Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  Motherhood, household management, and the many social duties expected of the wife of a successful businessman became overwhelming. She’d felt like she was her children’s favorite juggler at Astley’s Amphitheatre, keeping ten balls in the air at once. She’d tried to hide her bouts of tearfulness, but her husband had caught her sobbing...over a spilled cup of tea, for goodness’ sake.

  Adam hadn’t rejected her for being odd, the way the girls at finishing school had. Nor had he told her to buck up and gain control of herself, which had always been her father’s advice. He hadn’t even told her to save her tears for a private time as her schoolmistress would have done.

  Instead, he’d just…listened. Without comment. He’d sat beside her as she’d sobbingly—and a tad nonsensically—confessed that she was a terrible juggler who was dropping balls everywhere. After she’d ceased to be a watering pot, he’d dried her tears, made love to her (which proved to be a powerful remedy for worry), and tucked her into bed.

  The next morning, she’d awoken to find a schedule on the pillow next to her. It clearly highlighted the priorities of her day. Periods were also designated for rest and leisure activities, two things that, left to her own devices, she tended to forget.

  It was better than any love note she could have received. To her mind, his actions conveyed his affection louder than words ever could. From that day on, she received a daily schedule written in his bold hand, and she cherished them for what they were: reminders of his care for her.

  “What is it that you wished to speak with me about?” she asked curiously.

  “It isn’t what I wish to talk to you about. It is what you have to say to me.”

  “Me? But what do I have to…” Seeing his lifted brows, she trailed off. Merciful heavens, but the man knew her well. Perhaps better than she knew herself.

  She expelled a breath. “I’m an open book, aren’t I?”

  “It’s part of your charm, my dear.”

  “You won’t think it’s charming when I pester you about tonight’s meeting again,” she warned.

  He flicked an invisible speck of lint from his grey trousers. He was a valet’s dream. Unlike her, he had nothing to hide and never got rumpled or stained. His charcoal frockcoat and plum waistcoat, like all his garments, fit flawlessly on his lean, muscular frame.

  “It seems my assurances have not allayed your worries,” he said. “I would not wish to leave the house with you in an unsatisfied state.”

  At the possible innuendo, her core fluttered. Her thighs pressed together against a sudden lick of heat. But no, he couldn’t be making conjugal overtures…it was the afternoon, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention Friday. When it came to marital activities, as with everything else, Adam followed a precise routine.

  He arrived at her bedchamber on Wednesdays at nine o’clock in the evening. He made love to her until she was too weak to move…to even think. Afterward, he returned to his own room. An alteration to the schedule occurred only if she had her monthly flux, in which case he would postpone his visit to the following Wednesday, or if either of them was feeling unwell (and by either of them, she meant herself because her husband was never in anything but robust health).

  In their eight years of marriage, there’d only been one exception to this routine. That Saturday night a few months ago when Adam had returned home drunk, a state she’d never seen him in before or since. He’d shown her a side of him she’d never witnessed before. The mere thought of his unleashed carnality—and her own shockingly unvirtuous behavior—made her shiver now, with confusing pleasure…and painful doubts.

  Luckily, the spirits had wiped his memory of that night. He seemed to have no recollection of what had transpired between them. And she told herself she was glad. She’d shoved that episode into the mental bin labelled Let Sleeping Dogs Lie, and there was no reason to dig it out…not when she had more pressing anxieties to deal with.

  “Couldn’t you let your men handle the exchange tonight? Why can’t you wait in the carriage? What if there’s fighting and gunfire and—”

  “I can handle myself in a fight.” His lips twitched as if he was amused.

  Amused…when his life was at stake!

  “That’s not the point,” she insisted. “Why take unnecessary risks?”

  “I thought you wanted me to help your friends.”

  “Not at the expense of your own well-being!”

  He raised his brows. “Why are you so concerned, my dear?”

  “Because I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.” Her throat swelled with the power of her feelings. “Because I love you. You’re everything to me.”

