The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) by Devlin, Barbara (the best electronic book reader .txt) 📗

Chapter Thirteen

Sunlight peeked through the heavy velvet drapes, rousing Anthony from a deep sleep, and he rubbed his eyes. Sitting upright, he grimaced and kneaded the nagging ache in the small of his back, which bore the brunt of his decision to use the chaise as a makeshift bed for the past fortnight. Across the chamber, tucked in the huge four-poster, Arabella had not roused. How he envied her insouciant slumber, something that eluded him since their arrival, yet he had no one to blame but himself, because it was his grand idea to forgo consummation of their vows.

Although Dr. Shaw did naught but hold them captive, his simple plan proved brilliant. Throwing Anthony and Arabella together, all day and night, in close quarters with few if any distractions, posed an enticing situation that yearned to take its natural course. While they learned each other’s predilections and habits, adapting whenever conflict emerged, they nurtured an immeasurable, abiding devotion he could neither ignore nor resist. In short, he desperately desired his wife, but he could not have her. Not yet.

Blessed with a host of physical attributes that could drive a sane man mad as a March hare, coupled with the unimpeachable innocence of a virgin, she posed an intoxicating, irresistible allurement. Under different circumstances, he would gladly commit himself to getting her with child, but he would not cooperate with his father’s scheme. To do so could only result in ruination and misery. They would have to wait, but he feared he might be hard until the new year.

On the heels of the thought, the other persistent ache, the fully loaded cannon in his crotch, reliable as ever, beckoned, as it did every single morning without fail, and he collapsed on his pillow. Staring at the intricately moulded ceiling, he wagered that if the relentless nightmares didn’t drive him insane, forced celibacy in her continued presence would send him straight to the nearest asylum.

Desperate for relief, he checked to be sure she had not stirred, because he wanted no witness to an act he had not performed since his randy days at Eton, when he still wore shortcoats, knew nothing of women, and discovered a new use for soap. But he had to do something—anything—to ease his hunger. Rolling onto his side, he bit back a groan. Then he eased his hand beneath the blanket. Since Arabella often woke late, he always doffed his nightshirt after she dozed, preferring to retire in the nude, because he knew no man who enjoyed sleeping in a cotton gown.

With a firm grip of his Jolly Roger, which was wildly jolly and only too ready to raid the bride’s prize nestled between Arabella’s legs, he worked himself in a repetitive motion. Staring at nothing, he relaxed and exhaled. In his mind, he conjured prurient images of her performing the deed with her nimble fingers and with her beautiful mouth, along with a host of erotic fantasies that well-nigh sent him over the edge. Each vision more salacious. Again and again, he pleasured himself, flexing his muscles in time with his movements, and he gritted his teeth.

“My lord, are you all right?” Arabella asked in an urgent tone.

Anthony deuced near jumped out of his skin, and his momentary loss of control unleashed a torrent of unspent passion, as his loins erupted. Before he could respond, he let fly a rapid salvo, and wave upon wave of unrestrained relief washed over him. Powerless to fight the involuntary contractions or the accompanying grunts of sensual gratification, he yielded.

“Oh, dear, you look quite fitful. Are you ill?” Through a haze of uncontrollable delight, in the throes of which he could not suppress a grin, he spied his wife as she threw aside her covers, flew from her bed, and rushed to tend him, sans her robe. “Shall I call for assistance? Do you want me to summon the doctor?”

“No,” he barely managed to utter. Through the sheer material that did nothing to hide her from his open admiration, he stared at her lovely breasts and their rosy tips. When she turned to sit at the edge of the chaise, he ogled the cleft of her round derriere. What he would do to that succulent bottom when he enjoyed free reign to ravish his lady. Propped on his elbow, he lifted his chin and kissed her. Unhurried yet unrestrained. To her credit, she did not reject him. At length, he savored her soft lips and her warmth. So much warmth. While he could not hold her, she compensated by wrapping her arms about him.

He needed that just then. He needed her. Needed to know she still desired him as he desperately desired her. Needed her to validate the fact that he was a human being minus a limb, and no more or less, if only to remind himself that he was a man and not some demented monster, as his father and Dr. Shaw would have Anthony believe.

And Arabella fed him. Strength. Confidence. A resurgence of his former self.

At last, when they parted, they were both breathless.

“Good morning, my lord.” With a charming blush, she smiled her impish smile and averted her gaze. Despite all that happened, she remained the virginal coquette, innocent in body and spirit, and he adored her for it. “I feared you suffered some strange malady, but your behavior suggests otherwise. Shall I ring for breakfast?”

“Yes, please.” When he sat upright, she peered at his bare chest and gasped. Again, the inexperienced society maiden surfaced, and he ached for either a cold bath or a long ride. “Er, I got hot during the night. Would you be so kind as to hand me my robe?”

“Certainly.” She reached for the black silk garment, even as she continued to stare, transfixed, at his body. “Do you often sleep without benefit of clothing?”

“Sometimes.”