Page 33 of A Duke in Disguise
“I’m aware, Plum,” he said dryly. “In the event that imagination failed me, you know that for a couple shillings I can see whatever I want. I’ve asked around, and learned that there are places that specialize in couples who enjoy being watched.”
“I did not know that,” she said, imagining Ash calmly sketching various manners of fornication. “You teach me the loveliest things, Ash. Do let me know if you intend to visit such a place for any of the illustrations in the final volume of the novel, and I’ll be sure to reimburse you. Meanwhile, I’m finding myself very eager to get home.” She didn’t know if this was some unique perversion on her part, but knowing that he hadn’t been with anyone else made her desire take on the sharp edge of urgency.
“You’re leering at me, Plum.”
She leered more emphatically. “Wait until you see what I do to you when we get home.”
They took a hackney, mutually agreeing that the faster they got to Holywell Street, the better. As soon as the carriage door shut, Ash tugged Verity onto his lap and kissed her. That was something, being hauled about as if she weighed no more than a house cat. Before last night, she hadn’t quite realized how strong Ash was, his arms ropy with lean muscle, his chest broad and hard. She traced the lines of his biceps beneath his coat, wishing the hackney would hurry so she could get their clothes off and appreciate him properly. But evidently every carriage, pony cart, and other conveyance in the entirety of London was en route between Marylebone and the Strand, because the hackney proceeded at a mere crawl.
“Damn it,” she said into the scratchy stubble on his neck. “We should have walked.”
“Then I couldn’t have done this.” He cupped her breast through her gown, running his thumb across her already-firm nipple. She groaned. “You like that?” he asked.
“More,” she begged, clasping her own hand over his, feeling him feel her. She needed his skin, and there weren’t many ways to make that happen in a hackney, so she unbuttoned his cuff, stowing the stud in her pocket. She brought his newly bare wrist to her hand, kissing the underside of it, then biting where she had kissed. He made a strangled sound, so she pushed up his coat sleeve as much as she could, the shirtsleeve following, and kissed a path up the tender inside of his forearm. Her lips found a scar that she had seen before when he worked with his sleeves rolled up. When she licked along the length of it, he flinched away from her touch. She realized she had—for the third or fourth time that day—accidentally dredged up something unpleasant. She wasn’t used to conversation with Ash being so riddled with traps. Whatever was happening with the Talbots, it was cutting up Ash’s peace of mind in a serious way. She put his sleeves back in order. And because she didn’t want his mind to linger on whatever was troubling him, she kissed him again. He met her mouth halfway, his lips soft and pliant.
“Verity, make me a promise,” Ash said, leaning back against the seat, his eyes still shut. “What date is it?”
“The twenty-sixth of November.”
“A month from now—Boxing Day, easy to remember—remind yourself that I adore you, Plum. Remind yourself that I’ve never been as honest with you as I was today.”
He spoke as if he were under a death sentence. “Are you quite certain you’re all—”
“Don’t ask if I’m all right. You won’t like the answer.”
She gripped his shoulders. “I’m truly worried now, Ash. Have you been to a doctor and received bad news?”
“Oh God, no, Verity, nothing like that.”
She kissed him, relief and concern and frustration mingling together into desperate contact.
Ash left the hackney driver with a random assortment of coinage, probably triple the fare, but he was not wasting a single second counting out pennies when he could be with Verity.
The shopman tried to get Verity’s attention when she went inside, but she made a vague excuse—pressing engagement, so sorry—and all but ran up the stairs. Ash could hardly chase her without the shopman and the men in the workroom all knowing what they were about, so he made a show of hanging his coat on a peg and his key on the hook before following her upstairs at a more leisurely pace.
He found her in her bedroom flinging her boots aside. Leaning in the doorway, he admired the sight.
“You could help a girl out,” she said, and he didn’t need a second invitation. Standing behind her, he unfastened the buttons at the back of her gown, kissing each piece of skin he exposed. She leaned back into him, which hardly gave him room to work, but that was all right because he knew how to pretend to be a man who wasn’t in a hurry. God help him, nothing could have prepared him for the way Verity almost melted under his touch. She wanted his hands on her body as much as he did; and now she was reaching behind her, trying to touch him as well, and he did not think he could ever get used to the idea that this was something they both wanted, something they both got to have.
When she raised her arms, he pulled the dress over her head and threw it onto the chair where she seemed to fling all her clothes. Because of course she didn’t stow things neatly in a clothes press; her room was a jumble of ribbons and bootlaces and haphazard stacks of books. He skimmed his hands up the softness of her belly to her breasts, each a perfect palmful through her shift and stays.
He tried to silence the voice that told him it was temporary at best, a lie at worst, and no matter what would last a mere month. The fact that she probably wouldn’t so much as breathe the same air as him if she knew the truth was something he needed to set aside for the moment, as one would carefully push away a wasp’s nest.
“What on earth are you thinking of?” Verity pivoted in his arms and regarded him with hazy eyes.
“Wasps. And primogeniture.”
“Am I that uninteresting?” she asked with feigned outrage, gripping his cravat and pulling him close with an attempt at menace that he was surprised to find both erotic and endearing. His heart was so full of her that he knew it would be his undoing when they parted.
He took a steadying breath, trying to master himself, trying to focus on this moment, their bodies together, her in his arms. “I’m sorry to break it to you, Plum, but I’m exceedingly bored.” He rocked his pelvis into her belly so she could properly appreciate just how interested he truly was. At the fleeting contact with her softness and warmth, he had to bite back a groan.
“What a pity,” she said, tugging off his cravat and swiftly divesting him of coat and waistcoat, then steering him towards the bed and pushing him down by the shoulders. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that.” His shirt hit the floor as she shimmied out of her stays and straddled his lap. Now she was in her shift, the peaks of her breasts veiled only by thin linen.
“Still bored,” he said and he saw her purse her lips to keep from smiling. Surely this game was both perverse and bizarre but it amused Verity, got his cock hard, and let him think about something other than the condition of his heart.
She leaned forward, bringing her breasts to within an inch of his face, but not moving closer. He tried to give them what he considered a disinterested appraisal, rather than burying his face in between them, which was what he wanted to do. “Hmm,” he said with an arched brow. She shifted on her knees, bringing the peaks of her breasts to his lips. He leaned forward.
“Tut,” she chided. She pulled away, covering her breasts with her hands. “I don’t want to bore you with my tiresome breasts.”
