The final strains of the tune wafted on the air, lingering like the scent of a flower whose blossom had closed up for the night. They ceased their movements, but he didn’t loosen his hold one iota. “You don’t know me.” Her voice sounded raw, as though she’d not used it in ages. “You can’t know what I warrant.”
“Every woman merits more than a bedding. Each is deserving of seduction. All that said, I suspect I know you far better than you think.”
She was grateful the mask hid her reaction, that he couldn’t see how much she longed for someone to truly know her, to be aware of her thoughts, fears, and dreams.
“As for your earlier question regarding my interest in bedding you—rest assured it is strong and powerful. If you were to turn your attentions to another man here, I might, regretfully, find myself having to kill him.”
She was remarkably ashamed of the satisfaction that swept through her because he might be jealous of another.
Another tune started up, and he was again gliding her over the floor. She had danced with gentlemen more accomplished and polished when it came to the waltz, but it had all been merely movement and motion, adhering to the formalities of the steps. His style was more feral, raw, and alluring. He held her gaze as though to look away would signal defeat. Their proximity to each other was scandalously close, not that it truly mattered here. There was an earthiness, a primitiveness to the way all the couples moved in tandem around the ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see how each of the other gents looked at his partner as though she hung the moon and the stars.
But Aiden Trewlove had perfected his regard to reflect that of a man truly smitten. Even if only for a moment, the length of a dance, a woman felt treasured. She felt treasured. She hadn’t expected that tonight, didn’t want it. It made her feel weak when it was imperative that she remain strong in order to do what needed to be done.
“Odd that you wouldn’t remove your gloves, that you rejected the notion of my bare hands touching yours when you’re here in hopes that my palms will caress all of you,” he said quietly. “Imagine how much nicer this would be without the silk separating us.”
Suddenly, she imagined it, wildly and provocatively. She rather feared her heart, which continued to beat erratically, might very well give out before the night was done. Her death would certainly serve no one, least of all herself, well. If anything, it would merely compound the guilt she would take with her to heaven. If that was where the angels carried her, although it was quite likely after tonight’s escapade that they’d merely dump her in hell. Which she’d feared until an hour ago. Now, however, she found some comfort in the prospect of arriving there, because she was quite certain it would be his final destination as well. She could imagine him laughing uproariously, delighted by his surroundings, and driving the devil to distraction. She rather wanted to witness all that.
“One can be bedded without removing all of one’s garments,” she informed him as haughtily and learnedly as possible. Lushing had certainly never required all garments be removed, so exactly how was Aiden Trewlove going to caress all of her? With those palms. The one that cradled her hand as though it were a fragile bird. The one that covered a good bit of her lower back.
His grin was saucy and daring. “Where’s the fun in that?”
She almost asked if there was fun to be had in bedding. For her, it had always been more of a chore, a duty, a requirement of marriage. She was here hoping for something more but was at a bit of a loss as to exactly what that more might consist of. Caressing bare skin. Caressing. Bare. Skin. The words seemed trapped in her mind as though they were riding on a roundabout.
From the caressing and holding he’d done so far, she could tell his hands were roughened by his labors, whatever they might entail. But they were also clean, well manicured. He had a scar that ran along the side of his forefinger and onto the back of his hand. Thin, raised, white. He’d had it for a time. She wondered how it had come to be.
Would his seduction involve the exchange of more stories? She rather thought so, rather hoped so.
The music again ceased playing, a signal for others to change partners, while he simply continued to hold her, waiting patiently for when they could begin moving again. In a ballroom, three dances with the same gentleman would be scandalous. Here it was nothing at all. She was neither concerned about it nor worried over her reputation. “How many more dances?” she asked.
“One.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to kiss you until your knees grow weak.”
Her eyes flared slightly, her lips parted, and his cock reacted as though she’d reached down and slid her fingers along the entire length of it. Christ, what the devil was wrong with him? He enjoyed women but had never lost his head over one, yet something about her called to the baser instincts in him, the Neanderthal who wanted to claim and protect—and yes, strike down any other man who touched her.
He’d been a stranger to jealousy until her, and now that the emotion had introduced itself, he didn’t much like it nor did he understand why it was gadding about. She was correct. He knew her not at all. To feel anything toward her other than mild curiosity was foolish beyond measure.
Other women wore masks in his place. A few had still never removed theirs. But the mystery of them didn’t intrigue him. She did. Immensely. Irrevocably. Intensely. He wanted to know everything about her, inside and out.
No, he did not. He wanted to seduce her, bed her, forget her. As easily as she apparently planned to forget him. And there was the rub, the reason seduction was required—because he wanted her begging for it, recalling him with her final breath no matter how many gents came after him.
She claimed to want to be bedded, and the way she’d said it with no emotion whatsoever, as though it was a given that he’d jump to do her bidding, had at once intrigued and angered him. Aiden Trewlove did not bend to the will of the nobility. Unlike his mother, he would not be used for their pleasure. He might provide pleasure, but it was always on his terms and his terms alone. He knew nothing at all about his mother but had gleaned enough about his sire to know the poor woman probably had little say in the arrangement. The same could not be said of him. He was always in control, always in charge, always had ultimate say.
