Page 95 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
“Over here, they smell even better.”
He led her off the path, through a maze of hedgerows where no torches danced with flames to show them the way. She imagined as a young boy, he’d made his way through them many a time, pretending to be an explorer or perhaps to simply escape from the rigid demands of his parents.
“Was your father as standoffish as your mother?” she asked.
“You are kind with your words. She is hard and brittle. I remember my father being strict and stern, but I don’t recall him ever being intentionally unkind. But after he took ill, he was never quite himself.”
“That can’t have been easy.”
“But we carry on, don’t we?”
They did have that in common. They reached a dead end. Moonlight glittered faintly along the top of a tall brick wall. Suddenly she found her back against it, his jacket shielding her skin from any abrasions as his mouth landed on hers with surety and purpose. She wound her arms tightly around his neck, loving the press of his body against hers, knowing she would never get enough of this even as she understood a time would come when she wouldn’t have his nearness, when he would be pressed up against someone who knew how to properly serve tea and select correct utensils for eating.
But not tonight. Tonight he was hers as much as it was possible for him to belong to her, for her to belong to him. He lived in a world of refinement and polish, not quite as foreign as she’d imagined it. Still she felt like a mermaid following a unicorn into the woods, all the while knowing that at some point, she would have to return to the sea.
He dragged his mouth along the column of her throat, and she dropped her head back to give him easier access.
“Dear God, I’ve wanted to get you alone ever since you descended those stairs,” he growled, low and feral, his chest reverberating against hers, causing her nipples to pucker in spite of all the ridiculous layers of material separating their skin.
“I’ve wanted you to get me alone,” she confessed, taking satisfaction in his dark chuckle that sent his heated breath skimming along her bared collarbone. This style of frock was becoming more appealing by the minute. As he trailed his mouth over the exposed swells of her breasts, she was actually regretting that the neckline wasn’t lower.
“I would take us from here this very minute if it wouldn’t be the height of rudeness,” he said, nibbling along the side of her neck until he nipped at her earlobe.
In his position, he had to consider things like that, had to always be conscious of his reputation, his standing among his peers. He couldn’t simply run away or escape. He couldn’t dance every dance with her, couldn’t spend time with only her. Duty, responsibility, expectations guided him—as they should. She was impressed with his discipline, that he didn’t do what he wanted, but did what was required, what was necessary. He put his own wants and desires aside.
A time would come when he would put her aside as well. She understood that, accepted it. No matter how much it saddened and devastated her, she would hold her head high when the moment came.
He began gathering up her skirts and petticoats, bunching them at her waist, even as his mouth continued to play havoc with her skin. His hand slid down to her knee and wrapped around it. He lifted her leg and anchored it around his hip, his back. She was grateful for her height, for the ease with which she could stand there, holding him near with her calf and foot.
His fingers danced over the outer portion of her thigh, up and down, up and down, until he moved to the tender and sensitive inner edge, his fingers no longer frolicking but slowing to a meander until they reached the haven that was already moist and aching for him. “You’re so wet,” he rasped.
Moving her hand down, she rubbed the swollen length of him. “You’re so hard.”
“Aching with need, actually, need that will go unsatisfied until later. But you, princess, you need not wait.”
He stroked, slowly, determinedly, applying pressure to the small, swollen bud with his thumb, even as he slid two fingers inside her. A tiny cry escaped, and he took possession of her mouth with an urgency, capturing her moan, her whimper, her sob as the pleasure became too much, as the sensations rioted until she shattered in his arms. She clung to him as the spasms rocked through her, wave after wave, with the night breeze wafting over her skin and moonlight washing over her, over him. She thought he’d never looked more beautiful standing there so pleased and happy as though in giving to her, he’d given to himself.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “My mother, blast her, offered chambers to some of our guests who didn’t want to reopen their London residences for only a few days. I won’t be able to leave until they are all abed, but I will come to you as soon as I am able. Wait for me, but don’t remove this gown. I want to take it off you.”
How easily those words aroused her all over again. She was a wanton of the first order, and she didn’t care.
After they’d returned to the ballroom, she’d danced with Mick, who she suspected, based on the way he studied her, knew exactly what they’d been up to in the garden. Although she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he and his wife had been in another part, up to the exact same thing. It didn’t escape her notice that Mick touched his wife whenever she was in reach—her hand, her shoulder, the small of her back. Before, it had amused her to see her brother so smitten, but now that she was suffering through the same condition, she didn’t find it at all humorous.
Once their dance was finished, and it became obvious he wanted to take a turn about the floor with Aslyn, she assured them that she was at ease in her surroundings and had received enough introductions they didn’t need to hover around her. She could handle herself. She hadn’t needed to tell them twice. It brought her a great deal of joy to watch her brother gliding over the floor, his wife in his arms, his gaze never leaving hers, to know he was well and truly in love and loved.
Not wanting them to find her there, mooning about, when they were done, she decided to go in search of Lady Caroline, as she’d enjoyed visiting with her, or maybe even Lord Mitford, to determine if he was truly sitting in a corner somewhere reading a book and to thank him for his earlier kindness. When a footman offered her a tray with coupes of champagne, she didn’t hesitate to take one. While enjoying a sip, she glanced around and spotted a small shadowy alcove, palms standing guard on either side of it, their leaves partially hiding the entry, a perfect place for a timid lord to seek a momentary escape.
The greenery had just brushed against her arm when she heard a feminine whisper, “...deuced odd, I tell you. The way he looks at her. I’ve no doubt she’s the reason Lady Lavinia cried off.”
Gillie stopped in her tracks, was about to reverse course when another lady, her voice somewhat raspy, said, “She’s a tavern owner. She can never be more than his mistress.”
“I rather liked her,” a third voice chimed in.
“If he asks for my hand, I’ll let him know straightaway I’ll not put up with him being involved with another woman.” The first voice.
“Lady Lavinia no doubt gave him the same ultimatum.” The third. “And you see what that got her. No wedding whatsoever.”
“But she was ill. That’s the reason there was no wedding. Thornley announced it. I’ve called upon her twice and been informed she is indisposed. I fear she’s deathly ill, and he feared she’d be unable to conceive,” the raspy-voiced one said.
