While the Duke Was Sleeping

by Sophie Jordan

  She reveled in him. A deep throb of pleasure spread through her, arrowing with thrilling precision directly between her legs.

  He was right. She couldn’t run away. There would be no Watch interrupting them now. Just as he said. They were in a moving carriage, and unless they capsized, they had only each other for company for the duration—however much longer that was. Plenty of time to thoroughly ruin her if she allowed it.

  His tongue licked at the seam of her lips and she opened her mouth, letting him in. He stroked the inside of her mouth, tasting her, touching her tongue with his. She copied the move, surrendering to the madness and the demanding throb at her core.

  His hand traveled around her ribs and slipped upward to cup her breast over her dress. Her face flamed and she moaned into his mouth as he pressed the palm of his hand into the slight mound. She was suddenly conscious of how small she was in that arena. She dressed and undressed daily beside her sister, so she knew the difference between amply endowed and simply . . . not.

  He kneaded her breast, fondling her until she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. “Did he teach you how good this felt, hmm? Did he make you moan?”

  She clenched her teeth harder into her lip in an attempt to stifle her moan, scarcely understanding what he was saying but knowing it was wrong. She was supposed to be affianced to his brother. She shouldn’t be letting him do this to her. She shouldn’t want it—him—so much.

  “Does that feel good?” He chafed his thumb back and forth against her nipple through the fabric of her dress.

  Releasing her lip, she moaned, leaning into him, feeling drugged, slave to the ache in her clenching core.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice smug, satisfied.

  He tugged down her bodice, growling only to find the barrier of her corset. “You’re wearing far too many clothes.”

  She opened her eyes to find him gazing back at her, his eyes laden with hot promise. “I—I’m wearing what every lady wears.”

  “I don’t care what every lady wears. I only care what you’re not wearing.”

  A shudder ripped through her at his words.

  She grasped the edge of her corset and tugged it up, making certain it was still secured over her bosom. “It’s for the best.” She leaned back, withdrawing. “We need to stop before this goes too far.”

  “And what would be too far?” He still clung to her waist, holding her in place over him, not letting her climb off him.

  “I think stopping just shy of ruin is best.”

  “Is that all? I can promise not to ruin you. What happens in this carriage need never be known . . .” His voice faded as his hand moved to her hem, inching her dress up her leg, his short nails scraping against her stocking and eliciting shivers.

  She grabbed his hand, halting him at her knee. “What are you doing?”

  His heavy-lidded gaze fixed on her. “Not ruining you, kitten.”

  “It doesn’t feel like that to me.” She moistened her lips, grasping for the twisting ribbons of her resolve, hoping to crush them. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be with him. So where was her voice?

  Clearly sensing her reservations, he lowered his mouth to her neck and she shivered at the glide of his lips. His voice husked over her ear. “I promise only to touch.”

  “I’m w-with Autenberry.” Blast her less than convincing stammer. More than ever she needed him to believe that. She needed that to matter.

  He tensed beneath her and for a moment she thought she’d said the thing to make him give up. “I can make you forget Autenberry.”

  Oh, what a wretched web. She was certain he could make her forget, too. Especially considering she had no exceptionally remarkable memories to forget. She did not think she and the duke had ever even touched. Not even in the most harmless of passing.

  His lips closed on the lobe of her ear and her breath caught. His teeth scraped the sensitive skin and bit down gently. A sound strangled in her throat and his teeth let go, which only had her leaning in and grasping the edges of his coat, clinging to him.

  His brogue purred into her ear. “Touch and taste you.” The hot drag of his tongue followed that comment.

  She was lost in a muddle of sensation. It didn’t matter what he was saying anymore. His fingers moved up the inside of her thigh.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped even though she had a fairly decent idea. She knew there was a good amount of wickedness that went into bed sport.

  “I thought that would be obvious. I’m making you feel good.”

  “It’s not proper,” she insisted, diving for his foraying hand beneath her skirts.

  He laughed against her mouth. “Is kissing your fiancé’s bastard brother proper?” he challenged. “Perhaps we should ask the others in the next carriage to weigh in with their opinions. Face it. You’re not a proper female, kitten.”

  She gasped and without any forethought brought her palm cracking against the side of his face. He reared back, fingering his cheek. Even in the shadowy carriage, her handprint stood out starkly against his skin.

  “What was that for?” he growled.

  “You disgust me.”

  He stilled over her in a way that made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “Indeed?”

  She nodded jerkily even as she knew that was not the precise word. He made her feel things, but disgust was not one of them.

  “Ever a liar, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Let me tell you something about myself, Poppy. There’s not much that bothers me, but lying ranks high. And you know why?”

  A sinking sensation settled over her. “Why?” she whispered, the word barely a sound.

  “My father. He was many things to different people. He showed one face to his family, but there was another side of him. The side he only showed to my mother and me. He promised her the world and then he destroyed her. He lied to her and she paid for it every day.”

  “And you,” Poppy couldn’t help pointing out. “You paid the price, as well.”

  He shrugged. “I’m still alive. She’s gone.” He pinned her with his hot gaze. “So, liars? I don’t have any tolerance for them.”

