The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  She was not in distress at all.

  Rather, she was emerging from the bath.

  Naked.

  Dripping.

  Creamy and pink and soft and curved in all the right places.

  Chapter 11

  His first thought was one of gratitude for whichever former Duke of Wycombe had seen fit to convert the dressing room between the lord and lady’s chambers into a bathing chamber. He was certain the poor chap could not have afforded it, and yet, here it was, bringing him the sight of his beautiful wife, wet and perfect in every way.

  The weight of the last few days fled him. He forgot about anything and everything but this gorgeous, enigmatic woman he had inexplicably wed. They had both married for practical reasons. But their union was quickly becoming so much more than a marriage of convenience, and he was powerless to stop it.

  His hungry gaze traveled over her bare shoulders to her full, pretty breasts. Perfect for his palms. The sweep of her waist, the fullness of her hips, those creamy thighs and the dark thatch of curls covering her mound. Christ, even her knees were worthy of worship, to say nothing of her calves and her ankles.

  “Oh!” she said, her eyes wide and startled, the long, dark lashes shielding the emotions in her honey-brown eyes.

  He had startled her, which had not been his intention. Nor was it to intrude. But now that he was here, how the hell was he supposed to go?

  “Forgive me,” he managed to say. “I did not mean to give you a start.”

  She reached for a towel, hastily wrapping it around herself and ending his view of paradise. “I thought you were in the library.”

  He would have gladly offered to dry her off with his tongue, but he was not certain how the offer would be received just now. “I was, but I grew weary of running circles in my own bloody head. I retired to my chamber, intending to sleep. But then I heard a thump, and I came to investigate.”

  It was silly of him, he had to admit. Likely down to his nerves after the shock of finding Maude Ainsley dead in his bed. But he would not think of that. He forced the gruesome, gory memories from his mind, for they had no place here with Elysande, who was everything peaceful and wondrous and good.

  His.

  How had he been fortunate enough to wed her?

  “The thump was me,” she said. “I dropped the book I had been reading, and I could not reach it without getting out of the tub.”

  Even hidden beneath the towel, the swells of her breasts and hips were undisguised, calling to his hands and mouth. But no, he had not rushed into her chamber for seduction.

  He still intended to uphold his end of their marriage bargain. He had to. Did he not?

  Yes, said his mind.

  No, roared the rest of him.

  He swallowed against a rising tide of yearning. “I cannot honestly say I am sad you dropped the book.”

  Her cheeks went pink, and she pursed her lips as if attempting to fend off a smile. “Hudson.”

  But her scold was far too warm and it carried no bite. If anything, his name uttered in her sweet voice only served to make his cock even harder. “Shall I return to my room, then?”

  She shook her head. “Stay. If you wish it, of course.”

  It was not an invitation for the entire night, but his poor prick did not know that.

  Why did he suddenly feel like a lad experiencing his first rush of lust? Was it because she was his wife, or was it merely because she was herself? Elysande.

  “I do not want to intrude,” he said, hesitating.

  Every part of him wanted to remain. To haul her into his arms, take those soft lips with his, and carry her to the bed. But his honor forbade it. Not unless she asked him to break his vow, regardless of how much he wanted her. How much he needed her.

  “You are hardly intruding, Hudson.” She padded toward him in her bare feet.

  He found himself admiring her dainty toes, the turns of her ankles. Why had it never occurred to him before just how alluring each unique aspect of a woman’s body could be? He longed to worship every inch of her.

  Instead, he settled for sweeping a wet curl from her forehead as she reached him, tamping down the hunger burning to life deep within. “The hour is late, and I kept you on your feet for most of the day.”

  She did not appear worn or ragged, however. In the low light of the lamps, she was utterly luminous. A small smile curved her lips as her gaze searched his.

  “I am not tired. Not yet.”

  Nor was he. Suddenly, he was very much awake. And painfully aware of her nudity beneath the poor shield of her towel, which did little to hide her body.

  Stop looking at her, you dolt.

  But where else to look?

  He wanted to consume her. To lick and kiss and love her.

  “Is your lady’s maid returning this evening to assist you?” he asked.

  “Only if I ring for her. I am frightfully independent, I fear. Taking care of myself has always held a certain appeal for me. I am capable, practical, able. Why not tend to myself?”

  “Because you are a lady,” he said, the obvious answer.

  And yet, it was as illogical as so many rules which governed her set. Her set and now, by an accident of nature, his as well. Most reluctantly.

  She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “True, but it is all so silly, is it not? Have you ever stopped to think about the arbitrary nature of the world in which we live? So many rules we accept, and yet never question their reasoning or who has made them. Why?”

  What a marvel she was. If he had not married her, he would have proposed to her now, on the merit of her spirit alone.

  He searched his mind for a good answer to her question and found none. So he offered his second-best explanation. “Because we must do what is expected of us.”

  “But why is it expected of us?” She shook her head. “My father taught me to question everything, and I suppose it has become a habit of mine.”

