Four Nights With the Duke (24 page)

Only the raw lust in his eyes when they encountered each other about the house kept her from despair. She wasn’t feeling these ground-swells of desire all on her own.

Now she kissed him with all the longing she’d kept in check, coming back to herself only when she realized that her husband was nudging her backward toward the enormous bed on which Queen Elizabeth herself had slept.

“We mustn’t,” Mia said, pulling away. “Not that . . . Not here.”

“Why not?” His urgent, hungry look sent a throbbing pulse down her legs.

“We should restrict intimacies to appropriate times and places, to wit, our bedchamber at night.”

“This room is not a stable. It’s arguably the nicest bedchamber in the house.”

“It’s my study, and besides, it’s daytime.”

Vander’s only response was to topple both of them onto the bed.

“I mean it,” she protested. “This just isn’t proper!”

Vander planted his hands on either side of her and dipped his head, running his tongue along her lips. “I don’t give a damn.”

She pushed at his shoulder. “Well, I do, because I don’t want to be called ‘greedy’ again. Just to be clear,
I am
not
asking you for intimacies, which are supposed to happen only at night.”

He scowled down at her, with a frown that he likely thought would shake her resolve since it had terrified horse thieves in the past.

“I don’t want you to say any more unkind things to me,” she told him. “If I don’t behave like a doxy, I can’t be labeled one. Please, Vander, let me sit up. I’m going to the stables to see Charlie.”

“I will never say another unkind word to you,” Vander said huskily, brushing his lips across hers once more.

She must have looked dubious, because he continued, “I said those things out of fear. I want you more than is good for my self-esteem. Hell, Mia, I’m turning into a man who would walk to London for one of your kisses.”

“
My
self-esteem matters as well,” she pointed out. “I have no wish to become the type of woman whose husband feels he can—can
tup
her whenever and wherever he wants.”

“You’re the type of woman whose husband wants to tup her in a bed made for Queen Elizabeth. For a queen, Mia!”

He slowly lowered his weight onto her, and it was so delicious that she let out a little moan. His eyes sparked in response, and a callused hand ran up her legs.

“I don’t think—”

“Hush,” Vander said, kissing her. His fingers were teasing their way up her inner thigh. When his lips wandered to her cheekbone, Mia discovered that she had relinquished control. Again.

His fingers slipped upward, and she instinctively rolled her hips toward his caress. Despite herself, her voice came out breathily, like a silly debutante being
introduced to the queen. “It’s not right. Might be seen. Not . . . Not married. I mean, it’s still daytime.”

“We
are
married,” Vander corrected her, as his fingers sank into her slick warmth and took on a rhythm that made her body shake, bliss hovering just outside her reach. “Perhaps you truly don’t wish to continue?” His fingers stilled.

“Don’t stop.” Her nails dug into his forearm.

“It’s still daytime,” Vander pointed out, his eyes devilish. He slipped a broad finger inside her.

She let out a gasp and arched against him, trying to force his finger deeper inside her.

“Mia,” he said, voice rasping in her ear, “I want to make love to you.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“I want to see you naked.”

She froze.

“
All
of you,” he clarified.

“No.” Mia’s head cleared. She would never enjoy herself under those circumstances. Especially in the daylight. She pushed his hand away and began to inch toward the edge of the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.

“We can’t behave like this.”

He let her go and she sat up and rearranged her skirts. But her heart sank, looking at his face. His eyes were steady on hers and there was no mistaking his expression.

His wasn’t the face of a man who had ever heard the word “no.” Well, except when he was trying to refuse her marriage proposal. That was probably the first time in his life that he had been thwarted.

This would be the second. The idea of undressing in the broad daylight filled her with horror: Vander would see every curve and dimple.

If she had married an average-looking man, she
might consider it, but given the difference between them, it was inconceivable.

He was the embodiment of one of her fictional heroes—excepting the fact that he wasn’t madly in love with her, nor was he quiet, gentle, or even civilized.

Mia raised her chin and told him the absolute truth. “I am not the sort of woman who likes to be unclothed.”

“Why not?”

“Ladies are very private. Chaste,” she added.

“You are not chaste.”

She flinched, and he said hastily, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Stop. Just stop. I shall not change my mind.”

“Duchess.”

“Yes?”

His face was about as malleable as a block of marble. “I intend to see you without your clothes. And I intend to touch you without your clothes. I’m tired of pushing your skirts out of the way.”