  In the next instant, he was on his feet, stalking toward her with thrilling purpose. That was another wonderful quality of Adam’s: although he didn’t take stock in romantic love, he didn’t seem to mind if she professed her feelings. Which happened frequently because she simply couldn’t hold them back. Nor did she want to.

  Her breath whooshed from her lungs as he lifted her, as effortlessly as if she were made of thistledown. Her hands landed on his shoulders, his bunched power quivering through her fingertips. His scent—expensive spice mingled with his own clean male musk—entered her nose, an elixir that amplified her craving for him. Her indelicate hunger for her husband.

  Because she couldn’t help herself, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Since words don’t seem to be enough, I’m providing husbandly reassurance through other means.”

  “But it’s not Wednesday,” she blurted.

  “We’ll make an exception.”

  She had an instant to catch his wolfish smile before his mouth claimed hers.

  5

  She was drowning in Adam’s kiss, and she loved it. Her worries and insecurities faded as a wave of passion swept her up. As she surrendered to her husband’s masterful touch.

  He set her down by her tester bed, her spine fitting against one of the posters. His hands framed her jaw, holding her still for his kiss. His mouth possessed hers with firm, arousing authority. She parted her lips for his tongue, moaning as he plundered her softness. As he licked inside, saturating her senses with his masculine flavor. As he took of her…because she was his.

  Beneath the demanding flame of his kiss, she melted into pure sensation. Her back molded against the hard poster and her front against her even harder husband. Good Lord, but he was potent. His hands began moving down her spine, undoing her with devastating efficiency. He stripped her layer by layer, the weight falling from her, pooling at her stockinged feet.

  He lifted his mouth from hers, and the loss of contact broke her reverie. Awareness jolted her: it was daytime. Only the under curtains were drawn, the afternoon light filtering through the filmy material, tinting the room with a golden glow. And she wore not a stitch—well, except for her white silk stockings and shirred garters adorned with satin rosebuds.

  Which meant she was utterly exposed to Adam.

  Her chest heaved with growing panic as he took a step back, his fathomless gaze roving over her nudity. In the past, he’d always made love to her in the dark or by firelight, both of which were far more flattering to one’s figure. Of course, he could feel her excessive fleshiness…but feeling wasn’t the same as seeing.

  Her hands flew to cover herself—only she didn’t even know where to place them. Her breasts? Her hips? Her belly? Goodness, her hands weren’t big enough to conceal all that needed to be concealed. She settled for crossing her arms and squeezing her thighs together.

  “Oh, please don’t look at me,” she pleaded.

  His dark slashing brows drew together. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not bedtime…and you can see me,” she whispered.

  “I assure you it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “Not like this.” Her cheeks flaming, she dropped her gaze. “It’s different…in the dark.”

  He curled a finger under her chin, bringing her eyes back to his.r />
  “The lighting has no impact on your beauty,” he murmured.

  She swallowed, searching his austere features for any sign that he was humoring her. She saw none, yet her mind told her that he had to say such things because he was a kind and caring husband. A true gentleman. He wouldn’t lie to her…yet his words could be interpreted in more than one way, couldn’t they? Perhaps he meant that lighting couldn’t alter her looks for better or worse—because she was a lost cause.

  Why, oh why, did I eat that dashed plate of cakes at Tessa’s?

  “Could we draw the drapes?” she asked fretfully.

  “No.” His firm reply startled her. “You’re not to hide yourself from me.”

  Her breath puffed through her lips as his long-fingered hands circled her wrists, pulling her hands to her sides. Her cheeks grew hotter as his gaze settled on her breasts, which jiggled inelegantly with each rise and fall, the engorged peaks nearly the same vulgar shade as her hair.

  “You’re lovely, Gabriella,” he said. “And you’re mine.”

  She couldn’t look away from the possession smoldering in his eyes. She trembled as his touch coursed down her throat, the slope of her shoulder, her upper arm. When the backs of his fingers brushed the jutting curve of her breast, she reacted with instinctive modesty, her arms crossing over her bosom.

