How to Deceive a Duke (9 page)

He skimmed his fingertips over her collarbones, along the silken column of her neck, and then back, sweeping aside the straps of her stays. She didn’t stop him. She probably didn’t even realize that he was stripping her.

He followed the swell of her breast until his hand found hers, clutching the edge of her garment. He opened it, laid her palm on his naked chest. Her other hand loosened of its own accord, joined the first, and curled against his skin. Her bodice parted, dropped away, and caught at her elbows. He pulled her against him, and pressed the naked heat of her breasts against his body. She made a low sound of pleasure, and her nipples pebbled against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangling them in his hair, claiming his mouth.

M
eg didn’t want to stop kissing. She liked the taste of him, the feel of his hands on her. She reveled in the scent of his male body, the sensation of her skin on his, the heat. Perhaps she was drunk. His tongue did taste faintly of whisky.

Her mind tried to take control, to bring her back to a place where she could think clearly, manage things, but her body wouldn’t allow it. She wanted more of the heady, exquisite pleasure.

She barely felt him lift her. There was only the softness of the mattress beneath her, the hardness of the man on top of her, and she arched against him, rolled her hips, wanting him nearer still. She touched him where he touched her, caressed him, traced the little scars with her fingertips, then her lips. She let her hands tangle in the softness of his hair, marveled at the roughness of his stubbled jaw, the flex of hard muscles under velvet skin. She ran her hand over his chest, across the flat plane of his hard belly, and reached the waistband of his breeches. She frowned at the barrier, tugged, and he pulled back, staring down at her, his face shadowed and unreadable.

“You want this, don’t you?” he said, his voice husky.

Wasn’t it obvious? She didn’t want to talk. She kissed him again, and his hand cupped her breast, and she sighed, realizing she wanted that most of all—until he rolled his thumb over her nipple, and it felt even better. She arched against his hand like a cat.

Then his mouth found her nipple and she gasped at that too, and all sensible thoughts were forgotten. His mouth was so hot, so wet, so delicious. She moved against him, rolled her hips restively. “Slowly,” he whispered, but she didn’t want to go slowly.

She reached for his nipple, pinched it the way he’d pinched hers. He shot backward with a cry of surprise, and sat on his heels at the bottom of the bed with his eyes closed.

She raised herself on her elbows and stared at him. He appeared to be counting. She waited until he finished.

“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” She braced herself. She couldn’t bear it if he told her she was too plain, or worse, that he simply couldn’t bring himself to— She swallowed, waited for him to laugh, to reject her, to turn away and wish aloud that she was blond, sweet, and pretty, like . . .

Rose.

Bitterness filled her mouth, and she hugged her arms over her breasts, but he held up a hand.

“Nothing wrong. I just need a moment. Call me Nicholas in bed, sweetheart, never Your Grace,” he said breathlessly.

Sweetheart.
No one had ever called her that before.

“Nicholas,” she said on a sigh, reaching for him. “Kiss me again.”

N
icholas looked down at her. She was propped on her elbows, watching him intently with her incredible eyes. Her hair was an erotic tangle, her lips swollen from his kisses. Her stays were still tangled in the crooks of her arms, the lace a frothy foam around her breasts. Her shift was bunched around her thighs, exposing the slim, shapely length of her legs. He searched for a flaw, hoping it would slow his desire, but there wasn’t one. His famous control was threatening to desert. How long had it been since he felt like this with a woman? He couldn’t remember. Her tentative touches were erotic, born of honest desire. She was too innocent to make a pretense of her arousal.

She shifted, and kissed his nipple, then let her tongue circle, doing to him what he’d done to her, showing him what she liked by copying him, her eyes on his, gauging his response. It was torment, and heaven.

He slid his hand over her calf, pinched the soft skin behind her knee, caressed the silk of her thighs. He raised her shift and cupped her bottom.

She slid her hand under the waistband of his breeches, tried to do the same. He brushed his hand over the nest of curls between her thighs, and her hands stilled, unsure of how to proceed.

But he knew. He let his fingers find the moist heat of her body. She gasped, and her nails dug into the hard flesh of his buttocks as her hips moved in wordless, unwitting invitation.

Her lashes fluttered on pink cheeks. She caught her lip between white teeth and moaned, arching against his hand, demanding more.

M
eg felt the world drop away. She was floating, the whole world centered on this moment, this man, and what he was doing to her. She told herself that he was a practiced rake, and he’d probably done this with dozens—hundreds—of women, but it didn’t matter. Right now he was
her
rake, intent on pleasing only her. She couldn’t think. There wasn’t room in her mind with all the sensations, the feelings she’d never even known existed until now, with him.

She felt his mouth at her breast again. His caresses grew more urgent, demanded a response, and she cried out as the most exquisite sensation of all burst over her.

He kissed her tenderly as she drifted back to earth. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Is it over?” she asked. She did not want it to be over.

