Images flew through his mind, each more graphic than the last. He wanted them all with her. And when he exploded in his hand, it was almost an afterthought. The ideas continued, the thoughts consuming him, of what he could do with her. It would take years to accomplish them all, and by that point, he would have thought of some more.
He lay in the bed, his mind drifting through scenarios. And for the first time ever, he allowed himself to contemplate marrying her in truth. Many a man would happily trade his title for a lifetime of passion between the sheets.
No, that was a lie. Else there would be dozens of courtesans now named Lady This or Countess That. And even if that did happen, could he truly pick his duchess simply on her prowess in bed?
Of course not. He owed more to his family name. Mellie was a cit. He didn’t like the term, but it was appropriate. She could certainly trade her dowry for a title, but his family was neither disgraced nor impoverished. There was no reason for him to stoop to her class for his bride, and every reason to make sure that his wife understood what was required of a woman who would become a duchess.
Mellie did not know these things, as Eleanor had made pains to point out. And even if she could learn them, there was no escaping the rest: her birth was common, her mother a lunatic, and her father an eccentric. Certainly, he adored both Mellie and her father, but that was no reason to bring them into the family.
The gossips wouldn’t stop with poking at her true history. They would make up all sorts of nonsense, and it would continue every day of their lives, renewed each Season, and brought out with extra imagination on special occasions.
Mellie would crumple under the strain. No woman could handle constant criticism, no matter the training. Besides, he wasn’t anxious to become the man who failed his title.
In short, marrying her wasn’t proper behavior in a gentleman. There were well-founded reasons to marry within one’s class, so as delightful as Mellie was in the bedroom, he could not hurt her so deeply as to subject her to a lifetime of being reviled by his family.
He could not.
He’d never despised being a gentleman more.
Eleven
Be careful of other women. They can be your greatest allies or your worst enemies.
Melinda liked to sleep in. Certainly she enjoyed morning sunshine, and everyone liked the early song of birds at the window, but late-night brandies and even later visits from future dukes left her lingering long in her bed. Or at least that had been her plan.
Eleanor knocked politely on her door then sauntered in. That was bad enough given that Melinda was buried deep in the covers and hadn’t bid her enter. But the woman started talking as if they had been in the middle of a conversation, which was decidedly not the case.
“I don’t mind telling you that this is a task I begin to relish. It has been ages since my own come out, and one forgets how exciting firsts can be. The first ball gown, the first dance.”
Thefirstorgasm.
Mellie felt her face heat, and she buried herself in her pillow. She’d spent the first half of the night waiting for Trevor to knock on her door, and the second half reliving every second of the way he had touched her. She had thought sleep would bring an end to her salacious remembrances, but instead it had given fodder to a host of erotic dreams that still had her wet and throbbing in places that had never throbbed before.
“Tut tut. None of that.”
Mellie had to bite her cheek to keep from giggling. “None of that” was right. No proper girl would allow what she had done last night, and yet she knew that if Trevor so much as winked at her, she would be rushing off to do whatever he suggested.
“Come, come,” Eleanor continued as she came to the head of the bed. Melinda burrowed deeper. “No hiding from this. We’re going dress shopping. You cannot say you’d rather laze in bed.”
Good point. Mellie frowned into her pillow as she thought about it. Did she love dress shopping? It was fun to pick out fabrics and the like. And she had a rather good time with the seamstress at her local village. They would discuss clothing in an academic way, mostly about her uncle’s fabrics and how women used them and why. It was basic information from someone who had learned that Mellie valued her opinion. And that was fun.
“Trust me,” Eleanor continued as she tugged at the coverlet. “I have it all planned out.”
Melinda groaned. Another smart plan from someone who didn’t know her or understand the least thing about what she wanted. But in this case, that was probably the point. After all, Melinda had no idea how to appear a prancing bear in front of theton, so she might as well leave that in Eleanor’s hands. The image of the elegant Lady Eleanor leading a bear by the string had her smiling enough that she peered out from beneath the covers.
“That’s it,” Eleanor encouraged. “Perform your ablutions. The duchess will be here in a moment to take your measurements. She used to be a seamstress, you know, though we don’t speak about it. And then Lady Redhill is joining us for morning chocolate before we head to the shop to look at fabrics.”
Mellie pushed up from the covers. “In a moment? How much of a moment?”
“Five minutes, ten minutes, an hour? Who knows? Though she does have a shopkeeper’s attention to time, so probably five minutes. Or less.”
Bloody hell. She was not dressed for a duchess! Meanwhile, Eleanor was apparently pleased to have roused her, but not so pleased as to give a smile. Instead, she inspected Mellie’s features closely, even going so far as to tug open the curtains such that the room was flooded with sunlight.
“Hmmm. I shall tell her to give you fifteen minutes, but not a second more. I take it the cosmetics you’ve designed is to fade your freckles? Or was it to ease the wrinkles?”
“I don’t have wrinkles,” Melinda said. At least she didn’t think she did.
“Not yet, but I do see the beginnings of one right between your brows.” To make her point, she lifted up a hand mirror to show her. And right there were two lines already bracketing her brows. And to make matters worse, they weren’t even symmetrical. The one on the right was a fraction deeper and longer. Damn, she couldn’t even wrinkle normally.