Captain Durant's Countess

chapter 10


Take my medicine. Get on with it. Get it over with.

The more time she had to think about it, the more agonized she was. Yes, it was much better to go to the captain’s rooms tonight and do what they were supposed to do.

Maris was sure Reynold Durant would be a better lover than David. Durant’s kisses had been masterful. No wonder woman waited to be whipped by him. Maris would almost consider the crop herself.

Good Lord. What was happening to her mind? Since London, she’d been unable to be of any use to Henry. Her agitation grew daily, her concentration shot to pieces. It was a good thing her husband was in the final stages of compiling his book, for she had been no help at all since she returned from town with her silly dresses.

She would wear none of them tonight. Maris had dismissed Betsy once the girl had brushed through her knotted wavy hair and braided it. She had sponged herself clean with a second bath and scented her body with rosewater. Dressed in a sensible white lawn nightgown, she covered it with a dark blue brocade robe. Madame Bernard had said navy could suit her, did she not? Maris had chosen it not for the color, but to traverse the dark hallways without attracting notice.

Captain Durant was on the floor above her, just a few steps up the narrow staircase at the end of the house. She had left the countess’s suite at the opposite end of the corridor five years ago, when the fiction was that Henry’s nocturnal restlessness made it impossible for her to sleep next door.

To some degree, it had been true. Henry wandered back and forth from his library to his bedroom all night long, and being a man, was never quiet about it. His old valet Chambers had left Henry’s service because of it. The man had been so bleary-eyed he was walking into walls toward the end. Now Henry made do with a young ex-soldier who was grateful to have a job. Sullivan claimed he took naps when the earl was busy at his desk for hours. Clever lad to make the best of Henry’s erratic schedule.

Maris wouldn’t take a candle; she knew every nook and cranny of Kelby Hall. It was only a few doors down to the stairwell, only a few steps up to the deserted wing where she had placed Captain Durant. But she wouldn’t make a habit of the nighttime excursion. Her luck would only hold so far. The house was crawling with servants, though most of them should be asleep at that hour.

In the garden, her idea had seemed a good one, but as she hurried up the stairs, she wondered what Reynold Durant really thought. Of course he had not refused her, just cupped her cheek and stared into her face until she felt he could see every thought in her head. He nodded once, then absurdly kissed her forehead as if she were a child.

As Henry used to do. But the captain’s kiss did not bring her the same comfort.

Maris hesitated a moment at the door, but before she had a chance to knock he opened it and pulled her into his well-lit sitting room. She’d been hoping for dark. Pitch-black, actually.

Durant locked the door behind her. He was still dressed, the fire going strong. He’d procured a bottle of wine, which sat next to one stemmed glass on a piecrust table.

“I didn’t dare ask for another glass. We’ll have to share,” he said, smiling.

“I don’t need any wine, thank you.” Her throat was so dry her words came out as a croak.

“You’re nervous. I confess I am too, a little.”

“You? I don’t believe it.” She’d seen what he looked like naked and randy . . . and what he was capable of.

But perhaps she didn’t appeal to him.

He walked to the table and filled the wineglass almost to the brim, then took the first sip. “Believe it, Lady Kelby. See? I even have trouble calling you by your Christian name. You quite awe me.”

Maris took the glass from him, but set it back down. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re a countess. I’m no one in particular.”

“My father was the earl’s secretary. My mother was a vicar’s daughter. I’m no one in particular either.” She took a deep breath. “I did not come here to discuss genealogy, Captain Durant. I didn’t come here to discuss anything.”

He took another swallow of wine. “Shall we take a vow of silence then?”

“I think that’s an excellent idea.” It would be far less embarrassing than making idle conversation through this thing.

“Very well. But you will tell me if you do not like something, won’t you? Don’t just lie there and endure.”

Maris shrugged. That was precisely her plan.

She followed him across the carpet to his bedroom door. The fire was roaring in there as well, the bedcovers turned down, though just a single candle burned. Maris blew it out without thinking. She much preferred the gray gloom of this room to the sitting room, though she was not anxious to unbelt her robe yet.

Reynold Durant did that for her. He slid the garment from her shoulders, his thumbs stroking her arms before he tossed it on a chair.

“Get into bed, my dear. I’ll get ready in the dressing room.”

Maris told herself she was not disappointed that he would not strip before her. It was too dark to see clearly anyhow, and that was the point, wasn’t it? The dark was welcome.

Necessary.

She climbed into the captain’s bed. A waft of bluing and lavender rose up, as it would from all the sheets at Kelby Hall. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin and willed herself to stop shaking. A warming pan had recently been run over the mattress. The captain’s doing? She knew he was trying to make her feel comfortable, hopeless a cause as that was.

Maris shut her eyes and began to count, not out of impatience, but as something to do to divert her overactive mind. The brass clock over the mantle struck one, causing her to jump a foot. She started over, reaching two hundred thirty-six before she heard the click of the latch on the dressing room door.

The mattress was not as firm as it could be, sagging at the captain’s weight. As a good hostess, she should have tested the bed out herself. She’d never envisioned lying in it, just on the tufted chaise in the attic. But here she was.

Captain Durant was here too, and he was naked. No dressing gown for him. His hair was a bit rumpled and he smelled of tooth powder and sandalwood. Had she brushed her own teeth? She couldn’t remember. He lifted the blanket from her, tugging a bit before she released her grip on it.

“Maris.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then she remembered she wasn’t going to say anything.

His kiss made speech a moot point. Again, he was gentle. Tender. His moves were not abrupt or startling. He touched her with the barest contact and kept his body away from hers.