He shook his head and rose from the bed, fumbling with the flies on his breeches.

“No, sweetheart, it’s hardly begun.” He peeled away his breeches and stepped out of them.

Her mouth went dry.

She had seen perfect male statues carved in marble, though they’d been modestly draped in togas. She’d spent the afternoon studying the paintings and illustrations in the blue book, but none compared to Nicholas. He was powerful, beautiful, magnificent. She let her eyes roam over him, and met his eyes boldly. She held out her arms in a wordless plea, and he tumbled into them, pressed her back against the mattress, kissed her again.

His skin melted against hers, his male angles fitting perfectly against her feminine curves. This was how it worked, she thought, marveling. It was a dance, and the steps were instinctive.

She closed her hand on the hardness that jutted against her hip, and he gasped, and put his hand over hers in an iron grip, keeping her still.

“Slowly, sweetheart. In fact, don’t move at all,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Had she lost the steps, mistaken the rhythm? “Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

“Lie back,” he said. She felt his fingers upon her again, arousing her all over again. As she cried out, he knelt between her thighs, and she felt the blunt tip of his erection where his fingers had been.

“Now it will hurt, won’t it?” she said.

He winced apologetically. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his teeth were gritted. “A little,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll go very slowl—”

She put her hand on his shoulders, closed her eyes and tilted her hips to meet his.

He swore as he plunged into her. She stifled a cry against his shoulder and dug her nails into his flesh as he filled her, withdrew and filled her again. The pain ebbed.

She was his, married, bedded, consummated.

He cried out, and she felt him shudder, his body thrusting powerfully into hers one last time before he collapsed against her, his heart pounding against hers. She held him to her.

After a long moment he raised his head to look at her, still buried within her body.

“Did I hurt you?”

Reality returned. “Yes. A little.” He rolled away, and she felt the cool air rush to touch her skin. She missed him at once. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.

He lay on his side, propped on his elbow, regarding her with pride clear in his eyes. “It won’t hurt again. It’s only painful the first time. After that, the pleasure is—”

She looked at him in astonishment. “The only time, Your Grace,” she said. Surely she was with child already. He was so powerful, so vital, so
ready
.

He chuckled. “For tonight, certainly,” he said, and stroked her arm. She leaped off the bed, and picked up his shirt, the first piece of clothing that came to hand, and shrugged into it, wrapping it around her body.

N
icholas’s heart was still pounding. He wondered if his wife had any idea how fetching she looked in his shirt. She was tousled, her breasts heaving.

He patted the mattress beside him. “Come back to bed, Rose.”

Instead she fled for the dressing room, and returned wrapped from chin to ankle in a thick woolen robe.

Oblivious to his own nakedness, he rose and set about picking up his clothes and untangling his boots from his breeches. He laid the garments carefully over the back of the chair. He turned to find her watching him. His body responded to her gaze, and he grinned at her.

She stared at him in horror as he crossed to the bed and began loosening the bedclothes.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Don’t worry, I think we both need some sleep.”

“You can’t sleep here!” she squeaked, and he stood by the bed with his hands on his naked hips.

“Why the hell not? This is our wedding night.”

She turned her back. “You can’t stay.”

“Why not? Look, Rose, I don’t intend to—”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped.

He leaned on the bedpost and crossed his arms over his chest, regarding her as if he were fully dressed and they were having this conversation in the drawing room. “Do you wish to be called something else?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said. “No.”

She wasn’t making any sense. Any moment, she’d burst into tears and demand he send for her mother. He felt a sharp stab of disappointment after all.

He picked up his clothes. “Never mind. I’ll sleep in my own bed. It’s been a very long day, and you obviously need some sleep to calm your nerves.”

He strode through the dressing room to his own bedchamber. Behind him, he heard the lock turn on her side. He stared at the door in astonishment. Never, ever, had a woman thrown him out of her bed. Usually they begged him to stay. This was a completely new situation, and Nicholas didn’t like it at all.

He regarded his bed sourly, and tossed his clothes on the floor and kicked them. He yanked back the covers and got in. The sheets were cold. He shut his eyes, but he could still smell her on his skin, still taste her on his tongue and his fingers. He ground his teeth, willing away his renewed erection.

They were still essentially strangers, of course. He had time. He had never failed to win a woman he wanted, and he wouldn’t this time either.

He would have his fill of his unexpectedly delicious, stubborn, infuriating little wife, and then he would move on.

Chapter 17

T
he fragrance of toast and chocolate woke Meg the next morning.

“Good morning, Your Grace. I apologize for waking you so early, but I was unsure of your usual habits,” Anna said. “The dowager is already up, and has asked to see you once you’ve breakfasted.”

Meg sat up. “She wishes to see me?” But of course she did, and she was expecting Rose. She ran a nervous hand through her hair, a nest of tangles. She licked her lips, still swollen from his kisses, and glanced around the room, her eyes falling on the door that connected their rooms, now standing open as Anna bustled in and out of the dressing room.

