Page 13 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
Colin drew in a sharp breath. It seemed to thunder into his chest and lungs. When the poet spoke of love, it was with such a fierce longing that he felt as if his own soul were responding to it. He turned another page, poured himself another glass of scotch, and kept reading through the night.
Colin only finished a little before dawn. He groaned and rose stiffly from his chair. Somehow, he had missed just how much time had passed, as he studied the lady’s poems. His muscles were stiff and sore, and he groaned, stretching like a disgruntle bear waking at last from his winter’s hibernation.
It would be time to leave for Bath in just a few hours; Matilda had always been notorious for waking up very early in the mornings and wanting to set about right away with her daily tasks. Sometimes, she was awake before the servants, who were often startled to see her about and active at such an early hour.
Colin looked at the book and tucked it in his jacket pocket. “Well, mysterious poet,” he said. “I hope you enjoyed the ball and that you are having a pleasant morning. I promise that I shall return your poems to you.”
Not right away, though. It was, perhaps, rather selfish of him, but he had never had such frank discussions about love and marriage with any woman before. He wished to read over the poems again, to experience the poet’s voice once more, and perhaps, to reconsider some of his old ideas about women and marriage.
He would relinquish the poems when he returned from Bath. That was reasonable, was it not? Surely, one could not expect him to thoroughly investigate such a matter when he had this trip to embark on with his beloved aunt?
No, he was being entirely reasonable, and it was not as if he intended on keeping the poems forever. He would relinquish them eventually…just not yet.
Chapter 7
Clarissa met His Grace’s intense blue eyes, as they spun together. His arms tightened around her, and Clarissa’s breath caught in her throat. A lady would pull away at once and chastise him for taking such liberties before everyone, but she felt herself melting into his embrace instead.
“But, Your Grace,” she said, prepared to raise a token protest. “Everyone shall say that you are holding me too tightly. The gossip will be treacherous.”
“Let them say what they like. I do not fear the fire of idle gossip. Do you, my Lady?”
Clarissa’s breath fluttered in her chest. “No, Your Grace. I am content to brave it if you are.”
The music ended, and their dance ended. His Grace did not respectfully withdraw from her and bow, however, and instead leaned down very close to her. His breath came in hot puffs of air against her cheek, and Clarissa gasped. Her toes curled, and her back arched against his hand, silently urging him to do what he would.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “we should give them something toreallygossip about.”
Then his lips were against hers. It was not a gentle kiss, but deep and frantic. His lips pressed hard against hers, and Clarissa felt as if her entire world narrowed to just the two of them. She curled her hands in his hair, urging him to kiss her more deeply, more intently.
And he did. A groan tore itself from her throat, and a heat curled deep inside her. With a sudden, sharp gesture, he brought their bodies together. Her chest collided with the fine material of his jacket and then—
“Clarissa!” Her mother’s voice jolted Clarissa from her sleep.
She blinked, still half-caught in the hazy remnants of that wonderful heated dream. Clarissa’s face grew hot. She could have not said whether it was from the embarrassment at having such a lurid dream or if was anger from her mother’s unwanted interruption.
“You must awakennow!” her mother insisted, throwing open the curtains before Alice, Clarice’s own startled maid, could reach them.
“Why?” Clarissa asked, sitting upright. “Has something terrible happened?”
Besides being awakened from that wonderful dream, of course. Clarissa resisted the urge to touch her own lips, which tingled simply from the memory of kissing the Duke in her dream. If only her mother had not awakened her! Then Clarissa might have been left with her thoughts. She might have been able to untangle them into something lovely, but her book was gone. Clarissa could buy another, but she felt her own enthusiasm dampen just a little.
“Your face is quite flushed,” Lady Bentley said. “Do not tell me that you are ill at the worst possible time.”
Clarissa suspected this was no illness, but something far more terrifying for a young, unmarried lady to feel. Desire for arake. “I am not ill,” she said. “I am only a little flustered because you woke me without warning.”
“For good reason,” her mother said. “We are to take the next stagecoach to Bath, and you must prepare yourself at once if we are to arrive in time.”
Clarissa frowned. “To Bath?”
“Indeed. We are going to visit your aunt Frances and your cousin Jane.”
Although Clarissa loved both of her relations, she knew this trip to Bath could not possibly be innocuous. Since Clarissa’s father died two years before, Aunt Frances and Jane often invited them to Bath, and her mother had yet to accept a single invitation. Such relations were beneath them, Lady Bentley insisted, and they were best left ignored.
“His Grace and Lady Matilda are going to Bath,” Clarissa said slowly.
Her mother’s eyes gleamed, and she smiled victoriously. “They are. What an unforeseen coincidence.”
Clarissa was on her feet at once, as something like mortification came over her. She most certainly did not need to be in the presence of His Grace, given the events of the previous night’s dreams. “Mother, you cannot possibly—”