  “You are close to your father, are you not?” he asked, for he had wondered before, during their interview when she had agreed to marry him.

  It occurred to him how little he knew of this woman. Her past, her family, herself. He knew what she tasted like, and he knew how to make her come with his tongue, but he had yet to truly learn about her.

  He needed to rectify that omission. They had married in haste, and he had left her in a similar fashion, and then she had returned to him in London only to face such a horrendous tragedy. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have courted her and grown to know her. He mourned that lost opportunity now, for what he felt for Elysande was so much more than a physical attraction.

  “My father was always quite good to me,” Elysande said with a fond smile. “I learned a great deal from him. He never made me feel as if I were unequal, or as if I ought to pursue a certain course of learning because I was born a woman in the way most fathers do, if they even pay any attention to their daughters at all. Instead, he encouraged me to work by his side, and he taught me so much. He was most fortunate in that he had the opportunity to work with some eminent engineering firms, despite the fact that he was to be the earl one day. Whatever he was able to glean from those days, he expanded upon, building his knowledge whenever he could.”

  “You miss him,” he guessed.

  She pressed her lips together, the sheen of tears in her eyes undeniable. “I do miss my family, yes. However, you are my family now as well, and there is nowhere I would rather be than by your side.”

  Her words humbled him.

  Nearly brought him to his knees.

  What had he done to deserve her? Nothing, he was sure. But he would keep her just the same.

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone thick with emotion. “If you will not call for your lady’s maid, then I shall play the role.”

  To distract himself, he moved past her, intent upon draining the water from the tub so she would not need to call for her servant. The tile floor was damp and
slippery, so he tread with careful steps. Rolling back his sleeve, he reached into the warm, floral-and-fruit-scented water, and removed the plug holding the water in place. The sound of the tub draining soon filled the chamber.

  He turned back to find her watching him, those warm brown-gold eyes singeing him as if they were fashioned of flame. There was a hunger in her expression that matched his own, but he forced himself to ignore it.

  He would not take anything other than what she offered.

  He could be honorable.

  He had to be.

  Hudson flashed her what he hoped was a charming smile. “What other tasks may I perform as your lady’s maid?”

  Her lips pursed, and Christ, he longed to cross the chamber—wet tiles be damned—and kiss her.

  “She brushes out my hair for me.” Elysande moved with elegant grace to retrieve her brush. “My hair dearly loves to curl when I am in my bath, and if I do not have it brushed, I am left with a tangled mess of snarls.”

  It was difficult to believe her silken chestnut tresses could be anything other than sleek and soft, but he was willing to play this role for her, as it meant he had an excuse to linger in her presence. After the events of the day, he very much did not want to be alone. He had not realized his need until he had found himself here with her, and now that he was, he had no wish to leave.

  Besides, he would not refuse an opportunity to touch her hair.

  “I would be happy to replace her,” he said, closing the distance between them with care for the slippery floor and taking the brush. “Turn around, if you please.”

  She did as he asked, presenting him with her back and the waterfall of lush, dark hair which was indeed tangling and curling as she had claimed. It occurred to him that he had never brushed a woman’s hair before. He had only ever brushed his own, which was quite a bit shorter. However, it could not be much different, could it?

  Some of her hair had fallen over her shoulders, so he drew it back with his free hand, his fingers grazing her bare shoulder in the process. A jolt of pure electricity skipped past his wrist and up his arm. His body was so attuned to hers that even the smallest touch elicited an overwhelming rush of sensation. But he forced himself to ignore it and set about the task of brushing Elysande’s hair. There was nothing about the act that was erotic, and yet, with each stroke through her damp locks, he found the ache in his ballocks to grow subtly stronger. He took care to make slow passes, trying his best to be gentle. When the brush caught in a particularly large tangle, she stiffened.

  He cursed. “Forgive me. What a ham-handed lady’s maid I make. Have I hurt you?”

  “It was only a slight twinge,” she said. “I do not find you ham-handed at all. You are doing quite well.”

  He was not sure he believed her praise, but he accepted it just the same, because he was a greedy bastard when it came to everything about his wife. “Tell me if I am brushing too hard, or if I am pulling your hair.”

  “I shall.”

  He resumed brushing, finding an odd comfort in the rhythm, mingling with his desire. This was, he realized, the first truly intimate moment they had shared as husband and wife, beyond the passion-filled embraces by the lake and in the library. He liked being near her. Helping her. Touching her.

  Hell, he liked everything about her. Too much. Far, far too much. But then, one was meant to like one’s wife, was he not? That was rather the point of having one, aside from the necessity of her.

  With great reluctance, he finished, finding no excuse to continue, for the bristles glided smoothly and unimpeded with each pass. He settled the brush on a nearby table and stilled. “There you are, my dear. You need not fret over snarls tomorrow, I promise.”

  She spun to face him, doing so with such haste that she lost her footing on the slick tiles and pitched forward. Wild-eyed, she reached for him, and the towel fell. Hudson caught her, hauling her against him, naked, soft woman. No armful had ever been more welcome.

