Don't Tempt Me

by Loretta Chase

  She backed toward the table—their supper—and he thought she’d stumble over it, but she only paused and took up a glass of champagne. She drank, and laughed, and the champagne dribbled down her chin and onto her breast. The moisture spread outward and downward, making the thin cloth cling to the swelling curve of her breast. He watched the bud tighten, and his mind shut down.

  He strode to the table, took the glass from her hand, and set it down.

  She looked up at him, letting her head fall back. Her mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile.

  “You devil,” he said. Then he lifted her up and carried her to the bed and tossed her onto it.

  She didn’t bounce up or try to slip away.

  She lay there, looking at him while she dragged her hands through her hair, scattering what remained of the pins and letting it fall in shimmering curls about her neck and shoulders. She untied the fastening band of the wrapper and let it fall open. The firelight and candlelight danced on her skin and flashed from the great diamond on her hand.

  He threw off clothes. Dressing gown. Slippers.

  She stretched out her arms, reaching for him, and he forgot about the rest of his garments. He climbed onto the bed and dragged her up and into his arms and kissed her. It was the first time he’d held her since her father had appeared in the nick of time in the library. Since then he’d thought of other things, yes, but always of her, of this, as well.

  He’d meant to give her a proper wedding night, slow and romantic, to make up for their hasty coupling in the carriage, but the seductive dance, her wanton ways, put paid to that fantasy.

  He gave her the hot kiss she deserved, deep and thoroughly lascivious. He dragged his hands over the thin muslin, down her back to the curve of her bottom. He broke the kiss and threw her back down onto the bed, and she laughed, her eyes as dark as midnight. He drew his hands down from her shoulders to her breasts, and he filled his hands with her, soft and so warm.

  She put her hands over the sweet place between her thighs. “Here,” she said. “I want you here.”

  “I know where it is,” he said.

  She laughed again and he laughed, too, as he released her breasts. He unbuttoned the flap of his breeches. His cock sprang out, and that made her laugh, too.

  “He wants me,” she said.

  “How can you tell?” he said.

  This time her laugh was deep in her throat as she reached for him. Her hand closed over him and traveled the length of his swollen rod. He gasped and pulled her hand away. “Not now,” he said. “I don’t need any help, thank you.”

  She found this hilarious. “Oh, Lucien,” she said between giggles.

  Lucien. Again. And again the sound of his own name, in that lilting, shadowy voice, reached deep, as deep as the secret places of his heart, places he’d hidden even from himself.

  He stroked up her leg, and she stretched under his touch like a cat. He had meant to take all night, but her sensuous movement was another death blow to careful plans. Every motion of her body frayed the threads of his self-control.

  He knelt between her legs and brought both hands to her knees. She moved, bringing herself closer to him, and planted her feet alongside his hips. He stroked her and she squirmed in pleasure, and he felt the pleasure—the damp heat of her, against his fingers—and then there was no thought of finesse or thought of any kind at all.

  He plunged into her and watched her head rise from the bed, and fall back, and “Oh, Lucien,” she gasped.

  “Duchess,” he said hoarsely on a thrust.

  “Duke,” she answered and pushed against him.

  “Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace.”

  On and on, silly words murmured amid laughter and cries of pleasure and kisses; and all the while they were joined in the simple, mad way of lovers, moving as desire and heat drove them.

  And when they reached the peak and there was nowhere else to go, she flung her arms about him and held him tightly. He gave way then, and release came in a rush of happiness. He let himself sink onto her soft, warm body and into the scent of her, like summer, and the scent of their lovemaking, and it felt like heaven to him.

  When at last they lay together, spent, he moved off her and settled onto his side. He drew her up against him and held her there, her back curved against the front of his body.

  She was safe. Secure. And above all, she was his as, he now knew beyond any doubt, she’d always been meant to be.

  Fourteen

  Friday, 1 May

  “I should like the table moved nearer to the window,” Zoe said, with a longing glance at that bright corner of the room. “The garden is beautiful, and the garden block makes a pretty backdrop. London is so green. I shall never grow tired of looking at the greenery. It’s a wonderful scene to watch while one breakfasts.”

  “I don’t care where the table is and I don’t care which table it is,” said Marchmont as he came away from the sideboard. “All I want is a table—any horizontal surface will do—on which to set my plate and a chair on which to plant my carcass.”

  He set down his plate and sat in his chair. He made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the breakfast room. “Arrange the house as you like. You’re mistress here.”

  “As I like?” she said. “Anything?”

  He nodded. “You’re welcome to trouble about furniture arrangements if it amuses you. I only ask that you keep me out of it.” He sliced into his beefsteak. “If Osgood becomes hysterical because you move his papers from one side of the desk to the other or Harrison drops into an apoplectic fit because you turn the China Room into a sitting room or Hoare faints because you change the curtains of my dressing room, I do not wish to hear about it.”

  The speech surprised her not in the least. “I’ll deal with it,” she said. “I’ve dealt with eunuchs.”

  “So you have.”

