Page 40 of A Most Improper Duchess
No one had ever moved in sync with her before. As she skipped, he followed, as she slowed, he eased, captured her for just a moment, then released her into her steps. He caught her by the waist only to spin her free and then raced ahead so that she could follow and fly until he caught her in his arms.
Arley’s eyes burned. He licked his lips as he pulled her against his chest. As she stepped backwards, he moved into the space she created, and when she turned in a half circle, he pulled her against his length and pinned her against him. Every supple movement of his body coursed against her. He loosened his collar, ran his palms over the flanks of her torso, before clawing his fingertips into her hips. He met her every step, followed her stretch, spun her by the waist and tipped her back into weightlessness.
Arley folded with her surrender, then pressed his face into her stomach, his breath spreading and racing through the cotton chemise as he exhaled. Lights blazing, burning skin, energy and strength radiated from him, and when he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, caught him by the shoulders, and inhaled him with a kiss.
‘You feel dance,’ she gasped. ‘It’s in you.’
With a firm arm around her waist, he cupped her neck as he braced her against him, swaying into the counter balance as he brought her lips to his. Hard, hungry kisses, breathless and demanding, Vivianne tasted him through her own puffs. He stepped back, half swung, and pressed her against the wall.
Arley kissed her neck, then tugged back her chemise to reveal a breast. Head craned, he licked before drawing her nipple into his mouth. Vivianne groaned rough with the pleasure of it. She had always been sensitive there, but with barely more than a bump to her cleavage, no man had paid her much attention. Arley squeezed her bottom to hold her in place and flicked his tongue over her again. He smelt like sandalwood, spice and silken soap. She hooked her ankles tighter as she tangled her fingers in his hair, his soft little curls wrapping around her fingers as she held him tight. Lips crashing into hers, all the elegance of his dance left him. He ran his palm up the length of her legs, then stroked between her thighs. They exchanged needy, open-mouthed kisses, and when he slid a finger inside her, she groaned against his mouth.
Vivianne buried her face against his neck and mewled at his delicate, deliberate strokes. He circled her clitoris with his finger while grinding his hardness against her legs. She bucked and gripped him tighter.
He felt so good, was so deft, and skilled. How had he learnt to touch a woman’s body? Were they mistresses, or lovers? Married, or had he corrupted them? Had he been the sort of man who had lingered in hallways at the theatre and tempted young actresses to their downfall? Had he used his power to lure them to his bed with the unfaithful promise of becoming a duchess? He thrust inside her, faster, more frenetic, and her cry came out half strangled, one-part violent pleasure, the other questions and fear.
He pressed his lips to her ear and growled. ‘Tell me I am your best.’ He trailed kisses down her neck. ‘Tell me Vivianne. Tell me I erase them.’
How could he erase them when he was one of them? How could she forget the men who had promised and taken, men he probably met with each day? She pressed her hands against his chest, unslung her feet from the small of his back until she stood on tiptoe. Caught between his body and the wall, she pushed with the supple strength of a lithe body made of little more than sinew, muscle and grace.
‘No,’ she spat. She swatted his hand from between her thighs. He withdrew and took a half-step back. ‘How did you learn?’
‘Learn?’
‘How to touch. How to kiss. Men like you only learn a woman’s body one way.’
He staggered as if she had struck him. The lust in his eyes turned black and broken, and his breath came in shallow gasps. ‘Do you think I’m like them? Like the nobles who watch in the foyer?’
Eyes bruised with sadness, he implored her with a look. But she could not tell him what he wanted her to say. No lies. No pretence. He’d demanded it himself.
‘Youarethem. Like it or no.’
He held her gaze for three steady breaths. He seemed to count each one in, then exhaled it between his teeth.
When he took a step towards her, Vivianne stepped back and bumped into the wall.
‘I am not like them,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘They watch. I will dance. I promise…’ He raised his hands before himself in submission. Vivianne raised her hands to match, then pressed her palms against his, until she felt his warmth through her calloused bumps. He stepped backwards. Holding the press of their palms, she stepped forward. Another step back, and she followed again, and again, until they stood beneath the chandelier and its little shards of light cascaded around them.
Facing each other, he slid his hand across her body until his palm flexed against her waist. She mirrored his stance, so that they stood off centre from one another, joined at opposing hips. She took a hesitant step into their arc. He matched her distance.
‘You want my honesty?’ he asked.
She nodded. The story of her body, her intimate life, had always been exposed to the world, for their exaltation or condemnation. Why not his?
‘I kept mistresses. An occasional affair. Physical meetings without substance. Some exchange of power, money or gain from them and me. But no innocents, I swear to you. And if I had gone to Paris as a duke, and not a monsieur, I would not have lingered in the foyer.’
Vivianne spun on her heel, changing the direction of their circling, moving counter to the clock. Their bodies brushed in the change, and his touch sent a prickling desire, all static and fire, through her, a trembling reminder of the unquenchable need that raced between them.
‘You saw me.’ His words were a statement, his tone a plea. ‘Just me. When I am with you, I look to myself, and I am both a stranger, and familiar. Like I am reconnecting with an old friend now grown.’ He caught her by the waist and turned into her, aligning their bodies. ‘I will match your rhythm, Vivianne. I will follow your lead. I will dance with you, every day if you wish it. And I will never stop to watch.’
It wasn’t the kiss of a brazen man, or even a certain one. Not the man from the hallway who issued orders. He kissed with hesitancy and trepidation.
‘I cannot erase them. They are part of my story, and my story has happy and unhappy pages.’ She ran her palm the length of his chest and intertwined her fingers behind his neck. ‘But I never danced with the patrons. I have only ever danced with you.’
He inhaled her kiss, his chest swelling, his hold tightening. How could this man be so delicate when she folded back a few layers, when she herself was like granite beneath her façade?
She leant into his embrace, until he swept her from her feet and lowered them both to the floor. Arley grabbed at his coat, just within reach from where he had discarded it earlier and bunched it beneath his head. Vivianne straddled him, kissed him, then fumbled between her legs to find his trouser fastenings and flicked them open.
‘A horizontal dance,mon amour?’ She moved fast, working at the opening until she freed his cock, hard to aching in her palm. She guided him inside herself, their joining hidden beneath her petticoat. ‘Mon Dieu, I have missed you.’
