Page 5 of The Untamed Duke
Ninth Duke of Richeforte
“Your Grace,”Nicholas prompted again, resisting an urge to grind his teeth. Was the girl deliberately obtuse in the use of his title, or could she not help it?
Grace regarded him as if debating her next move. A slow smile curved her lips.
“Yes, I’m Grace.”
“And I’m Richeforte.” Had he fallen? Struck his head? Did they not suffer this same conversation just moments ago?
“Well, of course you are. Is there any doubt you are Richeforte and I am Grace?”
“There seems to be some confusion on the subject.”
“Have no fear.” Bestowing a condescending pat on his forearm, it seemed she found a mischievous delight in his puzzled irritation. “It is a recent title for you. No doubt confusing, leaping from plain old earl to exalted duke in such short order. And all those names! How can you be expected to remember each one? However, you seem an intelligent enough fellow. I’m sure you’ll manage eventually.”
Nicholas was dumbfounded to the point of speechlessness. Something wicked stirred inside him seeing her benign expression. Lady Grace Willsdown was a vexing creature, and she could not possibly know the aversion for his new title stemmed from an actual hatred of his own father.
He feared discovering a perverse pleasure in reminding her of his station, should she continue blithely ignoring it. A sudden yearning swamped him. Hearing that despised title dripping from her lips would greatly please him. How best to accomplish it?
Kissing that cheeky grin away would be a logical start. He could smother that wide, lush mouth of hers with his own. Drink her in. Swallow her up with a sweep of his tongue. She probably had the unmitigated nerve to taste of strawberries, or something equally ridiculous.
You taste like lemonade…
Goddamn. Longleigh knew how she tasted, which seemed vastly unfair. An abomination. During their years of friendship, Nicholas never suffered a thimbleful of jealousy toward Tristan Buchanan. Until now.
Against his will, his gaze lingered on her mouth. Yes, definitely strawberries. Overly ripened, decadent, sweet strawberries. And that tumble of hair? It was soft as gossamer; he knew because it had spilled over his hands and through his fingers when he jerked her up from the gazebo floor. He could wrap that shiny mane about his fist, use it to pull her mouth against his own. Why the hell was it down, anyway?
Because Tristan demanded it, remember? While you stood silent. While Tristan demanded that kiss. Bloody hell, while you watched and did nothing to stop him from taking it.
"What a strange creature you are," Nicholas remarked with a tilt of his head.
Grace smiled. "If that was meant as a compliment, I've heard it before, and if not," here, she waved her hand in breezy acknowledgment," the same still applies. I've heard it before, my lord."
"And brash, too. I've always admired a bit of fire in a female."
"Another compliment?" Merriment danced in her golden eyes. "At this pace, the gossips will have our wedding taking place in St Paul's Cathedral six months from now. You'd best restrain yourself."
Horror must have shown in his expression because Grace burst out laughing. "Have no fear. With a reputation such as yours, I would never accept your offer if you ever put one forth. I'm merely teasing you."
Nicholas frowned. "I'm unsure if I should be relieved or insulted."
"I was given this advice once: go with the strongest feeling that’s in your heart. I hope, as a gentleman, you will not tell me which emotion you feel most keenly at this moment."
Excellent advice, Nicholas mused.
Only, he felt slightly insulted this vexing creature would dare reject his courtship. If he ever pursued a courtship. With her. Insane, because he would not because of her very strangeness, which for some reason fascinated the hell out of him. She seemed undaunted by his notorious reputation. Unconcerned that he could devour a little innocent like herself in one bite.
"Who imparted such sage advice?" he murmured, admiring the pink softness of her lips.
"Ralph, the baker’s son in the village. I was nine years old and could not decide between a lemon tart or the chocolate eclair. I chose the lemon because I'd had a chocolate eclair only moments before. Too much sweetness can turn a stomach very quickly. At any rate, I still utilize his advice." Grace cleared her throat. “Well, this was very entertaining, but I must go now. Lord Longleigh will return soon with Lady Celia in tow.”
Nicholas took her elbow, an utterly foreign jolt shuddering through him. Beneath his fingertips, her skin was warm velvet. Reckless thoughts, an overload of erotic images, assailed him. What if she were naked against him? What if he pressed his lips against the pulse beating there in the hollow of her neck? Slid his tongue up and traced the delicate ear where she just nervously tucked a sheath of honey-colored hair.
He could fill his hands with those pert breasts mounding above the bodice of her lavender-hued gown. Lift them to his mouth, bite at their peaks. Were her nipples peach or rose shaded? Would she cry out her pleasure or simply moan in wordless encouragement? Would she like his brand of lovemaking, rough and bittersweet with an edge of pain balancing the pleasure? Or would she expect soft, gentle caresses and murmured endearments?
He was hard as stone just thinking of her reactions.
“Don't go.” His voice was raspy. Which was hardly surprising since he’d never used it in a plea before. “Not yet.”
