Page 46 of My Dark Duke

Lord Bailey had asked for Mary’s name, which was something Sebastian could not provide. Despite their closeness and the intensity of their lovemaking, Mary had not revealed anything of herself to him. No hint of her past, or of her family; she shared everything with him, except her true self.

Sebastian had felt to press her on such matters would be a step too far. Greedy almost, to ask even more of her. Yet now, a burning desire to know just who she was, consumed him.

He knew she was not a lightskirt, after all, it was he who had claimed her maidenhead, but who was she? What had made her flee Kent, to fend for herself, alone, in London?

The carriage drew to a halt and Higgins swiftly opened the door.

“Thank you,” Sebastian said, as he disembarked. He slipped the lad a coin as he passed him, an apology for his earlier snipping, and made for the house.

Inside, he found Mary in the library, dressed in a simple evening gown, a book in hand.

“Sebastian,” she said, looking up from her book with a smile. “I was about to give up on you and retire for the night.”

“Forgive my tardiness,” he answered, as she put her book aside and moved towards him for a kiss. “I was waylaid…”

“By a bottle of brandy?” she guessed, as she neared him, perhaps smelling the alcohol on his clothes.

“Just a few glasses,” he assured her. “Though, it was a vintage bottle, which might explain the lingering aroma.”

“My father adored a good cognac.” She grinned. “I should take offence that you are late, but I am well aware that very little can compete with a well-aged bottle.”

“You are far more appealing than brandy,” Sebastian assured her, drawing her into his arms. “It was Barty who delayed me; he had to be reassured I was not dead, given my absence from society of late.”

Her brow creased into a slight frown, as it always did when he mentioned his life outside their lovers’ nest. He was not dense; she regretted there was a part of his life which she would never share. She would never know his family or his friends - of which Barty made up the bulk of both groups - and it saddened her.

It saddened him, too.

For all he wished to hide Mary away from society’s censure, he also longed for people to see her on his arm. For others to witness the way she looked at him, with warmth and affection. Her regard for him was a testament to the fact he was not truly a devil, that he was capable of being…loved.

Sebastian frowned in confusion. The brandy had addled his mind.

“Tell me about your father,” he said, not wishing to miss the opportunity she had presented. “You never speak of him.”

At his words, she stiffened in his arms.

“It still pains me to speak of him,” she answered, pulling away from his embrace. “He was a kind man; he had an ear for everyone, without regard for their status. If any of the tenants on the estate had troubles, they knew they could petition him to speak on their behalf.”

“The estate?” Sebastian prompted, holding his breath as he waited for her to answer.

Mary started, perhaps realising she had revealed more than she was comfortable with.

“I believe, Your Grace,” she said tartly, “that you are fishing for the name of the village I grew up in. I thought we had agreed some things were to remain secret?”

“Yes, in case you wish to run away from me,” Sebastian recalled, irritably. The thought of her disappearing filled him with dread; for one wild moment, he considered carrying her away to one of his country estates, where he might keep her forever.

“If I run away it will not be back to my village, Your Grace.” She gave a rueful laugh. “I would make for Bristol, where I would take a ship to the Americas.”

“I would find you even there,” Sebastian whispered, crossing the space between them. A primal hunger stirred in his belly; the talk of Mary escaping had awoken the beast inside him yearning to possess her.

He reached out with one hand and pulled her towards them, silencing her gasp of shock with his lips. He claimed her mouth with a hunger so passionate, it might have been the first time he kissed her, rather than the hundredth.

A frenetic madness urged him on; his need made desperate by the thought that she might leave him.

He pushed her against the mahogany desk, lifting her up by the buttocks so she sat facing him. His face fell to her breasts, concealed by the soft, white muslin of her bodice. He growled with displeasure at being denied the taste of her nipples on his lips. With impatient hands, he tore the material, so that her breasts were revealed to him.

“Sebastian,” Mary gasped, in shock.

He simply offered her a wicked grin and fell atop her bounteous bosom. Her nipples were hard and tight, the pink of her areolas vivid against the whiteness of her skin.

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