“You are far too accustomed to getting your own way,” she blurted out. “Has no one ever denied you in the whole of your life?”

He didn’t answer that, just stood up and announced, “I’m going to remove my clothing. Brace yourself.”

“It would ruin everything for me if I had to get undressed,” she explained awkwardly. “I am not at ease.”

Vander frowned. “Do you have a scar, Duchess? I don’t give a damn.”

“No, I haven’t. Might you postpone your plan to remove your clothes until tonight, in the privacy of your chamber?”

Vander wrenched off his coat, which was its own answer. Mia’s heartbeat quickened. Next to go was his waistcoat. The performance reminded her of the
day that he had demanded she inspect him carefully before she purchased him. How was it possible that it was less than a fortnight ago?

Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows the color of dark copper across his skin. His shirt flew across the room. Bands of muscle corded his body, making her fingers itch to caress his hard stomach.

When he bent over to pull off his boots, panic welled up in Mia’s stomach. If Vander forced her to unclothe, she would faint from pure humiliation. Taking advantage of the fact he was busy with his boots, she headed for the door.

He made it there before her.

“This is
not
a good idea,” she said, panicked. “It is deeply improper and no one . . . no lady would tolerate it.” She could smell a mixture of saddle leather and spice.

It weakened her knees, so she made her expression even more ferocious.

Vander leaned back against the door and grinned at her. He hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches.

“No!” she cried.

Of course he ignored her. His breeches and smalls slid down over the thighs of a man used to leaping on a restless horse. Mia let out a shaky sigh. His taut abdomen had a little line of hair that led . . .

Well, down there.

No wonder she’d been sore.

His shaft was far too large.

He kicked away his breeches and smalls and simply stood there, relaxed, as if he often stood naked in a shaft of sunlight.

“Do my looks please you, Mia?” he asked, looking at her from under long eyelashes, as if he
didn’t know perfectly well that desire was pounding through her like a drum beat. Directing her to touch him, to squirm against him, to lure him to the bed . . .

She had to clear her throat. “You are presentable, as I’m sure you’ve been told every day since you were a boy.”

“Does my moonbeam meet your expectations?” The grin on his face said that he knew perfectly well that he was magnificent.

“Aren’t you ever going to forget about my stupid poem?”

“I doubt it,” he said, his smile deepening. “I’m the only one of my friends who’s had an ode written to his cock.”

Mia groaned silently. There was no point in trying to school him in the art of literary metaphor.

“I can’t wait to read your novels,” he added.

“There is
nothing
about moonbeams in my work!”

He shrugged. “It’s your turn to disrobe.”

“As I made clear, I am not at ease undressing in the daylight.” She stepped closer, her hand drifting down his chest to his waist. “Isn’t this enough?”

“Not by half,” he said. But he took her hand and put it on his hard length.

Her hand instinctively curled around his silky maleness. To her delight, he visibly shuddered, then cupped her face, and brushed his lips over hers.

She tightened her hand just a little. His eyes glazed over and a harsh sound came from between his lips. His hands slipped down to her jaw, guiding her face up to take her mouth.

In the back of her mind, Mia was losing her nerve. What if Vander no longer desired her, once her breasts had been freed from her corset? Even she felt distaste for her breasts, so why should he feel any different?

“I want to touch you,” Vander growled into her mouth, his hands gripping her bottom and pulling her against him. “I want to hold those lush breasts of yours, bury my face in them, suck your pretty little nipples . . .”

Oh dear God.

She would have to let him do it. Either that, or she could call the Four Nights rule into effect.

“Please,” she asked desperately, “
Please
might we wait until tonight, when our room is dark?”

He ground against her, a harsh noise breaking from his chest. “Does it feel to you as if I can bloody well wait until tonight?”

Mia felt dizzy, as if she might faint. Perhaps she should get it over with? If she didn’t look at his face, she wouldn’t know how he felt. Would not knowing be better than knowing?

Yes. Unquestionably.

His nimble fingers were unbuttoning her gown in back, but he lost patience and ripped open the last few buttons. Mia numbly let him lift the gown over her arms and head.

He fell back a step. “Duchess, the corset you wore the other evening was impressive, but I must say this one resembles nothing so much as a steel cage designed to contain wild tigers.”

The corset employed a great deal of whale-bone to control her figure. It fell from her body and the laces’ silver aglets tinkled as they hit the floor.

Then all that remained was her chemise.

