You May Kiss the Duke

by Charis Michaels

  “Do you know what infuriates me?” he gritted out. “Being bloody taken by surprise. Being unprepared. Casting around for a solution to a problem that I could not have anticipated. And your sudden interest in my bloody tattoo, and your hands on my skin, and asking provocative questions about sex has taken me wholly off guard. So forgive me if I have not been gracious or articulate or clear. You’ve consistently claimed to want no part of any man, myself in particular, and yet your hands have been everywhere.”

  “Come now,” she said. “Everywhere?”

  Was she teasing him? Could she not see how he struggled to remain calm and reasonable and in control?

  “Look,” she said, “I’m sorry if you are surprised, but perhaps I am as surprised as you are. I’ve not given your tattoo a second thought until now. I’ve never thought of touching you, and certainly I had no intention of discussing sex. You were the one who . . . who . . .” Her voice had risen; she was sucking in air to speak, but now she stopped. She blinked. She let out a deep breath and leaned in.

  “What if,” she said lowly, but with a hard edge, “I concede that that last bit was a lie?”

  Concede? A lie? This sounded like a trap.

  Or a dare.

  “What if,” she went on, “I tell you I am interested in touching your arm, and your shoulder, and leaning in, and giving you . . .” Here she paused, and Stoker’s heart stopped. “A kiss? What if I tell you that?”

  Stoker’s brain went completely blank. He saw only white. His last useful thought was of whipping off the covers and staggering from the room, down the hall, and into the street.

  “Sabine—no,” he managed.

  “I hate being told no,” she said defiantly. She leaned closer. Oh God, he was inundated with the scent of her—sunshine and butterscotch. Loose tendrils of her hair dropped against his arm.

  He grabbed a fistful of sheet on either side of his body. “No.” He shook his head.

  “If kissing is a part of sex—which I can concede, yes, it is—then let us invoke this transaction of yours. What would you like me to give you so that we might share a kiss? Just a small kiss. Just so that I may see what it is like.”

  “Oh God.” He made a strangled noise. His heart was drumming in his chest.

  “You aren’t attracted to me?” she guessed. “You find me difficult and domineering. My hair is too black. My eyes are too green.”

  He heard the ocean in his ears, like listening to a shell.

  She went on, more guesses. “There is no token or favor on offer that is worth kissing me.”

  “That is not the way the transaction works,” he managed, sucking in the smell of her skin. “I would give you the token or favor in exchange for you allowing me to kiss you.”

  “But what if I want the kiss outright? What if, irrationally, unexpectedly, the kiss is suddenly the only thing I want?” She leaned closer and whispered, “What if only a show of great disgust would dissuade me? Do I disgust you, Stoker?”

  Stoker swallowed hard and locked eyes on her mouth. She swiped her pink tongue across her top lip, and his mouth watered.

  She sat up suddenly and he almost gasped out loud. It felt like she ripped out his heart.

  “Unless,” she said sharply, “you have a mistress.”

  “No,” he breathed.

  “One of those old, rich women for whom you dole out favors?” she theorized.

  “There is no one since I married you. But Sabine, you will regret this,” he whispered.

  She cocked an eyebrow and leaned down again. “Why do I feel like I will regret it if I do not?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he breathed, and just like that, his power of speech dropped off. He searched the beauty of her face, just as magnificent at close range. His gaze settled on her lips. His hand moved without his permission to grasp her waist. She sucked in a small breath. He thought, Thank God, I’ve finally alarmed her, although he would howl if she pulled away.

  She did not pull away, or slap him, or exhibit even a tremor of traumatized behavior.

  Instead, she fell against him.

  Stoker made a noise of defeat, capitulation and desire combined, and she scrambled up. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Your wound!”

  His hand reached of its own accord and took her up by the wrist, pulling her back. “I feel no pain,” he rasped. In his head the words Do not, do not, do not, do not spiraled in time to his pounding heart.

