Page 38 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
When they emerged through the door into the cellars, the barrels of ale and the dusty bottles of wine largely intact, he paused. “I am,” he said at length. “I had thought you would have used my collection for your soirees and other events…”
“In truth, I only arranged a few, and in the latter days of being here.” She fidgeted slightly. Number five on her list was play questions and commands, but how to initiate such a thing? “And I never drank myself.”
“I confess, I’m glad of it.” He was still looking at the cellar, the scent of aged wood mixing with the slight damp that always occupied these spaces. “It is a bad habit.”
“Is that not hypocritical?” she asked teasingly.
“Somewhat.” He glanced at her wryly. “A man may know he is making a mistake even as he indulges in it.”
“And a lady is not allowed these freedoms?”
“The role of a man is to protect the women under his care.”
She tilted her head as a frown appeared on his face, as though he wasn’t expecting to say that, either. “So, according to you, I am a woman under your care.”
“I suppose you are.”
She turned so she was looking up at him. “And what is my role?”
His eyes searched hers. “What do you mean?”
“Your role is, according to you, to protect me. So what ismyrole? What may I do for you?” Daringly, thinking of all the whispered advice Eliza had given her, she reached up to cup his face. “Let me help you, Alexander,” she murmured.
He froze under her. They were so close, her chest skimming his, and his face warm under her palm. Freshly shaved, but with the ghost of golden stubble under his skin. In the dim light, his eyes looked endlessly dark. Here, he was all shadows, and she wanted to sink into him and never find her way out again.
Then his hand came to her waist, spanning almost to her ribs, and her head spun.
“I have never kissed a man before,” she confessed, hearing the words as she said them and wishing she could take them back. How desperate that sounded—and perhaps he would not want an inexperienced partner in this. Perhaps he wanted to feel asthough she knew precisely what she was doing and could please him in this.
But Alexander’s chest rose and fell in an unsteady breath, and his other hand tilted her face to his as he bent to crush his mouth against hers.
The kiss felt as desperate as her statement had, and one thing became abundantly clear.
Now—now—she had most certainly kissed a man.
Now, she had kissed her husband.
His hand slid from her jaw to her neck, and she braced both her hands on his shoulders as she leaned up, kissing him more thoroughly. His mouth opened, tongue skimming her bottom lip, and she mimicked him. Hot, slick, wet, all in ways she might have thought she would dislike until it was Alexander providing the sensations. Now, the heated press of his lips satiated a desire she hadn’t even known she’d possessed.
Finally, after all her years of harboring this small, unrequited preference for him, she knew how it was to kiss him.
Her knees felt weak, as though they were made of butter, and he slid his arm more firmly around her waist to hold her up. In a burst of enthusiasm, Lydia wrapped her arms around his neck. He made a small noise in the back of his throat at that,his tongue sliding luxuriously against hers, and the sound went straight to the liquid heat beginning between her legs.
Yes,this. Justthis.Just them.
His back collided with the wall, allowing her to push up against him, and she did. Her body didn’t quite feel like her own anymore; under his tutelage, she had become something new. A sensual being who could compel a man into madness.
A siren.
For once—for the first time with Alexander—she felt power. Desirable. So verywanted. The insistent ridge against her stomach told her that. A bulge, just as Marie had commanded her to look for.
All was not lost.
But heavens above, she was. With his arms around her in such a passionate embrace, she was forced to confront the reality that she had been lost until this very moment.
He tasted of tea and, amusingly, kippers from breakfast, and she wondered if she would ever be content to live without it.
She did not merely compel a man into madness—she brought herself to the very brink. Teetered along the edge and welcomed it in like an old friend. With every stroke of his tongue and pressof her palms, she understood more of herself, and it was this: that she could not live alone for the remainder of her life.
