Page 32 of The Duchess Trap
The carriage jolted forward again with sudden violence, throwing her harder against him. His arm tightened like a steel band around her, anchoring her as though she were his possession alone.
Despite the jouncing of the carriage, his mouth did not release hers. The solid wall of his chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, the thunder of his heart matched her own wild beat, each hammer stroke echoing through her as though it belonged to her body as much as his.
Her scraped palm stung where it pressed against his shoulder, but she scarcely noticed. The sharp bite of pain seemed only to sharpen everything else: the desperate urgency, the crushing need, the way her entire being bent toward him as though she were born for this ruin.
When his tongue brushed hers, she gasped, and he swallowed the sound, pulling her deeper into the kiss. The pressure built, unbearable, delicious. Her body arched, her chest pressed against his, and her breathing grew ragged.
He drew back only an inch, just enough for his words to sear her lips. “Catherine…” Her name on his tongue was a raw, fractured sound, as though a whole world was contained in just that one small word.
Her lashes fluttered. She could not think, could not breathe. “Duncan…”
His mouth claimed hers again before she could speak another word. Passion surged, hotter, rougher, as his hand slid to the nape of her neck, holding her fast as though he feared she might vanish.
She relished the feeling of his body being pressed against her own. This was the sort of love she had sought. All-encompassing, never-ending—the kind of thing that made her feel really and truly appreciated. For one reckless, blazing moment, she let herself drown in him, in the strength of his arms, the hunger of his kiss, and the truth she could not deny.
She wanted him.
Suddenly, the carriage slowed, and the driver’s voice called from outside, muffled through the wood. “We’ve arrived, Your Grace.”
Duncan tore his mouth from hers, breathing harshly, his chest heaving as though he had wrestled with himself as much as with her.
For a single heartbeat, he did not move. His hand lingered against her cheek, thumb dragging softly across her swollen lips as though to soothe and comfort her.
The world outside intruded with the driver’s words, but Catherine could not seem to stir. The night, the city, the duties awaiting them—none of it existed. There was only the dark carriage, the mingling of their ragged breaths, and the tremor that coursed through her like a fever. Her lips throbbed where he had bruised them, tender, burning, alive.
He drew back just far enough for her to see him, and the sight was intoxicating. His eyes roved over her face with slow, hungry scrutiny, down the delicate line of her throat, to where her chest rose and fell too quickly against the confines of her stays. Desireglinted there, raw and undisguised, and the force of it seared her to the bone.
Then his gaze dropped lower, to her hand lying limp in her lap. The blood had dried in a thin, ugly streak across her palm, the scrape still raw and smarting.
The heat in his expression dissolved so instantaneously that had Catherine not been watching him, she might have missed the change altogether. “You should have that cleaned. At once.” His voice was hoarse, thickened by the same storm that had ravaged her, but the authority in it was undeniable.
Catherine swallowed. She did not wish for this moment to end on such a note, but she knew not how to retrieve what she feared was already lost.
The carriage door opened, sending a wash of cool evening air rushing in, but nothing could cool the storm he had set ablaze in her.
She dared not look back at him as the footman closed the carriage door behind her.
Inside, candles flickered to life in the entry hall, golden light spilling across polished wood and marble. Catherine barely saw it. She could only feel the phantom drag of his thumb across her mouth, the weight of his gaze burning down her body, and the truth of the matter. She had not recoiled. She had wanted more, not less.
What is happening to me?she thought, climbing the stairs on trembling legs, her skirts whispering over the steps like secrets.
Her breath shook as she pressed her scraped hand against her bodice, as though she might still feel the frantic pounding beneath.
The Duke came alongside her then, and when the click of his boots paused for a second, she dared to hope that he might place a hand on her shoulder or perhaps offer to clean and bandage her wound himself. But before she could turn toward him and offer him an imploring stare, the sound of his footsteps resounded once more, and Catherine knew that he was gone.
The Duke had retreated to the sanctity of his study, and she would see him no more this evening.
CHAPTER 10
The clatter of wheels on stone cut through the early morning.
Catherine startled awake as her heart lurched wildly.
Horses. A carriage. The sound grew louder, filling the courtyard below.
She leapt from the bed and darted to the window, pushing aside the curtain.
Moonlight silvered the gravel drive, where lanterns bobbed at the front of an elegant carriage rolling to a halt. Figures moved: grooms, a footman leaping down, voices hushed but hurried.