  “What did I say about hiding yourself?” he inquired.

  Tension crackled in the space between them. This strange, magnetic attraction had been there from the moment they met. That she’d been drawn to Adam was no surprise, but the fact that he had felt a reciprocal pull never ceased to amaze her. Over time, this sensual charge had grown even more intense…to the point where just being in the same room as him could make her feel as if she’d touched an electrifying machine.

  The thought of the unknown dangers he would be facing tonight only amplified her feelings. Fear and desire made her blood rush. She felt as if she might burst out of her skin with worry and wanting and love.

  “You said not to,” she said over her fiercely thudding heart. “Hide myself, I mean.”

  “Then be a good wife and put your hands on the bedpost behind you.”

  Her limbs moved to obey his quiet command. As her fingers gripped the thick, carved pole, heady anticipation enveloped her. She didn’t understand this strange new game they were playing. Yet she was in his thrall, the heated approval in his sultan’s eyes turning her thoughts to ashes.

  “How pleasing you are,” he murmured.

  For once, she was bereft of words. The touch of his lips on her collarbone dissolved her capacity for speech altogether. His kiss followed that delicate slant to her throat, his tongue sweeping over her throbbing pulse. Gabby tightened her grip on the pole, the position thrusting her breasts forward, and she moaned when he cupped the rounded mounds in his elegant hands, nuzzling the deep crevice between. The budded tips strained for his attention, yet he did not touch them with his fingers or lips.

  “Please, Adam.” The words left her in a gasp.

  He lifted his head. “Please what, my dear?”

  “You know,” she said shyly.

  She knew he did. After all, he attended to her there during every Wednesday night visit.

  “I’d like for you to tell me.”

  She blinked at the novel and altogether scandalous command. “I can’t say it aloud.”

  His hard, sensual mouth slowly curved. Gilded by the afternoon light, her husband was even more attractive—more dangerously virile. She couldn’t conceal anything from his keen gaze, and she had the distinct feeling that he liked that. She felt as if he were leading her through a new dance…and she didn’t know the steps.

  Yet she trusted Adam. He led flawlessly and had never, not once, let her fall. In his arms, she’d found the safety she’d always craved.

  “We’ve been married for eight years,” he murmured. “Surely you’ve no secrets left to hide?”

  “I don’t have any secrets,” she said with quivering honesty.

  Wickedness glinted in his eyes. “Then tell me what you want.”

  She bit her lip, her fingers curling around the ridged wood. Could she do that? Now that he’d planted the idea in her head, impulsive words bubbled in her throat.

  Desperately, she tried to keep them corked. “You’ll think me wanton.”

  “I hope you’re right.” His gaze turned even more carnal. “Tell me, Gabriella.”

  “I’d like you to kiss me…on my breasts,” she said faintly.

  Could one die of mortification? How would he react to her shockingly forward request?

  His nostrils flared, the dark maelstrom of his gaze churning her insides with trepidation and excitement.

  “It would be my pleasure, my sweet wife.”

  Adam knew that he was playing with fire.

  His initial plan had been to remind Gabriella of his claim via a pleasant afternoon bedding. Having calculated the odds, he’d decided that the deviation from their usual schedule was acceptable. After all, even proper couples on occasion engaged in marital activities outside of nighttime.

  Then he’d seen his wife in the light: all her charms displayed in lush, trembling splendor. Her sweet uncertainty had caused an odd constriction in his chest, and he’d had the desire to reassure her. To protect what was his. Yet when she’d obeyed his command to not hide herself, her small, white hands curling around the dark poster, his desire had morphed into another sort altogether.

  With startling swiftness, their love play had veered into the territory of his deepest fantasies.

  Dark, erotic games flashed in his head. The kind of temptation he hadn’t indulged in since his marriage. Never would he despoil his innocent Gabriella with the depravity of his old life. He knew the price of being governed by passion, and he would never expose Gabriella to that risk.

