Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

“Yes.”

  Twenty minutes later they rode into the stable yard.

  A groom came running out to catch the horse’s bridle. “Your Grace! I’m that glad to see you. The gelding came trotting back with foam on his withers. We were just about to send out a search party.”

  Harlowe nodded. “Thank you, but we are unharmed.”

  “By God’s grace,” the man exclaimed.

  Harlowe dismounted. He turned and held up his arms for Freya.

  She managed to move her leg back over the horse’s neck and then slid into his arms.

  He pulled her close. “Come.”

  As he led her into the house, Tess trotting behind, Freya couldn’t help but think how safe she’d felt in Harlowe’s arms. She’d never had quite that feeling with another person before—the sensation that he would keep her from harm at any expense.

  That feeling of safety, of care, was seductive. Perhaps too seductive. She was vulnerable to this—the attentiveness of another person. Harlowe’s attentiveness.

  She must be sure that any decision she made she made with a clear head, unbiased by her own weaknesses.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ash did not move, but Rowan felt his fingers tighten on her arm as if in warning.

  The Fairy King smiled, and his mouth was filled with sharp teeth. “Very well. You may take sweet Marigold back to the mortal realm if you can tell which of my court is she. If you cannot, you and she will stay with me forever. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  Rowan turned to the courtiers…and saw that every one looked like Marigold.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  Late that night Christopher stood by his window in breeches, shirt, and banyan as Gardiner moved about, straightening things.

  “Will that be all, Your Grace?” Gardiner murmured.

  Christopher turned away from the window and nodded. “Get to your own room, Gardiner. It’s late.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” His valet bowed and closed the door behind him.

  Christopher blew out the candles in the room. He went to the dark window and waited, staring out at the night.

  Nothing moved.

  At last the china clock on the mantel chimed the half hour after midnight.

  Christopher turned and looked at Tess, lying by the fire. “Stay.” She thumped her tail once on the marble tile, but didn’t bother raising her head.

  He strode to the door and listened before he quietly let himself out.

  The hallways were empty.

  After their perilous ride Freya had spent the remainder of the day with the ladies of the party. He’d seen her only at dinner, and then, of course, she’d sat at the far end of the table.

  With the knowledge that some fanatical madman might be hunting her, Christopher wasn’t going to leave her safety to chance. Freya herself would no doubt deny that she needed protection from him—and perhaps she didn’t. She’d certainly been planning to save herself from a runaway horse that afternoon.

  But even if she was a capable warrior, he’d still go to her. The need to protect her was a primitive force within him.

  He turned into a small passage, less well lit than the one his own rooms were in, and tapped softly at the last door.

  Freya peeked through the crack in the door and then opened it wide, letting him in.

  She was wearing only her chemise.

  His vow to himself to guard her without touching her fled.

  Her breasts were unbound, round and full, the indentation of her waist a curve to incite a man to violence.

  To ruin.

  He stared at her, his higher reasoning having conceded rule of his brain to his prick. He wanted to touch. To hold.

  To devour.

  She was a goddess.

  She stood still, watching him, her eyes mysterious and knowing.

  “Take that off,” he said gruffly.

  She reached down and pulled up the skirt, skimming shapely calves, dimpled knees, smooth thighs. Her bush was gloriously red orange, the curls hiding the slit underneath. Her belly was creamy white, the indentation of her belly button one of the most erotic things he’d ever seen.

  He felt sweat break out on his forehead.

  The chemise was lifted higher, revealing round, beautiful breasts with the palest pink nipples.

  She took off the chemise and threw it aside.

  Freya stood before him proudly, like a Rembrandt nude come to life. Pink and white and red orange. And her flaming hair fell about her shoulders, wild and curling and free.

  Like her.

  Like Freya.

  He walked to her and drew her into his arms, running his hands across her silky skin before he bent to set his mouth against hers.

  She sighed as she came to him and her sweet breasts were crushed against his chest. Her lips parted for him, and he licked into her mouth until she suckled his tongue.

  His prick was pounding his heartbeat against the falls of his breeches, each pulse building on the last until his entire being pulsed for her.

  Body, soul, and cock.

  Christopher picked her up and with two strides had her on the bed. He stepped back and stripped quickly and efficiently. When at last he was nude he looked up and saw her watching him.

  He stilled, letting her gaze her fill, feeling the lust building in him as he reined himself in.

  She broke the spell by holding out her hand.

  * * *

  There was something freeing in baring herself to a man.

  In baring herself to Harlowe.

  Freya watched as he stalked to the bed, his heavy cock swaying as he moved. It was swollen and erect, standing up almost in threat.

  But she was not frightened.

  On the contrary. Her thighs were slippery with her liquid and her nipples ached to be touched.

  He crawled up over her, his shoulder muscles bunched, his gaze intense, and bent to take one nipple into his mouth.

  She arched, shocked by the sudden action, shocked by the pull of his lips.

  Shocked by the lust that overcame her.

  She reached up, trying to pull him down on top of her, but he was braced and would not move.

