by Sharon Page
“I am afraid of my madam, and I’m afraid of poverty. I want to be a duke’s mistress.” Words spilled out of her. She was so afraid of telling him the truth, of just letting it fall out, that she began to babble. She’d had no idea a secret would sit so heavily in her heart and would want so desperately to get out.
She couldn’t confide in him. It was insane to be tempted. “I know of no other way for a woman like me to find independence and freedom. I want my own house, clothes, food, and the knowledge that someday I shall be in charge of my own life. And I—I like you, Your Grace.”
He tipped his head back, shutting his eyes. “You like me? I’m blind, half mad, and, according to you, an unkempt mess. You have very questionable taste.”
“I did not mean you are a mess! Only that your beard was.”
He laughed, and her thundering heart slowed a bit.
“Now that the scruffy beard is gone and my face is smooth, angel, there’s something I’d like to do to please you.”
It must be a good sign he was thinking of sex again, but she could not imagine what he wanted to do that required a smooth face. And she told him so.
“You don’t know?” His voice deepened to a richly sinful rumble. “Angel, you must.”
“No, I’ve no idea.”
“This is something you’ll enjoy very much. All women do.” His lips curved in a dazzling grin. “I think there’s a stool somewhere. Bring it here and sit down. Then open your legs.”
She obeyed. She had no idea what he wanted to do. Not knowing made her nervous.
“There,” she said awkwardly when she was ready. Her silky shift was bunched up at her waist, and she perched on the stool, close to its edge.
Guided by the sound of that one word, he lowered to his knees in front of her. He tilted his head to the side. “You must know now, love.”
“I don’t.”
He reached out, felt for her knees, and clasped them when he found them. “This I can do without sight. This I can be very good at without sight.” Determination glinted in his violet eyes. With his shirt open at his throat, his hair a wild tangle of black, and his feet bare, he looked like a pirate. At this moment, he didn’t look like a man who had given up caring and he didn’t look haunted. He looked like a man bent on proving a point.
Then he said, “I want to please you.” And doubt slammed into her.
Each time they’d been together, she had moaned and cried out and had made him believe he’d pleasured her. Hadn’t she?
She never felt actual pleasure. For some reason, it wasn’t possible for her. She never felt anything at all while making love. But she gave the best performances she could.
Had the duke guessed her shouts and wild thrashing were an act? Since she’d never had a climax, she didn’t know what a woman really experienced. She’d cobbled her act together based on tales told by other women in Madame’s brothel.
The duke eased her legs even wider apart, until she felt the tug on her inner thighs. She sat on the small stool, both hands wrapped around the edge of it, her spine rigid. He wouldn’t want to do anything bad, she was certain, but she couldn’t stop apprehension from welling up inside.
He leaned forward and kissed her inner thigh.
It tickled. Nothing had prepared her for such a sensation. His smooth cheek stroked her skin, teasing her madly. She gasped as he nipped the inside of her leg. Then he nibbled and licked his way to the nest of blond curls between her thighs, and she shrieked in surprise.
What on earth was he doing? Did he know where he was kissing her? He couldn’t see, after all. Had he meant to place a kiss somewhere else? Her breasts, perhaps. Should she direct him?
“Uh, Your Grace, your … your mouth is almost at my … my private place.” Then, as she stumbled over the words, she saw her horrible mistake. Of course he knew what he was doing. She could breathe in her own intimate scent, and his lips had brushed the crisp curls nestled there. She had brought up his blindness. He stopped and rested his chin on her thigh.
She ran her tongue around suddenly dry lips.
But he didn’t look angry. He cocked his head in an engaging way, his dark hair drifting over his brow, his eyes so brilliant they were the vivid color of amethysts.
“You really have no idea what I am doing? No gentleman has ever done this to you?”
She shook her head vigorously. “Not ever, Your Grace.”
“Men are a sorry lot, aren’t we, sweet?”
