One Night in London: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  They sat in silence until the end of the act. As the audience applauded he leaned toward her. “Francesca.” His whisper was little more than a breath across her cheek. “I want you.”

  Her heart jumped. She turned her head, keeping her eyes on the stage. “Now?” she murmured through her smile.

  “Yes.”

  Oh my. Her heart thudded so hard against her ribs, she could hardly breathe. “Here?” The people in front of her shifted, and she prayed they wouldn’t turn around and notice her, flushed and trembling with a desire that had roared to life inside her at his words.

  She felt Edward’s amusement. “Come with me.” He put out his hand, and she barely remembered to grab her shawl as she placed her fingers in his and let him lead her from the box. As he opened the door she glanced back and gave Sally a helpless little smile. Her wide-eyed friend just shook her head in farewell.

  He didn’t say anything as they walked through the theater corridors, deserted and quiet now that the play was in progress. In the entrance hall downstairs Edward sent a page running for his carriage. He was still holding her hand, and Francesca felt very conscious of it, even though there was only theater staff around to see.

  “Will your friends miss you?” he asked suddenly.

  “Ah—no, no, not terribly.” She hadn’t been thinking of the Ludlows at all.

  Edward glanced at her. “Will they disapprove of our leaving together?”

  She blinked in surprise. “I don’t think it’s their place to disapprove, but no, I don’t think they shall.”

  “They wouldn’t think you should have chosen Lord Alconbury?”

  Francesca felt her cheeks flush. “Perhaps. But that was never going to happen.”

  “Really,” he murmured with another keen glance. The page reappeared, waving to indicate the carriage was waiting. Edward led her outside and handed her into the vehicle. When he closed the door behind him, cutting off all outside light and noise, Francesca felt enclosed in some private world with him.

  “Would you never have reconsidered Alconbury’s suit?” Edward took her hand and began peeling off her glove.

  “I—well, no, I don’t believe so . . .” She inhaled sharply as he kissed the inside of her bare wrist, sucking lightly at the tender skin. “Why?”

  “He seems a very eligible suitor. You already like him very much, and it’s clear to see he would fall on his knee at a moment’s notice, if you encouraged him.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s very eligible.” She watched, transfixed, as his dark head bent over her hand. Her eyes drifted closed as his wicked lips moved with light torment over her skin, higher and higher up her arm. His fingertips drew delicate patterns in the wake of his mouth until her whole arm felt shivery and crackling with sensation.

  “Then wouldn’t it make sense to encourage him?”

  “Stop talking of sense,” she whispered.

  He laughed quietly. “You must acknowledge the effort it’s costing me. When you’re near, my darling, all my sense goes missing and I can’t think of anything but this . . .” His lips touched hers. “And this . . .” He kissed her again, sliding his hands into her hair. “And the things I long to do with you.”

  “Let’s talk of that instead.” She tried to pull him back to her, but Edward laughed again and ducked his head to her neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin beneath her ear until she was writhing with desire.

  “I have just recently realized the distinction,” he breathed against her ear, “between want and need. I always knew what I wanted, but until you, I never knew what I needed.”

  “And that is?” Dimly she felt the carriage slow to a stop.

  Edward’s slow smile caught the light as the door opened. “You. In every wicked way I can have you.”

  “Then you’d better come inside,” she whispered, touching his cheek. “It will take a while.”

  He dismissed his coachman. Francesca’s blood surged through her veins as they went inside her house, where she sent Mrs. Hotchkiss off as quickly as Edward had sent off his carriage. In a more rational state of mind she might wonder what he’d been thinking to bring up Alconbury, but instead all she could think of was his last statement, ripe with the promise of sensual pleasures. What did he have in mind? She felt like a girl again, desperately curious about the mysterious, wicked, wonderful things this man could do with a woman. Good heavens, if she’d guessed that stiff and proper Edward de Lacey had such dark depths to him, she would have seduced him at once, that first night he came to her house to see Sloan.

  He followed her upstairs as if it were completely normal. Strangely, it felt normal, as though he belonged in her house, in her bedroom. Even when he closed the door behind him, there was no awkward awareness.

  She went to her dressing table and sat down to remove her jewelry. In the mirror, she watched Edward take off his coat and waistcoat, and unwind his cravat, his eyes fixed on her. He came up behind her and put his hands over hers as she reached for the clasp of her necklace.

  “Let me.” He unhooked the necklace and let it fall into her lap. With the same lack of urgency he pulled the pins from her hair until it fell loose around her shoulders. He caught the length in one hand and twisted it all to one side, so he could press his lips to the nape of her neck, sending goose bumps racing down her arms. Francesca swayed in her seat and gripped the edge of the dressing table. She couldn’t have moved for anything, as his mouth whispered over the slope of her shoulders, nipping at her earlobe, lingering at the side of her neck. And she could watch every action in the mirror, which seemed to double the effect of everything he did.

  “Stand up,” he whispered. His silver eyes gleamed at her in the mirror. He slid one hand, palm down, over her shoulder and down the bare skin of her bosom until he could flick undone one small button at the side of her breast that held her dress closed. She gazed at him defiantly, then leaned back.

