She stood and placed the camera on the chair, then wrapped her arms around his middle. “Thank you, Max. It’s the perfect gift. I love it.”
He squeezed her tighter. “You’re welcome.”
They stood there for a long moment, locked in an embrace, and Violet thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Her problems felt far away while in the warm security of Max’s arms. “Why does my mother hate me?”
Max’s lips touched the crown of her head. “Come sit.” He led her to an empty chair and pulled her onto his lap once again. “Why do you believe your mother hates you?”
She relayed the conversation she’d overhead. “She wants me betrothed by the end of the month.”
“Perhaps it is as she said, that she is worried a second season will harm your chances.”
“Do you believe that to be the case?”
“No. However, I haven’t any daughters and I only married to produce an heir, so I am hardly an expert.”
He so rarely spoke of his late wife and his son. She was curious about them, about anything regarding his life. “Tell me about her.”
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
He started, his body jerking slightly. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to know her.”
Max didn’t know what to say. Part of him wished to refuse. He hated talking about Rebecca, and Will had long stopped asking about his mother. Those were memories best not stirred.
But perhaps Violet needed to understand. Marriages in their world were not for love or happiness. They were for progeny and legacy, to transfer wealth and property. Moreover, she needed to know of his past and why he’d never marry again.
He cleared his throat. “I decided to marry when I was twenty-four. I’d wrangled the accounts into some semblance of order and made several wise investments on the Exchange. There was no reason to wait.”
He’d been the last of his friends to marry. Charles had settled down two years prior and Violet had already turned one. There was no need to mention it, however. Doing so would only make him feel like an old lecher, and this moment was about comforting her.
“Rebecca was pretty, the daughter of an earl. Her father had a large farm in Scotland with some sheep that I envied. He offered it as part of her dowry and I accepted.” He’d sold the farm ages ago, as it had only served as a bitter reminder of his failure.
He stroked Violet’s leg through her skirts. Thankfully, she’d stopped crying—a sight that had shredded his heart—and seemed to be breathing easier. He liked having her here, even during the day. Returning to his tale, he said, “I had thought we were a good match, that we’d muddle through together, but Rebecca was scared most all the time. Scared of acting improperly, scared of the staff gossiping. Scared of me.”
“Scared of you?” She leaned back to see his face. “That is ridiculous. I’ve always thought you quite kind and generous.”
He shook his head. Sweet girl. “I mean in the bedroom. She could not stand for me to touch her.”
“Oh.” Violet’s nose wrinkled in the most adorable way. “I see.”
“She knew her duty, of course. She allowed me to visit to her room at night, take her only under the covers and in the dark. Never undressed. I suspect she gritted her teeth through the whole business, despite my concerted efforts to ensure she enjoyed it. But the harder I tried, the more miserable she became.”
“Perhaps she found the pleasure shameful.”
It had crossed his mind, but he’d never learn the truth, unfortunately. “Perhaps. She wouldn’t discuss it, though, and when she began increasing, I assumed we were both relieved.” He had been so happy, so eager to be a father. To nurture and love a child as he hadn’t been by his own father.
“Assumed? You mean she wasn’t happy about carrying your child?”
“No, about sleeping with her. I assumed she’d gladly see me go elsewhere for my physical needs. That I could fuck whoever I wanted, seeing as how she didn’t want me.”
She frowned, her nose wrinkling. “A mistress.”
He sighed, wishing he didn’t have to tell Violet of his sordid past. She’ll never look at me the same.
Perhaps it was for the best.
He carried on. “There was a woman from before my marriage. She was the wife of a viscount and we got on well together. I thought . . . I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“It was insensitive of you, but you would not be the first married man in the ton to take a mistress.”
“I realize as much, but as time went on I didn’t try to hide it, either. Call it hubris or the idiocy of a twenty-five-year-old duke. I started staying away for longer stretches of time. Then I took my mistress to Rome—despite her husband’s objections.” He’d felt invincible, a man who had everything that mattered: wealth, a child on the way, and a beautiful woman at his side. He was cocksure and fearless, certain he knew best. “Rebecca was eight months along when the viscount wrote to her, informing her of what I’d done.”
Violet began rubbing his chest, as if to soothe him—him, the man responsible for it all—and something inside Max shifted, unlocked. No one had comforted him in quite a while. He hadn’t wanted it, frankly. But it was different with Violet. She eased his troubled soul, smoothed some of the jagged edges that scraped and cut inside him.
Clutching her tighter, he finished it. “There was no denying the viscount’s claims, as I’d just returned days earlier. The news sent Rebecca into hysterics. She was inconsolable, crying and refusing to eat. She resented that I’d taken a mistress while she was carrying our child and considered it a betrayal of our marriage vows. Because of the unrest, the baby came early. I had the very best doctors at her side, but they couldn’t save her.”
“They were able to save the baby.”
“Yes. Will was small, but he lived.” His son had been so tiny, so fragile. But Will had fought to survive and Max had done everything in his power to see that his baby thrived. He had wet nurses around the clock and an army of nannies to keep a vigilant eye over the future duke. Max hardly left his son’s side during that time.