She frowned. She didn’t know what he meant and she had no answer. The question sounded very treacherous—as though any answer could begin an argument.
He tickled her pubic hair, making her giggle nervously. “You’re quiet for a change, Cerise. I meant that men want their own release and do not give enough attention to their partners.”
“You do,” she argued.
He laughed. “I intend to. I intend to give you pleasure with my mouth, while I enjoy the taste of you.”
She lost her breath. “I—I had no idea such a thing was done.”
“You did the same for me last night, angel.”
“I am supposed to do things you like.”
“And not expect anything in return.” His expression became serious, which worried her, but before she could say a word to reassure him she was quite happy, he whispered, “Tell me if you like it.” Then he bent and flicked his tongue at the very top of her sex, above the plump lips, to the small nub that screamed with sensation when it was touched.
Anne almost jumped off the stool. She never touched there—it was too much. She was as rigid as a rock now, enduring the way he ran his tongue over her most sensitive place. Oh, God. It was so powerful. It left her dizzy. It made her whimper for mercy. He flicked his tongue over it and she cried out. He took the taut little bump between his lips gently, and she melted a bit with relief—then he suckled on it. She screamed.
He paused, releasing her. He blew a soft breath, and even that made her scuttle back on the stool. “Relax, love. It will be good.”
Relax. She tried, she truly did. But as soon as he licked her again, she tensed and drove her fingers hard against the unyielding wooden seat.
He expected this to be pleasurable for her. It wasn’t, it wouldn’t be, but she couldn’t let him know that. He would expect enthusiastic moans. Perhaps a climax, too, at the appropriate time.
But with him flicking his tongue over that place, she couldn’t think. She couldn’t even make sounds that sounded arousing and not like a choking goose.
It was so intense. She wanted him to stop. She wanted to grasp his head and pull his mouth away. Her feet were curled almost into balls, her hands in tight fists. The feelings were too much. They made her clench every muscle tight to bear them. She didn’t want this. But she didn’t dare tell him.
He stopped, and she almost gave a sob of relief before she choked it back.
“What’s wrong, angel? I can feel how tense you are. Would you like it gentler?”
“Wh-whatever you desire, Your Grace.”
“Cerise, you can tell me what pleases you best.”
“Your Grace, I’m supposed to please you. I will do whatever you want.”
“Dear God,” he muttered. “Cerise, I don’t want that if you aren’t enjoying yourself. Would you like me to be more gentle?”
“There was nothing wrong with what you did, Your Grace,” she breathed nervously.
He nipped her inner thigh. It stunned her. “What do you want?” he growled.
“I—I don’t know.” It was the truth. She wanted independence and freedom and security. She wanted hope for a future, a good one with a house and food and safety. But in this—in making love—there wasn’t anything she wanted.
“More gently, then.” He blew a warm stream of air over her sensitive nub. He nibbled her with just his lips. It was the lightest, softest, most teasing brush of his full, firm mouth.
She quivered. It was … not so terrifying, not so intense. She slumped back on the stool, her
back braced against his dressing table. Almost nice. Truly, it was almost quite nice.
Her legs weakly flopped wider apart. As he licked her gently and teasingly, she felt as if she’d downed three glasses of sherry in a row and her head was filled with ribbons, not brains.
She had to gather her wits. She was always in control. Her future might depend on her giving the grandest exhibition of her life. Yet all she could do was make incoherent whimpers.
His Grace moved down and he licked the astonishingly sensitive bridge of flesh between her wet, aching private place and the entrance to her bottom. Anne almost toppled over, taking the stool with her. It lurched precariously. Even though he couldn’t see, he caught her.
“Touch yourself for me, love,” he growled. “Show me how you like it.”
She blushed but moved her hand over her thigh. Touch … herself? She’d never done that when with a man. Nervously, she stroked her curls. They were sticky and damp from her juices, from his mouth. Her pulsing little bump was slick and wet, and she gently brushed her fingertip over it. His fingers touched her wrist, slid down to her hand, and rested gently there.