  His head bowed as he studied the expanse of skin above her bodice. He flicked another button loose, then curved both his hands over her breasts. She inhaled sharply and pressed against him; she could feel his erection surge against her shoulder blades. His hands flattened on her breasts and he rocked his hips against her back. “You do nothing for my gentlemanly instincts,” he said, his voice grown rough.

  “I don’t care for them at the moment.” She arched an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “They proceed too slowly.”

  “Good,” he growled. In a few seconds he had undone the rest of her gown and peeled it down her arms. Francesca pushed herself to her feet, expecting to step away from the dressing table, but Edward stopped her. He kicked the chair from between them and stepped up close behind her, pinning her to the table. He let her shove the gown down over her hips, but by the time it hit the floor he was already winding his fist in the hem of her shift, twisting it around his hand until he had pulled the whole thing to her waist. He anchored her to him with that hand, his arm solid muscle around her waist, and slid his free hand down her belly.

  “Too slowly, you say?” He laughed softly as she opened her mouth, then only moaned as his fingers slipped between her thighs. “I shall have to try harder to please you, I see . . .”

  Francesca couldn’t speak. She couldn’t look away from the mirror, where his every action was reflected back to her. The lamplight gleamed on the gold ring he wore as his long, strong fingers stroked the soft curls between her legs, then probed deeper to touch her so delicately, so perfectly, she quivered like a plucked violin string. But he knew her body better than that; he gentled his touch. He petted her until she melted. He played with her until she was panting, pushing her hips into each stroke. He curved one finger high up inside her until she almost screamed. He moved against her, grinding his erection between the curves of her bottom, and she writhed in his grip, casting her arms backward around his neck as she felt herself nearing the brink.

  “Feel what you do to me,” he whispered, pressing against her so she could feel every rock-hard inch of him. “Y
ou drive me mad, Francesca . . .”

  She gave him a reckless smile, even though she was all but draped over his chest, held up only by his arm around her and the tips of her toes as she arched into him again. “I don’t believe it . . . You’re still clothed . . .”

  His answering grin was savage. He yanked his hand out of the folds of her shift, letting her back down onto her feet. He pulled open the collar of his shirt and then tugged the whole shirt over his head. She stared breathlessly at his reflection as he reached for the fastenings of his trousers. “Put your hands on the table,” he rasped. She leaned over and spread her feet, and then he rubbed the blunt head of his cock against her before sliding deep inside.

  She shuddered and almost climaxed right then. Edward scooped one arm around her chest, his hand cupping her breast. His other hand went back to her sex, his fingers opening her to his merciless pleasuring as he began thrusting hard into her from behind. “Open your eyes,” he commanded. “I want you to see what we are together . . .”

  Francesca pried open her eyes and tried to focus on the image in her mirror. She looked wanton and voluptuous, fully exposed by the man who surrounded her inside and out. Her hair swung loosely around her in time with his pounding possession, and she braced her fists on the dressing table to drive herself backward, hard, faster, deeper into his strokes. She could see his fingers moving between her legs, drawing those internal threads of rapture tighter by the second until she thought she would break from the tension. She watched his hand fondle and grip her breast even as the sensations arrowed straight to her belly. And over her shoulder, his face, now dark and taut, his eyes glowing like moonlight as he took her right over the edge of sanity into oblivion.

  Edward felt her climax, and bared his teeth in raw male triumph as her head fell back and Francesca let out a long, thin cry of release. He pushed deep and held himself there, relishing every contraction of her body around his. But he couldn’t take it for long; watching her expression in the throes of ecstasy sheared away the last bit of control he had. He shifted his grip to her hips and rode her hard until his own climax engulfed him, drowning any other thought.

  For a long moment there was only the sound of her soft, half-gasping little breaths, and the thud of his heart, loud in his ears. He had never felt this . . . this liberation, this unfettered contentment. Not with another woman, not after a hard day of accomplishment, not after a brilliant business maneuver, not even after beating his brothers at anything. His body was wrung out with physical satisfaction, his mind felt fogged and sluggish, but his heart . . .

  “If this be madness,” came Francesca’s weak voice from behind the shining veil of her hair, “lead me to Bedlam.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow. I don’t think I can make it further than the bed.” He took another deep breath as she laughed, and the vibrations rippled through her body into his. “I could stay here forever,” he added, almost to himself, as he brushed aside her hair to nuzzle the back of her neck.

  She raised her head and gave him a sultry look. “Forever! How many wicked plans do you have?”

  “You have no idea,” he murmured, easing away from her. He reached around and began untying her stays.

  “Perhaps I have wicked thoughts of my own as well.”

  “I willingly submit myself to them all.” He stripped off the stays and then her shift, leaving her in just her stockings. “Tell me about these ideas. How wicked are you, my dear?”

  She laughed again. “Until tonight, I would have said more wicked than you! But now . . .” She began leading him toward her bed. “I shall never look at that dressing table in quite the same innocent way.”

