Page 30 of Tamed By her Duke

She probably liked it, she reasoned, because it was crushing the air out of her, which was probably why, she further argued to herself, she was getting a touch lightheaded and stupid.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice a little breathy, like the most intolerable of the flirtatious misses at Society events. “Unless you intend to—” A thousand inappropriate words crossed her mind, and she used her last grasp at sense to not say any of them out loud. “—ah,produce heirs, from across the house, I don’t think avoiding me is proper preparation.”

There was a pause while Caleb looked down at her like he was thinking something through. Bully for him. Grace’s ability to think was currently off somewhere having a nighttime lark.

“Ye know,” he said, something she couldn’t place in his voice, “I think ye might be right.”

And then, before a retort could come to her, he pressed his mouth to hers.

It was like their previous kiss in that it lit her up, warmed her instantly, made her limbs feel simultaneously full of energy and lax with languor. It was very muchunliketheir previous kiss in that, instead of quickly rushing away like she’d jabbed him with a fork, Caleb let his weight sink more fully atop her as his mouth positivelyplunderedhers.

Grace let out a little whimper as his mouth moved against her, as his tongue danced out to touch her lip. Her body knew, somehow, how to react; she opened her lips a fraction wider, let her tongue brush against his, tentatively at first, then more firmly. She wrangled an arm free from the blanket and tossed it around his neck.

“Christ,leannan,” he grumbled, nipping at her bottom lip and making her gasp. “Daenae move about like that. I cannae take it.”

Grace wasn’t sure what he meant by this until she felt the unmistakable hardness at the front of his pants where his hips pressed against her leg. It was surprisingly thrilling, the experience sending a shiver through her that was very unlike the cringe of revulsion she’d felt whenever Noel Packard had decided it was acceptable to relieve himself on whatever shrubbery happened to be nearby?—

She pushed the thought from her mind, and another probing swipe from her husband’s tongue banished it entirely. She usedher one free arm to cling to his neck, to try to gain leverage to press herself upward into him more firmly.

The hand that had been cradling her head clamped tightly, half spanning the base of her skull, fingers winding into the hair at her nape. This pressure, too, was marvelous, and another soft whimper tore from Grace’s throat.

“Please,” she said, tugging at him. Kissing wasgrand. All the years she’d not spent doing it werestupid.

“Patience, patience,” he soothed, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her jaw.

But patience was also stupid, so Grace wriggled—her husband’s prohibition be damned—until she could take his mouth again. They kissed for long moments, tongues tangling, hands roaming, though never venturing to more illicit places, as if by unspoken agreement.

If this man weren’t Caleb Gulliver, Duke of Montgomery, Grace might have even said it wasa nice moment. Since itwasCaleb, she could only conclude that kissing held inherent virtues, assuming one’s partner did not smell revolting.

Caleb, she vaguely noted, always smelled pleasant, like soap and sometimes whisky.

Eventually, the kissing grew unhurried, almost languid. Grace had always assumed lovemaking, and anything even remotelyconnected to it, was frantic, animalistic. Shouldn’t it have been more brutish? Shouldn’t she have been swept away by her passions?

Instead, she just felt…warm. And yes, part of this warmth was focused in, ah, unmentionable locations, but Grace did not feel a particular urgency to tend to any of it. Doing so would mean moving, and she thought she might be content to lay here like this forever, Caleb’s hands in her hair, her own fingers carding through the short strands at the base of his skull, her wrapped in a blanket and pinned down under the heat of him.

She wondered, insanely, what it would be like to sleep with him warming the bed beside her, before reminding herself that she would never know. They might eventually consummate their marriage, but she could not imagine this gruff, rude man cuddling up beside her.

The thought made her stiffen, which made Caleb pull back as if stung. The cool air felt like a slap against all the places where he had lain.

“Right,” she said as he pushed himself upright, as ungraceful as she’d ever seen him. “I, um. That was very. Informative.”

“Grace,” he said, and she didn’t know if he was reaching out his hand or if he was censuring her, and she could not wait to find out for certain.

There were stories, of course, about women who confused physical intimacies with affection. These cautionary tales weremostly bandied about when discussing rakes, the ones who made sweet promises that were never followed through upon, leaving women brokenhearted and ruined behind them. Caleb might be many things—most of them annoying—but Grace did not think he was a rake.

He was dangerous, however. Not against her person, but against the fragile, tender part of her that used to cherish a dream of marrying a man she loved, and who loved her in return. Those dreams had died the night Dowling clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her into the garden.

She could not risk them being revived.Especiallynot with her husband.

“Goodnight,” she said hastily, backing away like he was some rabid animal poised to strike. She even relented and left her blanket behind, though it left her chillyandtraversing the halls like some sort of tragic ghost.

When she crossed the threshold of the library, she turned and fled, only pausing once she reached her room how she had managed to have the tables turn upon her so quickly—and in such a dramatic fashion.

CHAPTER 9

No matter what the little pest claimed, Caleb wasnotavoiding his wife.

He was merely not…putting in an effort to seek her out.

---