Page 19 of The Taming of the Duke
“Are you saying that you didn’t mean for me to drink thedeliciousconcoction you’d procured on my behalf?”
His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Perhaps you’d like a glass of water?”
“And where would you procure it from?” she asked. “A nearby ditch?”
She rose to her feet, and the world slipped sideways. He caught her hand, and she drew in a sharp breath at the spark of desire which ignited in her belly.
“I say, my man—over here!” he cried. A footman appeared at his elbow.
“Bring Miss Parville a glass of water,” Petrush said. “And a little brandy.”
“Sir, I…”
“Now. My companion is in danger of being indisposed. And you address me asYour Grace.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
The footman bowed, then disappeared.
The duke took her hands and interlaced his fingers with hers. “Miss Parville—are you all right?” he asked. The arrogance had gone from his voice.
She met his gaze, fighting the wave of nausea. Though she expected to see contempt or false gallantry in his expression, instead, she saw only concern.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I have no wish to make you ill.”
“Whatdoyou wish for, Your Grace?”
“Can you not call me Daxton?” he asked softly.
Daxton…
She shook her head. The last time she’d called a man by his given name had ended in heartbreak and humiliation, and she had no wish to tread that path again, no matter how gallant her companion was being toward her now…
…no matter how his eyes deepened with desire or his nostrils flared as he drew close, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Shall I tell you what I wish for, Miss Parville?”
She curled her fingers round his, taking comfort from his solidity and strength.
“What do you wish for—Daxton?”
There—she’d said it. He drew closer, until she could almost feel his breath on her lips.
“I wish to atone for my transgression, to make myself worthy of you,” he said, “and,” he lowered his voice to a deep rumble which reverberated against her bones, “I wish to be the one to show you that there is nothing to fear from sweetness—orpleasure.”
She caught her breath as an uncomfortable heat bloomed in her center. She squeezed her legs together, her cheeks warming with shame at the slick moisture between her thighs.
What was he doing to her—and in the middle of a ball? To the rest of the company, they might merely be a couple seeking rest from a dance, deep in conversation. But, the flare of desire in his eyes spoke of something very different. The air was thick with the fog of her own primal need.
“Shall I tell you what I also wish for, Miss Parville?”
Before she could respond, the footman appeared, brandishing a glass.
“Excellent!” He took the glass and sat beside her. Then he handed it over. Her hands shook so violently, that she spilled some of the liquid onto her skirt.
“Here, let me.” He guided the glass to her lips. He caressed her hands with his thumbs while she tipped the glass back.
Though the liquid cooled her throat and lessened the nausea, the heat in her body increased at his touch. Never before had she been touched in a manner that was so—intimate.
