A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“We may hear people say. I wonder how she learned such a thing. Probably from one of those books.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

C lank.

Thump.

Thud.

Charlotte peered to the ceiling and frowned.

What was that noise?

Shaking her head, she endeavoured to read her book, but…

Thump.

She placed her book to the sofa and sipped her wine instead.

Today had been one of utter joy – walking the fells with Marcus to discuss their future. Sitting by the fire and sharing kisses.

Some two hours ago, after a dinner of laughter and memories, Marcus had given his apologies and said he had some matters to attend to in his secondary study. Charlotte had kissed the apology from his lips. After all, he was a duke and had to–

Thud.

But what was he doing? Digging a canal to Carlisle himself?

Placing her glass of wine to the side table, she rose, wandered from the library and up the stairs.

A grunt.

Thump.

“Bloody hell!”

Crash.

With a frown, she wandered down the corridor.

Marcus’ bedchamber door lay open and…

A leather chair was gliding across the room, ostensibly of its own volition. Charlotte blinked, peered closer and then saw muscled forearms griping its sides.

Halting at the threshold, she swallowed. “Erm…”

He placed the chair down with a thud.

And stole her breath.

For Marcus wore no waistcoat or cravat, merely open shirt, breeches and boots. The déshabillé displayed his physique – slender but muscular, imposing and magnificent – but…

“What are you doing?”

“Ah…” A smile crossed his lips before he strode over and nestled his stubbled cheek into her neck.

Charlotte allowed just one whimper to escape her.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, “with your hair down. Like a fire sprite. And to answer your question, I’m making my bedchamber a bedchamber again. One study is quite enough for any man. And furthermore, I’ve decided to never again work after dinner.”

“If you had to, I woul–”

“No. No more.”

She beamed before peering into the room.

A footman must have helped him as the desk had now been replaced by the original bed, its drapery and linens the colour of autumn. A new rug had been lain and all the papers had been cleared away. The walls held portraits instead of maps.

“Come see, Charlotte.”

“Your Grace!” She gave a tut. “A governess should never…enter a duke’s bedchamber.”

“You’re no governess now. You’re a soon-to-be duchess.”

And since he had the right of it, Charlotte sauntered in and then closed the door behind her.

Marcus cleared his throat.

With a saucy quirk of lip, Charlotte wandered the room, noting a small portrait of herself at seventeen that she’d never known existed, the somewhat subdued vase of festive holly upon the mantelpiece and a few history books of the Lake District on the chest of drawers.

“It’s charming,” she said. “Especially the bed. It must be like sleeping in an autumnal forest canopy.” She ambled over to it and sat. “Very firm. Sit by me, Marcus.”

“Charlotte…”

She stretched and fell back, knew her skirts had hoicked above her ankles.

“I…” She heard Marcus clear his throat again. “I had no intention of… But you are making it exceedingly difficult, Charlotte.”

“Am I?” She leaned up and fluttered her lashes.

Marcus had approached the bed and was watching her with hooded eyes, neck bare, and a button had gone astray on his shirt, displaying dark hair. She leisurely rose to her feet and with one hand, caressed his linen-clad chest, heard the hitch of his breath. She watched her own fingers trail his bared throat and cup his stubbled cheek.

Time was so fleet, as he’d said.

So she leaned forward. “I love you, Marcus. Forever. Come what may.”

If she’d known what those words would unleash, perchance she would have…said them before.

Marcus growled and put a firm hand to her nape, crushing her lips. His other palm cupped her rump, pulling her so close, and she moaned as she felt her body sink into his muscle.

Kisses roamed her throat, sleeves falling to his demand, teeth grazing and tongue laving.

And then her view upended as she was tumbled backwards upon the bed, Marcus looming over her, chest rising and plunging in ragged bursts of breath.

“If you wish to greet dawn unravished, Charlotte,” he rasped, “then you have this one moment to leave the room.”

She reached out a hand and trailed it down his chest, stomach and to where his breeches betrayed his arousal. He caught her fingers.

“This one moment,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

“At this moment, Marcus, all I want is you.” She allowed her eyes to wander his face, chest and lower. “I want you so much it hu–”

Words were smothered with his lips, passionate and intoxicating.

Her bodice was tugged down, laces unknotted, stays unfastened and flung aside, but Charlotte was aware she was no buxom girl and she sought to cover–

“No,” he snarled. “Hell, you’re so beautiful.” And his mouth trailed to her breasts, her bashfulness dissipating beneath his ardent touch.

Skirts and petticoats were likewise discarded but the unfairness of her state of undress brought her to her senses, and she yanked at his shirt, tearing it from the band of his breeches.

“Too much damn material,” she groused, but Marcus laughed and tore the thing over his head.

Oh.

His chest was beautiful – a classical statue at a museum that she’d once stared at far too long – and she pressed her palms upon him, fingers spread in possession.

A grunt emanated before he twisted, discarding boots and breeches with curses and clonks.

And then he was there, above her, hands sliding down her body with such reverence that breath failed her.

“Please,” she whispered, and his hands sunk betwixt her legs, palm grinding and fingers pressing as he kissed her throat, stubble abrading and heightening her every sense.

Fever.

A fever coursed within her that wove and writhed, and just as it soared, his hand was replaced by…something more demanding.

Insistent.

Persistent.

She cried out as he thrust.

“Charlotte…” Her name was growled, eyes fierce and impassioned.

It felt both strange and wondrous.

She shifted; he groaned.

And then he lifted on forearms, stared into her eyes and thrust again.

Her breath hitched.

He did it again.

Her leg curled around his waist.

And again and again and again and she was lost. To his eyes lit green, to his panted growls and thrusting possession.

That fever scorched once more as he claimed her. So many years of waiting and wanting.

It was too much to bear and as his lips crashed upon hers, pleasure seized her, igniting her, unfettered and endless.

As Charlotte’s body tightened around him, Marcus abandoned whatever remnants of self-control remained, her wild hair gushing like dark fire upon his bed, writhing and seeking.

To take it all in this moment.

And hell, she did, hips cleaving, fingers at his nape, nails scratching his back as his spine arched, and his own pleasure – brutal and sudden – rent him asunder.

He shoved his head to the lee of her neck and shoulder, shuddering and loving and never ever leaving.

Not this Christmas. Not the next. Or any other they were blessed with.

His hips jerked, not wishing it to end…

But breaths slackened, heartbeats slowed and his body slumped, energy spent – for now. He savoured the intense closeness, her damp silken skin, but aware of his weight, he shifted, bringing his beloved with him, to lie upon his chest.

Silence held sway for a while but it was a good silence. One of bone-deep contentment and satisfaction.

With a gentle sigh, Charlotte languidly moved and opened her eyes, leaf green, bright and joyful.

“And that’s why,” she whispered, a wicked curve pulling at her rosy lips. “A governess should never enter a duke’s bedchamber.”

He laughed, the carefree laugh of his youth, and gripped her tight. “You, my duchess, can enter our bedchamber any time you wish.”