A Duke is Never Enough

by Darcy Burke

  She clutched at him as he did with her. Hands and fingers, their bodies touching with wild abandon.

  Abruptly, he stepped back, his breath coming fast and hard.

  “Why are you stopping?”

  “I just—” He took a deep breath. “I need a moment.”

  She moved toward him and reached for the fall of his breeches. “I need you to be as naked as I am.”

  He groaned. “Phoebe, you’re going to kill me, truly. I am a man of closely held control, of balanced composure. But you threaten my very sanity.”

  She finished unbuttoning his fall, his words thrilling her and making her tremble with want. “I hope this means that tonight, we will finally come together.” She pushed his breeches down over his hips and reached for his cock. She wrapped her fingers around him and stood on her toes to kiss his neck. “Or do you have some other step planned?”

  He tipped his head back as he clasped her to him, his hands moving around her waist and one sliding down to cup her backside. He pressed her pelvis to his, bringing his shaft against her sex. She rotated her hips, hungry for the release she knew would come and curious as to how it would feel with him inside her.

  He brought his hand up to her nape and twined his fingers in her hair, gently pulling her head back so he could look into her eyes. “No more steps. Tonight, you’re mine, and I am yours.”

  “Just tonight?” she teased.

  A shadow stole over his gaze. He answered with his mouth, kissing her until she couldn’t think straight. Then he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, carefully laying her atop the coverlet.

  He glanced toward the bedside table. “I see you soaked the French letter.”

  “As directed,” she said. “The sponge is there too—in the other bowl—soaked and ready.”

  “I think it’s best to use the letter for your first time.” He bent his head and took her breast in his mouth. She arched up with a moan as sensation swelled through her.

  While he laved one breast, he caressed the other, his fingers rolling her nipple and then pinching slightly. She cast her head back, eyes closed, and surrendered to his control. The more he touched her, the sharper the pleasure, driving straight to her sex. He skimmed his hand down her abdomen, building the anticipation in her core. When his hand pressed against her mound at last, she bucked up, desperate for him.

  “Please,” she moaned.

  He drew on her nipple, tugging hard before leaving her entirely. He pressed her thighs apart, exposing her, which only fed her desire. Then she felt both of his hands on her sex, one pressing and massaging her clitoris while the other explored her folds, his finger ultimately sliding inside her.

  She had no idea what he was actually doing, only that each caress, each stroke, each thrust felt better than the last. She opened her eyes and looked down at him just as he lowered his head and licked along her flesh, focusing his tongue on her clitoris while he pumped his finger—fingers, probably—inside her. She came up off the bed, meeting his mouth and hands, her body speeding toward release.

  The storm crashed over her, and she cried out his name, closing her eyes once more. She pulled at his head, tugging his hair and pressing up into him as her muscles clenched in desperation. He guided her over the edge and down into the comforting abyss, but then he was gone.

  She looked to see him kneeling between her legs as he reached for the bedside table. Fascinated, she watched as he donned the French letter, tying it around the base of his shaft. He bent down and kissed her as his fingers stroked her sex once more.

  Her body still quivered from her release, and the familiar hunger he aroused in her still pulsed in her core, sparking again as she felt his sex nudge her opening. He pulled his mouth from hers and looked into her eyes. “Ready?”

  She nodded. He didn’t blink, holding her gaze steady with his as he moved slowly inside her. This was nothing like what they’d done before and yet similar too. He filled her, stretching her muscles and causing a bit of pain. She winced slightly, and he kissed her brow.

  He stroked his thumb along her cheekbone. “My brave, beautiful Phoebe.”

  His.

  She liked how that sounded.

  “Wrap your legs around me,” he whispered near her ear, his lips grazing her flesh.

  She did what he asked, and the movement brought him more deeply inside her, her pelvis tipping. She gasped at the sensation, feeling a bead of pleasure amidst the discomfort.

