Page 29 of A Duke in Disguise
“Christ, Plum, you utter fucking genius.” He had no idea why that of all things was the praise that came to him, but it was true, and it was probably a minor miracle that he said anything intelligible at all, his entire mind being occupied with the alarming state of his cock.
Her eyes were shut, her lips parted, and she collapsed onto his shoulder. He slid his fingers out of her—they had been inside Verity’s body, what a world—and wiped them on his trousers.
“Let me touch you,” she said.
“Please,” he managed. There ensued a flurry of tussling and hand swatting over who got to unfasten Ash’s trousers. Verity prevailed.
“I’ve always wanted to see how these things worked,” she mused as she wrapped her hand around him.
“I’m happy to oblige,” he said “I’m afraid you’d better be a quick study, because you’ve got about three strokes before the lesson concludes.”
She gave a happy, throaty laugh and gave him a slow stroke. “I want to put it in my mouth.”
If she kept talking like that, he wasn’t even going to last three strokes, so he pulled her close, thrusting into her fist, imagining it was the tight heat inside her. He kissed her for a moment, a disorganized tangle of tongues and teeth. “I’m going to—”
“Wait, I want to see.” She sat back and watched him, and as the pleasure took over his body, all he could see was Verity watching him, her hand on his cock, her lip between her teeth, his entire heart under the sole of her shoe, if that was what she chose.
He took a few ragged breaths and gave her the handkerchief from his trouser pocket. After she made use of it he half expected her to sit at her desk and get to work now that they had concluded their business. But she collapsed on top of him, soft and sleepy. He let himself run his fingers through her disordered hair. When she nestled her face into his neck, he kissed her forehead.Thirty days,he thought.We can have this for thirty days.
“You smell good,” she murmured. “You feel good too. This is the best idea we’ve ever had.”
He hoped she wasn’t wrong.
Chapter Ten
Ash woke with a gasp, his heart pounding and his sheets soaked in sweat. He had dreamed again of Arundel House, of sweeping stairs and marble floors. Of falling. It was an old dream, one that sometimes visited him nightly and other times waited years to reappear. But now he knew the setting to be Arundel House, and he knew the fall to have been the accident that injured his arm. Not an accident, he reminded himself, but his uncle’s attempt to murder him. Unless, of course, Lady Caroline was mistaken. It could be an odd series of coincidences, surely.
“Ash?” Verity stood in the door to his room. “I knocked but there was no answer.”
He probably hadn’t heard her over the sound of his heart thudding and the blood rushing in his ears. “Bad dream,” he said.
“You called out. I thought you might have had a seizure.” She wore only a night rail, not even having bothered to reach for a dressing gown before rushing to his door.
“Just a nightmare.” He wished he could tell her the truth, but she was the last person he could talk to because she was the most affected by his future. If he were to be a duke—utterly ludicrous—then any future with Verity would either make her a duke’s mistress or a duchess, and as much as he wanted to believe that she’d want to be with him no matter his title or status, he did not think she would jump at either option. That left them with this month, and he wasn’t going to ruin it for her—for them—by burdening her with truths she’d find out eventually.
“You can go back to sleep,” he said.
“You’re shivering.” She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. “You’re freezing cold, Ash.”
“My sheets are sweaty,” he admitted.
“Come to bed with me. It’s warm.” At his hesitation, she squeezed his hand. “Just sleeping, Ash. Otherwise I’ll help you change your sheets.”
He went with her. When she got under her quilt, he stripped out of his nightshirt and climbed into bed beside her. The next time he woke was when Verity’s forearm landed on his face. He opened his eyes. The woman took up a full three-quarters of her bed, leaving Ash with a sliver of mattress and a scrap of quilt. He was marveling over the mathematical precision with which her not-particularly-large body was arranged to occupy the lion’s share of a not-particularly-small bed, when he heard a hiss. It was pitch black, but following the direction of the sound he found a pair of glittering eyes staring at him from on top of Verity’s clothes press.
“It’s too early to be laughing,” Verity mumbled, pressing her face into the pillow and somehow pushing him even further off the bed. “Save your levity for business hours.”
He pushed a lock of her hair out of his mouth. “The cat thinks you’re attacking me. Which, to be fair, is not an unreasonable interpretation of the facts.”
She opened an eye. “Slander.” But she wriggled backward on the bed and made room for Ash to have a less precarious relationship with the mattress. “How did she even get in here? The door is shut.”
“She probably just walked in when we did. She’s an enterprising kitty.”
“Or possibly a demon.” The cat hissed again as Verity rolled on top of Ash, causing him to dissolve into another bout of laughter. Verity was warm and soft on top of him, and he could feel her smile against the side of his neck. This was real, he thought. This was his life. Arundel House was only the backdrop for his nightmares, vague and dreamlike and unreal. Verity’s fingers slid down his shoulders, past his elbows, across the scar that bisected his forearm. He grabbed her hands and rolled her over, kissing her, as if that would make this moment solidify into reality, displacing old scars.
Ash knocked on the front door of Arundel house at precisely a quarter past eleven the following morning. It was Wednesday—not one of his usual days for visiting, but he watched the house until he saw Lady Caroline’s brother leave. Ash didn’t know why he went back—he hadn’t intended to return until the month was through. But when he and Verity had finally gotten out of bed, he decided that there was nothing for it but to lie. He would tell Lady Caroline that he did not have a scar, that he was not the nephew she had known. Surely there was some other way for her to be safe, to protect her father and servants from her brother. Ash didn’t need to be a part of it. Lady Caroline’s ghastly brother could keep his title.
The footman showed him not to the conservatory, but to a small upstairs parlor.
