Her Mystery Duke (6 page)

Thinking was definitely overrated. He somehow found himself
tucked abed with an alluring young woman. What else could possibly matter?
Reality would likely intrude soon enough. He was probably sleeping on that
narrow, too short divan in his office.

And if he wasn’t sleeping, well, daybreak would be as good a
time as any for questions and answers. It was strange how easily he accepted that
logic, but the cobwebs still hampered his mind and he was so damned weak.

Yes, this must be a dream. Some peculiar fancy he’d not even
been aware of. A desire to bed a cheap little alehouse tart in her sordid
quarters. The wholly pedestrian whimsy of a gentleman who found himself closer
to forty than thirty and had been jaded by luxury. How strange when he’d
thought himself immune to such nonsense.

Her nipple became firm, poking against the thin muslin like
a little pebble. He longed to feel it in his mouth and he pulled himself up,
his head spinning. It added to the piquancy of the moment. Then he leaned down
and put his lips around the straining peak. He laved the sheer cloth until he
fancied he could taste her bare nipple, like roses and honey.

* * * *

Sensation crept into Jeanne’s slumber. Wet warmth circled
her nipple. Fire shot from that hard little point to all parts of her,
especially into her lower belly. A caress on her thigh urged Jeanne to shift onto
her back and part her legs. The touch glided along the inside of her thigh.

A skilled, teasing touch.

David.

She didn’t want to awaken. Not fully. If she did, then she’d
have to take responsibility. She’d have to think and right now she wanted only
to feel.

As she lay on her side, facing him, he stroked her mons in a
feathery motion, traced the line where her mons met her thighs. A
stubble-roughened cheek scarped hers. Wetness trickled from her, her folds
swelled. She opened her legs, arched her hips, and pressed against his hand.

He didn’t alter the speed of his motions but continued
lightly stroking, exploring over her outer lips.

The bed ropes creaked. A log in the hearth popped. Carriage
wheels rattled by on the street outside. Long moments passed and yet he
continued. Teasing her.

Wetness flowed from her core and slid over her inner lips.
Of their own accord, her hips began to dance, up and down. A long moan escaped
her. A sound full of longing. Of impatience. It startled her.

A whimper escaped past her lips.

“Shh…” His deep voice reverberated into her bones. He
stroked his finger over her slit, lightly, three times.

“Please, please.” A shudder of self-disgust consumed her.
Never, ever beg a man for anything. It only
gives him power over you. The selfish jackanapes have enough power as it is.

“Don’t be so impatient.” She could hear the smile in his
voice.

She bristled all over with indignation and pulled back from
his embrace then fisted her hands and beat at his chest. “You pompous arse.”

The words came out before she could edit them.

He stopped stroking her and laid his hand over her mons. “I
know, sweeting, I know.”

What did he know? What could he know about lying with men
over and over, watching their intense pleasure, and yet never experiencing that
same release with them? Only alone. Leaving her empty. Leaving her aching.

She beat at him harder as part of herself stood back,
watching, appalled. This man was ill in her bed. She was supposed to be nursing
him back to health, not demanding pleasure. But she couldn’t stop.

He shifted then grasped her wrists with each hand. “Darling,
darling, don’t.”

He held her immobilized. She could hear the faint rasp still
in his breathing. Dear God, even sick, he was strong.

“Let me go!”

“Shh…” He leaned close and pressed his lips to her cheek.
“Let me drive you to the destination. You are only to enjoy the journey.”

Frustration rose and wild energy surged in her. She moaned
and thrashed in his hold. “Let me go.”

“Jeanne.”

The deep, silken, sensual sound of her name on his tongue
stilled her. Stunned her.

He knew it was her. Not his Thérèse.

She held her breath and stared at him but in the darkness
she could only make out the white of his eyes, the midnight-black forelock
falling over his brow, and the shadowed contours of his cheekbones and jaw
line.

