Page 62 of The English Duke
His fingers trailed over the edge of her collar. No one had ever told her that her neck would be so sensitive, or that a man’s fingers would bring fire in their wake. No, not any man, only this man.
Had he had a great deal of experience in seduction? It seemed as if he had, because he bent to kiss her again and her whole body felt as if it was inflamed.
If anyone saw her now, she’d be ruined. Worse, she would be ridiculed. Who did she think she was? A true beauty, or a seductress—someone who could enchant the Duke of Roth? No, she was only Martha York, the girl who worked with her father, who could always be found out on the lake. Never in a ducal apartment adrift in passion.
She really had to leave. She had to escape, now, before anything else untoward happened. She was not going to continue to press herself against his body, marvel at his physique, or compare him to other men she’d seen.
She’d never been this close to a man or allowed one to take liberties with her. Not once had she encouraged a kiss or hoped he would touch her.
How shameful was she? She wanted to see him without his clothes. She chastised herself mentally for her forwardness but she didn’t move away. She couldn’t remember ever having that wish about anyone, but it seemed so natural and so right to want to place her hands on his bare shoulders, marvel at the play of muscles she could feel beneath the shirt. Please, give her a few minutes to flatten her hands against his chest, allow her fingers to trail through the hair there, then dance across his flat stomach.
Her thoughts weren’t the least virginal. She wished she had more experience instead of having only witnessed the act on a shadowed terrace.
A button on his shirt slipped free. Two fingers slid into the placket, her fingertips resting against the skin of his chest. By her actions she’d broken some kind of barrier, one of thought and will.
Slowly she undid two more buttons until her hand slipped inside his shirt. She felt as if she’d done this before, as if she knew him in an elemental way. As if kissing him was natural and so were her explorations.
His fast breathing was an echo of hers. Was his heart beating as rapidly? Were his thoughts as chaotic?
She knew what she was doing was wrong, could never be explained to another soul. Yet, at the same time, it felt right and ordained. She was supposed to be here with him in this shadowed bedroom. She was destined to touch him, ramping up the wonder and passion she felt.
He didn’t move. She continued until all the buttons were open and she could push the edges of the shirt wide.
Stepping forward, she placed her lips on his chest, a kiss of benediction, of wonder, and possibly of supplication.
She knew what she wanted to do next, continue disrobing him, revealing him in all his beauty. She wanted to run her hands over his skin, rejoicing in the symmetry and perfection of his body.
She didn’t get the chance.
Chapter 18
Providence had evidently felt charitable toward him tonight.Here, Jordan, I grant you agony with your leg, but forgetfulness in the elixir and passion in the touch of a soft and welcoming woman.
The room was spinning, but she felt real. She was his prize for having endured the earlier pain. He wouldn’t remember her tomorrow or even a few hours from now. However, he was going to enjoy the hallucination as long as it lasted.
A waking dream, that’s what he would consider it.
She was touching him and breathing in a way that made him think she was as aroused as he. If she was real, he’d thank her for making him feel as if he was whole and virile and man enough to please her.
But she was only a creature formed by his loneliness and the opiates in Dr. Reynolds’s elixir.
When she’d kissed him, the top of his head went sailing somewhere among the stars. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to feel the desire she so effortlessly summoned.
Where had his walking stick gone? He’d dropped it somewhere after entering the bedroom and being confronted with this delightful dream made real. His hand reached out, pressed hers against his chest.
He threaded his fingers through the mass of her curls, feeling the softness of her hair as he bent to kiss her. A drumbeat began deep inside him, the rhythm slow but increasing, demanding.
How long had it been since he felt the touch of a woman? Too long. He’d been celibate for years, first out of necessity in the navy. Second, because after ascending to the dukedom the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a compromising position with a young miss.
His waking dream wasn’t a virtuous female and he didn’t have to worry about anything. She wasn’t real. Neither was he, in the strictest sense. His mind was under the throes of the drug. His will was compromised. His needs were dominant.
He folded his arms around her, drawing her closer. In the way of all dreams she fit perfectly as if she belonged there.
She was tall enough she could place her lips against his throat, sigh against his neck, and make him grateful for the effects of the elixir.
He’d never before kissed a woman and felt like this. Not once in his experience had the world fallen away.
Until this moment he thought he knew passion. He didn’t realize it had the ability to infuse him with joy. Or make him want to grab her and twirl her around the room in a thoroughly un-Jordan-like move.