  Those words echoed through her. He had no tolerance for liars.

  Lying was all she had done since they first met each other. Someday he would know that. Then there would be nothing stopping him from hating her. Granted, her lies weren’t destroying him—Lord Strickland had persuaded her into believing that they weren’t hurting anyone—but Mackenzie would still not appreciate the deception. Her stomach twisted.

  It was merely a matter of time. Soon he’d know the truth and whatever admiration or attraction he felt toward her would die a swift death. He hated liars.

  He would hate her, too.

  He took her by the shoulders and pulled her closer, still talking. “So don’t tell me I disgust you when I don’t. I think perhaps you’re disgusted with yourself. Not me.”

  She started at that accusation. “That’s absurd.”

  He nodded as though she had not spoken. “You can’t be disgusted too much if you let me do this.”

  His mouth covered hers, silencing her attempt to withdraw. This kiss was different. Tender and coaxing and it weakened her knees. “You taste of lemons, Miss Fairchurch,” he murmured against her lips, giving her bottom lip gentle nibbles before kissing her fully again.

  Now he addressed her formally?

  “Poppy,” she sighed in relent, breathing into his mouth, shaking from the battle of resisting him, from fighting herself.

  His hand skimmed over her stockings and her limbs turned to pudding.

  He kissed her again. She kissed him back, but the more intimate his touch, the more ragged and sloppy their kissing grew. She moaned into his mouth when his fingers slipped through the slit in her drawers to brush her sex.

  “Oh,” she cried into his mouth as his finger eased inside her. He pushed deep and held his finger there for
a moment, letting her get accustomed to the fit and sensation of him.

  He shifted and she felt him, his erection hard underneath her bottom. She couldn’t help herself. She ground down against him.

  “God, you’re tight, Poppy.” He withdrew his finger and thrust it back inside, curling it as he did so, hitting her in some invisible spot that brought forth a rush of bewildering sensation. She started shaking, feeling herself coming apart.

  “Struan,” she whimpered.

  He groaned and stroked deeper.

  The drag of his finger against her oversensitive flesh was driving her to the brink of something. The tight ball coiling inside her broke, bursting into tiny pinpricks of sensation.

  She shuddered, dropping her face into his neck. His finger remained lodged in her for a long, breathless moment as the tremors ebbed from her body.

  His mouth moved against her hair as he spoke, sliding his hand out from under her skirts. “That’s going to feel even better when it’s me inside you.”

  She stiffened, equal parts horror and delight sizzling through her at his bold words. This couldn’t be how a gentleman spoke to a lady—and that shouldn’t titillate her. She was a good, Christian woman. How could she have reveled in him touching her like that?

  Shoving her skirts down, she scrambled back across the opposite seat and glared at him. She dragged a trembling hand down her throat. Her skin felt pulsing. He did that to her. Blast him. She let him do that. Oh, very well, then, blast her!

  “That’s not ever going to happen. This was a fleeting lapse.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it?” His brogue seemed thicker as ever as he echoed, “A fleeting lapse?”

  “You seduced me,” she accused. “From the moment I stepped inside this carriage . . . ever since last night!”

  “You offered to show me what my brother taught you,” he said evenly.

  She hissed. “I never—that’s not how it happened and you know it.” Hot shame flushed through her. Her voice shook out of her with bewildering emotion. “Stay away from me.”

  “Are you certain you want that? That’s not what you were saying a moment ago when you were crying out my name.”

  She lifted her hand to strike him again and he caught her wrist, his eyes glittering black. “You’ve struck me once. Never again.”

  She yanked her hand free and glared at him. She didn’t even know herself around this man. She’d never felt moved to violence before. You’d never been moved to passion before either.

  How could she have allowed him such liberties after so short an acquaintance? Heaven knew Edmond had pressed her for more and she had stood firm against him. Over professions of love and promises of marriage, she had resisted.

  It was this man. Struan Mackenzie. Edmond possessed a nice enough face, but he did not look like Struan Mackenzie. Nor did he talk like him. Or kiss like him. Or infuriate her like him.

  “I am certain of what I want. Leave. Me. Alone.”

  He gazed at her and a ghost of a smile curved his mouth, taunting her. She could still taste him on her lips. Still feel his expert touch. Angling his head, Struan looked so insufferably enticing right then, and she knew she was in serious trouble.

  He was correct. She was ever a liar. Because she wasn’t certain what she wanted anymore. To curl right back up in his lap or strike him squarely in the nose?

  Autenberry had been her dream. Mackenzie was a brute. She shouldn’t be feeling this way.

  “You don’t want me to do that.” That brogue of his only stoked the flames higher inside her.

  She scowled and pressed back into the carriage squabs, shrinking like a wilting bloom against a frigid wind. Frustration rose up and squeezed inside of her. “Very well. My body is a treacherous and weak thing and isn’t repulsed by you.” She sniffed. “Is that what you want me to admit?”

  He nodded. “It is a start.” He leaned forward as though he would join her on her side of the carriage. She held up a hand to ward him off.

