Page 50 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Chapter 17
“What are you doing here?” Malcolm took in Antonia’s fine gown. It skimmed over her curves in a whisper of mulberry silk with a low scoop neck that revealed a modest hint of her fine bosoms. White bands of tiny puffed sleeves clung to her shoulders for dear life. Pale yellow-and-green ornaments winked from her earlobes and around her neck. The fact that they were paste did nothing to detract from the effect of effortless wealth.
This evening at Almack’s had revealed a hard truth. Malcolm could no longer bear the tension of letting Antonia free to twist and twine her way up the social ladders. All he could do was stand back and watch her—until even that had become too much to bear. He had stayed long enough to partner Margaret for the requisite two waltzes, and then come home to wait.
“I find myself out of a home.” Antonia regarded the contents of his library with curiosity. “The Evendaws believe I have had an unduly poor influence on Lady Margaret.”
“Have you?” he asked mildly. Malcolm set out a pair of cut-glass cups and filled them from a decanter of brown liquid.
“I certainly hope so.” Antonia accepted the drink and raised it to eye level. “Cheers.”
He clinked her glass with his. The sweet burn of brandy steadied his pulse. Antonia was here. In his library. Needing him. He ached to keep her here with him. “If I may offer my opinion, you have had an encouraging effect on her. Margaret is nowhere near as biddable as she once was.”
“Which is precisely why I find myself in abrupt need of lodgings.” Antonia smirked and wandered closer to the fire in the grate. He ought to offer her the shawl draped casually over the arm of one dark leather chair. Malcolm would far rather warm her in his embrace, though. He might have the opportunity tonight…
No. Only a selfish scoundrel would approach a woman who had come to him for help. This was not the time. “You do not appear overly put out by being, uh, put out.”
“I’m not,” Antonia replied with disdain-inflected candor.
He brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. “You would make an excellent duchess.”
She laughed, but there was a brittle undertone to it. “Yes, with my inborn sense of superiority and little interest in deferring to anyone, I suppose you have a point. Are you asking me to marry you, Malcolm?”
Antonia was teasing. She had to be. Why, then, did the desperate note of longing underneath her sharp words slice so deeply into his heart? “Yes.”
The woman he would make his bride, if she let him, froze midstep. She said nothing in response for a long moment. “No.”
Relief washed over him. “Wise.”
“How so?” she asked sharply, resuming her stride and circling him warily.
“I offer nothing but a lot of big, empty houses and an equally empty title. You are far too intelligent to want less than everything you deserve.”
“What is it you think I am entitled to, Malcolm?”
“A love as durable as your own. A man to warm your bed every evening. One who can satisfy your physical desires. But one who would worship you outside of the bedroom as well as within it. That is what you deserve, princess.”
She stopped to peer up at him with wide, wary dark eyes, as though he had said something wrong. No more pet names, then. He cupped her cheek. Antonia nuzzled her face in his palm. Malcolm’s cock hardened as he traced her lower lip with his thumb. She looked him square in the eye. “What makes you think you could not be that person, Malcolm?”
He froze. Antonia pushed his chest. The edge of the leather divan hit the back of his knees. He collapsed into it. Malcolm gazed up at her, as worshipful as a supplicant at the feet of a goddess.
Silk shuffled. Soft wine-red fabric bunched and rustled as she settled herself over his thighs. Weight and woman loosened his grip on the control Malcolm tried to exercise over the world. He gave himself over to her ministrations. Antonia plucked his red diamond stickpin from the nest of his snowy-white cravat. Instead of pocketing it, she set it carefully aside. He moved to let her unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat, then remove the shirt studs.
“I would hurt you,” he whispered as he kissed the tops of her breasts. There was a painful tightness in his throat. No sound but the crackle of firewood in the hearth and the shuffle of clothing as they undressed one another, unhurriedly, piece by piece.
“You think you could wound my feelings?” Antonia laughed softly. Her hair tumbled in thick, shiny waves around her shoulders. The earbobs and necklace remained in place, winking in the firelight. He worked his hands up her bare thighs. Even blind, he knew his way around the laces and ties of a woman’s clothing. Deftly, he unfastened layer after layer until, with a smirk on her sensuous lips, Antonia lifted the gown over her head in a whoosh. Her petticoats and chemise followed. He’d be sketching and painting the way light played over her body for years to come.
“It’s different when you’re married. If there are children.” His hands were on her full breasts. Their shape and heft imprinted on his memory. His cock twitched, rigid with need.
“There needn’t be children.” Antonia held up a tiny paper square. “You know what this is?”
He stilled. “A French letter.”
“Correct. Although I usually call it a sheath.” Antonia expertly unrolled the lambskin from its case and sat back between his legs. She opened the flaps of his trousers and extracted his length from the confining nest of his smallclothes. “My mother worked as a prostitute for a time. It was that or starve. She gave it up when she married. She taught me how to protect myself when I wanted companionship. As you know, I am no saint.”
“Nor am I,” he groaned. “I am not a monk, but I use these whenever I sought comfort. Your history is irrelevant to us being here together.”
His servants undoubtedly thought they had admitted one of his occasional companions. This would not be the first time a woman had appeared in his library after dark. Malcolm vowed tonight would be the last, though.
