by Sharon Page
She was right. He did feel more like himself without the itching beard and the dirty, unkempt hair. A light clunk told him she’d set down the scissors. And he was certain he’d heard a blush in her tone when she’d said pleasuring a man with her mouth. Amazing she had stayed so ingenuous.
“I wondered if you would want to come with me,” she said. “For a walk outside.”
That he hadn’t expected. “Outside? It’s raining, love. Even I know that. I can hear it.”
“I know. I’m asking you to go outside because it is raining. I think it will help you. Come with me and find out.”
Chapter Six
HE DUKE WOULD not let her outside until she assured him she was properly dressed for a cool and rainy afternoon. Rather than struggle with her gown, Anne borrowed one of his shirts and a pair of his breeches. After that, an elderly footman had helped her don a hooded cloak. The duke wore an open many-tiered greatcoat to keep off the rain, and tall, immaculately polished boots. Since arriving yesterday, she had not seen him with anything but bare feet. Yet his boots had been kept in readiness, as though he was about to attend a ton ball.
He looked stunning and intimidating when fully dressed. His beaver hat added a foot to his already impressive height. She was accustomed to his nakedness or seeing him with his shirt free of his trousers. Her throat dried when she saw how impeccable and ducal he could look.
“Wait for one moment,” she advised him, and her voice trembled a bit. She stepped from the library to the terrace. It smelled crisp, fresh, and she couldn’t help but exclaim, “It’s lovely!”
On the threshold, the duke waited. “Angel, it sounds like it’s teeming down.”
“It is. That is what makes it so perfect.”
Anne crossed to the stone balustrade that ringed the flagstone terrace. She leaned forward until her head was beyond the cover of the balcony above. Closing her eyes, she tipped up her face and let the rain hit her cheeks. She stuck out her tongue and tasted a few cool drops.
She breathed in the rich, earthy scent of mud and wet grass. From the forest, she could smell the dankness of rain-soaked leaves and rotting wood. Some would curl their noses, but she loved the smell. Memories of Longsworth rose like an ocean swell. She couldn’t stop them.
“Angel,” the duke said quietly, “are you perhaps as mad as I am?”
She spun to face him. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was mad. She could not think of anyone else who would drag a reluctant duke into a downpour. He would certainly think her deranged if this idea didn’t work. He would want to be rid of her at once.
Biting her lip, she hurried back to him. She placed his hand in the crook of her arm and led him to the edge of the terrace. He frowned as the breeze blew rain into his face and almost sent his beaver hat tumbling off his head. He caught it by instinct and replaced it. Then he licked droplets from his full lips with a sweep of his tongue.
“Are you sure about this, Cerise, my dear? We’re going to get soaked.”
“Yes, I’m certain.” Though in truth she wasn’t.
Lights glowed from some rooms of his house, warding off the afternoon gloom. With her hand clasped over his, Anne found the steps leading down from the terrace. Their boots crunched on the gravel path at the bottom at the same time. She led him a few yards from the house. “Stop and listen, Your Grace.”
He frowned. He tipped back his head. Just as she had done, he caught drops on his tongue. Then he pulled off his hat, letting the rain fall on his black hair. It didn’t take long before his thick, silky, newly trimmed hair gleamed like jet with wetness. Water dripped from his lips.
Anne caught her breath. Her hair was plastered to her face, her wet cloak sagged around her, and she suspected she looked like a drowned rat.
The Duke of March looked magnificent wet.
She truly looked at him for what he was—not only a duke with the wealth and power to save her and give her freedom but a man, a gorgeous one. She stared at his unusual lilac-purple eyes and his sensual, full-lipped mouth, and she saw the way the water droplets clung to his cheeks and aristocratic nose as though reluctant to let go. Heat washed across her face. Her bosom seemed to swell and tighten beneath his sandalwood-scented linen shirt.
She had never felt this with any one of her clients. Not this desire to keep watching a man just for the pleasure of it.