“Max, you don’t know whether she would have survived or not. Many happily married women die in childbirth.”
He pressed his lips to her hair. “There’s no need to lie. I was responsible for her death.” That shame would follow him to his grave. “Which is why I will never marry again. I have no intention of subjecting another woman to that life.”
“What life?”
“With me, failing at faithfulness.”
“Max, you were so young.”
“Older than you. Old enough to know better.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t be unfaithful next time.”
The hopeful note in her voice caused his tone to harden. “There will be no next time, Violet. I have no need to tie myself down when I already have an heir.” He was not interested in ruining another woman he’d promised to honor and cherish. Max wouldn’t risk it. A second dose of guilt would bury him.
“What about love? What about companionship?”
He hated to shatter her illusions, but it had to be said. “My dear, I’ve no need of the first and can find the second anytime I wish.”
She was quiet after that, but he didn’t take it back. Someone must give her the unvarnished truth. Someone must lower her expectations, both with regards to him and her future marriage.
A marriage not so far in the future, it seemed. Max hadn’t a clue as to why Lady Mayhew was in a rush to marry Violet off, especially to a twit like Sundridge. Lady Mayhew hadn’t ever seemed cruel, but perhaps the resentment in the Mayhew marriage had bled into her relationship with her daughter.
Still, Sundridge and Violet, married? Max’s gut cramped at the thought. That fool did not deserve someone with Violet’s spark or adventurous spirit. To hear her moans or capture her sighs with his mouth. To suck on her gorgeous tits or tongue her luscious cunt. It was out of the question.
“I’ll have a wo
rd with Sundridge,” he said curtly.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want to marry him.”
“You say that as if they won’t merely find someone else, another hapless soul to take Sundridge’s place.”
He didn’t care much for that, either. “I won’t let you marry just anyone. I’ll use my influence to help you make the best possible match.”
“Such as?”
“There’s . . .” Every name that went through his head was instantly discarded. No man he knew was good enough for her. “Hmm.”
She studied his face, observing his indecision like a hawk searching for prey. “Well?”
“I shall need to think on it.”
She snuggled into his side and buried her nose in his neck. “I cannot see why I must marry at all. I could move into a small apartment in Chelsea above a camera shop, then maybe open my own photography studio.”
And leave herself open to all sorts of mashers, charlatans, and miscreants? He sat straighter. “Absolutely not. That would hardly be safe.”
“Perhaps, but I would be independent. I’d be willing to trade some peace of mind for that.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“And I could still see you.”
Satisfaction raced through him as he considered it—and he was instantly ashamed. Violet could not become his mistress. To do so would ruin her social standing and likely get Max shot by her father. “You do not want that life, darling. You deserve the protection and security of a proper marriage. To be pampered and provided for until you die.”
“By a man like Sundridge? No, thank you.” Clever fingers played along Max’s jaw, stroking the skin above his collar. “Will you grant me a favor, Maximilian Thomas William Bradley III?”
His lips twisted into an affectionate smile. “Indeed, someone has been studying Debrett’s.”
“I used to write it on paper when I was younger.”
Surprised, he leaned back to lock eyes with her. “You did?”
“Yes, and I drew little hearts around it, too.”
He dropped his head onto the chair back. “Violet, my God. I should toss you in a carriage and send you home.” But he wouldn’t. Good sense had departed ages ago when it came to this woman. He couldn’t get enough of her.
He’d never felt this connection with a lover before, this consuming need to not only touch and kiss her, but to just be with her, to talk about everything and nothing. Maybe it was because he’d known her for so long. Or perhaps it was merely Violet, this daring and intelligent woman who challenged him at every turn.
She playfully pushed his chest. “Stop talking nonsense. Will you grant me a favor or not?”
He tapped his fingers on the armrest, thinking. He didn’t like agreeing without all the terms. However, this was Violet. History had shown that he had a difficult time telling her no, unless the topic was marriage.
He kissed her temple. “It depends.”
“On?”
“On whether this request involves a lack of clothing and a flat surface.”
“As a matter of fact, it does. Would you like to hear what I want?”
Blood gathered in his groin as he considered all the ways he planned to defile her this afternoon. “Of course. Name it and it’s yours.”
“May I photograph you?”
He blinked. “But I thought you said . . .?”
“Oh, I did.” She cocked her head, her eyes dancing. “I want to photograph you without your clothes.”
Chapter Eight
When Max chuckled, Violet did not join in. The request hadn’t been a jest. Devastatingly handsome, the duke was a specimen of living, breathing art, and if he did not deserve to be photographed and preserved, then nothing did.
He angled to see her face, the light catching on the threads of silver in his ink-colored hair. Her lower half clenched at his beauty, so harsh and masculine it hurt to look at him. His dark gaze narrowed on her. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“That is hardly an answer.”
She smoothed the fabric covering his chest, petting him. “Because you are so very pretty and I wish to try out my new camera.”
