Page 28 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
A wry smile and a shake of his head was her only answer, and then, with a sweetness that moved her, Woolwich leant forward and captured her lips again. Much to her delight, his hands returned to her loosened gown, tugging it free and exposing her breasts, which were contained and lifted in stays. Her bosom pinked from the barest touch of his finger, and she was eager to feel more. How she could be so desperate for his touch baffled her. Whenever she had overheard her friends talking of sexual congress, she had always thought it unlikely for her to be so consumed with desire. She had always assumed she would not be so foolish as to fall for a seduction. But now, her entire frame was desperate for him.
Woolwich’s actions were not practised or artful in Clara’s limited experience. No, there was a wonderment to the slow, gradual movements he made, determined to never go too fast or without her consent. His careful consideration had her almost yelling at him to hurry.
With an easy movement, Woolwich pulled her farther down onto the sofa until they were nestled in amongst the pillows. He leant back but only to remove his coat as his eyes watched her face with the sort of hunger that thrilled her. When Woolwich re-joined her, he placed a tender kiss on her lips as his hand leisurely flicked the gaping material of her gown to give himself better access. Having always been aware her breasts were considered unfashionably large, Clara tried to shrink back deeper into the sofa, despite how much she wanted to enjoy Woolwich’s caresses.
Leaning down, so his breath brushed against her ear, Woolwich said, “You put Venus to shame.” Feathering his palm out to encircle her right breast, his fingers slipped beneath the top of her stays, rubbing against her nipple with a slow circular movement until a gasp broke free from Clara’s mouth. Her cry brought a smile to Woolwich’s lips, and he leant closer, kissing her thoroughly. The tips of his fingers danced over her. The sensation was fewer fluttering birds and more like those paintings of molten lava—burning away through her limbs and settling at the apex of her thighs.
She wriggled, pressing herself more fully against his chest and hips. There was a yearning, an eagerness to move and shake as if by doing so the tremendous pressure he was creating within her would cease.
“I want…” There weren’t words in her mind to express what she wanted.
Freeing himself from her hands with a calmness that implied he did not feel quite as on edge as she was, Woolwich smiled. He moved his hand from her breast in a flex over her dress, down to cup and hold the pressure between her legs. The movement, every little one his hand made there caused a breathy sigh to escape her. Even better, through the layers that separated his hand and her skin, Clara felt the press—both gloriously tempting and offering her an answer. “That?” he asked, a smug look on his serene face as he looked down at her.
Leaning forward, Clara pushed herself more fully against his hand. She wanted Woolwich to feel as heated as she did. Her tongue dipped into his mouth. Her hands sought out and caressed his broad chest. She could feel the strength of his muscles. When she heard a rasp at the back of his throat, it moved her to know how much she could affect him too. On lifting her head, there was a pinkish tinge to Woolwich’s face that made her grin. He was not as unaffected as he wanted to appear.
“God, last month I thought I wanted to murder you. You would drive a saint to distraction.” His words were thick and made Clara blush. If her prior self could see them now, she would not believe her eyes.
“I never claimed to be a saint, and you might as well be the devil,” Clara argued back.
Woolwich shifted his hand, his body weight resting between Clara’s legs. Their eyes locked, and she could watch his reaction to her lust as he leant closer. This, she reasoned, was the rationale for her reaction: Her body wanted him. There could hardly be a deeper reason. A more sentimental one would defy everything she knew about him, everything the two of them had always believed about the other.
“But you want me.” His hand was moving, lifting, and pulling her skirt out of the way until he found what he was seeking, the gap between her drawers. It took a moment for the ribbon to be untied, and then his fingers were delving into her. “Despite that.” His other hand was rubbing against her scalp and down her neck in such a sensitive dance that it drove her wild.
“Do you think?” Her words were not her own as he delved into a more sensitive area, his fingertips pressing against two different points inside her, and Clara was certain she would melt against him. All the while, her hips pressed up, the movement both an encouragement and a plea. “It might be because of that?”
Woolwich slipped one finger into the small, tight gap, seemingly touching her core. The place Clara’s mother had warned her, again and again, where only a husband should touch his wife. It was enough. It was bliss. It was heaven, and it was torture too, as the shakes buckled her. Clara’s body came apart as she stared up at him, drowning in the intensity of his gaze, as all the pressure, the heat, those blasted birds burst forth, and she shouted his name.