  “Oh,” she said. She turned her head and said, “Bridget, out.” The dog leapt, stretched, yawned, and tapped from the room. Just like that, she allowed herself to be pulled back to his chest.

  Stoker felt everything. The small ruffle trim furling along the seams of her dress. The lush landscape of her body—flat stomach giving way to ripe breasts, round hips. Her hands scrambling for a hold on his bare shoulders. She’d landed nearly nose to nose and was too close for him to see more than creamy skin, red lips, and black eyelashes.

  “I’ve no idea how to go about this,” she whispered.

  Stoker closed his eyes. Her innocence should not matter, but every reference was a double edge of possession and desire.

  “Oh,” she said, clearly still watching him. “Eyes closed. Right.”

  Before he could look again, he felt her breath on his cheek and the tickle of her hair on his ear—and then he was swimming in the fresh butterscotch smell of her.

  He tightened his grip on her waist, his most base instinct ordering him to never, ever let her go. With his other hand, he cupped her face.

  Gently guide her away, said some hateful, cruel part of his brain, but it was already too late. He felt the light, cool cushion of her lips. He felt her nose nuzzling his. Her hands left his shoulders and slid around his neck.

  I’m dying, he thought, a phrase never more accurate in his life.

  Ever so slightly, Sabine began to move her lips.

  Stoker tried, weakly, the weakest bloody effort, to turn his head away. She has no idea; she is better than this; she is better than you; she does not exist in your world; she is—

  Sabine let out a noise of frustration. The smallest, sweetest sound, and something in Stoker snapped. His hand clenched at her waist; he dug his fingers into her hair; he pressed her face fully against his. He moved his mouth the fraction of an inch that precisely aligned their lips, and he kissed her. One small, delicate nibble. And then another, and another.

  He heard her small exhale of breath, felt her hands flex against his neck. Her eyelashes brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him. She pulled back far enough to see him, really see him, and Stoker opened his eyes wide, his heart cracking open. He braced himself to witness shock-alarm-tears-trauma-whatever, but she stared only at his mouth, studying it with an analytical, determined look.

  Before he could react, she descended again, her hands cinching around his neck, her nose against his, her lips fitted more perfectly against his.

  She mimicked the movement of his own mouth, searching for the correct rhythm. Stoker kissed her back, trying to contain the torrent of desire evoked by the erotic combination of her eagerness and innocence.

  Without thinking, he sank his fingers into her hair, relishing the silkiness as it slipped from its pins and fell down his arm. Sabine copied the movement, sliding up her own hand.

  He heard her breathing, heard himself panting; he invoked colossal effort to try to slow down; he ordered himself not to gobble her up. And yet, the hand on her waist slid upward, glossing over her ribs, feeling the side of her breast.

  My God, her breasts. He had survived entire voyages on mere speculation about the feel of Sabine’s breasts. She sucked in another breath and his hand slid away, back to her waist, and then lower, to the lush roundness of her hip.

  Meanwhile, she kissed on and on and on. It was a labyrinth of kisses, and he was so lost, so immediately lost. Witless. He was teaching her even as he lost his mind. She kissed the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip, his upper lip, and then full on the m
outh again. When she came up for air—no—he pressed his palm flat against her hip and cupped her head, unwilling for it to end. But then she lowered her head, kissing him again, more deeply, more thoroughly.

  Without thinking, Stoker swiped his tongue against her bottom lip. It was in and out of his mouth before he’d realized he’d done it. She made a little jump, sending pulses of pleasure at every point of contact from hip to shoulder, and made a noise of alarm.

  Stoker panicked—it’s finished, she’s afraid, you’ve—but then she met his tongue with her own, a tentative swipe and then another, and then another, and Stoker groaned and slipped his tongue deeper, and she said, “Oh!” with a delightful lilt that he would hear in his head every night until he died.

  Stoker was lost. He’d known all along it would come to this. His body took over; his mouth and his hands and his rock-hard manhood, pressing insistently against her hip, and all control, all regard for her chastity and honor, would be gone.