He might not have had any choice in what they did with him when he was born, but by God, he had absolute control now. No one dictated his actions, save himself.
He wondered if the woman standing before him had once had no choice either, if perhaps it was the reason she was here, because now as a widow she had the power to determine her destiny and her activities. So she sought what she’d never had: passion.
For surely she wanted more than an emotionless coupling.
“My knees are quite steady,” she finally said, and he couldn’t prevent himself from grinning at how long it had taken her to recover from his vow and to come up with a retort.
“I intend to turn them to jam.”
Her pink tongue darted out and licked the lower lip he fully intended to devour shortly.
“You’re quite cocky.”
“It’s the reason you chose me.”
“I will admit to finding you fascinating.”
“Have we met before?” He didn’t think so. He’d have remembered that mouth, the shape of it, the full lower lip that gave the impression of being in a permanent pout, the bow shape of the upper lip, thinner, half the plumpness of the lower. Her mouth would provide a nice cushion for his.
“No, but I’ve seen you from afar, heard tales of your . . . prowess.”
“I have a policy of kissing but never telling. I’d always assumed ladies, especially those who wandered about above the riffraff, kept their affairs secret.”
“No one has ever spilled any secrets. It’s simply the way your name is always spoken on a sigh that led me to believe you had hidden talents. Then, of course, there is all this. Why provide such decadence if you’re not willing to partake?”
&nbs
p; “Perhaps my preference is to simply watch from the shadows.”
“An onlooker?” She shook her head. “No, I see you as an active participant. There’s too much maleness in you.”
And that maleness was directed at her with a smoldering gaze that nearly had her tripping over her feet. She was accustomed to lighthearted banter and flirtation, not looks through half-lowered lids that had every pore in her body steaming, every inch of her skin sweltering, her nipples puckering, and the secretive place between her legs begging for her to crush it up against something, against him. His hand. His thigh. His crotch.
Dear God, where had those thoughts come from?
As though her body had written its needs across her pupils, he shifted his hand until the edge of his palm rested against the lower portion of her back and pressed her slightly, with just enough force, enough determination that she was keenly aware that his body was reacting with needs similar to hers.
Her earlier question was unerringly answered. He was interested in bedding her. Desperately, if the hardness that greeted her was any indication.
Then he eased away, leaving her to wonder if he’d been teasing her or staking a claim. The latter she decided. A man who threatened bodily harm to his employees was not one to reveal his desires unless he was assured that they’d be reciprocated.
The music finally came to a halt, and so did they. This time they didn’t wait about. Instead, he placed her hand snugly in the crook of his elbow and led her from the dance floor, from the room, into a darkened corridor, and swept her along a maze of rooms, hallways, and passages. He was intimately familiar with every inch of them as he needed no light to guide him. Strange how she didn’t hesitate to follow, how her steps were as sure as his. She trusted him. It was an odd sensation to give herself wholly over into a near-stranger’s keeping.
She’d spent a good bit of her life wary of people’s motives but had no cause to be suspicious of his. He might manage a den of vice, but he was honest in what he offered—and he’d been honest with what he was on the verge of delivering. No games from him.
She wished she could claim the same.
The echo of grinding metal alerted her he was opening a door. The action barely slowed him as he pushed the wood aside, creating a crevasse through which he pulled her into a dimly lit hallway. She hardly had time to note doors beyond them before he was escorting her up a set of stairs lit with sconces here and there.
At the landing, she could see more stairs beyond, but he ignored them and dragged her through an open doorway into another corridor and then into a room that contained a red velveteen fainting couch. He released his hold on her and she wandered farther inside. Paintings—nudes—of solitary women, solitary men, couples, and groups adorned the walls. Suggestive statuettes of naked couples caressing or kissing were nestled in the corners.
The snick of a door closing, being locked, caused her to swing around. His arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the door and simply watched, waited.
She turned her attention back to the fainting couch. For some reason, she’d assumed he’d require a massive bed, that they would loll about in it and—well, her imagination had never taken her beyond the lolling. The couch seemed inadequate. Was it even called being bedded when it was done on a fainting couch? Or was it being fainting couched?
He was the expert, she the novice, in spite of her seven years of marriage.
“Not exactly what I was expecting,” she said honestly, facing him.
“I thought you’d appreciate the couch when your knees give way.”
“As I mentioned before, my knees are made of stern stuff.”
His grin was cocky and all male. “Never challenge me, sweetheart, unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences. Remove the mask.”
“No.” She stated it firmly, resolutely.
“There’s no one here to see you, to recognize you.”
He would see her, although he probably wouldn’t know precisely who she was. Still, she suddenly felt a need to remain incognito. Baring her face would make her too vulnerable, would make her feel exposed. What she was doing was wrong on so many levels, and she needed to remain as secretive about it as possible. “I can’t.”