  “They can be exceedingly temperamental.”

  “I daresay.” He regarded her for a time. “Zoe, this is your house. Do as you wish with it. The place has done well enough for me, but I suppose it wants a woman’s touch. So my aunts declare—and that includes the not-mad ones. They say it lacks warmth or some such.” He resumed eating.

  He was doing it again: He was being sweet.

  But then he’d reason to be amiable, she reminded herself.

  She knew she’d pleased him last night and this morning. He’d made her glad for all her years of training—and that was something she couldn’t have imagined only six months ago. Since her skills had been wasted on Karim, she’d expected them to remain unused forever. As his widow, she was unlikely to be able to employ them with other men. Widows were worthless, unwanted. Besides, she was old—past twenty—practically a crone.

  Her skills were not wasted on Marchmont. She’d made him laugh and she’d set him on fire and he’d done the same to her. She told herself not to place too much importance on his sweetness. A man was usually more malleable immediately after a night and morning of passion.

  Furthermore, she knew he truly didn’t care what she did to his house. He left most of his life to others. He was fortunate to have efficient and conscientious servants. Obnoxious, too, some of them, but efficient.

  Harrison, for instance. He might be a bully, but for all she knew that was a result of his having to assume complete control. He had become overbearing, perhaps, because the master made no decisions and bore no responsibility at all.

  “I shall want to look at the household records first,” said Zoe.

  “To move a table? All that wants is a pair of footmen.”

  “I want to understand how this household is run,” Zoe said.

  “Harrison runs it,” said Marchmont. “He does a fine job. Have you noticed anything wrong or lacking? I mean, apart from the breakfast table being too far from the window.”

  “A gentleman who lives alone does not have the same requirements as a gentleman with a wife and family,” Zoe said.

  “Family,” Marchmont repeated.
He met her gaze, then his drifted downward. Though they had the table between them, she knew his mind had fixed on her belly, and he was wondering if his seed was sprouting there.

  “One must make adjustments. One must accommodate the increase of the duke’s family,” she said.

  Marchmont House was splendid, but, except for his bedroom, it was like a beautiful museum. It felt cold and anonymous. As stuffy and strict as the Queen was reputed to be, even Buckingham House had more personality.

  “I’m sure Harrison will make all adjustments and accommodations necessary,” he said, returning to his meal. “You don’t need to trouble yourself about it. I can’t imagine why you’d want to spend time looking at numbers in ledgers instead of riding or driving or shopping or visiting friends.”

  “I expect to be very busy with all of those activities in the coming weeks,” Zoe said. “These early days of our marriage, when I’m not so busy, would be the best time to learn the ways of this household.”

  “I have no idea why you need to learn anything about it,” he said. “I can’t understand why you’d want to give yourself a headache looking at account books and such.”

  “The books often explain more clearly than the servants can,” she said. “They show the patterns of the house, the ebb and flow.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. But you are not to give yourself a brain fever. I was hoping to show off the new Duchess of Marchmont in Hyde Park later today.”

  “And I shall be honored to be shown off,” she said. “Any day you wish. I promise not to rave or froth at the mouth in public.”

  “Afterwards, what is your preference? The theater? Or shall we spend the night quietly at home?” He glanced across at her, and heat sparked in his sleepy eyes. “But not too quietly.”

  She slipped off her slipper and stretched her leg out under the table. She brushed her foot against his leg, then higher, and higher still.

  He set down his cutlery. His slitted green gaze moved to the footmen posted on either side of the sideboard. “Out,” he said.

  They went out.

  “Come here,” said the duke to his wife.

  Monday, 4 May, in the duke’s study

  The interlude after breakfast led to another and another. They were newlyweds, after all. And then, as important newlyweds in London, they had to be seen here and had to be seen there. The Duke of York gave a great party on Saturday night. The Queen was there, and several princesses and royal dukes and certain members of the nobility, the Marchmonts included, naturally. As they were taking tea, the Queen suddenly fell ill. She was taken back to Buckingham House in Lord Castlereagh’s carriage, because her own wasn’t ready.

  Zoe and Marchmont left soon after Her Majesty did. They went home and did what newlyweds usually do.

  It wasn’t until Monday that Zoe found the time to begin examining the household. She commenced the review shortly after Marchmont had dressed and taken himself off to Tattersall’s.

  Osgood, she found, was happy to indulge her curiosity. He proudly showed her his domain: the neat piles of correspondence, the diary with its beautifully penned entries, the tidy ledgers listing Marchmont’s personal expenditures.

  After Osgood came Harrison.

  Harrison was a horse of a different color.

  A power struggle instantly ensued.

  “Your Grace, I should be happy to explain the rules of the household,” the house steward said. “We follow the rules written down by His Grace’s grandfather, the eighth Duke of Marchmont. Some minor adjustments have been made to accommodate modern requirements.”

  “It’s a great house, and I understand there must be ceremony and strict rules,” Zoe said. “The rules here will not be the same as those in other houses. I do not expect to make any but minor changes, and perhaps very few. Still, before I think about what I will and will not do, I must review all of the current records.”

