Page 118 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

“Oh dear,” Georgia murmured, widening her eyes in mock surprise. “Is that for me, Your Grace?”

“It could be.”

He lowered his lips toward the tempting spot on the side of her neck, but she stopped him with a raised hand. He followed her gaze to her hand, then back up to her eyes.

She was grinning.

Slowly, deliberately, she snapped.

His eyes widened, and she snapped again.

The birdsong had ceased, the sunlight was irrelevant. The world had shrunk to the tiny space between the two of them. And she snapped a third time.

“You know what that means?” she whispered.

Did he?

He’d torn up the damned contract, but he’d never forget the terms which had brought her to him.

When he snaps his fingers, I’ll bend over and lift my skirts and be grateful for the opportunity to service him.

Fook, aye.

With a growl, he bent and reached an arm behind her legs, straightening with her in his arms.

“Demon!” she shrieked, half-laughing as she beat him about the head. “Demon, put me down! The bairn!”

But he was already striding toward the back door. “From my mother’s daily letters since I wrote her about our news, the wee thing’s too small to be harmed by any vigorous exercise its parents get up to.”

When he stepped into the kitchens, his wife in his arms, Mrs. Kettel’s assistants gaped.

“Vigorous exercise?” Georgia repeated, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “Is that what we’re doing?”

“It’s what I’m trying to do. Mrs. Kettel, there’s a horse in the garden. See to it,” he commanded as he strode through.

From behind him, he heard the housekeeper move to the window. “Aye, I see it, milord. What about it?”

As Georgia started laughing, Demon took the stairs two at a time, pausing only to sidestep the cat.

* * *

Georgia slowly exhaled and tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling as Demon’s hands skimmed down her bare flanks. His touch lingered at her waist, his thumbs caressing her stomach—where even now new life flourished, making her feel surprisingly energetic—then slid around to cup her arse.

“I hardly think this is fair, husband.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but when it came to making love, she was usually anything but steady.

They’d already broken the new sofa, the chair in her boudoir, and an end table in the study. Most careless.

His response was a mere hum, his attention obviously focused on something else.

When he pulled her flush against him so his hands could pull apart the cheeks of her arse, and then dragged two fingers up that cleft, she decided she could guess what it was, and pushed on.

“Here I am,” she grouched, reaching up to put her arms around his shoulders, “bared of all clothing for you—my lord and master, of course. Yet you are fully dressed.”

“Fully dressed, and fully aroused,” he murmured against the skin of her shoulder, which he was nibbling. “And I left ye yer stockings, wife. Dinnae complain. Lie back and please yer laird and master.”

She was giggling as he drove her backwards toward the bed.

But when he grabbed her around the knees—really, leaving the stockings on was quite erotic, wasn’t it?—and spread her legs, she sucked in her breath, knowing what was coming.

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