  He began to move, slowly rocking in and out of her. “Next time,” he said softly, “it will feel much better. Next time, I will let go and drive so hard inside you, you’ll cry out with the ecstasy of it. Next time, I’ll go slow and fast and then slow again until we’re both at the end of our wits. Next time, you’ll explode so furiously that it will take me all night, and maybe the next day, to put you back together again.”

  His words thrilled her, heightening her passion. “But I want all of that now.”

  He chuckled softly and thrust into her. “Patience. The time after that, you may ride me, if you like, and then you can control every stroke. Fast or slow, hard or soft. Entirely your discretion.” He snagged his teeth on her earlobe and began to move faster.

  Phoebe moaned, her discomfort all but gone as her pleasure intensified. She tightened her legs around his hips and moved with him, clutching at his back.

  Reaching between them, he pressed against her clitoris, dragging his thumb over her and sending her into a spiral of rapture. Light swirled behind her eyes as she arched up into him, her legs and muscles squeezing around him. He continued to move relentlessly, until he shouted his release. Then he kissed her again, their ragged breaths mingling as they floated from the heavens.

  When they were still, Marcus rolled from her and left the bed. His back was to her, but she imagined he was removing the French letter.

  She sat up against the headboard and slid under the bedclothes. “I spoke to my father today about his investment,” she said as Marcus disposed of the French letter. “He is not going to invest with the same person again. In fact, there was another man there today—a tall man with a walking stick.”

  Marcus, who was on his way back to the bed, froze. He stared at her, his eyes glinting. “That’s Osborne.”

  “Is it? I wondered. Papa wouldn’t answer except to say he wasn’t Drobbit. I worried he was perhaps not being completely honest regarding his plans, so I went into his study tonight.”

  Marcus climbed into the other side of the bed, sitting up with the coverlet around his hips. He angled himself toward her. “Did you find anything?”

  “I think so. He’d written something down—Tuesday evening, the Horn Tavern, Russell Street, and a name: Tibbord.” She’d frowned upon seeing it. “I couldn’t help noticing that is Drobbit spelled backward.”

  He cupped her face and kissed her, grinning. “You are brilliant, of course. Yes, that is my cousin. He’s been using the name Tibbord.”

  “He’s not exceptionally clever, is he?”

  Marcus sat back from her and snorted. “Clever enough to have fleeced several people.” He kissed her again, swiftly. “Thank you. Now I know where to find him—and when.”

  “And you can stop my father from making another doomed investment.” Phoebe shook her head. “Maybe he won’t go. I told him Drobbit is a swindler.”

  “How did he react to that?” Marcus asked, sitting back against the headboard of her bed and drawing her into the crook of his arm.

  Phoebe thought back. “He didn’t, actually. He seemed uncomfortable, but I suspect that’s because he was embarrassed. He doesn’t like my knowing he lost money, and if he lost it due to being swindled? His pride would be woefully crushed.”

  “He won’t lose anymore, I promise. I’ll take care of everything tomorrow night.”

  Marcus kissed her temple as his fingers stroked her arm and shoulder. Phoebe nestled into his side and put her arm around his abdomen. He smelled lovely, and his skin was so firm and war
m, his muscles taut. She wanted to spend days in this bed exploring every part of him. Alas, they were not wed and he did not live there.

  Wed?

  That was not a word she wanted to think about. Not now, not with Marcus. She’d wanted an affair, and she had one. It was more than she’d ever expected, particularly with a man like Marcus. She tipped her head to look up at him, the strong arc of his jaw, the sensuous curve of his lips, the lines fanning around his eyes that deepened when he smiled at her, the cobalt of his eyes that sparked with desire and seduction. She couldn’t believe he was hers, even for a short time.

  Yes, this was more than enough.

  Chapter 12

  The Lennoxes’ butler was an affable-looking gentleman in his middle age. Marcus smiled as he handed the man his card.

  “Come in, my lord.” The butler opened the door wide, and Marcus stepped into the small but elegant entry hall. “If you’ll wait here.”

  Marcus inclined his head and watched as the butler walked past the stairs toward the back of the house. While he was gone, Marcus imagined a young Phoebe living here. Had she run down the stairs in her childhood, dark ringlets swinging? He smiled at the image.

