The Duchess in His Bed

by Heath Lorraine

  Lifting his hands that vibrated with the barest of trembles, he brought them around to the back of her head where the lacings secured the mask. Tugging on one dangling ribbon, he demolished the bow, then unraveled what remained and pulled the mask away.

  Perfection greeted him, made it difficult to swallow. Her cheekbones were high, sharply cut, hollowed out, her nose a slender bridge that connected the blue of her eyes to the pink of her mouth. Unlike the blond of her thinly arched eyebrows, her eyelashes were thick and sooty, which made the blue stand out even more. Without the mask, everything was brighter, more vivid.

  “You said you didn’t marry for love. But you are too beautiful for your husband not to have loved you.”

  “Trust a man to equate beauty with love.”

  Beauty had always been her currency, and for some reason, with him, she didn’t want it to be, which was part of the reason she’d held fast to the mask for so long. But beneath it her face had grown dewy, and she’d become weary of it providing a barrier between them—in more ways than one. She hadn’t wanted to discuss it anymore, had needed to move beyond it. And blast it, she’d wanted his fingers caressing her cheeks, caressing all of her.

  This room had made her believe he wouldn’t be fixated with her appearance, that he valued much more, truly understood women. Not that this chamber wasn’t gorgeous, but it reflected a man’s tastes, the sort of room a man would be comfortable in—and he’d given women access to a small corner of a man’s world. Not with only the billiards table but the hunter-green walls, the masculinity of them.

  One wall, the one she now neared at the far end of the room, was naught but shelves with books nestled tightly on most of them, the occasional figurine depicting a nude couple in one scandalous pose or another providing an interesting contrast. “Are these books just for show?”

  “No. Those to the left of the midpoint I’ve read. Those to the right remain to be read.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You say that as though you intend to read them.”

  “I do.”

  She moved to the left, wanting to discern something about his taste. Biographies, mostly. Some books on travel.

  “Scotch or brandy?” he asked.

  “Brandy.” She was in need of something to regain her equilibrium after unveiling herself. She heard the clatter of decanters and glasses being shifted around, had noted the well-appointed marble sideboard with its mahogany hutch when they’d come into the room. Several seating areas adorned the space, for those who might want to watch a game at play. The scent of cigars hovered on the air, and she imagined ladies sitting around, puffing on the horrid things, sipping scotch, lounging back in the plush chairs, legs crossed in a rarified exhibition of rebelliousness, acting as they imagined men did when they retreated to their male-dominated dominion after dinner.

  He could have decorated the room in pink, with flounces on the curtains, with delicate flowers rather than the plain green fronds adorning the area. Instead Aiden Trewlove had given the ladies a room where they could feel equal to men. She could not help but imagine he would offer the same courtesy in the bedchamber.

  Perhaps that was the real reason she’d removed the mask. Because she wanted to come to him as equally as possible, in a place where neither rank nor title mattered. He knew she was a duchess and yet he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Cared not one whit that fate had propelled her nearly to the ceiling of the social order while he was not even within shouting distance of it.

  Speaking of ceilings, this one was painted with hunting scenes. Amid hounds, foxes, and forests, ladies wearing trousers and red jackets sat astride their mounts. Even in the décor, he gave women their due. He was a man of rare enlightenment.

  She hadn’t heard him approach, but suddenly a snifter appeared before her. Cradling it in one hand, she took a sip, relishing the burn as she trailed her finger along the spine of On the Origin of Species. “You seem to favor nonfiction.”

  “I like reading what I know to be true and real.”

  “Fiction can be both.” She looked askance at him. “Or so my sister would argue. She forever has her nose buried in a book.”

  “You have a sister?”

  She was rather pleased he’d chosen to question that particular portion of what she’d revealed, to take an interest in her family, even though she knew danger resided in his doing so. Yet none of the swains before her marriage had ever spoken of anything other than themselves or her possible role in their lives. “Three. Alice is the youngest. Sixteen. She became a voracious reader after our parents died eight years ago. I rather think she was searching for an escape, and she found it in stories.”

  “How did they die? Your parents?”

  “Being Good Samaritans. The cobbler in the village, a brute of a man, beat his wife. My father learned of it, went to pack her up, to bring her to . . .” To Camberley Glenn. But that was too much information to share. “To our estate. Mother went with him to reassure the woman, to let her know all would be well. Only it wasn’t. The cobbler was in possession of a Tranter revolver—I don’t know how he came to have it, but he shot my parents. Dead. Then his wife. Then he took his own life.” Winslow had always been a weaponry enthusiast. Through him, she’d learned the Tranter’s chamber held five bullets that could be fired in succession with the continual pulling of the trigger. The Crimean War as well as the war in America had resulted in the development of more effective firearms—if the number of people killed without reloading could be termed effective. “My father thought himself invincible, that his title girded him with armor. Only it didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.” She heard true regret laced through his voice. “I’ve never had anyone close to me die. Death is making a nuisance of itself around you.”

