Page 19 of The Untamed Duke
Quitely slain and buried
Elusive, shade of pale honor.
~Nicholas August Harris March
Ninth Duke of Richeforte
Nicholas wincedas the words left his mouth, but instead of becoming flustered or breaking into tears like a well-bred lady should after such a heartless insult, a smile tugged Grace’s lips. The subtle restraint of her fingers left faint divots on Tristan’s coat sleeve. Her gaze touched briefly on Helene’s strangling hold of Nicholas’s arm.
“It’s all right, Tristan.” Her brow arched. “I’ve found any wild creature will snap at others when miserably confined. Even those considered half-tamed. It’s best to treat those poor souls with kindness.”
Was she...bloody hell.Was she challenginghim?Comparing him with some crazed animal she might heal with her sweet touch?
Before Nicholas formulated a response, Grace continued, matter of fact and breezy. Whether her next words were intentionally seductive or not, they scorched him nonetheless.
“Perhaps you’ll reconsider, Richeforte. I vow, I ride better than any woman of your acquaintance. Indeed, you might learn a thing or two. Have you ever ridden bareback? I learned a long time ago.” Her golden gaze flickered over the shocked baroness, whose mouth hung agape while Nicholas ground his teeth. “No saddle. No bridle. I love having my hands free, with only my knees directing the horse. Arms stretched wide as though I am flying. Have you ever done that? Surely, everyone has at some point. It can be so soothing for the soul. If you like, I can show you.”
Show you.Show you…
Sweet Jesus.
Sweet. Holy. Jesus.
Nicholas imagined Grace slipping free of the pale green ball gown, her corset, the frothy, lace garments she wore underneath. Saw her straddling his hips, ridinghim,her hands cupping her own breasts. He saw her hands slipping down her body, fingers tangling with his as he helped her rock into oblivion. Their hands gliding in rhythmic tandem, his fingers pinching the tiny bouquet of nerves between her thighs, his cock deep inside her. And clear as day, he saw the moment he knocked her hands away, taking control of her pleasure when she began trembling. He would own her orgasm as he owned her. Every shuddering breath, every quake, every gasp. Every whimper of need. All his…
His skin was on fire, consumed by heated lust. His vivid thoughts were surely etching themselves above his head, like magical murals appearing in thin air for everyone’s enjoyment. It barely registered that Tristan and Helene stared as if Grace had metamorphosed into the wild creature she mentioned moments ago. A gauzy film of sweat formed on Nicholas’s brow; he couldn’t swipe it away without revealing how deeply she affected him.
“Hmm. No? Very well...should you change your mind, meet us at the stables at one o’clock.” Grace’s smile never faded as she addressed Tristan. “Lord Longleigh, will you take me back inside? All this talk of riding has energized me, and I find myself quite restless. Perhaps the exertion of a waltz or two will help.”
Tristan nodded wordlessly. Offering his arm, he led Grace away, a dazed awareness stamped across his own features.
Everything inside Nicholas struggled against snatching Grace from his friend and into his arms instead. He took a deep breath, a herculean effort at regaining control. With an audible growl, he pulled Helene along as he stalked the pair ahead of them, his eyes glued on Grace’s delectable, swaying backside. She deliberately teased him. He was sure of it. And that little...display? A test he couldn’t possibly hope to pass.
Christ, he was evolving into someone he didn't know. A man obsessed. Entranced. Beguiled by a scandalous beauty. How quickly she wormed her way into his consciousness. From the moment he laid eyes on her, curled in a heap on the floor of that gazebo, his thoughts were consumed by her. Given another opportunity, he’d kiss her so damned hard, she truly would faint. Then he’d shake her awake and kiss her again. He should have taken advantage of that moment in the library, but a sudden attack of unfamiliar scruples stopped him. He couldn’t ravish her while she gazed up at him with those huge, golden eyes of hers, so innocent and trusting.
Nicholas watched as Grace slipped through the doors with Tristan, headed back into the ballroom. He jerked Helene along, irritated by her slow pace, infuriated when she suddenly tripped.
“Nick, wait...my shoe. It’s broken.” Helene limped beside him, her gait uneven, but Nicholas would not linger.
“Leave it,” he rumbled, watching his prey disappear as the doors closed behind the couple.
“Are you mad? And hobble about on one shoe?” Helene wailed, sliding onto a convenient bench. Holding up the damaged slipper, she exclaimed, “Oh! Just look! It’s ruined! I must return to my room for another pair. If you will escort—”
“I suggest you don’t go through the ballroom.” Nicholas executed a savagely polite bow and left the furious lady where she sat, there on the bench, the broken shoe dangling from her hand.
Tristan was leading Grace onto the ballroom floor by the time Nicholas pushed through the crowd. She favored him with a questioning smile, silently curious of Helene’s absence while he considered striding into the myriad silks and satins.
And do what, precisely? Strangle her? Kiss her?
God only knew.
Pulse pounding in his veins, confused on a course of action, he didn’t feel the tug on his sleeve until it became a yank.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Have you lost your dance partner?”
Damnation. Just what he needed after ridding himself of the baroness. Pretty little Celia would latch onto him for the remainder of the evening. “Actually, your dear brother has stolen Lady Grace from me.”
“Truly?” Celia’s head tilted. “How rude of him. I have a solution, should you be interested.” At Nicholas’s slow nod, she continued. “We could dance.”