  A moment later, the butler returned. “Follow me, if you please.”

  Marcus trailed him to a doorway at which the butler announced his arrival and then stepped aside so Marcus could enter. Walking over the threshold, Marcus saw Mr. Lennox standing near a chair situated in front of the hearth. The room was clearly his study.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lennox,” Marcus greeted, offering his hand.

  Lennox shook it and indicated another chair. “My lord, would you care to sit?”

  “Briefly. I don’t anticipate staying long. I’m sure you’re wondering why I called.” Marcus took his seat.

  “I am.” Lennox sat down opposite him.

  “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been investing with my cousin. You may know him as Tibbord, but his name is actually Drobbit. The fact that he uses an alias should tell you everything about him.” Marcus crossed his legs. “To put it plainly, he’s a swindler.”

  Lennox tried very hard to school his features, but there was no mistaking the flash of alarm in his gaze. “While I appreciate your concern, I assure you that I’m not involved with this in any way.”

  Marcus hadn’t really known how Lennox would react, but he hadn’t expected complete denial. However, Marcus couldn’t call him out on the lie without saying he knew Osborne had called. And the only way he could know that was through Phoebe. Surely her father would demand to know how Marcus was privy to such information, and that was not a conversation he wished to have.

  Instead, Marcus went along with him and tried to convey a warning. “That’s…good to know. If you were by chance even thinking of investing with Tibbord—either with him directly or via his assistant, Osborne, I am here to tell you that is no longer an option. My cousin will not be taking money from anyone anymore. So, if you had any plans with him, don’t bother keeping them. His game is done.”

  Hopefully, Lennox understood. Marcus didn’t want to specifically mention the meeting he was perhaps going to that night. To do so could expose Phoebe, and he wouldn’t do that.

  “How do you know he’s a swindler?” Lennox asked. “Are you a part of this?”

  “No,” Marcus answered coldly. “I would never participate in such a crime. He cheated some people I know, and I am putting a stop to further misconduct. I can’t allow a member of my family, no matter how estranged, to behave in this manner. Surely you understand that.”

  “I do. You are to be commended for your intervention. I’m sure those he’s stolen from are grateful.”

  Was he trying to thank Marcus without actually doing so? Or was he merely being polite while trying to indicate he was not one of those who would benefit from Marcus’s aid? Marcus wasn’t sure.

  There was nothing else he could say without being overt. He stood. “That concludes my business here, then. I wish you good fortune, Mr. Lennox.”

  Lennox rose. “Thank you, my lord. Good day.”

  Marcus departed, hoping for Lennox’s sake that he wasn’t lying to him—or to his daughter—about investing with Drobbit again. If he tried, the man was beyond help. Hopefully that wasn’t the case since Marcus didn’t wish to see Phoebe’s father ruined.

  As he climbed into his gig, he tried not to think about why he cared.

  Because you’re having an affair with his daughter.

  That has nothing to do with it, he argued with himself. He wanted to stop his cousin from harming anyone else, whether they were his lover’s father or not.

  The word “lover” prowled through his mind as he drove back to Hanover Square. He’d never had one of those before. It made him feel slightly uneasy as well as incredibly possessive. That was a goddamned problem.

  Phoebe didn’t belong to him, nor did he to her. They were enjoying each other and nothing more. He was thirty-one. Perhaps he’d simply reached the stage of his life where he wanted something different. If not permanent, then at least something more than fleeting. And Phoebe was definitely that.

  The question was whether she was something more. Marcus didn’t have an answer—nor did he want one.

  Jane stalked into Phoebe’s garden room the following afternoon, a frown stamped upon her usually cheerful face. After removing her bonnet and gloves and tossing them on the settee, she joined Phoebe at the table near the door to the garden.

  “I’m doomed.”

  Phoebe poured her a cup of tea. “Why?”

  “My parents have invited Mr. Brinkley to dinner in a fortnight. I have just enough time to find someone and pay them to kidnap me to Scotland.”

  “Scotland? Why, are you going to wed at Gretna Green?”