The duke’s fingertips coasted down her arm and he clasped her hand, threading his fingers with hers. His hand was warm and strong, his fingers big but elegant. He had touched her most intimate place, but this—standing in the rain, holding his hand—felt unique and special.
The duke had trusted her enough to do what she’d asked, even though he had doubts. What man had ever done that for her? “Tell me what you hear,” she urged.
He cocked his head. “I can hear the rain striking the ground.”
She had to explain more. “Listen to the sound of the rain on the leaves close to us—those are the roses. Can you hear the way the rain sounds when it lands on the grass? Is it softer than the patter of the rain striking the gravel of the path?”
His dark brows drew together. “The clattering sound—is that rain hitting the window?”
Anne closed her eyes to experience it as he did. She tried to follow the sound, then opened her eyes. She was facing the house. “Yes, it is.”
“The drumming sound, as though it’s hitting something hard—what is that?” he asked.
“It might be the sound of rain on the path. Or the stone fountain. We are only half a dozen feet from the fountain.”
“All right. I think I can distinguish the sound of the raindrops on the water in the basin.”
Carefully, she described everything that surrounded them and how far they stood from each item, but then His Grace began to stroke her wet bare palm with his thumb and she stumbled over her words. That simple touch was so electric. She’d never had her hand caressed like this before.
“It’s beautiful,” he said huskily. “It’s like a magical sheet has been thrown over everything that was invisible to me. When I had sight, I could assess the world around me in an instant, but now that I’m blind, I wouldn’t know if a tree was stretching over my head, or if I was under a ceiling, or if there was nothing above but sky. The rain changes that.”
It was what she’d hoped he would discover, but the way he described it made her throat ache.
“How did you know this?” he asked.
“My grandfather used to like to walk in the rain. He told me he loved the sound of it on the leaves, loved the way it drummed on the roof of the house and spattered against the windows. Rain brought everything to life for him. You told me about the void that your mind fills in with battle memories, and I thought this might help you.”
He stayed silent, and she could tell he wasn’t straining to listen to the rain anymore.
“My grandfather used to ask me to walk with him when it rained. Everyone thought he was mad to go out in a downpour, and my father worried about my health when I went out, but I didn’t mind. Wet clothes and hair can be dried. My grandfather was so delighted when I took him, and I loved it too. I loved the smell of the lawns and gardens.”
He tipped her chin up. His long lashes shielded his eyes, and droplets of rain hung on them like small diamonds. “I’ve had to fight in the rain,” he said, “but I never thought my blindness would force me to walk in a downpour to know where my house stands or what is above my head.”
Oh, no. Irony was thick in his tone. Perhaps her idea had been idiotic—
Then his large hands cradled her chin and his lips lowered to hers. For one moment she was mesmerized by the small glimpse of violet in his eyes. Suddenly his lashes dipped the rest of the way, and Anne gasped as his mouth came to hers. He kissed her sweetly. Her heart beat so fast she feared it would burst. She had never dreamed he would kiss her like this. He made love so fiercely, yet this … this was the most tender caress she’d ever known.
Last night she’d ki
ssed him in the hopes of seducing him. He’d rejected the kiss, and after that, she hadn’t tried. She’d never dreamed the gentle touch of his mouth to hers would root her to the ground, would make all sound vanish, rain disappear, time cease. She’d thought the stroke of his thumb over her palm was electric—this was like being struck by lightning. This was dazzling. Heat washed over her. Dizzying heat, as if she had walked too close to a raging fire. She was … steaming, even in the cold rain.
His kiss deepened. His arms tightened around her, pulling her so close that her breasts crushed to his chest and she could barely draw breath. She’d never been held like this. She twined her arms around his neck to hold him, in case he changed his mind. Men rarely kissed, she knew that. They always wanted to move on to sex. Eventually the duke would want to stop. She didn’t want to let him—
He stopped. Anne’s heart dropped to her toes, until she realized he still held her. He wasn’t letting go, and his ragged breaths mingled with hers. “Thank you,” he growled, and his mouth slanted over hers once more.