  Yet his wife was naked, her flame-colored tresses tumbling over her shoulders, her pretty blue eyes bright with need. Her creamy tits beckoned with each luscious rise and fall, their pomegranate tips calling to his tongue. Not to mention, she’d asked him so nicely for her pleasure.

  Animal instincts warred with logic.

  As long as you stay in control, there’s no harm in having a little fun, he reasoned. Don’t let things get too far; keep it suitable for the marital bower.

  Satisfied with his decision, he cupped his wife’s breasts, enjoying their firm heft. Bending, he kissed the rounded tops; her skin flowed like silk beneath his lips. He sampled her generous curves, hiding a smile as her breaths turned fitful. He spiraled his tongue slowly toward the peak of one breast, teasing her nipple into plump ripeness but not yet tasting the fruit.

  “Adam, please,” she begged in a breathy voice.

  Christ, she made him hard.

  He toyed with the idea of playing with her some more, but his pounding erection convinced him otherwise. He drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking with firm pressure. Her cries of pleasure heated his blood, seed swelling in his stones. The wet friction of his tongue made her moan and squirm delightfully against the bed pole. He switched his attentions to her other breast, licking and flicking, while also enjoying the view of the twin he’d left behind, the rosy nipple so wet and stiff.

  Her moans rose in that familiar but no less delightful cadence. His wife’s responsiveness was more powerful than any aphrodisiac. When they made love, her nervy energy turned into a sweet, feminine passion that tested the limits of his restraint. He put a hand between her soft thighs, a growl of approval rising in his throat.

  She was drenched. Dripping with honey.

  He wanted her even wetter.

  He stepped between her legs, widening her stance while keeping her trapped against the bedpost. Claiming her mouth in a searing kiss, he fondled her pussy, his thumb finding her love-knot. He circled the slick bud—once, twice, then she went off like a Roman candle. She let out a keening cry, and he consumed the sound, its reverberation pushing a spurt of pre-seed from his cock.


  Lifting his head, he stared at his wife’s passion-flushed face, her adoring eyes—and lust darkened his vision, forbidden images flooding his mind.

  Of her against this bedpost, her wrists bound above her head.

  Of her on all fours upon the mattress as he took her hard from behind.

  Of her kneeling at his feet as he fucked her sweet mouth.

  Stay. In. Bloody. Control.

  With force of will, he locked away his dark urges.

  “Be a good wife and lie on the bed,” he said.

  She obeyed, her fingers nervously twisting the silk coverlet. She likely had no idea of the picture she made. That juxtaposition of innocence and wanton decadence. Her dreamy eyes paired with those flushed, surging tits. Her prim white stockings and garters framing her spicy cunny wet with spend.

  She was Venus, and she was his.

  He began to strip, not giving into haste. Gabriella was watching him, her accelerated breaths conveying that she liked what she saw. When he removed his trousers, her eyes widened as she took in the extent of his arousal. He couldn’t blame her: his cock was incapable of discretion where she was concerned. He was monstrously erect, the crown fat and swollen purple, the vein bulging on the underside of his long, thick shaft.

  When she wetted her lips with her tongue, he nearly groaned.

  Rein it in. She’s your wife, for God’s sake. Bed her properly—not like some damned animal.

  He got on the bed and climbed atop her, taking his weight on one arm. With his other hand, he fitted his cock to her opening and sheathed himself in one thrust. Pleasure scalded his insides as his wife’s snug, dewy passage enveloped him; it took all his willpower not to take her hard and fast. To resist pounding into her quim, his balls smacking her nether lips with rough possession that she would feel the next day.

  Setting his jaw, he took her in a steady, disciplined, spousal rhythm. He would not come until she did again. Gritting his teeth, he turned to an old trick, mentally naming kings of England to distract from the prodigious pleasure of his wife’s tight cunny.