What a Duke Wants (10 page)

“You do not believe that.” His own fury was growing.

She pulled in a long, slow breath, her breasts rising against the ruffle of her gown. “No. She meant to hit me. She was mad to have her dress ruined, but I truly think she did it without thought. She would never want to leave a bruise that could be remarked on. I do not believe she would find it ladylike.”

“That I do believe.” He remembered the look Mrs. Wattington had turned on him before realizing who he was.

Isabella squeezed his fingers. “It really is nothing. It will fade by morning.”

“I doubt that. I think it much more likely you will be purple and yellow for a week.” He had to find a way to protect her, to remove her from this life she was living. He had to show her that he could protect her.

“Don’t say that.” She tried to step away, but he held her cheek still.

They stared at each other for a moment. He moved slowly, giving her ample time to step away. His hand slid down her face to tilt her chin up. Her soft breath lightly caressed his face.

He could feel her eyes drop to his lips and back. They were caught again in that magic moment before—

—and then it was during. His lips skimmed hers, hardly more than the brush of a butterfly’s wing.

S
he should not be doing this. It was too soon. She needed to be sure he would care for her afterward. Her plan had not been for—well, it had been—but she’d imagined that they’d talk first, that she’d have more time to decide, to be sure.

Did she know what she was doing?

Did it matter?

She leaned closer.

This was part of her plan—seduction. How would she get him to marry her, to take her away from London and to safety if she didn’t ply her feminine wiles? Only—her reasons for kissing him had little to do with her future and much to do with her present desires, her desire to touch him, feel him, know him.

Pressing her lips tightly against his, she brought her hands up to his neck, stroked, buried them in his hair. He felt so good, made her feel so secure. When Mark touched her it seemed the world would be right, that all her fears, all her mistakes were meaningless.

He tasted of tobacco and brandy—sweet and smoky.

She’d forgotten how magic his kiss could be, how it could fill one with wonder and passion, peace and anticipation.

She ran her tongue along the opening of his mouth, impatient for more. She pulled him closer, moved herself until her breasts were pressed tight against him. For the first time in years she longed for a ball gown, for something low and thin, something that would cover and entice all in the same moment.

His hands were on her waist now, lifting her to her toes, bringing their months into perfect alignment.

She could have kissed him forever, letting the passion and momentum grow second by second. The sweep of a tongue here. The gentle nip of teeth. The dance and play, every action inviting a response. This was no possession but a master fencing duel. Each sought control, but each enjoyed the game too much to want to win.

She sighed into his mouth.

Then she felt his hand upon her breast—and froze. She forced herself to relax but it was too late.

He was pulling back, staring at her, his eyes full of consideration.

Oh, she loved that look—loved him.

Could she possibly love him this quickly?

It would explain her sudden desire for marriage as well as safety. Never since fleeing from London had she even considered the possibility. Marriage . . . after Foxworthy it should have been a frightening thought, but with Mark she could think of little else.

It would grant her freedom and safety. Who would ever imagine that Miss Isabella Masters would become Mrs. Smythe, estate agent’s wife? And surely once married she could just stay at his home in—well, she didn’t actually know where his house was, but it must be somewhere near Strattington’s main estate.

Now the only task was to make sure that he wanted her—forever.

She let her lower lip plump out, and leaned toward him.

Chapter 10

M
ark stared down at her passion-darkened eyes. Whenever he believed he had seen her at her best she surprised him. The more he came to know her, the more beautiful she became. He could not remember ever seeing a sunset as beautiful as her kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks—but it was those eyes, shining blue around deepest black, that moved him, that spoke to some part of him he had not known he had.

Even the deepening bruise did not detract from her beauty—although it did spur him on.

He needed to persuade her to trust him, to let him take care of her. She could not stay with Mrs. Wattington. She needed to be with him.

He needed her to be with him.

She leaned closer to him, her mouth quivering, and his gaze dropped. It was hard to see anything beyond her need—and his own.

There was no way he could resist her. He had been fooling himself.

She was meant to be his.

He should have realized it before.

There was one way he could assure her safety, wipe the worry from her eyes, take care of her.

He would make her his mistress, support her as she deserved, love her as she deserved, filling all her nights with passion and her mornings also. He would cover her in diamonds and emeralds, parade her before his friends. He would care for her as no woman had ever been cared for.

A duke should have a mistress.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

Glancing farther down, he stared at her breasts, heaving beneath the heavy linen of her gown. He would be sure she was always dressed in something thin and low-cut, no more servant’s attire for her.

The blue of her eyes drew his attention back. Maybe sapphires. He’d been thinking emeralds because of her hair, but with her eyes it should be sapphires, large sapphires.

He should tell her the truth. He could not take her if she did not know—only he wanted her to want him as a man, not a duke. If he told her how would he ever know that she had chosen him and not the duke?

He wouldn’t.