Had it really happened, or had she dreamed it? Other than the thick woolen robe she was still wearing, there was no sign that anything remotely interesting had occurred in this room last night. She got up, and winced. Well, there was that—a little soreness, but it was a mere shadow compared to the pleasure.

“I would like a bath,” she said to Anna, surprised that her voice was even, calm. She thought of Temberlay—Nicholas in bed—and drew a ragged breath.

She crossed to the mirror and stared at her face. Did she look more knowing, more wanton than she had yesterday, more married? Her lips were red as cherries, her eyes bright, and her cheeks were pink. She looked much more like Rose this morning, almost pretty.

She picked up a comb and began to work at the knots in her hair. Anna quickly came forward. “Allow me, Your Grace.”

Meg surrendered the comb and met her own eyes in the mirror again. She swallowed a smile and the urge to giggle. Her toes curled into the carpet. The way he touched her made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

The faint fragrance of his soap rose up from his robe, and she resisted the urge to bury her nose in the sleeve.

She hadn’t imagined she’d sleep last night after he’d left her. She had lain in bed clutching her robe to her throat, marveling at what had just happened, and staring at the locked door, half dreading, half hoping he’d come back. He hadn’t. Nor had the nightmares that often plagued her. She hadn’t wanted him to see those—she pushed the thought away. She didn’t wish to think about her fears now. There were other, more important things to face.

She looked at the door yet again, and felt her heart flutter. Was he asleep in his own bed, or awake and thinking of her?

“Has His Grace risen yet?” she asked, and winced at the fiery blush that rose over her face in the mirror. Her voice was husky, the seductive purr of a woman who had been bedded by a lover. Anna didn’t seem to notice.

“Hours ago, ma’am. He likes to ride in the park before the sun is scarcely up.”

“I see.” The flutter fizzled. Something as trifling as a wedding night hadn’t interrupted
his
routine. Anna finished combing her hair and looped it up in a ribbon for the bath.

She drew a screen around the tub and Meg sank into the warm water with a sigh, unable to think of anything, or anyone but Temberlay. The sweet painted face of a nymph smiled knowingly at her from the screen. Meg smiled back. A second nymph sat on a bench by a pond, combing her hair placidly, her diaphanous robe open, looking out at Meg as if she knew exactly what she’d experienced last night, had experienced it herself, and felt the same sense of wonder.

Meg frowned. He’d admitted that he’d bedded dozens of women—hundreds, even, if the scandal sheets were to be believed—she was simply one more.

But for her, one night, one man, and she would never be the same.

She picked up the soap and reminded herself that this was no time to be silly. She had done her duty, married Temberlay, and consummated the match. Her family was safe, and Wycliffe would remain their home. She might be carrying the required heir even now. She ran a hand over her flat stomach under the water. Of course, if she
were
pregnant, then there would be no need to repeat the experiences of last night. Disappointment curled in her chest. The soap slipped out of her hand. She watched it sink.

She still had to face the duchess this morning. Would she be angry, disappointed that her grandson had married the plain Lynton sister instead of the beauty?

She glanced at the nymphs, but they had no advice to offer, or even reassurance. The deception was all Meg’s, and so would be the consequences.

She reached for a sponge, ran it over her shoulders, shoulders he’d caressed last night. Whatever the duchess thought of her actions, surely it was too late to change things.

Unless they publicly denounced her, of course, rejected her as an imposter and sent her away in disgrace. Her face flamed. She’d be the laughingstock of London, the chit who thought she could deceive the Devil and get away with it. She imagined the fun the scandal sheets would have with
that
.

She sat up, let the cool air chill her wet skin, splashed away the burn of shame in her cheeks. Surely the dowager would not wish to face a scandal. She would have to accept the fact that Meg, not Rose, was married to Temberlay.

Temberlay. She sighed as the image of his face came to mind, flushed from kisses, sex.

The small crescent-shaped marks she’d left on his skin when he—

She shut her eyes tight, willing him away so she could think clearly. This was not a love match. It was a business arrangement. He had already gone on with his life, and she must do the same.

She got out of the bath. She would face the dowager bravely. She was a duchess herself now.

She would tell the dowager she intended to leave for Wycliffe today, to wait to see if she was indeed with child.

If not, she would have to share her husband’s bed again. Her toes curled again in anticipation, and she uncurled them at once, and reminded herself that she must be practical.

She would also have to face Temberlay today, tell him the truth. She clutched the towel tighter. He had, in her untutored opinion, lived up to his reported prowess as a lover. What if he lived up to the rest of his wicked reputation as well?

“You’re shivering, Your Grace. Was the water too cold?” Anna asked.

Meg forced a smile. “Not at all. Would you please tell Her Grace I will be there within the hour?”

There was no point in delaying the inevitable.