Page 37 of When her Duke Returns
Alexander stood in total silence and glowered at her. She felt herself shrink to half her size. Had she not already been propped against a wall, she thought she might fall to the ground for want of being invisible.
Even under the cover of night, Mary could feel the heat rising off the man in his anger. His brow was set in solemn fury, his hair tousled from his running his hands through it—a sure sign of his distress—and his hands were balled so tightly that she could see every muscle beneath his skin like alabaster against the darkness.
She shook her head and stepped back, only to collide more deeply with the wall. Whatever had happened to make the Duke turn into the beast before her, she did not care. She did not want to be on the receiving end of his anger. For the first time since they had been reunited, Mary was afraid—wholly and newly alive and afraid.
“I was—” she began only to be cut off as the Duke slammed her against the brick wall with the force of his body.
He rushed into her with his kiss, pressing hard against her mouth and leaving no time, nor room, for her to catch her breath. Her fear subsided to surprise and thendesireas she let herself sink into his embrace.
The Duke kissed her again and again, fervently, hungrily, as his hands cradled either side of her head, keeping her still. Had she not been so drunk on lust—and, well,wine—she might have tried to stop it. After all, he was a coward, a liar, a manipulator… and the only thing she ever truly wanted. She breathed a moan against his mouth, and it only spurred him on more.
He drew a hand from her cheek to her behind, squeezing her into him and holding her still with his legs. She could feel the gravity of his desire flush against hers, and it was a sweeter sensation than she could ever have imagined. His mouth traveled from her lips to her neck and back up again then explored her ear and whatever was exposed of her clavicles. Mary’s toes curled in their slippers as her hands fastened against the golden locks of his hair. Her desire threatened to swallow her whole, burning deep from between her legs.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, almost incoherent against the tide of his embrace.
“No,” he said back and forced her back against the wall.
“Alexander,” she hissed then, and, when his mouth finally found hers, she bit his lip in protestation. It only seemed to excite him further.
Driven by what Mary could only assume wasmania, the Duke sunk to his knees. He left a trail of kisses down the front of her gown then planted his face against her core so she could feel the heat of his mouth against it. Mary’s breath hitched, and she swore she saw the stars burst before her.
“We are not hidden,” she moaned though at this point she could hardly bring herself to care.
His hands grabbed her bottom, pushing her hips toward him. With a desirous glance upward, he began to peel her gown from the floor, from her legs, until at last she was unveiled to him. He looped his fingers around the hem of her undergarment and sought to pull it away.
Mary knew it was madness, that at any moment a servant could come rushing from the exit and fall upon them, but her warnings caught in her throat. Her mind was utterly consumed by the thought of him, his hands against the naked skin of her thighs, the way he stood beneath her as if he were in total worship.
She never felt so free. He drew her undergarments away, sliding them down her legs until they hit the floor. Mary felt the cool rush of air against her heat, and it made her heart leap. He wrestled the garment over and under her feet then pocketed it before rising to his feet.
His lips found hers again though the kisses were softer now and deeper. He ran his tongue against her bottom lip to taste her, and Mary followed his lead. She held his face against hers until his hand sunk beneath her dress to come flush with her wetness, and desperate moans slipped through her teeth until the heavens parted and rain fell all across the courtyard.
He ran his hand over her heat, and Mary’s now sopping head fell back against the wall. He ran a finger along her parting and then a thumb, earning himself a song of breathy notes.
He looked at her then, his eyes wide and hungry. He was asking for permission, Mary understood. She nodded, unable to meet his gaze as he hoisted her leg over his hip and planted a finger deep inside her.
She wanted to scream. Never before had she had a desire tended to so quickly and aptly. She understood at once why men lost their senses over sex, why it was enough to destroy families and buckle empires. She felt almost reborn as she allowed him entry into the most intimate alcove of her body.
He drew his finger out softly, his other hand pressed against the wet fabric at her waist, and then pushed in again. Mary’s body heaved against his, her fingers pressing into his shoulders as if he were about to slip from her and turn to dust. She pressed her face against his chest to stifle the sound of her moans and tasted blood on her tongue as her teeth ripped into her lip.
Alexander reached down then and kissed her, his fingers now dancing inside her. He brought his thumb to rest on her nub and drew it in small circles. She could feel him against her thigh through his trousers, and it only drove her madder as the rain ran down her neck and bosom.
“You must remember,” he muttered through hastened breath, “no matter what comes,” he continued, “no matter how desperately they will tear us apart… your heart was mine first as mine was yours.”
ChapterFifteen
Day broke unsteadily over the castle of Whitcliff, folding shyly over the county between bouts of clouds and rain.
Mary had been up since dawn to attend to the packing of her things, and the whole castle was abuzz with movement and talk, heralded by the guests from the ball who had chosen to spend the night.
In truth, Mary had not managed to rest much at all. She had been torn apart by dreams beyond counting, fueled by the storm of desire that still brewed beneath her skirts. Nothing, she feared, could quell the fire the Duke had set alight within her with a simple twist of his fingers.
She placed her trunk upon the crimson sheets of her bed and set about organizing her affairs. Honora had already packed most of her things, but some still lingered about—things she had wanted to keep most hidden from sight: the blasted note, the most terrible of all. A knock sounded on the door, and Mary beckoned the visitor in.
“Good morning, Mama,” she said upon catching sight of her mother. She had barely seen the woman in their two weeks at Whitcliff though she wasn’t much torn up over her mother’s absence. Her mother could be overbearing at the best of times, but she had been particularly wary since Mary’s injury and outburst.
“Are you all set to leave, my dear?” the Countess asked.
Mary nodded. “Almost, only I must retrieve my comb from Cecelia’s room.” She eyed her mother up and down. “Is everything all right?”