He was feeling her as she explored herself. She gave an embarrassed giggle and stopped moving her hand.
“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, “what you do to pleasure yourself.”
“I don’t. I’m not supposed to.” Oh, she felt miserable. She’d done this only once and she’d stopped because it wasn’t proper. She might have been a hoyden in many ways, but she’d been too afraid to be sinful and naughty. After she went to the brothel, she’d wanted only to sleep and not have nightmares when she was alone in her bed.
“You’re not supposed to? Angel, you’re a courtesan.”
Even though she’d hinted at what life had been like in the brothel, he didn’t understand. What she let men do to her had been to ensure she didn’t starve, didn’t freeze to death on the streets. It had been for survival alone.
“Try for me, angel. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“It’s sinful.” Goodness, she did sound ridiculous to her own ears.
“You said you would do everything I asked to please me,” he teased. “It would please me to explore you together.” With his hand over hers, he made her fingers rub faster. She had to close her eyes. She saw bursts of bright lights against velvet black.
“You like it fast, do you?”
She nodded. She was a wretched mess at this, clumsy, inexperienced, unknowing. But he was determined she would enjoy it. The stool rocked beneath her as she moved with their fierce strokes. He must want her to reach climax this way. And the sooner she did, the sooner this would be done. In fact, now would be the perfect time. He was breathing hard with anticipation and he’d shut his eyes tight, his long, thick lashes brushing his cheeks. Sometimes men did that when they were very aroused and close to orgasm.
She let out a loud cry. “Oh! Oh! It’s too much! I’m going to come.”
He lowered his head to her sex at once. He slid his tongue into her passage, while she mercilessly sawed her fingers back and forth over her sensitive place.
She threw everything into the act. First, she thrashed on the stool, bucking her hips. Then she clutched his head, threading her fingers into his silky hair. She had to appear to be out of her wits with ecstasy. She lifted her bottom, pushed her hips against his mouth, and squealed all the while. No matter how much she bounced, he kept his mouth on her, teasing her with his tongue.
She moved too vigorously and tipped to the side. Beneath her, the stool rocked and started to fall. She cried out in shock, but the duke grasped her hips and they both tumbled to the floor. She landed on top of him, her privates against his mouth. He held her bottom so he could continue to lick and nuzzle her.
But she didn’t want this anymore. She must pleasure him.
She drew his hands away, moved down swiftly so he could not stop her. In her haste, she was clumsy with the fastenings of his trousers. Her hand trembled as she took hold of his hard shaft, and she was so nervous she jerked his erection up rather roughly. At least she didn’t hurt him—he merely groaned lustily as she took him inside. Thank heaven, now she knew what to do. And as she bounced up and down, he rasped, “Yes, angel.”
She braced her hands on his shoulders while he thrust up into her as hard and powerfully as he had last night. When he came, he shut his eyes tight, slammed his head back on the rug, and his hips arched up beneath her, driving him deep.
Relief left Anne giddy. He must have enjoyed it.
She had obviously enjoyed it.
Dragging in long, deep breaths, Devon shifted his hips to slide out and lowered himself slowly against Cerise’s hot, dewy body. He felt her heart pound against his. His body felt lazy and heavy from his pleasure. Also from relief.
He’d pleased her. He could do this without sight and still with considerable skill, apparently. The first times he’d made love to her, he’d ached for his sight. He’d wanted to see her climax. It had frustrated him, given his pleasure an edge of anger. Anger he’d tried to keep locked inside.
This time, he’d thought only of her pleasure. His whole world had been her: the taste of her, earthy and ripe, the silky feel of her nether lips, the crisp tickle of her pubic hair, and her lovely, frantic moans. He hadn’t thought about war or loss. All he’d thought about was Cerise.
