The Inconvenient Duchess

wanted to be, he was sweet, unbearably sweet. Sweet as the kiss he was giving her now, which settled into a gentle exploration of her mouth and built, when she sighed, to probing between her lips and thrusting into them in a rhythm that built again to a frenzy. Her mind screamed for her to push him away, but her body screamed for another kind of release. The compromise between the two was a useless push of her hands against his chest, and a ‘No, we mustn’t’, which sounded far too much like a plea for more.
    He gathered her tighter to him. ‘Oh, yes, we must. Here. Now. Quick, before someone finds us. No more waiting.’
    ‘My husband…’ She tried to gather her wits as a defence against him, as his lips trailed down her neck and settled on her shoulder.
    He groaned, and his hands reached lower and tugged up the hem of her gown and found the soft flesh of her bottom, to knead her and crush her to the hardness of him. She felt as his hand slipped between them to the buttons on his breeches, and she knew what was about to happen and she fought.
    ‘No! St John. Let me go. You promised you wouldn’t…’
    ‘What?’ And he stiffened against her, pushing away. And the door opened and she struggled to stay upright. She saw the silhouette of the man in the doorway, as he stepped into the room, shut the door and struck a match. ‘Well, I must say, this is an interesting picture. I arrive a few minutes late and find you’ve started without me. And such a choice of partners.’
    St John strode around the room, while her eyes were still adjusting to the light, and touched his flame to a candle, filling the room with flickering shadows. ‘Are you enjoying her as much as I have, Marcus?’
    She looked in horror to the face of the man in front of her.
    His arms still circled her, pinning her in place in front of him. But the body that had been moving against her moments before seemed to have turned to stone, trapping her to him. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his face seemed to harden as she watched, passion and pain draining out of it to leave an impassive granite mask. He looked from her to his brother standing beside the fireplace, and let out a strange barking laugh. ‘If you think you can hurt me this way, St John, you are mistaken. If I cared, I would call you out over this. But the blood that ran in my veins when I shot you would be cold, not hot. In truth, I haven’t the time or the energy to battle to the death over every damn game you play. It hardly seems worth the trouble to put a bullet through your brain just because you are a damned nuisance.’
    St John’s laugh was not strange, but genuine. ‘Oh, Marcus, what an actor you are. You will not call me out because you are soft and weak and do not trust your hand to finish the job, when the time comes. And I have no desire to kill you outright at dawn. I prefer to wound. What is it they call the torture in the adventure stories we read together as children? The death of a thousand cuts. That is what I want for you. I want to watch you bleed. To suffer as I have suffered.’
    ‘Then I am sorry to disappoint you. Is that all, St John?’
    ‘For now, Marcus.’
    ‘Then good evening.’
    St John swept a deep, mocking bow to his brother. ‘By your leave, your Grace.’ And sauntered through the door of the library, leaving them alone.
    Only then, when he heard the door latch, did he push away from her, as though she were on fire and the contact burned him.
    ‘Marcus,’ she said urgently, ‘I can explain.’
    ‘I’ve heard more than enough from you this evening. I am going to take my leave of our host. I will say you are indisposed and we are returning home. Wait here, until I send a servant to fetch you to the carriage.’ He looked down at her with loathing. ‘In the meantime, try to compose yourself to look more like a duchess and less like a whore.’ And he strode from the room.

    They rode home in silence. He stared ahead into the darkness, and she was afraid to disturb him. She made a few tentative attempts at apology and he stared down at her, as though he was unsure where the noise was coming from.
    When he pulled the carriage into the drive, he dropped the reins for the groom and strode into the house with her following in his wake.
    He tossed his greatcoat on the bench in the hall, not waiting for the servant to take it, and turned back to her. ‘Madam, attend me.’ Then he turned way again and strode to the stairs and up