He leaned closer. “You do know that I’ll care for you, take care of you always, don’t you?” he said as he drew his finger across her collarbones just above the neckline of her dress.

H
e would care for her always. The words filled Isabella with a far different warmth than the heat his fingers evoked. Her few doubts dissolved like a morning mist. He cared for her.

It should not be hard to move him from caring to marriage—marriage and safety.

Her plans slowly formed again, fighting against the passion that filled her.

She looked up into his mink brown eyes and let her dreams evolve. She lowered her gaze to his lips, lifted it back to his eyes, watched his own gaze follow. There was such power in desire.

Her thoughts of love a moment ago no longer seemed so improbable. She’d been ready to dismiss them as mere physical attraction, the desire to be held by a handsome man after all these years. Now, with a few words, her world changed.

Marriage.

A home.

A family.

He cared for her—was that a man’s way of saying
love
?

She leaned back toward him and kissed him with all the passion of which she was capable. Her lips pressed hard, her breasts even tighter. Her whole body was one big tingle, one large ache needing to find release. She moved her lips over his, devouring, wanting, seeking—finding.

His tongue met hers, tangled with hers, pushed its way back into her mouth. She felt his desire to take over and fought back. She ran her hands beneath his coat, slipped them over his shoulders, ran them down across his chest, let them find their way between the buttons of his shirt, reveled in the silk of his skin. The desire to taste that flesh, to know his scent, his being, became almost uncontrollable.

Her fingers moved faster, but she could not give up his mouth. That intimacy was greater than any she had ever known.

This seduction thing was much easier than she had ever imagined.

His breath grew still each time her fingers moved; she could feel her power over him.

How daring could she be?

She slipped the first button loose.

And then the second. The third.

Her fingers moved ever lower and his breath grew ever shallower.

His lips moved then, down her chin to that most delicate spot where neck begins. She’d never noticed that spot before, never even considered that it existed. But now, as his lips explored it, she felt as if her whole being centered there on that wonderfully sensitive bend of skin and bone.

She didn’t know how she continued to breathe. Her dress was tight about her, her breasts pressing against the constricting fabric, her nipples rubbing with near irritation.

And then there was freedom. She felt her dress slip, without even being aware that his hands had been at her ties. Some small part of her brain sought to protest, but it was a very tiny bit. Far greater was the longing, the desire.

This was what she wanted. This was what would get her what she needed.

She ran her fingers up his chest, over his shirt, deep into the silky glory of his hair. She pulled his face back, wanting to see, to know.

She sought answers.

What she found was passion.

His eyes were dark, and full of desire. His lips swollen from her kisses.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. His gaze dropped low and her own glance followed.

She gasped. Her dress hung about her waist, her corset pushed down, one strap hanging off her shoulder, so that only her chemise covered her. If it could be called coverage.

Her nipples were sharp points, thrusting hard against the thin white fabric, their dark rose hue clearly visible.

She should have been shocked.

And she was. But the shock was that she saw herself as he saw her, saw the beauty, saw the glory.

She glanced up and met his gaze again. Holding her gaze in his, he reached out and ran a finger over the upward thrust of one nipple.

The sensation of that barest touch was unbelievable, the rasp of the fabric making her whole body jerk.

She saw the slight movement of his mouth at her response, felt his pleasure in hers.

He pinched her then, catching the peak between finger and thumb, squeezing with tormenting slowness.

She was going to die. There could be no other outcome to such pleasure, no other ending to the need that filled her.

She wanted to run, to scream, to do something to release all that grew within her.

But all she could do was watch, watch his eyes as his fingers moved. She would have thought his glance would be on her breast, on what he did, but he kept his gaze on hers, catching every piece of her response.

And then. . .

Then he bent his head, still holding her eye, and brought his lips toward the nipple he so tortured. She watched as he drew in a deep breath—and then blew. Then his mouth was on her, wetting the fabric, grinding it against her. He sucked. He laved. He twirled his tongue about her. He owned her.

And still he watched her face, watched her reaction, her passion.

He drew back and she almost cried, almost begged.

He smiled. He knew her thoughts. Not all the power was hers.

And then he moved to her other breast.

His tongue once again wetting, moving, laving.

She found her own hand rising to the other, now neglected breast. His gaze finally dropped from hers, his full attention caught by her fingers as they caressed her own breast, tugged at her own nipple.

His hands came up to her shoulders, slipped beneath the fine linen of her chemise, pushed it down in one quick movement.

She heard a rip, but it did not matter.

All that mattered was the look in his eyes as he gazed down at her naked breasts.

G
od, she was beautiful.

He thought again of telling her. It seemed wrong not to, but—but how could he take the risk that she would look at him differently? All that mattered was the warm passion in her eyes. He could see her insecurities, her innocence, her trust.

Damn it.

He had to tell her. How could he not tell her when she looked at him as if he were her whole world, as if she would believe anything he said? He could not betray that look.