NOTES
ON
F
LORA’S
N
EW
W
ARDROBE

Flora mortified to find seamstress views her as bony. “The Fripperies of Outward Appearance are unimportant,” she informed the lady.

“
Pas pour les hommes,
” the Frenchwoman said grimly, pins in her mouth obscuring her comment.

Flora knew no man of worth would take such foolishness into account. Still . . . “Can you improve the bodice of this gown?” she implored. The gown was made of white pleated muslin and left no doubt that Flora had very little in the way of feminine endowments.

The modiste mumbled something about sow’s ears.

~ is this working? Probably not.

Interesting change, though.

Do men truly like bosoms?

I
t was taking all of Vander’s control not to lunge at Mia, now that her corset had fallen away. His wife had turned white as a bleached stone and she was visibly trembling, but she undid the ribbon of her chemise. Closing her eyes momentarily, she pulled it down around her shoulders.

Vander restrained a groan. He felt desperate to touch her, like an animal in a duke’s form.

The white chemise dropped away to reveal breasts that were more beautiful than he could have imagined: plump and smooth, with nipples like ripe cherries.

Mia gave a little wiggle and the chemise slid from her arms, was caught briefly on her hips, and fell to the floor. And there she was.

His wife.

His duchess.

“Bloody hell,” Vander said hoarsely, words deserting him.

Mia rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to offer me such extravagant compliments.”

“You are beautiful, Duchess.” He could see her thinking about that, but he was in the grip of an overpowering lust and could not wait for his compliment to soothe her fear. He picked her up and lay her on the bed, coming down on his side next to her. “May I touch?”

“No.”
She meant it.

He ran a hand up her leg and straight to her sweetest spot. She was drenched, and a moan broke from her throat the moment he touched her.

Beside himself with desire, he rolled on top of her, reared back, and thrust inside. No preliminaries, no tender coaxing caresses—just fast, sweaty motion that sent pleasure racing down his limbs, smoky and hot as burning grass.

He kept his hands away from her breasts because she hadn’t given him permission, but somehow it was all the wilder for that.

Instead he braced his hands on the bed next to her shoulders and hung his head above her breasts. He could have sworn that her nipples puckered tighter every time he looked.

The bed board slammed into the wall. Over and over and over. And Mia was with him. She was caressing his body, her hands running down over his arse and curling around his thighs, urging him on.

He stilled. “May I touch your breasts now?”

“No!”

“You’ll love it,” he promised.

With a sudden movement, he rolled, and then she was on top of him.

Mia had been lost in delight, allowing Vander’s hard body to pleasure her while she stroked and caressed and kissed what parts of him she could reach.

But as always when her breasts were involved, she snapped to cold attention. Glancing down, she saw that they were standing out from her torso like globes.

“Look at me,” Vander commanded.

Reluctantly, she did so. His expression was delirious . . . ecstatic.

“Your breasts are perfect,” he rasped. “Soft, giving, your nipples like strawberries waiting for my mouth. I’m not touching. But I mean to kiss them now.”

Before she could stop him, Vander’s mouth closed
over her nipple, and Mia went straight from somewhat ashamed apprehension to a storm of sensation so acute that she involuntarily pulsed around his cock, making him groan aloud.

His big hands gripped her hips and pulled her down as he thrust up. Her hair fell around his face. With every suck to her nipples, the desperate, hot sensation inside her increased, as if she were a boiling pot on the verge of explosion.

All the time Vander told her in a hoarse voice what he was doing, what he thought about her nipples, about her breasts.

She believed him. And when she gave everything to him, her body jerking over and over, his in every sense of the word, the rightness of it echoed down to her soul.

She loved him.

She had never stopped loving him.

The pleasant affection that she and Edward had shared was not love. This mad, wild, consumption of each other’s bodies, sweaty and real: this was love.

“Vander,” she cried, about to tell him.

But he wasn’t listening. He rolled again, and his strength and muscle and weight came down on top of her. His thrusts grew even fiercer; as he came, he shouted, the abandoned mad pleasure in his voice sending her body into another spiral, until she convulsed around him.

In that space of white-hot joy, there was no Vander and no Mia: they were one, panting, crying out, moving together in a primal dance as old as the earth itself.

It was blissful and raw.

When Vander withdrew, neither of them said a
word. He pulled her close, and dazed, Mia tucked into his shoulder.

She had given him everything, ceded her body. And he had given his back to her.

They had consummated their marriage.