The Duchess War
Page 19
He was surprised by the vehemence in his voice.
“Now that,” said Mrs. Finney, “that is sedition, and best not to say those words no matter how safe you think you are. You’re young, Mr. Blaisdell. We were all once young. But take a deep breath and put such talk away. It’ll do nobody any good.” She glanced warily at Miss Pursling. “Besides, Miss Pursling, have you not met the Duke of Clermont? You do travel in those circles. Sometimes.”
Mr. Finney subsided in his chair, somewhat embarrassed.
Miss Pursling looked away from Robert. “I have.”
“And how is the old bugger?” Finney asked. “One can only hope—”
“Shush, Mr. Finney.”
“I believe,” Miss Pursling, “that this is the other man’s son.”
Finney brushed this off. “Seen one duke, seen ’em all. Am I right, Mr. Blaisdell, am I right?”
Robert didn’t answer. He simply watched Miss Pursling. She’d scarcely shown any emotion at all as he spoke, not even a furrow of concentration on her brow.
She shook her head now. “He’s tall. He’s wealthy. He’s handsome, and those things rarely bode well for a man’s character.”
Robert winced.
But she wasn’t done. “I very much doubt he understands what it means to be a working man, and I suspect that all his life he’s had anything he wanted handed to him, just for the wishing.”
It was a harsh judgment, made harsher still because it was the truth. Robert burned in his seat.
“Men who have only known easy times often cannot comprehend hard ones,” Miss Pursling said.
Amazing how deeply facts could cut. Robert couldn’t even be angry with her. It was no more than he’d told himself of an evening.
“And yet…” She trailed off, shaking her head, and Robert leaned forward, desperate to hear what she might say of him.
Her voice was so quiet, and yet the room seemed quieter still, waiting for her to fill the silence.
“And yet,” she said, without once looking Robert’s way, “I think he is not at all like his father. I don’t know what to make of him.”
He felt rooted in place, unable to move. She hadn’t glanced his way once as she spoke. She hadn’t raised her voice. And yet those words, spoken in a near-whisper, seemed like a benediction whispered over his head.
Not at all like his father.
He let out a shaky breath. “So will you tell the magistrates about this conversation, Miss Pursling?”
“And involve the Finneys? I think not.” She bit her lip. “Tell me, Mr. Blaisdell. This charity you represent. Are you offering pensions to everyone who worked at Graydon Boots?”
Not everyone. They wouldn’t believe that, for one. Half of them were dead; more had left town.
“Those who were wronged,” he said tightly, looking away.
“Mrs. Finney,” Miss Pursling said, “I am most grateful for your agreement to present the proposal to the board of the Cooperative.”
“Of course,” the other woman answered.
“Mr. Finney. Mr. Blaisdell.” Miss Pursling inclined her head, touched her skirts in a mild curtsey, and withdrew.
He’d thought her unattractive in this mode, head turned down, voice so quiet. Not any longer. Some women blazed with light and energy. Miss Pursling reminded him of the pearlescent hint of dawn that crept under the door after a long, long night. There was a quiet grace to her, like a tiger pacing in its cage. There was a majesty in claws unused, in muscles poised for action that never came. There was a somber beauty to a caged beast.
He wanted to see her break free of that melancholy. He wanted her to turn those knowing eyes on him and tell him that he wasn’t his father, that he wouldn’t be him.
What stood between them had become infinitely simple and entirely too complicated all at once.
Not at all like his father.
He wanted her to say that again, and he wanted her to mean it.
Chapter Six
ROBERT’S DREAM THAT NIGHT—as so many of his dreams were these days—was charged with sexual longing.
In this dream, he had Minnie where he’d first met her: behind the davenport in the Guildhall library, the curtains shielding them from all eyes. This time, though, instead of listening to someone else’s conversation, they heard the gentle murmur of ocean waves. Neither remarked on the oddity of the sea in a library. Instead of being fully clothed, Robert wore nothing at all—and she was stripped to the waist. The dream version of Minnie smiled up at him with inviting allure. Her honey-brown hair was down and it curled over her shoulders, framing naked br**sts tipped with deep rose. Those br**sts brushed his knees as she knelt before him and took the length of his c**k in her mouth.
The details of his dreams were always frustratingly vague. He couldn’t feel the wet heat of her mouth or the pressure of her tongue. There was only the fire of his own burning lust and a dulled sensation of want. But at least in dreams, one needn’t worry about morality or consequences. In dreams, there was nothing but the physical truth of desire, and that had him firmly in its grip.
In his dream, she was very, very good. He knew it, even though he could not quite feel it. No matter how he pivoted, no matter how he held her, he couldn’t really touch her. Just the force of his own red-hot desire growing with every stroke. He could only lust, and lust, and lust again.
“God, Minnie,” he begged in his dream. “Give me what I want.”
But instead of taking him harder—or shifting herself so that he could plunge inside her—the dream Minnie simply looked up at him and sat back on her heels. “If you insist,” she said with a coquettish smile. She leaned in, and suddenly, as these things were in dreams, she was whispering in his ear. “I know who you are.”
The shock was so great that it woke him. He blinked, blearily. It was the middle of the night, and silence reigned. His bedchamber was dark. Even though he’d tossed off most of the covers in his sleep, he felt as if he were burning with fever. His c**k was rock-hard, his body shuddering with tension, demanding relief. And he couldn’t dispel the image from his dream. Miss Pursling, unclothed, her hair down to her shoulders, looking up at him with that brilliant smile.
God.
He’d thought that it would have been hard to explain what he saw in her to his friends. She wasn’t classically pretty; she wasn’t even striking. And while her figure had much to recommend itself, he was aware that there were better.