“Isabella, my Bella, there is something I must tell you.”

It took a moment for her eyes to focus, for his words to be understood. She smiled, slowly, from under lowered lashes. “You’ve never called me by name before—Mark.” She breathed his name as if it were a sacred word.

This should not be so hard. She would be thrilled to learn his position, to know that he truly could take care of her, to understand that she need never worry again. He could live with not knowing if it was Mark she wanted, not the duke. He would do what was right. “Isabella.” He said her name again. “There is something you really must know.”

“What could I need to know now?” Her eyes clouded and she crossed her arms across her breasts, those magnificent breasts. “You don’t have a disease, do you? I’ve heard whisper of such things. Is that why you thought I needed to cover your—your cock when we first met?” A shiver shook her.

“You do not need to fear. I have never had such problems. I have always been careful.”

She did not look fully convinced.

“Ah Isabella, you do amuse me, make me happy. But I assure you I need no covering—not there.”

She wrapped her arms tighter. A shiver shook her again.

The air was warm. There was no need for her to feel chilled, although he could feel shivers coming on himself.

“Do you doubt me? Do you wish to examine me for pox?”

“No.” Clearly the question startled her. “I am just a little shy. It is all so real suddenly.”

He reached out and laid his hands over hers, squeezing them gently, and then drawing them down. “You are beautiful. You should never feel the need to hide yourself from me. I wish I could put it to words how I feel when I look at you. You make me believe in God and all his plans. The perfection of your breasts could not exist except by design.”

She blushed. The sheer rosy pink spread up over her chest and neck until it highlighted her cheeks.

“I think that’s blasphemous,” she whispered.

“I am sure some would find it so. But how can relishing beauty be wrong?”

She grew even redder and tried again to cover her breasts.

He looked down deliberately, let himself stare. He took in every detail, every freckle, every shade of cream and pink. Then he looked up and met her gaze evenly. “Does this feel wrong?”

Chewing on her lower lip, she looked unsure. “It feels strange, certainly. I am not sure about wrong. Can something that feels so good not be wrong?”

He chuckled. “Why the assumption that what feels good is wrong? You strike me as a woman who takes the time to relish the little moments in life. Can you not equally appreciate the—the bigger moments?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in this position before.”

“That is very clear.”

He had to stop teasing her or she was going to be redder than the ripest tomato.

Her hands pulled loose from his and he went to grab them again, but instead of covering her breasts she lifted them from underneath, raising them toward him like an offering.

“I understand so little of this,” she said. “I’ve never before understood what it is about breasts that drive men wild. I still can’t say that I understand.” She moved one thumb, flicking it across the nipple. Her gaze never left his. “I must say I do like it, though.”

He was going to explode, right here, right now, like a schoolboy caught in a dream. He was going to explode. He’d seen plenty of women, been seduced by the best. But he could never remember anything as erotic as her hesitant voice as she whispered those words, as her fingers moved over herself, as her eyes grew large at each sensation she aroused.

“I do love when you look at me like that,” she continued. “You do make me feel we truly will be together always.”

Always
. The word gave him pause even as the slow movement of her fingers over her plump flesh drew him on.

S
he’d never felt like this before. They were such simple words and did not begin to encompass all that she felt. There was such strength in this moment. He would do anything for her, anything to keep her fingers moving, to keep her eyes on his, to keep open the moments that were to come. No man had ever looked at her like this—like he wanted to devour her and treasure her in the same instant.

For the first time she understood why her sister, Violet, had taken lovers. A woman could surely grow addicted to this, to the power of desire.

Desire. She’d been warned about it since she was in short skirts and never understood its danger. Now it surrounded her, almost physical. His desire for her—and hers for him.

His kisses had not been enough, a lifetime of them would not be enough. His touch had not been enough. When his hands had moved upon her breasts, when his lips had suckled at them, it had been the most amazing feeling. And yet it was not enough.

There was something more. She could see it in his gaze, feel it in the ache that began between her legs and rose, filling her.

She knew the basic mechanics of the situation. His piece fit into hers. She even knew about what his looked like. Several of the maids had owned dirty drawings, and of course she’d seen Joey’s and several other young boys’ over the last years. She had a feeling, though, that was not what she would be dealing with. Violet had books—books she was not supposed to look at. But she could not believe that this would be like that. Surely much of what she’d peeked at was impossible.

But this was more than mechanics. This was emotion—and commitment. He’d said he would care for her—did care for her.

That was not the same as proposing marriage, but she knew men were slow at such things. What came out of their mouths was rarely the same as what went on in their minds. Normally the words were meant to persuade, to reassure, while their minds ran far in the other direction.

Any woman in service knew the difference between what a man promised and what he delivered. She’d seen far too many maids promised everything by a man who disappeared or pretended to forget as soon as the event was over.