She struggled against his restraint but he held her firmly.
She’d never faced the situation where a man sought to actually control her
bodily. It should have frightened her. But her limbs seemed to weaken and her
belly fluttered with the most interesting thrills.

He seemed to notice the lessening of her resistance for he
released one of his hands and shifted to clasp her wrists in one large hand.
“Let me have my way in this.”

His way. He wanted more than other men had. He wanted to
conquer her. If she let him do this, to make her come undone, he’d be privy to
her deepest secret self. No one could be allowed to see such a private side of
her. When people knew you too deeply, they had an advantage that they could use
at any time to strike at you, to hurt you.

He released her then touched the shoulder of her shift and
gave it a pluck. “Remove this.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Of course you should.” He sounded a little breathless now.

This was fatiguing him. Guilt pricked her, distracted her
from her thoughts. “No, I should arise and…work.”

“Jeanne, I have lain here beside you and felt the tension of
your need.”

Her heart began to pound. He saw too much. “Please don’t—”

“It is very arousing to me. I shan’t be able to sleep
without some…resolution.”

“Resolution?”

“Yes, resolution for one of us. For you.” He seemed to
forget the matter of her shift for he began to stroke her thigh again. “I am
not capable of more at this moment and for that I am sincerely sorry.”

There was no trace of arrogance in his expression, instead
his gaze remained open.

She kept her legs together.

He traced that tightly closed line from her knees and moved
upwards. “You wanted this a moment ago. What changed?”

His tender, seeking touch spoke of so many things. It
confused her. What did she want? To remain pristine, private? Or should she
open herself to this experience? What would it feel like to come for a man? To
allow him to share those vulnerable moments?

He stopped his questing touch at her apex and rested his
hand gently against her. “You’ve experience with men, correct?”

“I have experience with men but it is not what you are
thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“I don’t sell my wares on the street or in taverns.”

The way he froze, the sudden tension in his fingertips told
her that he’d been thinking exactly that. Considering the way he’d woken to
find himself in a bed with her, she could forgive his assumption.

She didn’t even understand why it had been important to her
for him to know that she wasn’t some tavern whore. It just was.

“Have you ever come with a man?”

The question startled her out of her thoughts, sent a cold
ball into the center of her stomach, and killed what was left of her arousal.
To avoid his gaze, she tilted her head back and looked up at the headboard and
studied the worn, dry looking wood.

“I shall have to take that as a no, Jeanne.”

“As you wish.”

“Can you come by yourself?”

Her lovers didn’t pry into such matters. So long as she
jogged her hips and moaned a bit, they were happy. Likely, if she pretended to
climax, this gentleman would leave her in peace over this suddenly invasive,
embarrassing matter. But she didn’t feel like pretending for this gentleman and
she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. That alone made her frightened of him.

“It is very late, we should sleep.” She made her tone as
firm as was possible with his hand resting so softly, so casually against her
most intimate part.

 
He grazed her mons
with his fingertips. Fire flickered upwards through her belly. Her arousal
flared into full life once more. Of their own accord, her hips arched. “Is it
that you’re a little scared for someone else to be in control of your
pleasure?”

He found and brushed her nub. Where her other lovers had
either not touched or pressed too hard, too soon, he applied just the right
amount of pressure. As though she were touching herself.

A gasp forced its way up her throat and she bit her lip to
suppress it. Increased wetness flowed over her inner folds.

“Don’t be scared. Trust me.” He continued teasing her bud
and her hips began to dance to and fro—she couldn’t stop the motion and it made
it harder to keep her legs closed. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded,
for she was scared. Truly scared. Every instinct of self-preservation she
possessed screamed that this was too risky.

She didn’t really know him. Letting people inside was
precarious at best.

This was an unnecessary experience.

Pretend, let him go to
sleep, and then you can frig yourself to your heart’s content.

David increased the pressure of his strokes, using a
circular motion, all the while still holding her gaze. Dangerously intimate.

“Breathe, relax.”