He was close enough to touch, though she wouldn’t. Maris felt the heat of him, was aware of every lazy lick of his fingers and tongue. He seemed to be spelling something on her lawn-covered shoulder, but she couldn’t make out the letters. She concentrated on the faint whorls as if they were a sort of code.

She expected the stroking and kissing to stop soon enough. The captain was in no apparent hurry for the main event, however. The inventory. The reckoning of her body. She hoped he permitted her to keep her night rail on. She was not ready to be inspected, dim firelight or not.

The kissing really was very nice. Nearly relaxing. Maris tried to give in to it, to accept its claim on her, but she was thinking too hard to do so.

What was he thinking about? Could a man rise to any occasion?

Maris had been taught their appetites were insatiable. Duchess or dairy maid, it made no difference. Their male equipment knew no impediment, no class distinction. All cats were gray in the dark. She had discovered Captain Durant in the midst of perversion in a heightened state of excitement. Would this gray darkness be enough to rouse him?

Good heavens. Why was she worrying about him? He was being well compensated for the night and all the other days that would follow.

His fingers stopped their spiraling. Belatedly, Maris realized his mouth was still on hers, but his tongue had stopped dancing as well.

He drew back. “I can practically hear the gears grinding in your head. This won’t work if you cannot accept it. Focus on just the physical. The pleasure. Stop thinking.”

“I cannot stop thinking, Captain.” She sounded querulous even to herself.

“Reyn.”

“Whatever.”

“Remember, this was your idea. I was willing to wait for tomorrow.”

He’s right, damn him. Maris was not giving her best effort. She had no best effort, no real experience of how it was meant to be between a man and a woman. While Henry had given her a measure of satisfaction, she’d been hopeless at doing the same for him.

And David didn’t bear thinking about.

“I’m sorry, Captain. Reyn. I don’t know what to do.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t have to know. You only have to do.”

“I’m sorry if I cannot distinguish the two.”

“Am I not sweeping you off your feet just a little?”

Maris realized she still had her worn needlepoint slippers on. “Obviously, I’m off my feet.”

“And in my bed, yes. Some progress has been made, I grant you. But you’re coiled tight as a clockwork spring. You are not kissing me back.”

“I certainly was!” What had her tongue been doing then if not touching his? Tasting wine and tooth powder and his Durant-ness? Kissing was an intimacy she’d had very little practice with. It almost seemed more important than the other thing they would do once he stopped arguing with her.

“I know when you really kiss me, when you lose yourself. When you toss all those rules you’ve lived by away and when you let that beautiful body of yours have its way for once.”

Pretty words. He couldn’t mean them.

Maris sat up. “Perhaps you’re right about the wine. Go fetch some. Please,” she added. She had sounded exactly like a Countess of Kelby ordering a minion about. Maris didn’t do that, and no one in their right mind would think Reynold Durant was suited to be a minion, even if he was in her husband’s employ.

Deep down she knew the wine wouldn’t help, but it would get rid of him for a few seconds. His insistent nearness confounded her. He wanted something she couldn’t give.

He padded across the room and opened the door to the sitting room. When he returned with the glass of wine—no bottle, wasn’t he optimistic?—his rangy body was limned with light, his erection unmistakable. The captain pushed the door closed with his bare arse and the bedroom returned to dusk.

“Here you are.” Maris took the goblet from him, her hands brushing his. “Th-thank you.” She took a tentative sip. It was very good, but then everything at Kelby Hall was of the finest quality.

Even Captain Durant.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps after you drink some, you should go.”

“Do you want me to?”

“No, Maris, I don’t,” he said with impatience. “But I will not force myself on you. You seem too preoccupied to enjoy yourself.”

“I’m just unaccustomed to—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. What words could she find to describe what was—and wasn’t—between them?

“I know. Believe me, I know. It’s nearly as awkward for me, Maris. I’ve never rented myself out before.” He sounded bitter, not at all like the teasing rake he’d been.

“I think we are both overthinking. You accused me, but you are just as bad as I.” She passed him the glass.

“It won’t work. There’s not enough wine left for both of us.”

“Then bring in the bottle. We can . . . talk for a while.” There went her vow of silence.

He put the glass of wine on the bedside table and walked over to the fire, rubbing his shoulder. He truly was a beautiful man despite the scars on his skin, and seemed amazingly at ease in his natural state. She envied him.

“Maris, I’ve had a long day. I’m tired. You forget I rode for hours to get here. Maybe I should go back to London tomorrow.”

“No!” She surprised herself with the vehemence. She didn’t want him to go.

She didn’t know what she wanted, but knew she could not endure this all over again with another strange man.

She was being unfair to him. She couldn’t seem to help it. It was she who had been forward in the garden, she who had invited herself up to his room. She who had kissed him back, no matter what he thought. Maris did not mean to trifle with him. She knew she was not the only one perplexed by their situation.

If she could give herself to that rotter David, surely she could engage with Reynold Durant. He was superior in every way.

And he had made her feel things she’d never felt before.

That was part of the problem. Maris felt her loyalty—her old life—slipping away after less than a day. She was on an unfamiliar plane. One false step and she might plummet into the unknown and never be able to return.

Reyn was right. She had to stop thinking. It did her no good. True, she was facing a moral dilemma, but her vacillation was doing nothing but confusing him. He probably thought she was one of those ninnies one found in romance books, a woman who thought the villain was the hero and the hero the villain.

She’d always been a straightforward sort of woman. Straitlaced too, but it was time to cut all the laces. She fumbled with the hem of her night rail, then drew it over her head. “I’m ready. If you’ll have me.”