Page 47 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Adrian bent over her, holding her down as he worked the last of the pleasure from her. Every last drop, until she lay back against the cushions, depleted and curiously content.
Adrian’s eyes landed on her as he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked. Despite her newfound exhaustion, that sight sent another bolt of lust through her.
He’d said something about tasting her—but this was not what she had expected, and…
She liked it.
“Adrian,” she whispered.
He looked at her again, and his hand fell against his thigh. “Isobel,” he said, his voice rough. “We should…” He released a long breath. “You should go to bed.”
“To bed?”
“Alone,” he reiterated.
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I have done—I have done enough. I don’t want to ruin you.”
Isobel opened her mouth to say she didn’t care—she wanted a marriage of convenience, nothing more, and she did not think her husband would notice or care if she had been with a man before. But then she closed it, the reality of her situation settling through her.
If Adrian had wanted more, if he had wanted to take her, he would have said so.
This was his way of releasing himself—and thus, him as well.
Perhaps it was for the best. However little she cared about the man who would become her husband, no matter who he was, it would be better if she saved herself for him.
Itwouldbe.
Even so, hurt built in her breast, a pressure that she did her best to ignore as she sat up, flicking her skirts down her legs.
“Thank ye,” she said as primly as she could to the duke.
The duke. He would not be Adrian to her again—not now and not ever.
He rose to his feet. “I think it would be better if I did not walk you to your room.”
Of course. And so, she would have to make that cold, aching journey on her own.
“Goodnight, Yer Grace,” she choked, pausing only to light a single candle before fleeing the room upstairs to bed.
Adrian sat in place for a long time, staring into the fire that had all but utterly slumped into nothing.
He could still feel her on his fingers, still hear the muffled gasps and moans she had made. His little fey sprite, captive by his hands, and so very willing. That had been obvious. If he had asked her for her virtue, she would have handed it to him.
But after everything she had revealed to him about her situation, the idea of taking something like that from her repulsed him. He had more honor than that, even if his body throbbed with frustrated lust.
Yes, hiscockwanted her. But it would not be sensible. Already, she had disrupted his life enough. If he took her to bed, how much worse would it become?
He couldn’t. Not only did he owe it to her future husband, whoever that might be, but he owed it tohimself. Distractions were unwelcome. He would not allow her to get under his skin. Getting invested would be a weakness he could not afford.
He was the Duke of Somerset, and he could not forget it.
Chapter Thirteen
“Well now,” the dowager duchess said, a little in exasperation. “What’s going onnow? Did you argue again?”
Isobel was not surprised when, at breakfast the next day, the duke barely looked at her. For her part, she did not want to look at him, either. She did not want to dwell on the way she had almost begged—begged—for him to take her virginity.