He’d felt her tension at first. She’d been almost fearful as he knelt between her legs and suckled her. What had happened to her? He wanted to know, but he didn’t want to remind her of hellish things she’d been through. He just wanted to soothe her. Then she’d begun to respond. From the sound of her cries, she must have enjoyed herself a great deal.
He kissed her breasts. “Thank you, angel,” he said softly. “For the shave.” But what in blazes was he going to do? He had barely slept last night—he’d forced himself to stay awake so he wouldn’t dream. He needed to force her to go, but right now, all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and sleep.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk having a nightmare and hurting her. He was sure that when he was in the depths of sleep, the feel of her body against him would set him off, just as he’d confused her touch for that of a soldier trying to kill him.
“I’m not quite finished,” she murmured, underneath him. “All that lovely hair of yours needs a trim.”
He was supposed to be pushing people away. For their own good. That had been the direction he’d given to Treadwell and the handful of other servants he kept here.
Yet Devon sat on the stool with his back to his dressing table while Cerise washed his hair. She had forced him to sit, then had tipped his head over the basin while she soaked his hair with handfuls of water.
Now she massaged soap into it. He groaned, shut his eyes, and savored the firm, circular caresses of her fingers.
He had fought against battalions of French soldiers—at Waterloo, they had faced more than seventy thousand men—yet this slip of a woman was bustling him around his dressing room with more capability for direction than his vice general had shown.
It was amazing how good a woman’s hands felt on his scalp. How good her hands felt. She wasn’t trying to make this sensual. She rubbed his head too hard for that to be her plan, and she massaged every spot—his temples, behind his ears, along the nape of his neck.
He could hear rain thrumming against the windows, rattling the panes.
“Tip your head back farther, please, Your Grace.” She rinsed his hair, using her hand as a barrier to keep the soapy water off his face. He jerked instinctively as the warm water sluiced over his head, and rivulets ran down into his eyes.
“Please keep still,” she admonished. “Or I will end up splashing your face by mistake.”
“Yes, dear,” he murmured obediently.
Her hands twisted his hair behind him, gathering it up, squeezing the excess water from it. She let it go, and it fell wetly against his neck. Vigorously, she rubbed his head with a towel.
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br /> He almost laughed. She definitely wasn’t trying to artfully seduce him. She tugged his hair as she patted it between the towel, dabbed up the water that dribbled from his hairline. Then she laid the towel around his shoulders.
Suddenly his hair was yanked as though she were trying to scalp him. He tried to jolt away.
“I am sorry, but I must get the comb through.” Suspicion, not apology, laced her tone. “When was the last time you took a comb to your hair?”
“Before Watson left. It must be at least a week ago.”
She clicked her tongue. “It is very wrong to let yourself go to seed like this.”
She spoke to him like a governess with a recalcitrant charge. He wanted to fill in details of the vague story of her past she’d given him. She did not behave like a girl who had spent much of her life in London’s stews. “Why didn’t your grandfather help you after your father died? Why didn’t he take you in?”
“He had died by then. And we had no other family. My mother and I truly had nowhere else to go.” Her voice trembled, and she sounded as though she did not wish to speak of it.
Then cold brushed against his neck, and he jerked away again. “What is that?”
“The scissors, Your Grace.” She tipped his head and he felt the comb run through his hair, pulling it straight, then he heard the first swift snip of the blades. She worked around his head, telling him everything she was going to do, directing his head this way and that while she trimmed his hair.
“Angel, in London, did you have much call to shave your clients and trim their hair?”
She paused, and he felt pieces of hair feather past his cheek. “No,” she said slowly. “Do gentlemen ask for such things?” She sounded utterly innocent and surprised.
“Then why did you think of doing this, love?”
“I thought it would make you feel better,” she said. “I know a mistress is supposed to do things such as warming brandies and … and pleasuring a man with her mouth. But this, I thought, was what you needed.” She stroked the comb through his hair, caressing his scalp. “Do you feel more like yourself?”