Once more, she melted. The sensuality of this—the lush eroticism of it—made her feel like chocolate bubbling in a pot. She closed her eyes and threw herself into it with all her heart. And when she made a sound of pleasure, his tongue slid into her mouth.
At once she understood. He wanted to hear her respond before he gave her more, before he took the kiss deeper into an intoxicating place she didn’t know existed.
She moaned again, and this time his tongue tangled with hers in response. He groaned in pleasure into her mouth. In the shimmer of fireworks that flashed behind her closed lids and thundered in her heart, she knew one thing. This wasn’t a hasty mashing of lips before he got to business. He wanted to keep kissing her.
She ran her fingers up into his wet hair. She’d done an excellent job—it was so smooth and clean and smelled wonderfully of sandalwood soap, and she felt a foolish burst of pride. In that heady moment, Anne answered his tempting play by sliding her tongue into his mouth.
Lovely. Hot. Erotic. She loved tasting him so intimately, tasting the fresh bite of his tooth powder, the delectable heat of his mouth.
His hand stroked down and clutched her bottom through her cloak. He pulled her closer. Instinctively, she lifted her leg, wrapped it around his hip. Now she was utterly off balance, and if he moved or let her go, she’d fall. Yet she didn’t care.
She wanted to kiss him forever. Here. Outside. With the rain streaming down on top of them. She wanted to kiss him until the gray daylight faded away and nighttime fell upon them. Until the rain stopped and the sun rose again. Until summer turned to fall.
He drew back and she surged forward, wanting more. This time, though, he didn’t bow his head to her and seek her mouth again. He cradled her to his chest and pressed his lips to her hair.
How could just a kiss do this? Leave her hands shaking, her legs trembling, and her heart spinning like a top in her chest?
It should be frightening—she’d touched him in the most intimate ways possible, but she’d never felt more weak and quivery than she did now. She desperately tried to force her dazed mind to think back over the last few minutes. Had she moaned for him enough? Kissed him as passionately as she should? Had she pleased him?
Had she shown him she could be a skillful mistress?
Anne had to make herself care, but she simply couldn’t. She couldn’t care less about her performance. All she could think about was how it felt. She was sagging against him, and her lips were tingling.
“Look up, love,” he murmured.
She did, and he kissed her cheek. Her nose. She couldn’t help but giggle. Then he found her lips again and kissed her once more.
An entirely different kiss to add to her new repertoire of kisses. He kept his lips wide, forcing her to open her mouth just as much. It was almost shocking to kiss him with her mouth so wide. It was wet and messy, delicious and naughty. Their tongues dueled. And when he broke the kiss, he was breathing every bit as harshly. It didn’t matter if she could kiss with skill. He wanted this. She did too. Here, now, it was all that mattered.
Devon closed his eyes and buried his face into Cerise’s wet, thick hair. She smelled fresh, like the aftermath of a summer storm. She had given him something he never believed he would have again: a sense of what was around him. He could hear the patter of rain on the leaves of the roses. On the terrace flagstones, the rain made a sharper sound. It spattered against the glass, plinked down from the roof, and drummed against the house.
She was a unique and remarkable woman. What other courtesan would have cared to help him? He’d kept mistresses—each and every one had liked him quite a bit but had loved his wealth more. What woman of his acquaintance would stand in a downpour so he could listen to the rain? Just to say thank you hadn’t seemed enough. So he’d kissed her.
She kissed him like no other woman ever had. She’d kissed him the way she made love—all boundless enthusiasm, as though she was throwing every bit of herself into the sheer joy of it and holding nothing back. Despite being captured into a brothel, she apparently delighted in sex. He’d never had any woman be so open. So artless. So surprisingly sweet.