“Now that,” said Mrs. Finney, “that is sedition, and best not to say those words no matter how safe you think you are. You’re young, Mr. Blaisdell. We were all once young. But take a deep breath and put such talk away. It’ll do nobody any good.” She glanced warily at Miss Pursling. “Besides, Miss Pursling, have you not met the Duke of Clermont? You do travel in those circles. Sometimes.”
Mr. Finney subsided in his chair, somewhat embarrassed.
Miss Pursling looked away from Robert. “I have.”
“And how is the old bugger?” Finney asked. “One can only hope—”
“Shush, Mr. Finney.”
“I believe,” Miss Pursling, “that this is the other man’s son.”
Finney brushed this off. “Seen one duke, seen ’em all. Am I right, Mr. Blaisdell, am I right?”
Robert didn’t answer. He simply watched Miss Pursling. She’d scarcely shown any emotion at all as he spoke, not even a furrow of concentration on her brow.
She shook her head now. “He’s tall. He’s wealthy. He’s handsome, and those things rarely bode well for a man’s character.”
Robert winced.
But she wasn’t done. “I very much doubt he understands what it means to be a working man, and I suspect that all his life he’s had anything he wanted handed to him, just for the wishing.”
It was a harsh judgment, made harsher still because it was the truth. Robert burned in his seat.
“Men who have only known easy times often cannot comprehend hard ones,” Miss Pursling said.
Amazing how deeply facts could cut. Robert couldn’t even be angry with her. It was no more than he’d told himself of an evening.
“And yet…” She trailed off, shaking her head, and Robert leaned forward, desperate to hear what she might say of him.
Her voice was so quiet, and yet the room seemed quieter still, waiting for her to fill the silence.
“And yet,” she said, without once looking Robert’s way, “I think he is not at all like his father. I don’t know what to make of him.”
He felt rooted in place, unable to move. She hadn’t glanced his way once as she spoke. She hadn’t raised her voice. And yet those words, spoken in a near-whisper, seemed like a benediction whispered over his head.
Not at all like his father.
He let out a shaky breath. “So will you tell the magistrates about this conversation, Miss Pursling?”
“And involve the Finneys? I think not.” She bit her lip. “Tell me, Mr. Blaisdell. This charity you represent. Are you offering pensions to everyone who worked at Graydon Boots?”
Not everyone. They wouldn’t believe that, for one. Half of them were dead; more had left town.
“Those who were wronged,” he said tightly, looking away.
“Mrs. Finney,” Miss Pursling said, “I am most grateful for your agreement to present the proposal to the board of the Cooperative.”
“Of course,” the other woman answered.
“Mr. Finney. Mr. Blaisdell.” Miss Pursling inclined her head, touched her skirts in a mild curtsey, and withdrew.
He’d thought her unattractive in this mode, head turned down, voice so quiet. Not any longer. Some women blazed with light and energy. Miss Pursling reminded him of the pearlescent hint of dawn that crept under the door after a long, long night. There was a quiet grace to her, like a tiger pacing in its cage. There was a majesty in claws unused, in muscles poised for action that never came. There was a somber beauty to a caged beast.
He wanted to see her break free of that melancholy. He wanted her to turn those knowing eyes on him and tell him that he wasn’t his father, that he wouldn’t be him.
What stood between them had become infinitely simple and entirely too complicated all at once.
Not at all like his father.
He wanted her to say that again, and he wanted her to mean it.
Chapter Six
ROBERT’S DREAM THAT NIGHT—as so many of his dreams were these days—was charged with sexual longing.
In this dream, he had Minnie where he’d first met her: behind the davenport in the Guildhall library, the curtains shielding them from all eyes. This time, though, instead of listening to someone else’s conversation, they heard the gentle murmur of ocean waves. Neither remarked on the oddity of the sea in a library. Instead of being fully clothed, Robert wore nothing at all—and she was stripped to the waist. The dream version of Minnie smiled up at him with inviting allure. Her honey-brown hair was down and it curled over her shoulders, framing naked br**sts tipped with deep rose. Those br**sts brushed his knees as she knelt before him and took the length of his c**k in her mouth.
The details of his dreams were always frustratingly vague. He couldn’t feel the wet heat of her mouth or the pressure of her tongue. There was only the fire of his own burning lust and a dulled sensation of want. But at least in dreams, one needn’t worry about morality or consequences. In dreams, there was nothing but the physical truth of desire, and that had him firmly in its grip.
In his dream, she was very, very good. He knew it, even though he could not quite feel it. No matter how he pivoted, no matter how he held her, he couldn’t really touch her. Just the force of his own red-hot desire growing with every stroke. He could only lust, and lust, and lust again.
“God, Minnie,” he begged in his dream. “Give me what I want.”
But instead of taking him harder—or shifting herself so that he could plunge inside her—the dream Minnie simply looked up at him and sat back on her heels. “If you insist,” she said with a coquettish smile. She leaned in, and suddenly, as these things were in dreams, she was whispering in his ear. “I know who you are.”
The shock was so great that it woke him. He blinked, blearily. It was the middle of the night, and silence reigned. His bedchamber was dark. Even though he’d tossed off most of the covers in his sleep, he felt as if he were burning with fever. His c**k was rock-hard, his body shuddering with tension, demanding relief. And he couldn’t dispel the image from his dream. Miss Pursling, unclothed, her hair down to her shoulders, looking up at him with that brilliant smile.
God.
He’d thought that it would have been hard to explain what he saw in her to his friends. She wasn’t classically pretty; she wasn’t even striking. And while her figure had much to recommend itself, he was aware that there were better.