  He let go of her nipple and licked it, then pulled back and blew.

  She moaned, the sound loud in the room. She couldn’t believe that she was panting and gasping—simply because he’d touched one very small part of her body.

  “I dreamed of these,” he said, his voice low.

  She stared at him, feeling transfixed by his look of desire. She’d hardly undressed the night before. He hadn’t seen her breasts.

  His mouth twitched. “Your breasts, your lush, beautiful breasts. You hide them all the time behind those damned fichus—not even an inch of skin below your neck shows. That fichu leaves me to imagine.”

  He traced a finger under her breast, delicate, arousing. Her nipple came to a point and he trailed his finger around the center, not quite touching.

  “I thought of white skin,” he said, watching that nipple. “I thought of soft flesh. I thought of how your breasts would feel in my hands.” His gaze met hers and she inhaled at the intensity of his sky blue eyes. “But I didn’t have enough imagination. Come here.”

  He rolled over, pulling her up and into his lap as he sat back against the carved headboard of the bed. She lay across him, her legs to one side of him, her head at his shoulder as he cradled her.

  She was suddenly self-conscious. She’d thought he would immediately make love to her.

  “Let me discover you,” he murmured, and she could feel herself tighten with desire.

  He gathered her breasts into his hands and bent his head, licking, sucking, feasting on her nipples. He tugged at first one, then the other with his lips, and then pulled one into his mouth, sucking strongly.

  Her legs moved restlessly, as if something foreign were taking over her body. She could feel his penis, hot like a brand against her bottom, and she wanted him now. She was ready. Sh
e didn’t understand why he delayed.

  Was he trying to torture her?

  He urged her to face him fully, making her straddle his lap, and then it was much better. His cock rose against his stomach and she spread herself—her fanny—over him and rubbed against him. That little bud, that bit at the top of her sex, was swollen and aching, and she sought relief from him, but her movements only made her ache more.

  And as she moved on him he pulled at her nipples, both at the same time, pinching and squeezing with his fingers. Sending a pulse of need to her center.

  Oh.

  She rose up on her knees. Placed her hands against his chest and rubbed harder.

  His penis slipped to the side and she whimpered at the loss.

  “Here, darling,” he said, his voice rough. “Just…”

  She felt his hand between her legs, the backs of his fingers brushing against her wet folds, and then something thicker.

  He’d placed the head of his cock at her entrance.

  He met her eyes. “Push yourself down on me.”

  She nodded because words were beyond her. If she didn’t quench this thirst soon she might lose her mind.

  She canted her hips, feeling that broad head invade her.

  Oh, so beautiful!

  Her head fell back as she lifted a little—not too much, she didn’t want to lose him—and then screwed herself down on his cock once more. Forcing the length, the breadth, the heat of him up into her.

  Scratching her itch.

  His fingers had gone lax as he was suddenly seated, and she looked at him with a whimper. “Please. Please touch me.”

  His nostrils flared. “Like this?” His voice was both rough and so very tender as he pinched her nipples—hard.

  She arched at the pleasure mixed with pain. “Again.”

  He smiled dangerously and squeezed her nipples.

  She leaned forward on a moan.

  “Hush,” he growled.

  He caught the back of her head, bringing her mouth down to his even as he shoved up into her.

  She whimpered, the sound muffled by his tongue thrusting into her mouth. She was on top, but he was the one ramming into her.

  Again.

  And again.

  She shook atop him, feeling the pleasure spread like a pool of heat through her pelvis. He grabbed her bottom with both hands, holding her firmly down as he ground up into her.

  A scream built in her throat, helpless and agonizing as the first waves hit her.

  He tore his mouth from hers and shoved his thumb between her lips. “Bite if you have to.”

  And she did, tasting salt and man, shuddering atop his cock as he battered her with his pleasure.

  She could feel his gaze on her face, watching as she revealed herself, layer by layer, until he saw her intimate, vulnerable center.

  She would’ve hidden herself if she’d been able.

  She couldn’t.

  He stilled suddenly and she dragged open her eyes to see his own vulnerability.

  His eyes were narrowed, his lips parted, and he looked as if he were dying for her.

  She arched beneath him, receiving the hot spill of his semen.

  * * *

  Christopher woke early the next morning. The room was lit only by the remains of the fire, but he knew at once that he wasn’t alone.

  Freya breathed softly beside him, her arm flung over his chest as if she meant to claim him in her sleep.

  A pity she didn’t feel so possessive while awake.

  She lay on her side, plump breasts pressed together, creating an intriguing valley, and peeking out of that valley was Ran’s ring, strung upon a thin silver chain. He stared at it, this symbol of everything he’d done wrong as a youth.

  Everything he’d lost: honor and England and family.

  He had England back. His honor wasn’t something that he thought he’d ever completely regain. And family?

  Could he find family again?

  He looked at Freya’s sleeping face and wished he could cut open his chest and reveal his heart, because he hadn’t the words to tell her what she meant to him.