She’d expected him to give her an ultimatum, to force her to remove it in order to gain what she wanted. Instead, he merely pushed himself away from the door and prowled toward her, determination darkening his eyes.
Quite suddenly, she rather wished she’d moved nearer to the couch because the desire, the want, the need reflected in his expression already had her knees threatening to buckle.
Then his hands were gently cradling her jaw, his thumbs meeting at the shallow dimple in her chin, creating the top part of a heart turned upside down as he held her. It was silly to keep the mask on, and yet it afforded some sort of protection, some sense that she was in charge, when the reality was that she hadn’t been since the moment he’d approached her. No, before that. From the moment he’d begun striding toward her. That was his power, his strength, his allure. He took command and held on to it.
That thought alone was enough to have her knees weakening. She’d never been so close to a man who seemed fully capable of ruling hearts. She would not give him hers. All she would grant him was use of her body, and in giving him that, she would be using him as well.
Holding her gaze, he lowered his head only a fraction, and she ceased to breathe as her stomach quivered in anticipation. She licked her lips, taking satisfaction as his gaze dropped to her tongue, dampening what he would soon be tasting. Strange how the smoldering in his eyes made her feel powerful, allowed her to regain some control.
But when his mouth landed on hers, she realized it had all been an illusion. She had no control, whatsoever. No thought, no scheming, no goals—only taking pleasure from this simple exercise, a mating of lips and tongue, breaths and sighs. His fingers skimmed along her jaw, her chin, over and over, as though he sought to permanently embed their shape within his palms. Their goal accomplished, his hands glided along her throat, over her shoulders, and down her back, pressing her nearer as his arms cocooned around her. Hers circled his waist, her hands spreading wide over his broad back, and she resented the coat he wore that prevented her from outlining the corded muscles she was rather certain composed him. But that opportunity would come shortly, for surely he would at least divest himself of his jacket before taking her completely.
But that was for later. For now there was only the kiss proving all her previous claims regarding the makeup of her knees to be false as he plundered, slowly, sensually, thoroughly. The man knew his way well around a woman’s mouth, knew how to explore, how to titillate, how to come to know it intimately. She suspected he could sketch the inside of her mouth to perfection should he put his mind to it. He left not so much as a hairbreadth unmapped. All the while, he gave her the freedom to learn all the textures that made up this one aspect of him. Roughness, silkiness, hardness, softness. She took delight in each discovery as their tongues parried, not with animosity, not as though they were embroiled in battle, but as though they were engaged in an ancient ritual, the start of a journey that would prove them equals.
His actions struck at her poet’s heart, brought to life yearnings she’d never before dared to awaken. She’d known they were there, but she’d hidden them away, forced them into slumber for fear she’d offend her husband if he knew the hunger that gnawed at her in the quiet hours of the night when she’d lain alone in her bed, after he left, when the tears would fall.
She stumbled because her legs, blast them, did give out. Without moving his mouth from hers, he easily lifted her into his arms and carried her the short distance to the fainting couch where he laid her down, knelt on the floor beside her, and continued to ravish her mouth. His groans echoed around her, reverberated through her as he held her with one arm positioned at her back so her chest met his, his other hand cradling her head to give him the angle he needed. She didn’t want to consider how
many women he might have kissed in order to perfect this move.
All she wanted was to take advantage of it.
She’d always thought kisses were a perfunctory thing, a greeting to the day, a signal one was retiring for the night. But he made it involve all the senses, all aspects of her body, not just her mouth and her traitorous knees, but her curling toes, and her dampening core, and her erratic heart.
He dragged his mouth along her face where mask gave way to flesh, then along her throat, over her collarbone. She whimpered when he nipped at the swell of her breast. When he closed his mouth over her nipple through her clothing, the remainder of her body melted.
He went still, so still. She was certain he continued to breathe, because she felt his hot breath penetrating the cloth, moisture gathering around her nipple. Then he eased back, cradled her face once more, and held her gaze. “It’s time for you to leave, sweetheart.”
She shook her head. “But you haven’t bedded me.”
“How very astute you are.”
“Isn’t that the purpose of this room? Isn’t this where the men with the red buttons bring the ladies to bed them?”
“It’s where they bring the ladies who want to be kissed thoroughly. It’s where they bring the ladies who want to be fondled.”
“And those who wish to be bedded?”
“We have other rooms for that, rooms with large accommodating beds.”
“So that’s where you’ll take me now.”
“No.”
“But I want to be bedded. I’ve told you that, confessed to it. I won’t object to your taking me.”
“You might want it, sweetheart, but you don’t desire it. I won’t take you to a bed until you do.”
Chapter 4
What he did do, however, was escort her to her carriage. It carried no markings, had been one her husband used on occasion when he wished to go someplace where he didn’t want his identity or title known. Aiden Trewlove kept his arm around her the entire way, with her snuggled against his side as though he were reluctant to be rid of her. She liked thinking that perhaps he was.
The Duchess in His Bed Page 4