  If his brain could function, he would have questioned her enthusiasm, questioned her ardor, questioned her motivations and intent and why she would lower herself—to him, of all people—with his dark past and his warnings about sex and his haunted regard for every pleasurable touch. But his brain could not function; his body moved on instinct. She was a melody and he was silence. She was an unlocked door and he was a thief.

  When she turned her head to the side to breathe, he kissed her ear. When the weight of her body finally, unbelievably, pained his wound, he shifted with a grunt and she drew her knees onto the mattress, kneeling beside him, taking the pressure off. He looped his free hand around her bottom, holding her against him.

  He was just about to move to the side, to guide her long legs down beside him on the bed, when a loud, insistent knock sounded from the door.

  From the next room, the dog began to bark wildly.

  Stoker froze, even while Sabine continued to kiss and kiss and—

  Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. It sounded like an insistent bird with a very blunt beak. The dog could be heard running circles by the door, barking to raise the dead.

  Sabine lifted her head and brushed her hair from her eyes. It was impossible to control their breathing, and she made no effort. She sat up and endeavored to gather up the cascade of ebony hair that now rained down her back and shoulders in loose curls. She glanced at him and then away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. There was nothing else.

  “Stop,” she said.

  “What?” He didn’t understand.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “How do I look?” She hopped from the bed, bouncing on one foot to find her balance. “Bridget! Quiet!” she called.

  You’ve never looked more beautiful. “Who could be at the door?” he asked.

  “I’ve no idea. No one bothers me here. It’s one of my favorite things about the apartments. Visitors usually call first to the Boyds’ front door.”

  “Are you . . . hurt?” he asked.

  “Hurt?” She frowned at him.

  “I’m sorry, I . . . lost control.”

  She glared again. “Are you?”

  “Am I sorry?” He didn’t understand.

  “Stop saying that. Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head, still trying to catch up.

  “You are mad,” she said.

  “I’m not mad,” he said, but the dog’s barking and the insistent knocking drowned out the words.

  She took up her skirts and gave them a shake. She wiped the back of her hand across her swollen lips and spun away, shouting for the dog. When she glanced back, he opened his mouth to apologize again, but she shook her head—Do not.

  He blinked and said nothing, and she swept from the room.

  “Coming!” she sang, meeting the dog in the doorway and scooping her up. “Who is it?” he heard her ask through the door.

  Stoker heard a mumbled, high-pitched reply and then Sabine could be heard to say, “Ooooooh.”

  He heard the locks snap open, door hinges, bustling, footsteps, possessions hitting the floor in a clatter.

  “Miss Sabine!” said an excited female voice that precisely matched the enthusiasm of the knocks.

  The dog barked once, and the new voice and Sabine shouted in unison, “Bridget, stop!”

  “Perry?” exclaimed Sabine. “What on earth are you doing in London?”

  If Stoker remembered correctly, Miss Pippa Perry was the lady’s maid who had originally accompanied the three brides from Surrey to London, and who was currently in the employ of Willow Caulder, the Countess of Cassin.

  “I’ve traveled all the way from Yorkshire to you, miss,” said Perry.

  “Yes, I see that, Perry,” said Sabine, “but why have you come? Is Willow unwell?”

  “Oh no, Miss Sabine, the countess is quite well. But when she received your letter about Mr. Stoker being half-dead, she was in such a state. The earl is in Italy at the moment, acquiring new treasures for the castle . . .”

  This she said as if Cassin were in heaven buying golden harps. Stoker rolled his eyes. Cassin and his new countess had saved his Yorkshire castle by transforming it into a luxury hotel with healing-water baths. It was a raging success, clearly a point of pride for the maid, but Stoker liked to tease Cassin about being the only earl in England who also worked as an innkeep.

  The maid continued, “And his lordship isn’t due to return for a month. Lady Willow could not come because—well, she doesn’t even really know Mr. Stoker, does she? And also, who will manage the castle if both the earl and countess are away?”

  “Who indeed?” Stoker heard Sabine say.

