Page 87 of Last Duke Standing

The guard was leaning with one shoulder against the wall, his back to them. In two strides, William was also behind the butterfly.

Behind it was a bench. There was a small break in the shrubs through which one could see to the other side. And the guard. Justine collapsed onto the bench, pushing her straw hat from her head and letting it tumble down behind her. “That guard is the laziest of them all. He won’t even notice.”

“You’re certain?”

She nodded, then clutched the book to her chest. “This was so very kind of you, William. Idolike to read, and I’ve read some remarkable works, not just fiction. I—”

He sat beside her, reached up and took the eyeglasses from her face, folding them carefully.

“Now what are you doing?”

“You mentioned the bet you lost.”

“Of course I did. I honor my word.”

“Good,” he said. He touched her jaw and kissed her cheek. She sighed softly.

“I am going to be a queen. It is imperative that I honor my word. Once the people’s good opinion of me is lost, the more perilous my rule becomes.”

“Did you read that, then?” He kissed the other cheek, then moved to her neck.

She tilted her head to one side to allow it. “No, my father said it. He’s taught me everything I know, really.”

“And did he perhaps advise you never to bet what you are afraid to lose?” He put his hand on her knee, then slid down, to the hem of her skirt, finding her ankle beneath the yards of fabric. He kept his gaze on her face, noticing the smattering of tiny little freckles across the bridge of her nose, how the arch of one brow was a bit higher than the other. How the sun shone in her golden eyes.

“I’m not afraid to lose,” she said. “I’m afraid of life passing me by.”

He paused for a moment. “Life will no’ pass you by. No’ if you refuse to let it.” He leaned forward to kiss the hollow of her throat. She tipped her head back. He slowly slid his hand up her calf, over silk stockings, until he reached her bare knee. He heard her intake of breath and sealed it in her chest with a kiss to her lips.

“You are very free with my person,” she murmured and kissed him back, her fingers touching his face, then sliding into his hair.

“Because I canna resist you. Would you like me to stop?”

She gave him a sultry smile. “I didn’t say that.”

He slid his hand up, past the lace of her knickers, between her legs, to her inner thigh. He expected her to stop him, to slap his hand away, to warn him of the guard. But she didn’t do any of that—she parted her legs slightly.

The spin of desire in him was instant, that terrible ratcheting that made it impossible to contain a thought. She shivered when he stroked her thigh, gasping into his mouth and then biting his lower lip. He moved his hand higher.

“We can’t do this,” she whispered into his ear.

“I’ll stop—”

“No!” She caught his hand. “I mean—never mind what I meant. I don’t want you to stop.”

She might as well have ripped her gown and stood naked before him. He kissed her with all the lust and want and regard that was billowing through him, the wind to his prurient sail. He slipped his fingers through the gap in her knickers and into the folds of her flesh.

She gasped, the sound of it audible, and he again thought he should stop, that he had misunderstood her, and his mind began to reel—how could he be so stupid?

It was almost as if she could read his thoughts because she kissed him. She kissed him hard, her tongue in his mouth, her breath mingling with his. She caressed his shoulders, and she was pressing against him, her back arching.

He had a single thought, small and weak, that they were in a garden, that anyone could walk up and find him debauching the future queen of Wesloria. That could be disastrous for them both. But Justine urged him on and he was no hero, no saint—he wanted this just as much as she did.

It was impossible to fathom how mad he was for her, and he was alarmed by it. He would give up all of the Hamilton estate just to touch her and feel the response she evoked in him. It had been a lifetime since he’d felt so aroused—his blood rushed through his veins, his body strained against his clothes, his heart beat like a bloody Highland drum. He stroked her, his finger swirling and sliding inside and around over and over again and again. Justine pressed against his hand, moving against him, in rhythm with him.

It was not supposed to be like this; she was not supposed to want the seduction; she was supposed to think of other things, to be above his desire for her. But instead, she had sparked this furious, anxious heat in him that was inextinguishable. He didn’t know what to do with it.

When his thumb touched the core of her and his fingers performed their dance, she gasped again, lifting against him until she made a muffled cry of release against his shoulder. He could feel her body melting around him, and he caught her with his arm to keep her from sliding off the bench. When she was completely motionless, he withdrew his hand, and put down her skirt and withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket.

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