Page 38 of His Enemy Duchess

Thomas’s tongue slowed, his fingers stilling, that unexpected lack of movement almost reverent, like he was enjoying her pleasure and didn’t want to miss a moment.

She cried out, whimpering, moaning, gasping down feverish breaths, willing the powerful wave of euphoria to keep rushing and cresting within her. She never wanted it to end and cursed the fact that no one—not even her married friends—had ever told her about this.

Did they not know? Surely that couldn’t be right.

Unless this is what happens when hate turns into… something else.

She pushed away the thought, content to savor the last of those pulsing, sparking sensations. They were already beginning to ebb, and she was already eager to feel this way again.

She collapsed onto the desk at last, giving her aching arms a respite, and stared up at the ceiling with a grin on her face. The softest gasp was coaxed out of her throat as Thomas slowly withdrew his fingers and ceased those strange, wonderful caresses on her hidden pearl, turning his head slightly to kiss the inside of her thigh.

She sighed afresh, her body so relaxed she could have slept for a week.

Thomas pressed one final kiss to the swell of her hip and got to his feet, letting her skirts fall back to her knees. But he did not go too far from her, hovering between her thighs and bracing his hands on either side of her waist, bending over her.

She peered up at him.

“Are we agreed on the new wardrobe?” he asked with the ghost of a sly smile.

She tried to muster a scowl, but she had no idea if she was successful. “Let’s just say that you made your argument well. I should draw the right kind of attention, and a new wardrobe might help with that.” She hesitated as clarity returned to her. “But that doesn’t meanIwill change at all.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he replied. “All I need is to maintain the image that you and I are sickeningly besotted and so happy that we are enviable. A husband so utterly enamored with his wife would assuredly buy her the very best gowns and jewelry. If I didn’t, our ruse would fall apart… likethisawful dress.”

He touched the frayed edges of the seams he had torn, that faint smile playing on his lips again. Sophia observed that slight curve for a moment, her fingertips itching to touch his mouth to see if it might be coaxed into a true smile.

Instead, she lifted herself until her face was barely a kiss away from his. “Just don’t tear any more before Ihavemy new wardrobe. I doubt we’d maintain much of an image of respectability if I had to wander around in naught but my underthings.”

She could have sworn she heard the rumble of a laugh in the back of his throat.

He pushed away from the desk. “Well, now that I know you havesomegrace, we ought to add dancing lessons to your list of transformative endeavors.”

“Good luck withthat,” she said with a snort. “I told you, I don’t intend to change anything about myself but my attire, and I wear my utter inability to dance as a badge of honor.”

He smirked. “If you wear it, then it must be considered attire. Ergo, it is going to change.”

She cursed and silently applauded his quick wit, folding her arms across her chest. “Oh? And who will be instructing me? Is it going to be you? Will you punish me for every mistake I make?”

“No. You will be provided with an instructor,” he said firmly as he turned and headed for the door.

For a moment, she thought he was just going to leave as if what he did to her had never occurred. She should have known better; a Pratt could never resist having the last word.

He turned at the threshold, his lupine eyes sultry with something akin to mischief. “Before you complain, I thought it best to get some assistance so that the next time we dance, my feet remain intact.” He took a good look at her, his teeth grazing his lower lip. “Besides, if Ididinstruct you in the art of dancing, you would not have time to learn a single step. None that would be fit for public observation, anyway.”

He left, closing the door behind him, leaving her alone in his study with a torn dress, a racing heart, and a wave of confusion crashing into her.

Firstly, how was she supposed to make it back to her bedchamber in such a state of undress? Secondly, how was she supposed to concentrate on any dancing lessons at all, now that he had just said that, putting notions in her head? Thirdly, what on earth was happening to her? Why didn’t she hate him quite as much as before?

I always thought a Pratt would be the death of me.

What she had not known was that it could be done without raising a weapon in a duel or shedding a single drop of blood.

CHAPTER 14

“Agood morning to Her Grace!” Sophia heard distantly, like a voice through a dream.

She shifted in her bed, unwilling to open her eyes. She had never slept so well. Surely, she had more time to luxuriate in sleepy memory, dreaming awake of Thomas and his tongue. Besides, whoever that voice belonged to, she didn’t know it. It was probably someone from the staff she hadn’t met yet. They would go away soon enough.

“I said ‘good morning’ to Her resplendent Grace!” the voice called again.

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