Page 43 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
She was lethargic, and had been almost correct about her bones. They had dissolved. She’d never be able to leave this bed. Somehow she managed to drape her hand over his hip. “You should be ... inside me,” she forced out.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Later.”
“But I want you.”
“I told you: this time was for you. I won’t be so unselfish again, so make the most of it. Drift off to sleep in a sated state.” He squeezed her bottom and said in a low voice, “It’s the best kind.”
In the coach, she thought she’d experienced the pinnacle of pleasure. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or terrified to discover she’d been wrong. Before he was done with her, she thought she might very well die from all the sensations he was so skilled at delivering.
His body ached with the need to be buried inside her. He was not in the habit of denying himself what he desired, but then where she was concerned, it seemed all his habits were doomed.
He’d always enjoyed pleasure for pleasure’s sake, but with her there was another element that he couldn’t quite identify, that he didn’t want to examine too closely. Examining her, however, was another matter entirely.
Holding her so near, he was well aware of her languid muscles relaxing even further as she succumbed to the lure of sleep. He did what he should have done earlier, and gingerly unbraided her hair, gently combing his fingers through the long strands without disturbing her. He could still barely fathom that she had marched into his sanctum—had convinced his housekeeper to unlock the door so she could—as though it were as much hers as his. With no other woman had he ever felt on such even footing.
He found that aspect to her as tempting as the alabaster skin which he’d revealed when he finally took the time to bare all of her to his appreciative gaze. They were going to have an incredible week together, although he already regretted that it wouldn’t be longer.
Her soft breathing stirred the fine hairs on his chest. Her hand on his hip went limp, her fingers twitched. Never before had he noticed so much.
He could have had her for half the amount, could he?
He’d almost confessed that she could have named any price and he’d have paid it.
Moving slowly so as not to disturb her, he reached down, grabbed the covers, and brought them over her. Then as gingerly as possible he eased from the bed, retrieved his silk dressing gown, slipped into it, and walked to a table near the fireplace. After pouring himself a glass of scotch, he sat on the sofa and watched the embers dying on the hearth.
Who was this woman and why was he so obsessed with her? He had a million questions he wanted answered, and he knew she’d answer nary a one. He thought he could be with her for the remainder of his life and still he wouldn’t know everything about her.
Why a dwarf? Why a giant? Why London? Why him? Who all had she swindled before? Why had she stepped onto that path?
He considered asking James Swindler of Scotland Yard to make inquiries, to discover what he could about her. The man was skilled at ferreting out information, but that way might lead to her incarceration. Besides, he didn’t want another to provide the details of her life. He wanted her to do it.
Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on his thighs, held his glass between two hands, and stared more intently at the smoldering heat. What did it matter who she was?
It mattered.
As nothing else in his life ever had.
She mattered.
He didn’t want her to. He didn’t want her to provide anything other than surcease. He wanted her to be what every other woman in his life had been: a convenience.
But damnation, she was most assuredly not that.
Tossing back his scotch, he set aside the glass and stood. He was unaccustomed to deciphering relationships. This one would be short and sweet. They’d have no time for delving beneath the surface. Nothing would come of it if they did. She was a criminal, a swindler ... a woman with secrets.
He had enough secrets of his own.
Rose awoke to darkness and luxurious warmth, a large body curled around hers, a chest at her back, strong arms holding her near, a hand pressed to the flat of her stomach. He’d undone her hair. It would be a tangled mess in the morning. She didn’t care. He made her not care about anything beyond the pleasure he was so skilled at delivering.
Up against her backside, the hard, thick length of him stirred.
She twisted her head back as far as she was able. “Are you awake?” she asked quietly, not wishing to disturb him if he wasn’t.
“Mmm. I am now.” The rasp of his voice sent pleasure through her. Everything about him sent pleasure through her. Moving her hair aside, he pressed the heat of his mouth to the nape of her neck. “Are you still sore?”
“No.” It was a small lie, but worth the reward of him rising up and slowly turning her over. He was a silhouette encased in shadows, with only pale light sifting in through the windows, but she was able to follow the outline of him as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He smelled of sleep, of dreams, and she wondered at her fanciful thoughts. Normally she was too pragmatic for such whimsy, but he made her wish for innocence. The lady he eventually took to wife would be. She would be of the nobility, Lady Something-or-Other. Never kissed, never touched. She would be innocent to the cruelties of the world, and Avendale would ensure she remained so. He would protect her, and she would cherish him.
