Page 50 of Never a Duchess
Dounreay held his hand out to her. “Hurry.”
She went to him without reservation. Lust roused an almost irresistible compulsion to sin. Yet she could not imagine feeling the same way with any other man.
She might have examined that thought and picked it apart, but Dounreay guided her into the chair and dropped to his knees. Time was of the essence, but when he raised her skirts and hooked her legs over his broad shoulders, a host of questions tumbled from her lips.
“What do you mean to do? Should we not stand?” Then she might not feel so vulnerable because he was moistening his lips, gazing hungrily at the place no man had ever looked upon before. “Good heavens. Are you going to put your—”
His mouth settled on her sex.
The quickening of her blood had her closing her eyes against an instant wave of pleasure. The slow licks over her soft flesh were an exquisite form of torture.
“God, ye taste so good, Lillian,” he whispered in a velvet-edged voice. “Ye’ll be my entrée, my main course, my dessert. Ye’ll be my sustenance every day of the week.”
Her mind whirled from his use of her given name. Like a wanton, her hips rose to meet the gentle flicks of his tongue. Yet she would never forget the possessive way he gripped her bare thighs. The way he devoured her as if she were a gourmet supper.
“Dounreay!” She thrust her hands into his hair, her cries mingling with the distant sound of the soprano delivering the last lines of the libretto. The steady rhythm of the duke’s skilled tongue lured her closer to the edge of something just as extraordinary. “Oh, it feels so good.” He was so good. So mesmerising and masterful.
He pulled away, his tongue skimming his lips. “I’ve imagined watching ye come so many damn times.”
Then he pushed two fingers inside her and started pumping slowly, his thumb stroking her tight bud in the same tantalising tempo, shattering her world.
She wanted to join in with the thunderous applause reverberating above them, to celebrate his skill, plead for an encore.
“Dounreay!” She arched her back, her climax tearing through her. The spectacular shudders left her panting, moaning. She reached for him, grabbing his cravat, kissing him, tasting her own arousal on his tongue and lips.
The need to feel his full weight crushing down on top of her might have made her lose her head, but she heard a woman’s raised voice echoing along the corridor.
“You let them wait in my private room?” The lady muttered something foul in French. “I shall speak to Mr Warren about this.”
Dounreay stood abruptly, brushing Lillian’s skirts, straightening his cravat and repositioning the iron rod in his trousers before quietly moving the chair from the door.
Lillian’s legs shook. She felt sated to her bones. So connected to the man who stood watching her intently, it was like they were joined by an invisible thread.
Dounreay’s smile turned sinful as his thumb grazed his bottom lip. “Make nae mistake. Ye drive me wild, Miss Ware. I mean to relive this memory long after we’ve parted tonight.”
She would store the memory in a secret place, in the only box bearing a man’s name—Dounreay. When the loneliness became unbearable, she would dare to peer inside, savour every second.
Until now, she had not considered what this meant to him. How he might get lost in playing roles, might forget the rules of the game. Indeed, she feared every moment spent with Dounreay felt far too real.
There was no time to consider it further. The door burst open, and Madame Delafont swept into the room, her stern expression softening upon recognising the duke.
“Oh, Your Grace. Good evening.” Madame Delafont’s green gaze journeyed over Dounreay’s fine physique before she curtsied. “Pike led me to believe you were a constable from the new Metropolitan Police Force.”
The singer’s gold silk gown contrasted perfectly with her silky black locks. In her thick cloak, Lillian felt like the poor relation. Jealousy might have reared its ugly head. But when the lady moved to place her gloves in the drawer, Dounreay’s beguiling eyes skimmed every inch ofherbody, not the opera singer’s.
Lord have mercy!
Heaviness pooled low again—the stirrings of a need she couldn’t shake despite recently finding her release.
“We’re here to ask you a few questions about the night you visited the Kinver residence,” Lillian said, her voice shaky.
Madame Delafont turned sharply, as if surprised to find someone else in the room. “Forgive my rudeness. I did not give you the opportunity to introduce yourself.”
The lady made it her business to know all prominent men, but as she scanned Lillian’s face, she stared blankly.
“We’re acting on behalf of Lucius Daventry and the new Police Force,” Dounreay interjected, preventing Lillian from revealing her name. “As ye may have heard, Lord MacTavish took ill after inhaling perfume at Baudelaire’s in Ludgate Hill. The Home Secretary wants the matter dealt with swiftly.”
Madame Delafont gave an indolent shrug. “What has it to do with me and my visit to Lord and Lady Kinver?”