And when he kissed her, everything around him had vanished. The sounds of the rain, the feel of it. All he could hear were her breathy moans against his mouth. Her little whimpers and groans and squeaks. All he’d felt was her warm body in his arms, her heart pounding against him. His world, which had suddenly become much larger in scope, had instantly narrowed down to just Cerise.
Even though she was as drenched as he was, she’d kissed him as though there was no rain, as though they had no fears or problems and nothing existed but this one moment.
He cupped her face. He tried to conjure a picture of her from what he felt. An oval face, and wet curls stuck to her soft cheeks. A pointy chin. He imagined masses of auburn waves pouring around a delicate face. He fancied that her unusual dark-green eyes were large and pretty. But when he tried to imagine her expression, he was lost. Sometimes she was wickedly seductive, and he could envision her face sparkling with wicked desire. Then she would be patient and efficient, and he pictured a serious expression. He just couldn’t get a proper image of her. It frustrated him.
Then something clicked inside his head. “You couldn’t have been very young when you left the country for London. I had the impression you’d done so when you were a child. And you speak as though this country estate was your own.”
“Oh. I wasn’t very young,” she said in a low voice. “For I did tell you about walking with my grandfather. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression. It wasn’t my house, of course, but I loved it very much. My grandfather worked at the house too. He—he was head gardener. He helped my mother find employment there.”
She sounded so desperate to please him, and it made his heart lurch. He did remember she’d said she was young, but regardless of the details she’d had a hell of a past—ending up a prisoner in a brothel. She fascinated him. Could he make her his mistress? She’d seen him at almost his worst and it hadn’t frightened her away. She’d told him she could avoid him if she had to. Did he dare keep her?
“You’re wet,” Devon murmured finally. “This cloak isn’t keeping off the rain, is it? It feels heavy—it’s soaking the water up.”
Reassurance was on the tip of Anne’s tongue. She could barely even feel the rain. She was all jumbled up—nervous about her mistake, dizzy from his kisses. But the cloak was suddenly whisked off her, dropped on the ground. The duke draped his greatcoat around her shoulders. Thunder rumbled, and before she could say, Goodness, a storm has come up on us, lightning flashed. It was as though the fork of light split the sky open and let out all the water at once. Sheets of rain swept over them. The torrent came so hard Anne could barely see through it.
But instead of running for cover, they both reacted in the same way. They stood frozen in surprise. It took only moments before the pelting water soaked through the duke’s whi
te shirt.
Anne stepped back and tugged at his hand. “Oh, no. You are drenched.”
Wet linen stuck to his wide chest and arms. Where fabric touched flesh, it had become almost invisible, revealing his muscles, his skin, tanned to a rich coppery-brown. Heavens, he was going to catch his death outside and it would be her fault.
She heard the creak of a door. “Yer Grace, are you out here?” It was Treadwell.
“Indeed I am,” the duke shouted.
“Are ye—are ye all right?”
“Never better,” the duke called back, and Anne put her hand to her mouth to hold in a giggle.
“But, Yer Grace … ye’re out in the rain.”
“And you fear that means I’m fit for Bedlam,” the duke replied. “In this case, I’m not.”
With a start, she realized what she’d done. The duke feared he was going mad. She had made it look as though he was. “It was my idea,” she called out. “I wished to walk outside in the fresh air, and His Grace very gallantly accompanied me. I will bring him indoors now.”
“Uh … of course, then, miss.” The door closed with a rattle.
“Now he knows to attribute the madness correctly,” she said. “To me.”
“Angel, you aren’t mad.” The duke pressed his forehead to hers. “Thank you for this. Thank you for being so patient with me. I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?”
“No,” she managed to say, perplexed. “Of course you haven’t.”
“I understand what you’ve been trying to do. You are trying to show me I’m a fool for hiding from my blindness. I already know that, but I don’t know how to learn to cope with it, how to live with it. I need you, Cerise. You could help me. Please, love—stay with me.”
She’d done it. He wanted to keep her. “I will stay as long as you want, Your Grace.”
