Page 22 of The Duchess in His Bed
He nodded toward the table. “Let’s see how long you can keep this streak going.”
For hours. She’d often done so, used it as entertainment when she awoke in the middle of the night in her lonely bed and couldn’t drift back off. It amused her to see how long she could go without a miss. So she set herself up for the next shot, took it, succeeded, and glanced over at him. “Do you know who your father is?”
“We’re getting a little personal now.” His tone was flat, carrying the tiniest hint of displeasure.
Still she scoffed. “Asking about your paramours wasn’t?”
He studied her for a full minute before confessing, “Yes, I know who sired me.”
Another successful turn. “Who is he?”
Slowly he shook his head. “Sorry, love. I’ll have to take a forfeit here because as I told you last night, I never discuss him.”
She rather thought she could understand that, how it must have hurt when he learned he’d been given away. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have pried. The question was unconscionable. What’s your favorite color?”
A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Sweetheart, you can ask me anything you want, doesn’t mean I’ll answer or am offended by your curiosity. I’m actually quite touched you want to know more about me, are beginning to see me as more than just a cock. Bodes well for the bedding.”
Not if her face was as red as the heat of it made her think it was. He tossed that wordcockout so casually, the way most people might saytreeorbutterorgood morning.
“Name the price for my forfeit,” he insisted.
Placing the larger end of the cue on the floor so the stick stood vertically, she wrapped her hands around the narrowing portion, fearing she might need the support if he accepted the forfeit. “Remove your waistcoat and cravat.”
His eyes darkening, falling on her with the weight of stone, daring her to look away or not to—she couldn’t be sure—he shoved himself away from the wall and leisurely began unknotting his cravat as though he had the remainder of his life in which to accomplish that goal. The movement of his fingers was mesmerizing, and she imagined them unlacing the back of her gown, drawing it down over her shoulders with the same sensual flexing and unflexing of his hands. Her mouth was suddenly dry. When he was done, she would ask for more brandy, perhaps request the entire bottle. Or maybe he could direct her to a nearby lake where she could plunge herself into the icy depths before she went up in a conflagration of heated desire.
When the white linen was free of its mooring, he unwound it from about his neck, pulled one end of it until it completely surrendered its hold on him so he was able to toss it onto another chair. She watched it sail effortlessly through the air as she might journey if he lifted her up and tossed her onto a silk-covered mattress.
It somehow seemed incredibly intimate to see so much more of his neck. She had an urge to trail her mouth over the corded tendons there.
Then he went to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. Never before had she seen a man undress himself. Had never seen as much of a man as she saw of Aiden Trewlove. Forearms and neck, sinew and strength. He was turning her into a wanton, revealing just enough to make her want to uncover more.
When the waistcoat hung loose and parted, he shrugged out of it in a masculine roll of his shoulders that made it difficult to draw in air. That bit of clothing was also flung aside. With his gaze still focused intently on her, he reached up and flicked three buttons of his shirt through their holes, revealing the tantalizing hollow in the center of his collarbone at the base of his throat. Her tongue touched her upper lip when it desperately wanted to taste his skin there.
He dropped back against the wall, crossed those magnificent arms over that incredible chest, and produced a smile that was at once wicked and tempting. “I wonder what forfeit I shall ask of you when the time comes.”
The time wasn’t going to come, but she did wish she was bold enough to purposely miss simply to see where he might lead her. No doubt into a temptation she’d never known. It did not bode well that her fingers had tightened around the cue to such an extent they’d gone numb. Releasing her hold, she shook out her hands, opening and closing them to get feeling back into them. Regaining her equilibrium, she stated succinctly, “Wonder all you like, but it will be for naught. I have no intention of making a miscalculation in my shots.”
And she didn’t.
“Do you know anything about your mother?” she asked.
“I assume you’re not referring to my mum, Ettie Trewlove, but to the woman who gave birth to me.” His tone didn’t hold the bitterness it did when discussing his father, but she sensed a bit of sorrow, remorse, perhaps even regret. “I don’t know anything about her. I assume she was his mistress, but that’s only speculation on my part.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult it is not to know everything about your past.”
“I accepted the circumstances of my birth long ago. Ettie Trewlove made them not matter.”
“I’m glad.” She didn’t like thinking of him as a young lad, picked on or beaten because of a situation over which he had no control. Well aware that people were not always kind to those born in shame, she didn’t want to consider that her plans would involve her child being labeled as such—or worse—if the truth were ever discovered.
Taking a deep breath, she moved into position for her final play. She glanced over at him. For the lack of tension in him, he could have been stretched out on clover beneath the shade of a mighty oak watching as the billowy clouds passed by. “You seem rather relaxed for a man on the verge of having to fulfill all my demands.”
He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “I’d always intended for you to win, but I’d expected to have to work at the losing.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, to know he’d gone into the game with the express purpose of doing as she commanded. There was a kindness to him, an unselfishness she’d not entirely expected. “I’m glad to have been a surprise.”
“You are definitely that, sweetheart.”
The endearment seemed to be more heartfelt, which gave her pause. She was here for a bedding, not an emotional entanglement. Best to get the game over with and move on to business. She lined up her final shot, took it, knew both exhilaration for winning and disappointment the game was at an end. She turned to find him merely studying her, simply waiting.