  He sighed and touched the silver chain, letting it run between his fingers to catch the ring. The merlin silhouette was enigmatic. Strange. He’d worn this ring for fifteen years, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly examined it.

  It had been a reminder of his greatest shame.

  Now he saw that the black stone, worn and abraded over centuries, reflected no light, making it all but impossible to read the motto beneath. He already knew what it said, though. Parvus sed ferox: “Small but fierce.”

  He let the ring drop and she stirred, her face scrunching.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She blinked, looking like a little girl. A confused little girl.

  He smiled.

  She recovered quickly, of course, her expression clearing with almost frightening speed. She was very like her family’s symbol: swift, deadly, always alert.

  Small but fierce.

  “You’re still here,” she said coolly.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Yes, darling, but never fear. I’ll leave before the servants begin their rounds.”

  A line appeared between her brows. Perhaps he should feel sorry for her—she’d just woken, no matter how alert she looked—and take pity on her. Withdraw while she was soft and vulnerable. But on the whole he thought that taking advantage of any weakness a good idea when it came to Freya.

  She had so few.

  He brushed a finger down her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin, but she pulled back.

  His hand fell to the bed. “You wear armor all the time, did you know that?”

  She gave him an odd, almost vulnerable glance, and then her expression smoothed again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” He sat up, resting his arms on his knees, and didn’t miss that she averted her face from his nudity. “I feel sometimes that I fight a battle for your regard—a battle I’m losing.”

  “Perhaps you are,” she said softly.

  He felt a place in his chest close, and despite the pain said very, very gently, “Perhaps I am.”

  She shook her head, looking away. “What would you have me do? I cannot change myself.” She glanced at him. “You wouldn’t change yourself for me.”

  He inhaled. “How do you know?”

  She merely stared at him.

  He sighed and got out of bed. “You haven’t asked me. Perhaps you don’t have the desire to.”

  He picked up his smalls from the floor and donned them as he listened to her silence.

  Finally he glanced at her. She sat in bed, her arms folded defensively across her breasts, wearing a mutinous little frown. He didn’t want to leave her on such a sour note. He should kiss her, tell her how beautiful she was, and walk out the door before they could argue.

  But that wouldn’t get him any closer to her. “Freya. Have you ever loved? Ever taken a lover?”

  She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Only you. You know that.”

  “No.” He pulled on his shirt. “Why should I know that?”

  “I thought gentlemen could tell.” A becoming pink blush was rising in her cheeks.

  His fierce little merlin was embarrassed.

  He almost climbed right back in the bed.

  Instead he said, “No. I could tell you were perhaps inexperienced, but not that you were a virgin. And here’s a piece of information about me, which I’ll tell you without you asking. I’ve never had a lover before you.”

  She frowned. “But—”

  He held out a hand to forestall her. “A bed partner, yes. One or two. But not a lover. I think there’s a difference, don’t you?”

  She stared at him mutely.

  He closed the door very gently as he left.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ash bent and whispered in Rowan’s ear, “Hold your love for Marigold in your hands and you will find her.”
/>   Rowan frowned. But she didn’t love Marigold. She didn’t even like her.

  Rowan stood and walked slowly around the circle of identical girls, peering into each face, trying to remember all the years she’d spent with Marigold by her side.

  The girls all looked the same, and Rowan feared she would spend all eternity in the Grey Lands.…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  Later that morning Messalina lounged on a bench in the garden, an arm flung over her eyes, desperately trying to think how they could save Eleanor. The gentlemen of the house party had ridden off to shoot grouse or pheasant or possibly peacocks. The remaining ladies were mostly in the front of the house, playing some sort of lawn game, but Messalina was too worried about Eleanor for frivolous amusements.

  “What if,” Lucretia said rather thickly from beside her, “we set the house on fire?”

  Messalina raised her arm just enough to peek under it at her sister. Lucretia had somehow found a half dozen lemon curd tartlets and was devouring them with the greed of a three-year-old. “How would roasting Eleanor alive help her?”

  Lucretia shrugged. “I was thinking we could get in the house while everyone else ran out.”

  “At which point we would roast with Eleanor.”

  Lucretia’s smooth brow wrinkled. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes,” Messalina said with more force than was absolutely necessary, but then she was quite at her wit’s end. “She’s in the cellar. We’d all be trapped.” She frowned severely at her sister. “And while we’re on the subject, when did you become so ruthless?”

  Lucretia licked the lemon curd from a tart and grinned like a demon. “I’m a Greycourt, remember?”

  “Point.” Messalina let her arm fall back over her eyes. “I think first we need to draw Lord Randolph away. Servants are always more easily swayed without a clear master.”

  “Machiavellian,” Lucretia murmured approvingly.

  “I’m a Greycourt as well.”

  “So you are,” her sister said, and then sighed gustily. “I’ve eaten the last tart.”

  “I don’t understand why you aren’t the shape of a balloon.”

  “I should be, shouldn’t I?” Lucretia sounded far too pleased with herself. “But now I’m thirsty. I think I’ll go in and find some tea.”