Page 77 of A Daring Desire

“Louder.”

“Ciarán!”

She clutched at his arms as the climax took her hard, shuddering and gasping as he exulted in her pleasure, in the way she wanted him.

He turned her onto her back before she’d had time to come back to herself, too desperate for her as he pushed her thighs wide, sinking into her with a groan. She gasped and shuddered and came again, tightening around him so exquisitely he had to grit his teeth, trembling with the effort of not spending there and then. Gradually she quieted and he could breathe again, loving her tenderly, rebuilding the fire by slow degrees until she was all fierce heat beneath him, surrounding him, pulling him into the inferno where he was only too happy to burn with her.

He came with a harsh cry, dazed with pleasure and happiness and too much emotion for him to sort through. It was enough to know that it was for her, that she had remade him and given him a second chance, and that was all he needed.

They lay together in a sleepy coil for some time, oil-slicked limbs tangled as their hearts settled back to a normal rhythm, the huff of her breath over his chest so wonderful he could do nothing but smile stupidly up at the ceiling.

“That was perfectly splendid,” she murmured, her voice lazy and full of approval.

“It was rather,” he agreed, not above feeling a little smug.

Her fingers ran up and down his chest, over his belly, making him shiver. “Can I do that to you? With the oil, I mean.”

He snorted. “I am at your disposal, little wife. Whenever you want me.”

She grinned and pressed a kiss to his chest. “Lovely,” she said with a sigh. “And you will take me to Graymont Park, won’t you?”

He groaned, flinging an arm over his eyes. Lord, but he ought to have known better. Somehow, he knew there was to be no winning this argument. She would have her way eventually. He might as well get it over with. Frustrated but resigned, he turned her onto her back and stared down at her.

“Fine, you dreadful creature. I’ll take you, but you will listen and listen well. I despise that house. It holds nothing but bad memories for me. We will not be staying there above a couple of hours. We’ll take rooms at the local inn for the night, and don’t get any ideas, for we won’t ever, ever live there. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ciarán,” she said sweetly, kissing his cheek. “And thank you. I know it is a big concession you make, and I appreciate it very much.”

“Hmph,” he said, settling back against the pillows.

Catherine tucked herself under his arm and promptly went to sleep, leaving him wondering what the devil his wilful little wife had in store for him next.

Chapter 23

Dearest Hartley,

Regarding Lady Fidelia, I will tell you what I gleaned from Matilda. She had several seasons, but despite being quite lovely and having a generous dowry, she didn’t really take. She was very shy and unprepared for the ton. The duke guarded his girls very close, and they had little society before they came out so it must have been a shock to them.

I don’t doubt she had offers enough, though. Matilda wondered if there was some scandal surrounding her, but the duke squashed it if there was. I think it was rumoured she was to marry the Earl of Whishen, which I hope never comes to pass. He’s a decent enough fellow, but hugely fat and old enough to be her father. Matilda suspected she had a tendre for Lord Elsmere, rather a loose screw, though he has a good deal of address, but not a penny to his name. Her father would never have countenanced it.

After that, she disappeared from society due to ill health. I am sorry to hear your description of her, for according to Matilda she was a sweet girl, which is remarkable considering her father. I believe her sister is out now, quite a different kettle of fish, by all accounts.

Hart, have a care. I know you feel sorry for the girl, but she is the daughter of a duke. Whilst I would never advise you not to help anyone in distress, guard yourself there, my dearest son. Any friendship between you could lead to no good.

―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Hartley De Beauvoir from his mother, Mrs Minerva De Beauvoir.

12th March 1850, Graymont Park, Dorset.

Cat stared across a huge lake at the building Ciarán so violently disliked. It had been built in the early seventeenth century and was an imposing and handsome house, all careful symmetry, with four giant Ionic pilasters added to create a more interesting front façade by breaking up the expanse of red brick. Though he had agreed to bring her weeks ago, it had taken some time to persuade him to make good on his promise. He stood beside her now, scowling darkly.

Cat’s heart went out to him, but she could not allow him to let the spectre of his past keep such a hold of him. This house had become a symbol of his unhappy childhood, hardly surprising when it held so many bleak memories for him. If he had been an ordinary man, he could have sold the house and moved on, but he was the Marquess of Kilbane. Though she was a girl, and most would assume she ought never be troubled by such concerns, her father had taught her about the running of a great estate, just as he had instructed Thomas, even though Philip was the eldest. They had to understand the privileges and the responsibilities inherent in such a position, and never take them for granted.

Though she could see the grounds were well tended and did not doubt the land was producing a decent income and the house was properly maintained, it was not the same as having a family in residence. If they lived here, there would be balls and dinners and events which would involve trades from all around the great house and bring prosperity in their wake. For now, the house was a sleeping giant, waiting for someone to wake it. The bricks and mortar of the building were not responsible for the things that had gone on inside. Perhaps there were ghosts, but ghosts could be laid to rest, and bad memories pushed aside by happier ones. She did not expect Ciarán to welcome the idea, but it needed to be done.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said irritably, taking her hand and tugging her back into the carriage.

She had begged him to stop for a moment so she might admire the view, for it was a splendid prospect and Cat’s heart had gone out to the lovely house, which seemed to her lonely and unloved, for all it was well kept and tidy.

The carriage drew them the final distance to the front door and a footman let down the steps. The staff, perhaps half those such a house might employ when fully operational, came out to greet them. Though Ciarán knew everyone’s names and the exchanges were perfectly cordial, it was obvious these people were strangers to him, which troubled her. They did not dally in conversation, but Ciarán hurried her inside. He gave her a tour of the house, moving from room to room so quickly her head spun. Though the bones of the house were elegant, it was badly arranged and decorated. The furnishings were heavy, bought to show off the wealth of the owner rather than with comfort in mind. Every room she visited seemed to cry out to her for help, as they were far too masculine, painted in shades of dark blue and blood red. Eyes followed her in all directions as stuffed animals' heads lined many of the walls. Ciarán’s brother Richard had been the last to make any changes, and his contribution had been to display guns, swords, and ancient articles of war in such a haphazard manner that Cat itched to rip them down. She wanted to pull aside the heavy curtains and let in the light, for she had never encountered such a gloomy and oppressive atmosphere.