  “But never fear,” boasted the maid, “Lady Willow asked me if I would come instead, and here I am. I shall look after Mr. Stoker, and without complaint, mind you, despite how disagreeable I find London or how swollen or putrid or bilious he may be. This is the promise I have made.” Her voice had taken on the tenor of a vow.

  “How fortunate we are,” said Sabine, clearing her throat. Stoker thought, Thank God. Save her from me, save her, save her . . .

  “Now,” said the maid, “where shall I begin? Does Mr. Stoker require—”

  “So fortunate,” Sabine repeated, cutting her off. “I will write Willow straightaway and thank her for sparing you. Your ample talents will be put to good use, never fear. But Perry, you will be assisting me, not Mr. Stoker. His care is managed by me alone, I’m afraid.”

  “Mr. Stoker’s care?” Perry confirmed.

  “That’s right. I hope you don’t feel as if you’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  Stoker took up the newspaper, now mangled against the sheet, and laid it over his face.

  He heard the maid let out a sigh. “Oh no, I prefer it, honestly. Lady Willow said you would be overwhelmed, having to look after Mr. Stoker all by yourself, but I said I never knew Miss Sabine to be overwhelmed, not once.”

  “Your faith in me is gratifying, truly,” he heard Sabine say. Next he heard footsteps, and Stoker swiped the paper away and stared at the door. Sabine closed it in one quick swing. The last thing he heard before it slammed was Perry exclaiming, “Well, if nothing else, I’m glad to have come because something really must be done about your hair—”

  Click.

  Stoker was locked in his room, restricted to this bed, and prisoner to his riotous body, a stew of lust and fear and regret.

  Chapter Eleven

  Within an hour of Perry’s arrival, Sabine had dispatched the maid to the servants’ quarters and holed herself up in her study for what she considered to be the “foreseeable future.” Perhaps she would never leave. Perhaps she would grow old in the study, eating food brought in and out by servants, growing pale and wizened like a crone. Sir Dryden would carry on, unchecked, with his smuggling, and country tourists would wander the streets of London with no guide. Her dog would go blind for never seeing the light of day.

  All of this, she thought, would be better than reckoning what had just tra
nspired with Jon Stoker. With her husband, she reminded herself. Well, her convenient husband. The phrase had suddenly taken on new meaning. Not convenient to marry, but conveniently located in her bedroom to kiss whenever she willed it. Clearly, she willed it very much.

  Was it wrong that some part of her wanted to return to his room and carry on kissing him again? Was it wrong that she wasn’t scandalized or ashamed by the kiss but really rather invigorated? Was it wrong that her lifelong vow to live independently and solitarily suddenly seemed very shortsighted?

  Oh God, the kiss. While her friend Tessa had spent far too much time fantasizing about kisses, and her other friend Willow had devoted an entire childhood to vowing she would never do it, Sabine had not really thought of it one way or the other. She’d not had a featherheaded, beau-chasing youth. She’d been so taken by her father’s cartography, so interested in travel and sketching and maps, there hadn’t been time to fantasize about kissing. And then Sir Dryden had put her off men in general.

  Now she wondered if she’d ever think of anything else. No, that wasn’t true; there was plenty to think of—smuggling, Stoker’s health, getting back to Park Lodge—but the thought of intimacy with Jon Stoker had elbowed in with significant prominence among her other interests and pursuits.

  Perry came and went with a supper tray, and Sabine sat down with a stack of clean parchment to compose a letter to Willow. She must make some show of gratitude for sending Perry. And she must apprise Willow and Cassin of Stoker’s progress. And she might also . . .

  Well, obviously, she had only just kissed Stoker, so it was too soon to draw conclusions or even put too fine a point on what had just happened. But would a few carefully worded questions allow her to cast around for some generalized answers about . . . well, about intimacy among husbands and wives? Hiding in her study felt safe and prudent at the moment, but she would run mad if she did not communicate with someone.

  Dear Willow,

  How to begin this letter?