  “Nor me?” Suddenly serious, Edward caught her face in his hands. “You said you would never reconsider Alconbury’s suit; you say he is only a dear friend to you. What am I?”

  The answer shone in her expressive eyes before she glanced away with a blush and an awkward laugh. She cared for him, beyond their intense physical attraction, beyond the cooperation they had begun to find Georgina. Any latent fear that she might have been using him, for any reason, was laid to rest. She started to stammer an answer but Edward stopped her. He knew what he needed to know.

  For the better part of a fortnight he took Francesca every place he thought might amuse her. She protested at first, but he persuaded her she needed to do something besides hunt for Georgina. They went to the theater, the opera, and Pidcock’s Menagerie. They visited the Tower, to see the king’s jewels and arms, and the British Museum to see the antiquities. Every day Edward fell more and more under her spell. He still got reports from Jackson on the search for Georgina; he still oversaw Durham business with Mr. White and directed Wittiers on the petition to claim the dukedom for Charlie; but never far from his mind was the next time he would see Francesca. The more he was in her company, the more he wanted of it.

  One night it came to him that this was what happiness was. Lying in her bed with her in his arm, sated and content, he embraced the feeling that had been steadily growing stronger and stronger. He had never been shy about pursuing what he wanted, once he determined it was worth pursuing. He pulled Francesca snugly into both arms and kissed her shoulder.

  “Come away with me,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, just for the day. Let me take you to Greenwich, or Richmond, anywhere out of London. I want to get away from the city.”

  “Greenwich!” she exclaimed, twisting to look at him in surprise. “That is, yes, of course, anywhere . . . But what—”

  He kissed her until she melted in his arms again. “Will you?” He smiled as she stared up at him somewhat dreamily and nodded. “Good.”

  “What is in Greenwich?” she asked playfully as his kisses wandered down her jaw and neck. “What are you plotting now, Edward?”

  “Something wicked,” he murmured as he bent his head to her breast, settling his weight atop her until their bodies fit together as perfectly as they always did. “But . . . something wonderful.”

  He was plotting how he would keep her with him.

  Forever.

  Chapter 22

  The next morning Edward left early. Barely awake, Francesca mumbled a protest when he rose with the sun and dressed, but he merely whispered that he had plans to make before whisking her away for the day. Then he kissed her, and she almost succeeded in enticing him back into bed, but he merely laughed under his breath and promised to let her have her way later.

  But when the door closed softly behind him, she found herself unable to go back to sleep, even though she knew her face would show the signs of another sleepless night of sin. She was hopelessly in over her head. Alconbury had warned her that Edward wouldn’t marry her or even stay attached to her for long. At the time she had brushed it aside, because she didn’t need Alconbury’s advice and because she didn’t want to think about the end of her affair with Edward when it was just beginning. But it had been several days, and Edward was at her side more than not. Everyone had remarked it. And now the thought refused to be swept away, although she still didn’t have an answer to Alconbury’s other question, about what she truly felt for Edward.

  When he showed up in the theater box unexpectedly, she had been taken off guard by how happy it made her. When he squired her about town as if he had no interest in being anywhere else, it only made her want more. Even with Alconbury’s warning lingering in her ears, she was still helpless against the lure of Edward’s company. No doubt she would have invited him into her bed even if he’d told her outright that he only intended a brief affair.

  The trouble was . . . she didn’t think he intended that. The trouble was, he’d asked her to go away with him. He questioned her about her feelings for Alconbury, as if to make certain she wasn’t in love with another man. He gave every impression of courting her even though they were already lovers. The trouble was, she’d gone and lost her heart to him, stunningly swiftly but no less completely, and she wanted him to tell her at Greenwich that he had done the same for her. And if he didn’t . .
.

  With a scowl, Francesca threw back her covers and got out of bed. She really was her own worst enemy at times. Here she found herself in love with a handsome, wonderful man who was obviously deeply attracted to her, who never patronized her or belittled her in any way, who was able to overlook her more outrageous actions, and all she could think about was what awful thing he might be about to tell her. She opened her wardrobe doors and rummaged through her clothing. Today she was going to take things as they came, and not set herself up for any disappointment. If Edward only told her he cared for her, well, that was still good news. If he told her he wanted to keep making love to her, that was also good news. She reminded herself that Edward was not like her; he was methodical and rational and not likely to lose his head over a woman in a matter of weeks, no matter how combustible they were together in bed. She remembered his description of how he became engaged to Louisa Halston, a process that had taken months or even years.

  “He called me managing,” she told her reflection in the mirror as she held up a green dress in front of herself for inspection. “That is not a compliment.” Even though it sounded like one when he reminded her of it in her breakfast room the other day.

  “But then he said he wanted to see me again,” she went on, casting aside the green dress and reaching for the russet and cream one. “And then he did so, very publicly.” Which was not a declaration, but many people would think it one.

  “If he doesn’t wish to see me anymore . . .” She stared at her own face in the mirror and had no words for the stark expression she found there. “There is no reason he must continue,” she whispered.