Swooping down, Woolwich cut off her cry, sealing her gasps with a kiss. His hands stroked against her sides, and Clara’s shakes, the burst of colour and taste, eased away from her as she held on to his large shoulders.
“No,” Woolwich said as he righted her dress, buttoned up the loosened gown, and set about putting Clara to rights. “No, I argue with you because you are forever sticking your nose in where it was not needed. That is why we disagree. The passion between us is entirely different.” It was hardly an honest answer, but Clara was sure she wanted to hear the rest of what he might say. She nestled back into the pillows and his jacket. “You see, I wanted to do that.” Woolwich had finished righting her dress, leant closer to move one curl off Clara’s forehead. “I want you for entirely different reasons and not because of the arguments.”
Propping herself up on her arm, Clara nudged him, “You can tell me about those reasons, you know.”
“I don’t like being teased.”
“No one does. Besides, I wasn’t teasing. I can, if you like, tease you. After all, I am the youngest of four. I was hoping you would pay me compliments. Surely if you’ve ever flirted with a woman before, you must have done so?” She was loath to bring up his wife in such circumstances. Everyone who ever spoke of the long-gone Annabelle mentioned how divine she’d looked, willowy, icy, and blonde. An angel, in appearance, at least. Of course, she’d had an affair, but nonetheless, Woolwich still clung to the memory of her.
The pinkening of Woolwich’s cheeks was growing, and it was a slow realisation that made Clara see that, despite the reaction he’d drawn from her, Jasper was hardly the most knowledgeable about courting. Not that they were courting. But he wasn’t even very good at flirting. His grand title made him a desirable match to every woman he met, regardless of how much effort he put in. She was about to voice her displeasure at that when he spoke up.
“I find myself wishing to know poetry, or words you love, to better compliment you. It may seem unbelievable to you, but oftentimes, I would prefer not to talk. Words betray me, and my mind moves faster than a sentence would keep up.” His hands came and captured hers, so if someone were to spot them, they looked like the old-fashioned sketches of a romantic pair. Except, Clara reminded herself, that wasn’t them, it could never be them, whatever he might say next. If it was that he was a duke and she was a tradesman’s daughter, that would be galling. If it was their mutual fiery temperaments and that despite their current truce, they would forever be unsuitable—that she might agree to, albeit reluctantly. Or rather, perhaps she might be able to see the sense of it.
“Given how we spar together,” Woolwich said, almost as if he was able to read her mind, “you might not believe me too sincere when I attempt a compliment.”
“Now, who is teasing?” Her hand reached out to playfully swat at him but stilled instead on the beat of his heart. It was a fast tempo—as if he were nervous. There it was again, a sign of his vulnerability—a chink in his armour—which moved her enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“I want more than anything to go further with you. If I took advantage, then accept my apologies.” Woolwich stopped abruptly. “But I swore I would never marry again.”
There, it was voiced without her having to mention it. Marriage. The implication heavy and unwelcome between them, and then all Clara wanted was to run as far as she could from him. The weight of him close to her was harsh, and all their special intimacy was gone—he had spoilt it by bringing the reality of life, society, and expectation down onto their little world.
Abruptly, Clara pushed him away from her, separating the two of them, so she could get to her feet and move through the room. With harsh, quick movements, she pulled at her dress, hoping to hide her hurt and clear her eyes by the time she turned back up at him.
“Just because you are a duke, and many women, I am sure, throw themselves at you, do not cast me in the same light. That was not why I was with you today.” Clara drew in her breath. It steadied and prepared her. Lifting her shoulders back and her head high. Yes, she was familiar with this battle stance, knew how to argue with Woolwich—this ferocious ground was one where they both knew their positions. “In some hope of entrapping you. Besides, I would not wish to wed someone like you. Either.”
“I find that unlikely. Women frequently put great stock in such acts.” Woolwich had sat forward and was frowning as he watched her. It seemed like he was trying to see beneath the shield Clara was using to protect herself.
Blast him.
Desperately, she sought out a response. She would not let him know that such intimacies, such feelings, such affection did, in fact, mean a great deal to her. It meant something that she had shared it with Woolwich. “Well, your wife did not put much stock in such things.”