In one quick burst, she released the breath she hadn’t
realized she’d been holding and with the release of her breath came the sudden
release of tension in the lowest pit of her belly. Swift, violent spasms
convulsed her cunt. Pleasure crashed upon her, sweet, intense and brief.

She lay gasping.

God.

It had happened.

There was no taking it back now. What had been shared with
him could never be unshared now. What would the ramifications of that be? She
was too overcome at the moment to consider them.

She waited for the relief, the relaxation to wash over her.
But her tension seemed to be building up again. She became aware that he was
stroking her, gliding over her triangle of hair.

“Open for me.” His voice was like sumptuous, sensual velvet.

No mortal woman could have resisted him. Jeanne parted her
legs. Apparently she was mortal after all.

He delved deeper, his fingers sliding on her wetness.
Entering her. Thrusting in and out. Teasing her. Lingering. No man had ever
done that, not with his fingers. Usually once she was wet, they pressed their
own needs upon her.

She arched and pressed the soles of her feet to the
featherbed.

With his thumb, he found her nub again and brushed it. It
grew erect; and sharp urgency surged deep in her stomach, followed by the
sweetest anticipation. Each brush repeated the sensation.

“David…David…” She writhed and thrashed.

He thrust his finger into her, pressing firmly on the
forward wall of her channel. Need stabbed through her deepest core. She pressed
her feet harder to the bed, arching up. Crying out.

He put another finger into her and then began thrusting
while pressing. Her wetness became audible. She had never known she was capable
of putting out such a liberal libation. Her own scent lay heavy in the air. She
was moaning, the sound echoing in her ears loud enough to hear above her
pounding heartbeat. She thrashed, writhed all the more. She pleaded and begged.
Her whole body was shaking. It was frightening but it was happening, again. It
was as though she were dying, losing herself. Her breathing became harder and
shorter. Then she could no longer breathe at all. Her inner muscles contracted
drew tight then released and contracted, over and over, upon the firm
resistance of his invading fingers. Pleasure, white hot, jagged shards of
pleasure, exploded within her.

Her body sagged in its wake. Dimly, she was aware of his
cheek against hers. The prickle of his heavy stubble.

“Jeanne.” His voice sounded weak, breathless. His embrace
went slack.

She panted too hard to speak and in any case, she had
nothing to say. At least nothing out loud. Inside, she was a mass of pure,
frantic, haywire heartbeats. Panic clawed at her. Energized her all over again.

She leapt from the bed then stood there on legs shaking from
the vigor of what had just occurred.

Dear God.
She’d
thought herself so experienced with men. So intimately acquainted with them and
their ways. Well, yes, she had been. But none of them had been intimately
acquainted with her. Not before this moment.

 
What did it mean?
What would it change?

She swallowed, hard, but her throat was so dry it did no
good.

It doesn’t have to
mean anything.

It didn’t mean a thing. Nothing more than spreading her legs
for Dr. Edmonton or Bernard and then taking their money for rent. Obviously,
David was better. In the morning, he would tell her who to send for and then he
would be gone.

Her peace, her privacy, her independence would all be
intact. Yes, he’d seen a part of her that no one else ever had, that no one
ever should have seen, but she’d never have to face him again.

A masculine snore drew her back to herself. Faint rays of
morning light played over his sharply drawn, handsome features.

Softness and warmth melted through her. She wanted to return
to the bed and lay her hand on that stubble-darkened cheek. To trace his square
jaw line. Fear arose within her anew.

He had to go.

As soon as possible.

Chapter Four

Jeanne stood by the bedside and smoothed David’s forelock
back. The strands, fine and silken, slid against her fingers, the color so
black it shone with bluish lights in the morning sunshine from the window.

What the devil was she doing? She was supposed to be testing
his temperature. She laid her hand upon his brow. A little too warm but not
scorching.

He had to go back to his life today. A whole day had passed
since the night he had…they had…heat flashed through her body at the memory,
wetness seeping from her core. Desire. She had no wish to re-ignite it by
putting a name to what had occurred.