“Violet . . .”
He sounded exasperated, so she explained. “It’s not uncommon. Shops near the Strand sell all sorts of—”
“You should not know of those places,” he said sharply.
“Everyone knows of those places, Max.”
“Do not wander in there. If you wish to see those types of images, I’ll purchase them for you.”
“Why not pose for them instead?”
“Back to this, are we?” He shook his head. “Not the sort of portrait a duke poses for, darling.”
The endearment warmed her insides, but she didn’t stop pressing him. “Please? The light is gorgeous right now, with the perfect amount of afternoon sun. We’ll lock the door and the photos will only be for me, I promise.”
“Until you are angry with me and then copies are shipped off to my enemies.”
That stung. “Do you honestly believe I would ever do such a thing?”
“No, but they could end up in the wrong hands. What if your mother or father discovered them?”
She sensed victory. “My darkroom is in the attic and they never go up there.”
“And you’ll lock them up?” He pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “I cannot believe I am contemplating this. My ducal ancestors are undoubtedly spinning in their collective graves.”
“What if you turn your head, so the camera cannot clearly see your face?”
“That sounds better, but only if you allow me to take some of you as well.”
“Nude photographs?”
“Yes.”
She licked her lips and shifted on his lap. Did she dare? He would see all her imperfections and flaws, captured for eternity.
“Not so brave now, are you?”
The taunt hit home, making her feel foolish. “Fine. I will if you will.”
He ran a hand along her side and cupped her breast. “As long as I am able to keep the photographs of you.”
She arched her back, pushing into his palm. “What will you do with them?”
“Stare at them while I stroke my cock.”
The place between her legs pulsed at the idea. “Perhaps I’ll do the same with your photographs.”
“You mean use them whilst you masturbate? Oh, my sweet girl, nothing would bring me more joy.”
Before she melted into a pool of lust on his plush carpets, she got up and readied the box camera. Max locked the door and then disrobed garment by garment until he was naked, his long and powerful body making her mouth water. On display were wide shoulders and a strong chest dusted with dark hair that trailed south, toward his flat belly. His penis was half-erect, the crown peeking out from the foreskin, with dark veins running along the shaft. And his muscled thighs were—
“If you keep staring at me like that, we’ll never get around to actually taking the photographs.”
She shook herself and tried to adopt a more professional demeanor. “Let’s move the divan to maximize the light.”
He helped her arrange the furniture to her liking, and then she told him to lie down. “Stretch out so the camera sees all those glorious angles and ridges.”
“I had no idea you were so enamored by my looks. You are embarrassingly good for my vanity.”
Please. Every woman in London salivated over him, as he well knew. “Put your arm behind your head and lean back.”
He did as she asked, taking direction as she arranged him the way she wished. Goodness, he was delicious, as perfect as any museum sculpture. The sun cast him in an otherworldly glow, though certainly not angelic. More like a sinful treat on a hot summer’s day, wicked and irresistible. The path to ruin, one she would choose time and time again.
Crouching, she took the first photo from an upward angle, where she could see his body but not his face. “Good. Just breathe a
nd hold still.”
The box camera was easy to hold and manipulate, and she was able to get close on his bicep, his rib cage. The whiskers on his jaw. He was quiet, letting her work, the sound of the camera doing all her talking. She couldn’t wait to develop the full-length photos, the ones with his face in shadow while the rest of him was on splendid display, including his rapidly hardening cock.
He was relaxed grace and banked power, and she struggled to breathe. Her skin was hot and itchy, the throb between her legs growing more insistent. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead, like a fever had taken up residence inside her veins and the only cure was to lick him from head to toe.
Ahem.
“Now roll the other way.”
He cocked a brow. “You want a photograph of my bare arse, then?”
Her face flamed but she didn’t shrink from the request. “Seems a shame to waste the opportunity.”
Max presented her with his back, his muscles shifting as he settled. She quickly pressed the button to capture the shot and turned the key to advance the film, even before he finished moving. The impulse to save every bit of him, forever, burned through her. Who knew how long she’d have the privilege of seeing him unclothed? If her parents had their wish, she’d be betrothed to another man by the end of the month.
Ignoring the heaviness in her chest at the thought, she kept working to find the perfect image of him, her legs dipping and bending, stepping closer, then farther away, while the minutes advanced.
Finally, Max’s hand drifted between his legs. “I cannot stand this any longer. The more you look at me the more I want you. Are you finished?”
She nodded, her mouth dry. He’d rendered her speechless.
“Violet?” He peeked over his shoulder. When she didn’t speak, he offered up a smooth grin. “Oh, I see. Enjoying yourself, are you? Perhaps I might offer assistance.”
The film had run out, so she carefully placed the camera on a side table. “Thank you for humoring me.”
Now flat on his back, he continued to stroke his large erection. “Are you wet, my little mouse?”
She watched the slow movements of his hand, mesmerized as he pulled and dragged, the muscles in his forearms popping. “I wish I had more film,” she murmured.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 50
