Page 42 of My Demanding Duke

Anna could see the wound now, raw beneath the hard exterior, and she could even pity the boy he must have been—stripped of a brother, thrust into a title, believing he should endure. But she had not asked to be another fixture in his world of rigid order and command. She might understand his hurt, but she would not be ruled by it.

If the Duke of Falconbridge wished to have her for his wife, then he would have to reckon with the fact that she was not a fragile thing to guard, but a woman with her own mind, her own demands. Because if he thought love was obedience, he was in for a very long marriage indeed.

Anna endured the rest of the evening wearing a smile so false it made her jaw ache. At midnight, when Hugh suggested they might leave, she agreed easily.

They rode home in silence, both tense and coiled, but refusing to acknowledge it. Once inside Falconbridge House, Anna bid him a cool goodnight. Though her body hummed with need for him, she could not bear to lose control again in front of a man who refused to let his guard down before her.

It was all give and no take, she mused, as Josie assisted her with the many ties and stays of the elaborate gown she wore.

“I can manage from here, Josie,” Anna smiled, once she had been freed from the garment.

“I’ll take this back to my room, sponge it and hang it down there,” Josie agreed with a half-yawn, too tired to even attempt to pretend that she wanted to stay. Anna felt a stab of pity for her; Josie had not had to contend with many late-nights in Whitby.

Once alone, Anna removed the last of her clothes and donned one of her old night-rails. She took herself to the cosy chair by the fire to brush out her hair, still fuming at the inequality she was expected to accept from the man who had insisted she marry him.

Would he come to her tonight?

She stilled as she realised that she did not have to passively wait for him to appear. The door between their room opened both ways.

Emboldened by indignation, she stood and swept across the plush carpet to his chamber. The door handle pushed down easily beneath her hand.

Inside, she found Hugh in a state of half-undress; shirt loose, braces fallen to his hips. He looked up as she entered, his expression closed.

“Is something wrong?” he questioned calmly, his blue eyes tracking her approach.

“Yes,” she answered, refusing to be intimidated by his maddening restraint. He could at least have the decency to look surprised at finding her in his private chambers.

“I’m afraid that I cannot put whatever ails you to right, if you do not elaborate,” he said, his composure as rigid as his posture.

He wanted a response, something he could control and fix. She would not oblige him this time with an answer he could counter.

Hugh watched carefully as she closed the space between them. This close, she could see the evening stubble that darkened his throat and chin. He looked less like a duke and more like a man. A man caught somewhat off guard. A man she could unravel.

Anna lifted her hand to brush her fingers along the stubble-roughened line of his jaw, trailing them down his throat, to the strong beat of his pulse.

His hands moved to draw her to him, but despite the desire in her belly, she resisted his pull.

“No,” she breathed, standing on tip-toe to whisper against his ear. “I’m in charge this time.”

Before he could reply, she brought her lips to his, allowing herself for a moment to sink against his warm strength. His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her against his hardness. Anna growled in frustration and longing; it was difficult to feel in control when his touch made her feverish.

She pulled his shirt from his waistband, tugging it up with impatience. He obliged her by lifting the garment over his head, revealing a broad chest, neat waist, and lean stomach. Her hands roved his bare skin, her touch eliciting a sharp inhale of breath from him.

Emboldened, her fingers moved lower, to the row of buttons at his waistband. She looked up, momentarily uncertain of her plan.

“Dear God, don’t stop,” he groaned, the agony in his voice thrilling her.

She hesitated, both afraid and wanting to commit to memory this moment: the Duke of Falconbridge undone, desperate, utterly hers.

Her hand slipped inside his trousers, bold but tentative, fingers wrapping around his hardness.

“It feels silky,” she whispered, glancing up at him with surprise.

“Be my guest and feel away,” he replied, with a pained, breathless laugh.

He kissed the top of her head, then his hand covered hers to guide her.

“Harder,” he whispered against her hair, once she had found a rhythm.

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