Page 21 of Dukes Do It Better
“What? If I had an extra set of gloves and you needed gloves, I’d share.” Emma shrugged.
“I’m trying to imagine what it’s like to have such an excess of interested men that I could compare them to pairs of gloves,” Adelaide wondered aloud and Emma snorted.
Behind them, a deep familiar voice said, “Not much difference, really. Like gloves, you can choose color and size, but we all essentially do the same thing.”
It would be foolish at this point to be surprised when yet again she’d said something slightly appalling, and the captain appeared to witness it. Her moments of impropriety were like a whistle, and he showed up every time. Then again, he seemed to enjoy when she wasn’t a perfect lady.
“Mal, you do have the most fantastic timing.” The power of his grin hit her as she turned around. Blinding white against the dark shadow of a beard, loaded with enough mischief that some instinct warned her to run away from the inherent danger of his roguish smile, while the rest of her swayed closer.
After the experiences with Roxbury, she should run. She’d been taken for a fool by a rake once, drawn in by wicked charm. Left pregnant, alone, and rejected. Surely primal instinct should force her to some semblance of self-preservation for her heart.
But then, it wasn’t their hearts involved in this budding relationship, was it? Mal hadn’t hurt her like Roxbury had, and frankly wouldn’t be able to unless she fell in love with him.
To keep heart and body separate, she need only remember that she was her mother’s daughter, and therefore cursed in love. So, remove love from the equation.
Besides, putting Mal and Devon Roxbury in the same category felt as wrong as claiming a dog and a fish were brothers. That would make Roxbury the slimy fish, and Mal the dog. It was worth noting—dogs made great pets.
She licked a drop of punch from her lip. Sure enough, his eyes narrowed to stare at her mouth and she smirked in a silent reply. “Are you enjoying the evening, Captain?”
“With you here, things are looking better by the second,” he said.
Lord Marshall stepped around Mal, flashing a bright smile. “Oh good, reinforcements have arrived. I’ve been entertaining him all evening to no avail.” It wasn’t her imagination when his smile warmed and lingered on Adelaide.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Lord Marshall,” Adelaide said. Which, for her, was the equivalent of writing “come and get me” on her forehead. Emma dearly hoped he received the message.
Lord Marshall said, “Miss Martin, if you have any dances unspoken for this evening, I’d love to claim one.”
Adelaide blushed, but raised her chin. “I have the next dance free, milord.”
Setting his glass on the nearest tray, Lord Marshall held out his hand. “Well, then. Shall we?”
Emma and Mal watched the pair leave. Conversations carried on around them, but they stayed silent, facing the open door to the hall and the ballroom beyond. After one moment turned to two, she wondered if he planned to stand there all night saying nothing, like a particularly attractive tree. Body heat radiated toward her, carrying his bay rum scent and igniting sparks in her blood. Lordy goodness, the nearness of him did more for her pulse than dancing with an entire line of men had all night.
She stood there, blood simmering, while he did nothing to earn or merit such a reaction. Finally, she huffed out a sigh and glanced over. At some point, he’d turned to watch her.
“How long have you been staring at me?” she asked, before she thought better of it.
The left side of his mouth quirked up and he arched his scarred eyebrow. She would dearly love to trace that line and ask to hear the story of how he’d received it. In a barroom brawl perhaps, or in battle aboard his ship.
Who was she fooling? The man had probably walked into a door when he was ten, and now made up lies to make the scar sound like a war wound.
“You’re still staring,” she said.
“I’m wondering how many times I’ll need to dance with you and drink tea in your drawing room before you let me kiss you again.” It was said so casually, she took an extra moment to fully comprehend his words.
A tingle shivered down her arms. “Do you think about kissing me often, then?”
“Kissing you often, or often think of kissing you?” That damned eyebrow raised again and it did something low in her belly. Sweet Lord, she was becoming aroused by his eyebrow.
“Either, I suppose.” Her voice trembled, so she gulped her punch until she hit the bottom of the glass. There wasn’t supposed to be alcohol in her drink, but the longer he looked at her, clearly in no great hurry to do anything else, the warmer she grew.
“If you’re nearby, I’m thinking of kissing you. Right now, I’m remembering the noises you made when I sucked the skin on your neck beneath your ear, and the way you liked it when I licked the crease at the top of your thigh and hip…and between those thighs.” The growled confession made the warmth flare.
If she didn’t do something with her hands, she was going to reach out and touch Mal in front of God and everyone. A few steps away, a table was piled high with intricately decorated pastries. When she wandered in that direction, he followed, then stood by as she took her time selecting a tiny cake topped with a candied violet.
Hearing him say such wicked things in public, while pretending to be politely conversing, sent a thrill through her. Like the verbal equivalent of doing those things he mentioned. The way he brushed her back as he leaned around her to pluck a cherry pastry from a towering display made a shiver travel up her spine to the spot on her neck he’d talked about sucking. Oh yes, she knew exactly what spot he’d referred to.
Somehow—one or both of them shifted closer—his arm brushed hers and stayed there, until a brush became a press. The meat of his biceps under the coat cradled her shoulder. Instead of pulling away, she leaned against him. Not enough for anyone in the room to notice. But enough for him to feel it.