  “Thank you,” she said, breathless, looking up at him with a dazed expression on her face. “How clumsy and graceless of me.”

  “The floor is quite wet,” he said stupidly, trying not to think about the hard nipples pressing into his chest through the thin layer of his shirt.

  He knew how responsive those nipples were. How long had it been since he had sucked them? An eternity, he was certain.

  “You saved me from a nasty spill.”

  And consigned himself to torture. But never mind that. He would suffer anything to keep her from harm. “You must take greater care on the tiles. I will see if Greene can procure a mat for us. I imagine all this tile was quite dear for whatever previous duke had it installed, but I do not want you to fall and injure yourself.”

  “That would be lovely,” she agreed, still clutching his shoulders as if she feared releasing him would send her sprawling.

  “Lovely,” he repeated, but he was not thinking about the mat.

  No, his eyes were eagerly drinking in the sight of her, cheeks flushed and rosy, her hair dark and glossy framing her face, those full pink lips that so called to his parted. Her throat was creamy and elegant, and the generous tops of her breasts were lush mounds he longed to weigh in his hands.

  Damnation, there went his cock, hardening once more. He was sure she felt it against her belly.

  “Hudson?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “What if I want you to stay?”

  Lust barreled through him like a runaway locomotive. “Stay?”

  Yes, just keep repeating every word she says, you bloody simpleton.

  She caught her lower lip in her teeth, worrying it. “I do not want to be alone in my bed tonight. I want you there with me.”

  Ah, perdition. He would have crawled through a hectare of fiery coals and broken glass just to get into that bed with her. But getting into the bed was not the problem. What he would do with the temptation of her at his side was.

  “I am not certain I can remain true to my promise,” he admitted, though it pained him. Both his lack of self-control where she was concerned and his weakness for her.

  “It was a silly promise,” she said. “One I should not have asked you to make. I thought requiring three months would give me the time I needed to complete my prototype, but it only tore us apart and added so much misery to your life. If I had not insisted upon that time, you never would have come here to London.”

  She was blaming herself?

  He kissed her furrowed brow. “No. You are not responsible for what has happened, Ellie.”

  She rose on her toes, bringing her mouth nearer to his. “I want to forget about the marriage contract.”

  “You are…” He paused, stopped to catch his own breath, because her words had stolen the air from his very lungs. “You understand what you are asking of me? My honor—”

  “Stuff your honor, Hudson,” she interrupted. “I want you. Not two months from now. This moment. Here. Tonight.”

  It was as if a chorus of angels had exploded into blissful song. Relief blasted him, along with yearning so fierce and potent that he almost staggered beneath the weight of it. These were the words he wanted—nay, needed—to hear. She was giving him permission to forget the promise she had asked of him. He could make her his at last.

  Thank fuck.

  There was only one answer. He lowered his head. Took her lips in the same way he would take the rest of her. She was warm and wet from the bath, and the sweet scents of her soap and shampoo filled his senses. Her mouth beneath his was a benediction, a much-needed solace after the hell they had faced together earlier that day. When she kissed him, he could forget.

  She made a soft sound of need and opened her lips, allowing his questing tongue access to the velvety heat of her. God, she even tasted delicious, like something he wanted to savor. Her tongue licked at his, and it was his turn to groan. Need coursed through him, making him feel lightheaded for a moment. Almost giddy.

  But they were yet in the bathing chamber
, and the floor was still a problem, and he very much did not want the two of them to end their evening with bruises rather than bliss. At the reminder, he broke the kiss. “Come.”

  Tentatively, ensuring neither of them moved too swiftly, he led her from the bathroom and to her chamber. On the threadbare Axminster—this, too, needed replacing—they increased their speed. He sought her mouth again on the way to the bed. She kissed him back, every bit as frantic and hungry for him as he was for her. It was as if neither of them could get enough of the other, as if they had found a renewed appreciation for life and passion in each other’s arms.

  His hip bumped into a table, forcing him to do a better job of steering them. He pulled his lips from hers and feasted on her throat instead, keeping an eye on the direction of the bed as he did so. A handful of steps, and they had reached their destination. His heart was beating harder than a blacksmith pounding on an anvil. His entire body was awash in heat and need.

  Go slowly and take care, he reminded himself. She is new to this.

  He could not resist sinking his teeth into the delicate place where her shoulder and neck joined. A small nip. She tasted delicious, and she shivered and moaned in response, rubbing against him like a cat.

  “Your skin is so bloody soft.” He wrapped a hand in her damp hair and tugged her head back so he could kiss a path over her collarbone. “Softer than silk.”

  Now that he was investigating, he could not stop. His lips and tongue had a mind of their own, and they knew what they wanted. He cupped her breasts and sucked a nipple into his mouth. She arched her back and made a throaty sound of approval.

  He released the bud and flicked his tongue over it, then blew a stream of hot air until she moaned again. “You like this, don’t you, Ellie?”

  “Oh yes,” she whispered, no hesitation.

  “And this.” He moved to her other nipple, sucking and licking and biting.