Page 9 of The Duchess in His Bed
“I was striving to turn over a new leaf. To become respectable.”
“Respectability is overrated.”
“And you know that because you are so disreputable?”
“I know that because Iwantto be so disreputable. I have observed propriety my entire life. It grows wearisome.”
“I have another rule, sweetheart. I don’t bed married women. That one I have never broken.”
“Fortunate for me, then, that I’m a widow.” Not so fortunate really. If she wasn’t a widow, she wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have sought him out. She hadn’t meant to confess the truth of her marital status, but even if he’d read Lushing’s obituary in the newspaper, it was unlikely he would associate the duke with her, for surely he would not expect a woman only three days a widow to come so soon to a house of sin. Still, the less he knew or suspected about her, the better. She didn’t know why she found herself telling him things she shouldn’t. She’d learned early on, from the cradle, to hold her thoughts to herself and never reveal her true opinions or feelings, and yet here she was blathering on like a fishmonger’s wife who wouldn’t soon find herself facing consequences.
On the other hand, where was the harm in what she’d revealed? Even if he managed to discern exactly who she was, he didn’t have the power to interfere with her plans. Besides, she was accustomed to having her way in most things. It was a privilege of her rank, and she’d discerned she wanted him. Why was he playing so hard to get? It was her experience that men were ruled by their baser instincts and nothing was baser than the need to see to their cocks. Why was he being so blasted difficult? Why hadn’t he immediately escorted her to a darkened room and lifted her skirts? More irritating than his apparent lack of interest was the sympathy that plunged into the depths of his brown eyes.
“How long?” he asked.
“It’s of no consequence.”
“Do you miss him?”
At that particular moment, she missed the silence of him, the fact that he’d never bombarded her with questions in an attempt to discern every facet of her. “Have you no interest in bedding me?” Her voice held her impatience. She’d come here for a purpose, and he was delaying it.
His long fingers splayed against her back, dug in, and claimed as he brought her scandalously nearer, until his thigh was practically nestled between both of hers and she feared his feet might become entangled in the hem of her skirts. But apparently he was too light-footed for that disaster to occur, knew precisely what he was about, had calculated exactly how closely he could hold her without causing any mishap. Or perhaps it was simply at that moment they seemed to be one and the same. Strange how she felt as though she was sharing a familiarity far more intimate than anything she’d experienced in a bed.
“You deserve better than to be bedded.” His low voice thrummed through every nerve ending she possessed. “You warrant a scandalous and thorough seduction.”
His eyes locked with hers, offering a promise she didn’t know if she had the courage to accept. She couldn’t draw in a single breath. Suddenly coming here seemed an incredibly reckless venture, yet in spite of the pounding of her heart, which she was rather certain he could feel traveling all the way to her fingertips, she couldn’t bring herself to break free and leave. She was all of twenty-five and not once, in all her years upon this earth, had she ever beenthoroughlyseduced. She couldn’t even claim to have been slightly seduced.
The final strains of the tune wafted on the air, lingering like the scent of a flower whose blossom had closed up for the night. They ceased their movements, but he didn’t loosen his hold one iota. “You don’t know me.” Her voice sounded raw, as though she’d not used it in ages. “You can’t know what I warrant.”
“Every woman merits more than a bedding. Each is deserving of seduction. All that said, I suspect I know you far better than you think.”
She was grateful the mask hid her reaction, that he couldn’t see how much she longed for someone to truly know her, to be aware of her thoughts, fears, and dreams.
“As for your earlier question regarding my interest in bedding you—rest assured it is strong and powerful. If you were to turn your attentions to another man here, I might, regretfully, find myself having to kill him.”
She was remarkably ashamed of the satisfaction that swept through her because he might be jealous of another.
Another tune started up, and he was again gliding her over the floor. She had danced with gentlemen more accomplished and polished when it came to the waltz, but it had all been merely movement and motion, adhering to the formalities of the steps. His style was more feral, raw, and alluring. He held her gaze as though to look away would signal defeat. Their proximity to each other was scandalously close, not that it truly mattered here. There was an earthiness, a primitiveness to the way all the couples moved in tandem around the ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see how each of the other gents looked at his partner as though she hung the moon and the stars.
But Aiden Trewlove had perfected his regard to reflect that of a man truly smitten. Even if only for a moment, the length of a dance, a woman felt treasured.Shefelt treasured. She hadn’t expected that tonight, didn’t want it. It made her feel weak when it was imperative that she remain strong in order to do what needed to be done.
“Odd that you wouldn’t remove your gloves, that you rejected the notion of my bare hands touching yours when you’re here in hopes that my palms will caress all of you,” he said quietly. “Imagine how much nicer this would be without the silk separating us.”
Suddenly, she imagined it, wildly and provocatively. She rather feared her heart, which continued to beat erratically, might very well give out before the night was done. Her death would certainly serve no one, least of all herself, well. If anything, it would merely compound the guilt she would take with her to heaven. If that was where the angels carried her, although it was quite likely after tonight’s escapade that they’d merely dump her in hell. Which she’d feared until an hour ago. Now, however, she found some comfort in the prospect of arriving there, because she was quite certain it would be his final destination as well. She could imagine him laughing uproariously, delighted by his surroundings, and driving the devil to distraction. She rather wanted to witness all that.
“One can be bedded without removing all of one’s garments,” she informed him as haughtily and learnedly as possible. Lushing had certainly never required all garments be removed, so exactly how was Aiden Trewlove going to caressallof her? With those palms. The one that cradled her hand as though it were a fragile bird. The one that covered a good bit of her lower back.
His grin was saucy and daring. “Where’s the fun in that?”
She almost asked if there was fun to be had in bedding. For her, it had always been more of a chore, a duty, a requirement of marriage. She was here hoping for something more but was at a bit of a loss as to exactly what thatmoremight consist of. Caressing bare skin.Caressing. Bare. Skin.The words seemed trapped in her mind as though they were riding on a roundabout.
From the caressing and holding he’d done so far, she could tell his hands were roughened by his labors, whatever they might entail. But they were also clean, well manicured. He had a scar that ran along the side of his forefinger and onto the back of his hand. Thin, raised, white. He’d had it for a time. She wondered how it had come to be.
Would his seduction involve the exchange of more stories? She rather thought so, rather hoped so.
The music again ceased playing, a signal for others to change partners, while he simply continued to hold her, waiting patiently for when they could begin moving again. In a ballroom, three dances with the same gentleman would be scandalous. Here it was nothing at all. She was neither concerned about it nor worried over her reputation. “How many more dances?” she asked.
“One.”