  Her smile was a bit awkward, difficult to bring forth now that the memories were bombarding her. Alice had escaped into her books while Selena had bolted into marriage one year to the day after they died as her means of leaving the awfulness behind. Not that her route had been left entirely up to her—her siblings had needed her to make that sacrifice in order to ensure their world returned to being as right as possible. “So it seems. If you’re a wise man, you’ll keep our association short and to the point.”

  “I don’t know that anyone has ever accused me of being wise as I tend to place more value in having fun. We’ll play billiards, shall we? Get us back into a more jovial mood. I can teach you the basics.”

  “I’m not here to learn to play billiards. I’m here—”

  “To be bedded. Yes, I know. You are of a singular purpose, aren’t you?”

  Because time was of the essence. “Mr. Trewlove—”

  “I can ready you for bedding while I teach you to play.” He leaned in, bringing the scent of fine scotch with him. “The thrusting of the stick to hit the ball isn’t that different from other thrusting. Holding off just a bit can create an anticipation that will make what follows all the better. We’ll play one game, keeping the scoring as simple as possible. Eight points. For the remainder of our night together, the loser will fulfill all of the winner’s deepest desires.”

  The dare was delivered low, sultry, and filled with promises. He would win, he would command, and she would obey. Glancing over at the table, she imagined him spreading her out over it, how the green baize might prick her back. If he took her there, rather than being bedded, would she be billiards tabled or simply billiarded? “If I win, I can order you to do anything I wish?”

  “Anything at all, sweetheart.”

  “All right, then, I’m up to the challenge of besting you.”

  But his sudden grin told her far too late that he had no intention of losing.

  Leaning against the table where she was rather certain he would have her before the night was done, she sipped her brandy and watched as he shrugged out of his jacket, his back to her so she could enjoy the play of muscles across the broad expanse. The man was certainly a fine specimen.

  He t
ossed the coat over the top of a stuffed chair, before facing her and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal dark hair covering forearms that looked as though they’d been carved from granite. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes from the corded muscles that thinned as they flowed into his hands but left no doubt regarding the strength that resided there. She imagined them skimming over her flesh, closing around a breast, and kneading it until it fit perfectly within the curve of his palm, where his roughened skin would tease her nipple. Good Lord, but it had grown rather warm in here. Perhaps she should ask him to open a window, bring in some cool air.

  “Come here,” he said softly, not a command, but an enticement that had her body wanting to move toward him as though he’d attached strings to her limbs and she no longer had control over her movements.

  Only she did maintain control, albeit in a weakened state. She’d never been so affected by any man. Why him? Because he was practiced at seduction, had mastered it in order to rule his empire and make a success of it. She would resist. A businesslike coupling would serve. “The table is over here.”

  Holding up a hand, he crooked a finger, curled and straightened it, over and over. “Come along.”

  “You’ve not yet won. You can’t order me about.” Why was she being so stubborn when she desperately wanted to be nearer to him? Because she knew if she gave in once, she’d give in every time he asked something of her.

  “Please.”

  Blast him for using the entreaty in such a way as to imply he would die if she didn’t make her way to him as quickly as possible. So she did move, but she sauntered, taking her time, wondering if his limbs threatened to tremble in the same manner hers did. Why did he have such an effect on her?

  When she was a mere few inches from him, she stopped and angled her head haughtily. “Yes?”

  He gave her that grin that seemed to be such a part of him, and she could imagine him giving it to all his marks when he’d enticed them into playing his shell game. Taking the hand not holding the snifter, he began slowly, provocatively peeling off her glove, the tips of his fingers skimming along her flesh as it was revealed. “What are you doing?”

  Silly question. She had eyes, hadn’t she? Her skin was fluttering beneath his touch, wasn’t it?

  “You’ll want a firm grip on the stick, and the silk will interfere with that. Better to have your skin in direct contact in order to maximize your control, to make the most of the thrust.”

  Was he referring to the cue stick or a more personal stick? Although as her gaze dropped to the fall of his trousers, she couldn’t imagine any aspect of him as being so inconsequential as to be labeled a stick. She downed what remained of the brandy, nearly choking because it was too much too quick.

  In fascination, she watched as the glove slid over her wrist, past her fingers, his lingering a moment as he turned her hand over and his thumb skimmed along the lines of her palm. He draped her glove over his coat, and it seemed so intimate, the coupling of their clothing.

  Taking the snifter from her, he set it on a small table before returning his attention to her remaining gloved hand.

  “I could do that.” She sounded as though the brandy had gotten caught in her throat and she was strangling.

  “But why should you when it brings me such pleasure? For you, it would simply be a chore. For me, it’s an indulgence, to be able to reveal you bit by bit. No rush, no distraction. Just pure enjoyment.”

  His eyes, dark and smoldering, threatened to set her ablaze. She was beginning to think she might have misjudged, might be out of her element with him, might lose control of the situation. How could she effectively rebuff all the passion and fire he was stirring to life within her? How did she avoid the want and need that overtook all good sense? Or would it be worth it to fall just once into the abyss of frenzy?