  “That admission is the end.” She inhaled through her nose thinly. “The end of me.” She flattened a hand against her chest. “If I were to let this happen between us, I could not like myself.” Silly as it sounded, she had always liked herself. She had always been able to look at herself with pride in the mirror each day. Thanks to Papa. Not a day passed where he had not told her how clever she was, how lovely and special. How loved.

  “I cannot engage in a strictly physical tryst—”

  “Oh, you could,” he said with maddening surety. “People do it all the time. It’s the giving and receiving of pleasure. There is nothing wrong about that, lass.”

  Preposterous. He was a sinful, debauched creature who would drag her down to the very brink of depravity if she let him.

  “I could do that,” she allowed. “And then I would despise myself. I can’t have this—” she motioned between them “—without affection. Without . . .” Her voice faded and heat slapped her face.

  “Love?” He snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those?”

  “One of what?”

  “An idealist. A romantic.” He made it sound like a dirty thing. “Don’t tell me you love Autenberry?” The scorn in his voice cut like a knife.

  She nodded even if her conviction wasn’t nearly as strong as it once was. “Of course I love him,” she whispered, telling herself it was the necessary falsehood. “I’m going to marry him.” Never since she started this charade had the lie felt more necessary than in this moment. “I love him. I’ve loved him since the first time we met.”

  “Bollocks.”

  She pulled back, a hard breath escaping her. “I beg your pardon?”

  Did he know? Had he seen through her ruse?

  “Love at first sight? Bollocks!” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I don’t know if you’re lying to yourself or me, but you’re a liar nonetheless.”

  Oh, he simply refused to believe the sentiment was genuine. “You arrogant—”

  “You couldn’t kiss me like that and open yourself to me and be in love with him. That much I know about you, Miss Fairchurch, foolish romantic as you just professed yourself to be.”

  The carriage seemed to be slowing. Either that or it was wishful thinking on her part. She slipped a hand between the curtains and peered out. They were definitely slowing. The landscape no longer whipped past as quickly.

  She patted her hair and straightened her garments, hoping the damage not too great and no one would make anything of her untidy appearance. Hopefully, they would just chalk it up to the rigors of travel.

  “You, sir, are a blackguard and I demand you keep your distance from me henceforth.” He stared at her for a long moment and she could not help but notice no such promise was forthcoming. “I’m waiting, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait forever, kitten, because I’m not in the habit of telling lies.”

  Not precisely what she wanted to hear from him.

  The carriage rolled to a stop. “We’re here. Time to get out.”

  He opened the door and climbed down. She followed, hovering in the open doorway and peering out. He waited for her, one hand proffered, ready to assist her down. Beyond him loomed Autenberry Manor, the grandest residence she had ever seen, a vast gray edifice of stone that was home to the Duke of Autenberry and a countless line of dukes before him. A steady stream of liveried servants spilled out of the house to form a receiving line, ready to greet the dowager duchess and her family. And Poppy—the fraud.

  Instantly, she knew. She would never belong here. She had thought she loved Autenberry—or rather, she could love him. As handsome and kind and charming as he was, it would not be difficult to fall for him. She had thought that perhaps he could love her, too. Perhaps. If he only knew her. Now she knew that would never be.

  Life wasn’t some fairy tale. She loved the idea of the Duke of Autenberry. The myth. Confronted with this mausoleum, she knew that the reality was far, far removed from her.

&nbs
p; She had made a mistake in coming here—in ever perpetrating this charade. She needed to go home at once, and put all of this—him—behind her. Easier said than done. Unfortunately, for the time being, she was trapped.

  She lifted her chin in resolve. There would be no more stumbling into his arms. No more kissing. No more anything. She didn’t have to be so weak-willed again.

  No more future trysts. He saw too much.

  She had to make certain that he did not see all . . . everything. Her. The man had not lifted himself from poverty to such heights without a keen gift of scrutiny. She would be cautious and have a care around the man.

  Struan Mackenzie dropped into step beside her. The large shadow of him fell over her just as it began to snow in earnest.

  Trapped with a wolf breathing down her neck, ready to devour her if she made one misstep. Maybe her life was a fairy tale, after all.

  Chapter 18

  The next few days for Struan passed in a blur of frustration.

  Poppy avoided him. He never caught her alone. After their carriage ride, he supposed it was inevitable that she would wish to avoid him. She had yet to realize. She would be his.

  Even if she would never be his because she belonged to his brother.

  He shoved the unwelcome reminder aside. He didn’t want to keep her. He didn’t want forever. He simply wanted her. One time and he would rid her from his system. One time and both of them could move on.

  Only they would need to be alone for that to happen.

  If she wasn’t surrounded by a gaggle of women, then she was sitting by the duke’s bedside—and that, too, she never did alone. There was always a maid in the corner or the dowager or Lord Strickland with his knowing, watchful gaze.

  It was a damnable situation.

  She might be avoiding him, but the dowager and Lady Enid were not. They were interested in knowing him. Naturally, Lady Clara was more interested in spending time with Bryony. He saw the girls rushing about the grounds, playing with the hounds, walking the snow-draped gardens and building puny-looking snowmen that collapsed by the following morning.