  “Mr. Dove and Mrs. Dunstan will be happy to answer any questions Your Grace has regarding the household matters.”

  Zoe knew better than to let him fob her off on the butler and housekeeper. This was about control, and she must have it.

  “I shall speak to them, naturally, in due course,” she said cheerfully. “But I shall begin by reviewing the books. I want to see all of them for the last six months. The ledgers. The accounts for provisions. The inventories.”

  “Your Grace, I shall deem it an honor to explain the provisioning of the household,” said Harrison. “You should not find anything lacking. If you do, however, the matter will be attended to with a word, a mere word. Every member of this staff is not content merely to meet the needs of the family, Your Grace. We view it as our duty to anticipate. If there is aught amiss with Your Grace’s apartments, Mrs. Dunstan will wish to know of it, that she might correct the oversight immediately.”

  “I expect no less,” Zoe said.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. We should wish you to have only the highest expectations of the staff of Marchmont House.”

  It was obviously time for the voice of command.

  “I expect my orders to be heeded,” Zoe said in the implacable tones that might have startled some people but with which Jarvis was familiar.

  The tone clearly startled Harrison, because he became more wooden.

  “I expect you to anticipate my desire to review everything to do with the running of the household whose mistress I am,” she said, watching the faint color rise in his face. “I do not expect to have to explain myself again. I expect to find in the library by three o’clock this afternoon the household records—all of them—for the last six months, and the most recent inventories.” She chose the location on purpose, remembering Harrison’s veiled insult on her first visit—the implication that she was too ignorant to appreciate books. “I’ll begin reviewing them immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Harrison said, his lips barely moving. “Very good, Your Grace.”

  He went out of the room in his usual stiff way, but this was the stiffness of suppressed fury. It practically came off him in waves. The other servants would have no more trouble than Zoe did in sensing it. Unlike them, though, she wouldn’t shrink away from his rage.

  She’d had plenty of experience with bullies. She knew that some created an atmosphere of barely suppressed violence. It could be quite frightening to those at the bully’s mercy. But she wasn’t at anybody’s mercy, and she wouldn’t be intimidated or manipulated.

  Given the condition of the house, she expected Harrison’s records to be irreproachable. But that wasn’t the point.

  The point was, Who was in charge?

  Marchmont clearly wasn’t.

  She would have to be. As a woman and, worse, the notorious Harem Girl, she could never hope to have the respect of the servants and control of the household if she accommodated the house steward instead of seeing that he accommodated her.

  It was not the Duchess of Marchmont’s business to make servants happy. It was their job to make her happy. If it turned out they were underpaid for the job, she’d correct that. But it would be fatal to her authority to expect of them any less than the absolute obedience Marchmont received.

  A few hours later

  Servant problems.

  Marchmont had never had a servant problem. He was not supposed to have servant problems. Servant problems were Harrison’s problem.

  Now Marchmont had a wife. She had not been in the house for four days, and he had a catastrophic servant problem.

  He found Zoe in her dressing room, frowning at a carriage dress Jarvis held up for her inspection.

  “Out,” he said, making the go-away gesture at the maid.

  Jarvis darted out of the room, taking the carriage dress with her.

  Zoe stared at him.

  “Harrison is threatening to resign,” he said.

  She frowned. “That’s strange.”

  “Do you think so?” he said.

  “It’s very strange,” she said. “He simply came to you and
said he wished to resign?”

  “He tells me you asked to see all of the household records and—and I hardly know what else.”

  “Inventories,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to review these records, to fully understand the management of this household.”

  “You’ve impugned his integrity.”

  “I think not,” she said. “I think this is about getting his way. You are the Duke of Marchmont. He’s your house steward. Where will he obtain a more prestigious position? If he leaves because of a small thing like this, then something is very wrong in this house.”

  “Something is clearly wrong,” Marchmont said tightly. “We had peace here, and all running smoothly, and look what you’ve done.”

  “I’ve done what is my responsibility,” she said.

  “You don’t need to be responsible,” he said. “Harrison has been with this family for twenty years. He started as a footboy. If ever there were a trusted retainer, that is one—and you’ve implied he isn’t trustworthy.”

  “Have I, really?” Zoe said. “Because I wished to do what every woman of my family does?”

  “Every woman of your family is not the Duchess of Marchmont,” he said.

  “Quite true. My responsibilities are greater than theirs.”

  “Your responsibility is to bear my children,” he said. “And to spend my money. And to entertain yourself in the Beau Monde you were so determined to be part of.”

  “That’s all?” she said. Her voice had grown dangerously quiet, and there was a light in her blue eyes that even he could read, whether he wished to or not. But he was too angry to heed the warning.

  “It’s bourgeois,” he said, “to fuss about records and inventories, like a common shopkeeper.”

  “Common?” she said. “Common?”

  She snatched up a hairbrush and threw it at him.

  He dodged instinctively, and the missile flew by him and struck the door frame.

  He was not allowed to throw anything back.