Page 46 of The Duke's Dream
Their eyes met—hers shining, unreadable—then dropped to his mouth. Not in fear. Not even in defiance. But in surrender.
Groaning, William licked the seams of her lips and pulled her closer. Just when he had feared she was made of marble, she melted into him—this female Morpheus of his—changing from taut curves to liquid response. His heart thudded, spreading heat to his limbs. She inflamed him. Something cracked open in his chest, emotion surging like a dam bursting, sweeping away all else in a tide of raw passion.
She moaned, and William diminished the pressure, allowing her to breathe. He didn’t have to ask her this time, and her tongue moved against him.
A kiss was not enough. He craved more.
He trailed caresses from her neck to the bodice of her dress, and then lower. Like he did every night, he tested the breath of her waist, pressing her against his erection. Open-mouthed, savage-like, he drank her gasp, her moan. William hooked his hand behind her thigh and lifted, opening a space for his hips. His fingers slid up her leg, from the crook of her knee to the soft flesh beneath her skirts. He followed their path with his gaze, stunned by the truth of it—he was finally touching her.
Breath rasping, he cupped her backside, kneading the taut muscles he’d only imagined until now. A whimper escaped her lips as her forehead dropped against his chest, her hands clutching his coat for balance.
He kissed the side of her neck and nipped her earlobe. “Why did you refuse my dinner invitation?”
“For a fancy dinner? You should find yourself a courtesan. My suppers are much simpler. When I have the time to eat, I do it in a Covent Garden stall.”
“Is this a proposition, Miss Beaumont?” William pulled up her tunic.
Her naked thigh glinted in the dusty light.
“It’s a statement of facts.” Her voice trembled, a breathless whisper. “We simply do not suit.”
He drew the letters of his name over her buttocks, reaching closer to the apex of her thighs with every letter. Watching her eyes widen, her panting breaths, her pulse speed, he reached the slit of her pantalets. When he found her moist for him, a roar erupted from his chest. With his thumb, he circled her clitoris, gathering moisture, then parted the lips of her sex. She was tight, and slick, and he wanted to devour her.
Relentless, he penetrated her with his finger, a sultry movement he mimicked by pushing his tongue between her lips.
William flicked her bud, and a shudder coursed through her. “Do you still think we don’t suit?”
Eyes heavy-lidded, hips moving languidly against his hand, she whispered, “Oui… Non. We don’t.”
William stopped the caress. It took all his willpower to step back, leaving her wanting more. After all, wasn’t that how she always left him—teetering on the razor edge of desire, battling to maintain his self-control?
Eyes wide, she held the wall for support as the dress slid down her thighs.
“You are wrong.” William sucked his finger, savoring her lush taste. “We suit perfectly.”
Then he turned and walked out, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
He had convinced the battered Austrians to join the Third Coalition against Napoleon, surely, he could persuade a single ballerina that she was a perfect fit for him.
“Helene,canwegonow? These flowers are plotting against me.” Celeste sniffled into her lace handkerchief.
Waning sunlight poured over the cobblestones of Covent Garden market. Vendors called out their wares—crimson apples, cucumbers, silkworms, live poultry—everything was for sale.
“Don’t you tire of the food in the theater? This fried eel looks tasty.” Helene pointed at a costermonger’s treats, her stomach rolling at the pungent smell.
A scream, too close to Helene’s sensitive ears, made her jump. Tugging the coat closer, she recomposed herself, blaming the duke for her jittery nerves. Since he had touched her last night, she felt strange, alternating between waves of heat and cold.
The market seemed a world apart from the theater and her quiet apartment. Ballet dancers shouldn't lose time with things done outside the stage and the studio—thisliving. When a barrow boy passed by, carting semi-putrefied game, she decided she also didn’t like the smell of it. Let it be for civilians. A dancer should not indulge in the novelties the duke had brought into her life, the fluttering in her stomach, and the other, more private feelings he had awakened. She cared not for either.
This flirtation with thelivingended today. Helene congratulated herself on her own cunning. Watching the duke step out of his lofty society to mingle with normal people would be heavenly. As an added benefit, he would realize they were from different worlds and stop pursuing her.
Celeste inspected a turnip. “I don’t get tired. Mrs Marie is a wonderful cook. And you don't care about food. Are you sure we are here to eat? This sounds suspiciously like a deception Viola fromTwelfth Nightwould perpetrate. If so, please don’t leave me in the dark. You know how I enjoy the drama. In moderate doses, of course.”
Helene’s cheeks flamed. “Well, I—”
An angry-looking porter pushed her out of the way. Helene stumbled. She had braced herself to land in a smelly puddle when a hand steadied her.
“Your audacity knows no bounds, Helene.” The Duke of Albemarle’s voice brushed against her cheek.