  “If he’s handsome, intelligent, and kind, yes.” She picked up her tea. “On second thought, he needn’t be all that handsome if he’s the other two. He cannot be boring, and he absolutely cannot be someone I’ve already decided I don’t want to marry.”

  “Such as Mr. Brinkley.” Phoebe sipped her tea, then set her cup down. “What is wrong with him exactly?”

  Jane scowled. “My parents chose him? Oh, he’s pleasant enough, I suppose. I just don’t see myself married to a banker, not to mention becoming a mother overnight.”

  “Who do you see yourself married to?” Phoebe asked. She realized she’d never really thought about that. She just knew she’d wed whomever her parents deemed appropriate. But then it happened that their choice was anything but. “Never mind, you’re right. Don’t marry someone your parents chose.”

  “Exactly!” Jane sipped her tea and then exchanged her cup for a cake, which she nibbled for a moment. “That’s the problem. I’m not sure I see myself married to anyone. The more I see you here, enjoying your independence, the more I want it for myself.”

  “Well, you are an official member of the Spitfire Society.”

  “Yes, about that. I think we should consider expanding our membership. I’ve met a lovely woman who’s just come to town. She and her sister are already independent. She’s a widow.”

  “The best kind of independence,” Phoebe said wistfully. Then she giggled. “Such a morbid thing to say.”

  Jane lifted a shoulder. “You know I’m not offended. Perhaps I’ll leave London for a while and return claiming to be a widow. Would anyone ever know?”

  Phoebe laughed. “If anyone could do that, I’d wager it’s you.”

  “I shall have to consider this at length.” Jane sat back in her chair with a pensive expression and finished her cake. “Just think, as a widow, I could even have an affair.”

  “You may not even have to be a widow…” Phoebe had planned to tell Jane about Marcus. This was the perfect opportunity. She picked up her teacup and took a sip.

  Jane leaned forward, her sherry-colored eyes sparkling. “Ripley?”

  Phoebe nodded over the rim of her cup.

  “Tell me everything.”
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  “Maybe not everything.” Phoebe laughed, setting her cup down. “I decided there was no point in being a spinster if I didn’t take full advantage. You helped persuade me. Indeed, you’re a very bad influence. It’s as if you’re a scandalous widow already.”

  Jane giggled. “Happy to oblige. Ripley! Is he wonderful?”

  “As you know, I have little to compare him to. Just Sainsbury, who I am now calling the Blackguard.” Her lip curled. “I can’t even categorize them in the same species.”

  “Well, that was a given,” Jane said.

  “I did tell him—Marcus—about what the Blackguard did.”

  Surprise flashed in Jane’s gaze. “Did you? Whatever did he say?”

  “He was quite angry, actually. I wondered if he might do the Blackguard some harm, but that would only draw attention, and I sincerely hope he doesn’t do that.” Yet she gained a perverse pleasure imagining Marcus pummeling Sainsbury into oblivion.

  “Speaking of Sains—I mean, the Blackguard,” Jane said distastefully. “He is officially back on the Marriage Mart. He actually had the gall to ask me to dance the other night.”

  A tremor of disgust skipped over Phoebe. Declining to dance with someone was a noteworthy event, so she imagined Jane danced with him. “He knows you and I are good friends.”

  “Of course he does.” Jane scoffed. “I pleaded a stomachache and even acted as though I might toss up my accounts all over him. He couldn’t leave fast enough.”

  Phoebe smiled in relief. “I’m so glad—for your sake.”

  “I could never dance with him. I’d faint dead on the floor in the middle of a ballroom if I had to. My mother was annoyed, but she usually is with me of late. Fortunately, she was able to focus her attention on Anne, who continues to be more popular than I ever was. I still don’t know whom she’s in love with. In fact, she now denies that she ever was.” Jane rolled her eyes. “Fickle.”

  “Perhaps she changed her mind after coming to know him better.” Phoebe shuddered. “I did.” Though she’d never claimed to love Sainsbury. Phoebe wasn’t sure she’d know what that felt like.