Page 22 of Dukes Do It Better
“You’re awfully bold for a man in a public room, surrounded by the ton,” she murmured. Every inch of her skin was alive, waiting for the next whisper of stimulation. Mal dipped his head toward her ear and his breath brushed her cheek, sweet with the fruit he’d eaten.
The cake in her hand disappeared in two bites, so she wouldn’t turn her head and chase that mouth of his. Next, he’d probably say something else titillating and daring. Emma braced herself for a sensual onslaught of words.
Instead, he said, “You like it.”
He was right. She did. The casual press of his arm, the bold, raw, sexual words spoken in low tones while they stood in the middle of a ball, of all places…she liked every bit of it.
A footman passed close enough for her to grab a glass from the tray he held. Champagne, not that she tasted it. Cool liquid chilled her fingers through the crystal and tiny bubbles exploded on her tongue, yet didn’t quench the desire building within her.
“If you’re bold enough to talk like this, you’re bold enough to do something about it. You want to kiss me again? We’re at a ball in Mayfair, not a dark garden outside a country assembly or an anonymous inn in the middle of nowhere. There are eyes everywhere, Captain.”
“Unlike you, I’m not expected to dance. And except for Simon, I don’t want to talk to anyone. So, I’ve wandered a bit.”
“You’ve poked around in the private rooms, you mean.”
“Absolutely. Out this door to the right and around the corner is another hallway. Third door on the left is a study. It isn’t locked, but the lights are off to discourage guests.”
A tremble rippling the surface of her champagne gave away the excitement coursing through her. Maybe he didn’t notice. Schooling her features into a bland mask, Emma scanned the room and said, “When would you expect me to use this information?”
“If you leave first, I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
He left it at that. The choice was hers. It wasn’t much of a decision. If she were a better person, perhaps she’d tussle with it more. Find some moral code to hold her back, or dig deep for the shame she had been taught should be the result of a gently bred lady encountering tingles in her feminine bits.
Shame was certainly familiar, but not something she was particularly fond of. Especially when she knew in her heart of hearts this was why she’d come tonight. She’d hoped to see him, to get more of him. It didn’t make sense to keep standing there sipping champagne when she knew damn well that she was going to search for the snug dark room he’d described.
Still, curiosity and a general need to poke at him made her ask, “And if I say no?”
He shrugged, the wool of his coat brushing her bare arm. “Then we stand here and enjoy each other’s company. Or we go our separate ways and I’ll probably call on you sometime this week.”
Emma turned to stare. “You’d still call on me?”
“Of course. Each night, I imagine taking off whatever dress you were wearing when I last saw you. Undoing it button by button.” Mal brushed a finger over a blond lace ruffle at her shoulder. “I like this one, by the way. Pinky orange looks good on you.”
He grinned, and it reminded her of her earlier comparison to a dog. Had she thought to make him a pet, like some loyal retriever or lap pup? More like a wolf. And her pulse thumped at her neck like a rabbit ready to run.
“Apricot.” Her voice was hoarse.
Mal winked. “I like apricots. Especially when they’re soft and sweet and the juice drips down your chin.”
That wasn’t even remotely subtle, but few would describe this tall, broad man with a direct manner as subtle. Judging from the way her thighs clenched at his words, Emma’s body was voting yes to what he offered.
Up until now, her merry widow status had been embraced only once. That ended tonight. Without another word, she headed for the door.
There were perfectly nice gentlemen in the ballroom down the hall, along with a brother who would happily introduce her to more if the ones on offer didn’t satisfy.
But none of them gave her this rush. Like the delightful tingling feeling one experienced when one awoke from a long sleep and stretched, and every nerve ending felt like it was smiling.
Was she built for a short affair? She was her mother’s daughter.
One foot into the hall, Emma glanced back at him, grinned, then turned right.
Chapter Seven
I sometimes wonder if I’ll recognize your kiss the first time. Or will the knowledge of you sneak up on me? Shall I be confident in us right away or have to learn the art of loving you, and being loved by you, before I can be fully myself in your arms? Or perhaps I will, indeed, be alone forever. These are the things I ask myself when I’m in bed and the wind howls at my window like a wild animal.
—Journal entry, March 4, 1824
It was the smile that did it for him. The juxtaposition of the merry widow with the society lady, with dimples added…he was done for.
