’t so long and everyone recalled the circumstances of their parting. That scandalous little story had spread through the ton like wildfire.

So, where had he found her?

And where was her other husband?

And more important, why had he married her?

No one ever contemplated he’d married for love. Hargreave’s profligate manner of living rather nullified any such fantasy. And while the duke and Lady Caroline had grown up together, friendship, too, was hardly a reason for marriage.

Which left only the likelihood that Simon had sired a child.

But if Caroline had been married, whose was it?

Not only would everyone be counting on their fingers, but the entire ton would be waiting with bated breath to see the child.

Simon, of course, was aware of all the rumors. Gore and all the servants had their ears to the ground and news traveled faster below stairs than above. But he’d forbidden any of the gossip reach Caroline. It was pointless to worry her.

Now that they’d finally reached a measure of emotional compromise.

It helped that he’d been home with her since their return to London. Although truthfully, he didn’t know how much longer he could continue playing the cicisbeo.

Neither spoke of his altered stance on having a child.

His reasons were too brutally possessive.

And Caroline couldn’t bring herself to voice the extent of her attachment and affection for a man who didn’t understand either emotion. But she quietly wished and hoped and considering the frequency of their lovemaking, judged the possibility of a child as highly likely.

They had made love repeatedly since their marriage, their journey to London, more leisurely than anticipated when they found themselves more interested in sexual amusements than travel. And while they’d been incommunicado at Hargreave House, waiting for Caroline’s wardrobe to be finished, their days and nights had been a carnal feast for the senses. In fact, Caroline found herself in a constant state of raging desire, as though she were perennially in heat. She had but to look at Simon and she melted in longing. He had but to smile her way and she was wet with desire.

It wasn’t as though Simon was unaffected by ravenous lust. He was in an ungovernable state of rut as well. And while he didn’t understand the finer points of love, he understood carnal desire. He quickened at the mere sight of his wife, and when she welcomed him into her body with the wild, tempestuous passion that was so much her nature, he was always reminded how intensely he’d missed her. And during those glorious moments of fierce, fanatical delirium, he would have gladly relinquished all his worldly goods.

That first afternoon at tea, they were forced to ignore their ready passions and close proximity and present the face of composure to their callers. Their guests had all come to ask pointed questions in as oblique a manner as possible and watch their hosts’ every move as though such close scrutiny would uncover the unimaginable reasons behind their marriage. Or at least lend a piquant authenticity to the reports that would come from this afternoon teatime. The whole town would be dining on the details of this mysterious marriage for weeks.