Page 70 of Most Unusual Duke

He dropped his hold immediately. “You do not like them in general or Castleton’s in particular?”

“Castleton did no such thing.” She shuddered. “I was kissed once or twice during my only Season, and it was unpleasant.”

“Show me.”

“What on earth can you mean?”

“Demonstrate.” Arthur opened his arms. “I am yours to do with what you will.”

Beatrice took a moment to consider his proposal and then grabbed his face and smashed her lips on his. Teeth crashed against teeth, lips ground against lips.

“You cannot convince me that is appealing.” A pity kissing wasn’t nicer, for the feel of his mouth against her own had not been as terrible as she’d expected.

“That is quite disagreeable. Here…” Arthur took her hand and raised her palm to his lips. “If I may in turn demonstrate?” He brushed his mouth over her hand, and her pulse leapt.

“You may.” Oh, dear.

Arthur opened his mouth and ran it along her palm, his lips warm, his breath hot but not unpleasantly so. Was it pleasant?Pleasantdid not begin to describe it. It was gentle yet invigorating; it weakened her knees and made her feel hot and tingly between her thighs. He ran his nose from the center of her palm up her longest finger and then followed it back to her wrist with his lips. He nibbled on the fleshiest part of her palm and repeated the circuit, nose over her ring finger this time, lips lingering, slow, back down to her wrist. He took her hand in both of his, treating it with the reverence he would accord a precious artifact in the British Museum. He kissed the back of it, gently sucking on her knuckles.

“Does that…” she began. He looked up at her without ceasing in his task. “Does this approach work on the mouth?”

“It does. May I?” She nodded, and he pulled her closer, did that thing he did with his nose and her ear until shivers rippled through her core. “It is best to begin like a hummingbird supping from a flower.” His lips hovered over hers as that bird would over a bloom and settled, removed, brushed, settled again.

He took her very breath with each caress.

Beatrice had forgotten to apply her salve and was certain her lips were dry as dust; as she moistened them with the tip of her tongue, it coincided with another touch of his mouth, and his groan inflamed her. His hands gripped her hips, and she snuck another lick.

“Madam,” Arthur groaned, adding in approximately ten more syllables than required.

“Is that not done?” He did not sound like he objected.

“Oh, it is done. It is doing me in.” He slid his hands down her back, and she reached up and stroked his face, petted those sideburns, and sank her fingers into his hair. She licked her lips again, and he hauled her up against him and ravaged her mouth.

It was mutual ravaging, leavened by the taste of toothpowder and arousing discovery. Beatrice spared a thought for those poor young bucks who had no notion how to kiss and those poor girls who had no idea what they were missing. She twined her arms around Arthur’s neck, and he lifted her straight off the floor, her feet dangling somewhere around his knees, one of his hands cupped beneath her bum.

She intended to pay better attention to the act this time, with less fear and greater participation, but this was so unlike their first foray she was swept up, in his arms and in the moment. She twisted in his grasp until he set her down and proceeded to lay waste to his cravat. She shimmied his shirt out of his trousers while he made short work of the tie at her waist, the robe soon decorating the floor. She ran her hands up his back, and the growl this inspired was prodigious. She laughed, breathless, and wrestled at his coat.

“Madam, wait, wait,” he panted, “Here, I can—” and he tore at the coat, wrapping himself up in the sleeves and struggling to extricate himself as she lay back on the bed and drew up the hem of her nightgown, uncovering her body as a gift, with pleasure. Arthur tore aside the sleeve that would not release him and wrenched his shirt over his head.

Beatrice sat up to remove the gown, and he batted her hands away. “Here, here,” he chanted, raising her to her knees and removing it himself, his fingertips playing over every inch of skin they found; the nightgown joined the growing pile of abandoned clothing. He swept his hands from the crown of her head, down her back, squeezed her bum, tickled her ribs, and then halted below her breasts.

“Here,” she said, pulling his hands up to cup them, and she gasped, dropping her head to his chest. He moved a palm to her nape and drew her head back for another kiss, even as he did not release her breast, until she trembled against him.

He too shook; the notion that she had the power to affect him like this intoxicated her. She applied herself to his falls, and he left off kissing and touching her to see to them himself. Buttons pinged onto the floor, and a seam rent as he tore them off.

“We shall have to see to a new wardrobe, Duke.” Beatrice kicked aside the duvet and the top sheet and pulled a pillow under her shoulders.

“I shall keep you in the nip.” He ripped his stockings to shreds, and his smallclothes were next to be rent into scraps. He crawled up the bed to hold himself over her.

Beatrice caressed his forearms. “The Bawdy Bride of—”

“The Borough?” He hovered his mouth over hers.

“I shall keep you in the nip,” she murmured, “for I have much of you to acquaint myself with.”

“I am at your disposal,” he whispered and took her mouth once more.

Given her newness at bed play, Beatrice still lacked the courage to look at his…his part. Perhaps she might use her hands rather than her eyes? She ran her fingers over his chest, through that glorious pelt of hair, and rubbed her hands over his nipples, which elicited an interesting response. He countered with his hand on a breast. She parried by reaching down to stroke his hips with both hands and then slowly, lightly, took him in hand.

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