Page 49 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘Fuck me with your tongue,’ she demanded. Arley groaned, then followed her command. She widened into his soft penetration, hooked one foot over his shoulder and drew him as close as she could.
‘Yes,’ she cried as she thrust her hips. The ties bit as her body hummed. ‘Join me. I want to feel you. I want you inside me.’
He circled, he devoured, he shook his head.
‘I want to share this with you.’ Dropping her voice to a low growl, she levelled him with her gaze, and he paused, his little pants of breath igniting her. ‘Your grace. Fuck your duchess.’
His eyes half closed. He gave her an insincere lick, then roared and shoved off his trousers. One hand slammed into the mattress beside her while the other reached above her head and tugged her bonds free. She clasped his back and raised herself to him. His cock filled her, and wet with his attentions, all she could do was push her nails into the softness of his shoulder blades as he thrust. Hard, reckless and pounding, he grasped a kiss and tipped back to howl as he pushed himself deeper. Vivianne drank in the sight of him, exquisitely lost in his rapture. She wrapped her legs about his waist and crossed them at the ankle to draw him as deep as she could, and held him as tight as possible, mesmerised by every flicker of life and beauty between them. Everything, she’d give him everything—her body for his pleasure, her womb for his heirs, her heart for his fulfilment, her lips for his conversation and his kisses. The world had set her adrift and failed her. Arley would give her port and anchorage.
His weight pressed as he collapsed. ‘Everything is so simple with you. You are my refuge. My sanctuary. The world buzzes, but with you, I find only stillness. I cannot say it enough. I love you, Vivianne. I love you with everything I have.’
He rolled off her and tucked her into his side. She fell into his slowing breaths. He took a long inhalation, then steadied into the rhythm she remembered from their few days of freedom in Paris and on the boat. She twisted in his arms and watched his face settle into sleep. She unwound his cravat from her wrist. Brushed her thumb over his eyebrows until his stupid grin curved his lips. She took a breath of him and held him tight, then exhaled into abandon.
Of all the emotions that had plagued her life—fear, desire, aspiration, despair, fury and passion, were any as terrifyingly beautiful as love? She felt it through every extremity, yet it existed only in him. Her heart pounded with its energy, but she knew each thump only felt joyous because she believed that when he swore his heart was hers, he was sincere. When he came home, her cheeks tugged at the sound of his foot on the step, even before she heard his voice, and her heart flipped at the confirmation of his voice in the entrance.
She’d been hungry. She’d been lit and observed from every angle. She’d flung her body into a song, and she’d ricocheted against fear and want. She crouched as shots fired overhead. She was strong, like he said, but also tired. So tired. She nuzzled against his chest. Her palm sought his heartbeat, then rested as she found it. His heart would form the beat of her new dance and his rhythm would calibrate her days.
Her eyes grew heavy. Tomorrow, she’d try again. She’d work harder to be perfect. She’d do better than before.
Chapter Twenty-one
Arleywokewithastiff cock and an empty bed.
Eyes still closed, he patted at the mattress, searching for Vivianne, but when he sat up and cast about the room, every piece of her was gone. Her clothes no longer strewn across the floor, and her pins had been collected from his bedside table. There wasn’t even an imprint on his mattress to show that she had slept beside him.
In the foyer, Cecil passed him his mail, pre-sorted he assumed, as there were only two letters.
Pemberton. He knew he should take it up to his study and not open his mail in the entrance, but this morning he felt reckless. He snapped the paste seal open and drew out the heavy parchment.
‘I don’t believe it. He’s giving me his support.’
‘Sorry, your grace?’ Cecil asked.
‘Pemberton. For the exchequer.’ He scanned the letter.
We need more family minded men. Men focused on domestic simplicity. Those with calm heads and quiet homes.
The years of attending debates, late nights, reading mountains of reports, joining committees and filing papers, they’d all come to this. Everything he’d worked for, what he’d wanted to achieve, was in his grasp. He’d done it.
No, that wasn’t quite true. With Vivianne’s help, he’d done it. Love and legacy. He’d have them both.
‘What are they?’ Arley asked. He hadn’t at first noticed the box on the sideboard.
‘Letters, requests, invitations. The usual.’ Cecil poked his finger through them.
‘Put them on my desk,’ Arley said with a dismissive wave.
‘They are addressed to Lady Vivianne.’ Cecil neatened the pile. ‘If I may be so bold, your grace, she is proving quite the success.’
‘She’s not a lady,’ Arley said as he craned a little to peer into the front sitting room. ‘What is going on in there?’
‘It’s Friday. The Society for the Promotion of Civic Morality and the Adherence to Proper Values has its weekly meeting. As you are patron, Lady—I mean, Miss Chevalier—thought it might be advantageous for them to meet here from now on, in the hope it might reflect well on her. Perhaps on both of you.’
He sidled into the hallway and angled himself off centre from the arch, as discreet as a duke could be. He’d never been to a society meeting and hadn’t imagined them so well attended. Mrs Crofts held court at the front of the group. One hand waved through the air, like a conductor, and the members nodded in time with each swish of her wrist. He could not hear all her words but he caught enough.Larrakins. Propriety. Morality.
Arley searched the sea of pastel day dresses, perfect, pinned up hair, and straight backs. It was only when he scanned the room a second time that he found Vivianne.
She sat regal. A duchess exemplified, almost indistinguishable from the other society ladies. She wore pink, like so many of them, with a lace collar that tickled her chin, hair braided into submission and her gloved hands tucked neatly in her lap. He watched her for the longest time, but she remained focused on Mrs Crofts, and did not adjust her posture or even flick her eyes in his direction. Occasionally, she nodded. Mrs Crofts was complaining about children who fed ducks in the park and shouted when they climbed trees. Likely some of the Hempel brood.