  He lowered his gaze, watching as more and more of her skin came into view, and she couldn’t seem to stop herself from being entranced by his hands. Such capable hands that never faltered. She imagined the quickness it had taken for him to steal the pea away and hide it, then return it to its place as he lifted the cup. A direct contrast to the speed with which he worked now. Every subtle action could be seen, every tiny stroke felt. Nothing was by happenstance, all was deliberate. Her breasts grew heavy, as though they wanted to break free of the confines of her clothing in order to be touched as well.

  Slowly, slowly, he slid the silk over her hand, off her fingers, his forefinger returning to provide support for her fingers as his thumb skimmed over the area where her wedding ring had been nestled the night before, had remained from the moment the duke had placed it on her hand at St. George’s. But it wouldn’t have been right to take Aiden Trewlove between her thighs while she wore something that tied her to Lushing. She hadn’t realized it when she’d set out on her quest yesterday, but the club owner had brought that fact home, clearly and succinctly. She wouldn’t cast Lushing from her heart or her memories, but she most certainly could not have him haunting her bed.

  Aiden brought her hand up to his lips, placed a gentle kiss where the mark of her ring remained. Her eyes stung, and she very nearly hated him at that moment for being so understanding, for giving her such a kindness when she didn’t deserve it.

  Releasing his hold on her, he tossed her glove onto the first. “All right, then, let’s get to the lesson.”

  Although she could not help but believe that one had already been given: Aiden Trewlove did not do things in half measures. When he was done with her, she was going to find herself well and truly bedded. The thought both exhilarated and terrified her.

  Chapter 6

  Christ, removing her gloves had him so hard, Aiden was surprised he retained the ability to walk over to the wall and take a cue stick from the rack. He grabbed the chalk and began grinding it into the tip of the stick, which unfortunately had him thinking about grinding into her and did nothing to relieve his embarrassing circumstance.

  “Select your ball,” he said.

  “The red.”

  Lifting his gaze to her helped reduce his swelling somewhat because she appeared so hopeful and innocent standing near the table with her hands clasped before her, so intent on learning the lesson he was to teach—only he didn’t really want to teach her about billiards. He wanted to educate her on exactly what she wanted him to: bedding.

  But tormenting them both was going to make it all so much sweeter in the end.

  “Do you know nothing at all about the game?”

  She blushed, and he was glad the mask was gone, so he could watch the swath of scarlet traverse slowly over her face. “We have a billiards room, of course, where the gentlemen retire whenever we have guests. The ladies aren’t allowed in. The gents smoke their cigars and drink their scotch. I rather imagine they don’t always discuss topics appropriate for a lady’s ears.”

  “I’m sure they don’t.” Just as there were topics they’d not discussed. She spoke of her siblings, but not her children. She had children, surely. Providing an heir was the first order of business. It had taken his father two wives before he produced one. He imagined she’d have given her husband an heir within a year of exchanging vows. But for the remainder of the night, he wasn’t going to ask about children or anyone else in her life because he wanted to create an atmosphere in which only the two of them existed. He tapped the end of the stick on the table, near where the three balls rested. “The red ball is the target. You need to select the white ball or the white ball with the dot.”

  “The dot.”

  “So that one is yours. The plain white one is mine. The system regarding the accumulation of points involves a series of additions and subtractions, but we’re going to do away with that for tonight and play using simpler rules. You hit your ball in such a way that it bounces off the sides of the table and hits both remaining balls, in any order. Each time you hit both balls, you get a point and another go. If you hit one ball or neither ball, the turn comes to me.” He placed the red ball
near one end, the white balls near the other, then smacked his ball and set it sailing against one of the sides where it bounced off, raced to another side, hit it, rolled until it struck the red ball, carried on to clack against the white ball with the dot, and came to a halt a short distance away from it.

  “You’re very good,” she said hesitantly.

  “It’s a matter of geometry. By figuring out where exactly to hit your ball, how hard to strike it, where it will hit the sides, you can plot its trajectory, determine its path.”

  “Which you no doubt learned by reading your books on real matters.”

  Her response pleased him, that she understood he wasn’t a ninny. “I’ve always loved mathematics, numbers. It’s one of the reasons I gravitated toward owning a gaming hell. I liked figuring the statistics, the odds.”

  “I daresay you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “I’ll go easy on you. As long as you hit one of the balls, we’ll let it count.”

  She jerked up her chin defiantly. “No, if we’re going to play, we’ll play fair. The same rules must apply to us both.”

  Which meant she was agreeing to do whatever he asked of her. Oh, the things he was going to do to her. He’d make her damned glad he’d won. He jerked his head to the side. “Come over here, and I’ll show you how to position the cue, how to strike.”

  “The cue?”

  He held it up. “The stick. It’s a cue stick. Most people refer to it as a cue.”

  “And the thing you were rubbing it with?”

  Rubbing. His body had finally calmed down, and he didn’t need to think of her rubbing him. “Chalk. It helps to add some friction so when the leather at the tip of the cue strikes the ball, it’s more likely not to go skidding off the ivory.”

  “I see. All right then.” She came over to stand before him. He handed her the cue, explained how she was to hold it, bent her over slightly so her hand was resting on the table, and fought not to rub his crotch against her backside.

  At some point, he would take her from behind, perhaps in this very room, while they played billiards naked.