Imogene sensed Tristan was still furious at the marquess, but he somehow managed to keep his darker emotions from her because she needed to be comforted. “What if you are wrong?”
“I am not. You still do not understand,” Tristan said, impatience flashing in his gaze. He placed his hand on her belly. “I claim this child as mine. Anyone who hints otherwise will become my enemy who will face ruin by my hand. Our son will never doubt even for a moment that I am his sire.”
“So you have decided that I am carrying your heir?” she asked, her heart lightening at the conviction ringing in his vow.
“Of course,” was his arrogant response. Tristan’s eyes took on a sensual cast as he reached for the buttons on her dress. “And if you are not with child, you soon will be.”
“You are not—we cannot—not with all of the servants strolling about,” she protested, but the duke was no longer listening.
“I am—we can,” he countered firmly.
It seemed Tristan had decided the only way to wipe out her lingering doubts was to coax her back into his bed. She wondered if that had been his plan all along when he had escorted her upstairs to his bedchamber.
In silence, he undressed her. His touch was light but confident, as if the duke spent his days undressing women, which was probably closer to the truth than she preferred. Imogene glanced down at her legs, and was grateful the bruises on her body had faded. When he had finished, she felt vulnerable and a little foolish standing naked in front of him, but the front of his unfastened breeches revealed that he was aroused. If she had any doubts, he swiftly allayed them by stripping down until he was as naked as she was.
Imogene reached out and touched the light yellow bruising on his ribs that had not completely faded. He had been injured worse than he had let on when he had gone after—no, she thought, that odious man had no place in the room with them.
The rising desire in Tristan’s heavy-lidded gaze showed that he was wholly focused on her. On all the things he wanted to do to her.
“My love,” she said, sighing.
“Say it again,” he entreated, standing so close she could feel the heat rolling off his body. He was fully aroused, his majestic staff jutting forward. The thick crown brushed against her hip bone, causing her to shiver.
She cleared her throat. “My love.”
“Aye, that is what you are to me,” he said as he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. His face darkened with intensity. “My heart. My love. I should have spoken the words more often instead of just showing you with my body, assuming it was enough. If I had, maybe—”
Both of them had made mistakes.
“Hush,” she said, deliberately rubbing her hip against his manhood and enjoying how he sharply inhaled as if the movement wavered between ecstasy and pain. “Leave it in the past.”
“You are right,” he muttered, annoyed at himself for allowing his regrets to intrude. “No more talking.”
Imogene felt the palm of his hand on the small of her back, and in a fluid, almost dancelike move, he guided her backward until her legs bumped against the bed, and then she felt her backside sinking into the mattress.
Tristan caged her with his arms, his knee positioned between her legs keeping him on his feet. “Beautiful,” he said, staring at her with so much heat and love in his eyes that she believed him.
Trusted him.
Perhaps she always had on an instinctive level. If she hadn’t, she would have never encouraged him or allowed him to coax her into exploring her undiscovered passions. He had been a temptation she could not resist. Her tutor in the carnal arts and her lover. He would soon be her husband and the father of her children.
Had they already created a child together?
Her womb clenched at the heady thought.
Laid out on the mattress like his personal banquet, Imogene gazed at Tristan as he stared down at her with hungry anticipation. Straightening so he could gain use of his hands, he combed his fingers through her hair. He plucked out every hairpin and wasn’t satisfied until her hair was splayed out like a golden sun on the mattress.
It was just the beginning, and she was not certain she could withstand the torment. He seemed oblivious to his arousal, but she was keenly aware of the hot rigid length. As he touched her hair and teased her mouth with his lips, the heavy length brushed against her flesh, and burned her like a brand. She would have squeezed her thighs together to ease the warm tingles building deep within the core of her. His fingers had not touched those sensitive folds, and still she was already wet. Her body was readying itself for the union that they both were craving.
Tristan appeared content to take his time, and it was driving her half mad. Excitement and longing were entangled with a healthy dose of lust.
“My lovely duke,” she murmured dreamily. “Have I told you how pretty you are?”
“A few times,” he said. His fingers and mouth had moved on to her collarbone and shoulders. “However, I never grow weary of hearing how much I please you. Vanity is a hungry beast, and it must be fed often. Will you feed me and our son with these?”
He posed the question so casually, she had not deduced his intent until his mouth closed over her breast. Imogene tensed and arched her back slightly to meet the demands of his mouth. Pleasure shot through her as straight as an arrow, its target the very heart of her intimate heat. She squirmed against this sensual onslaught; the demand that he cease his teasing and take her was a persistent tickle in her throat.
“Will you?” he pressed, roughly suckling on her nipple. The exquisite pain was almost her undoing. Her breasts had been sensitive for weeks, and under Tristan’s calculated ministrations, they were inflamed.
“Yes,” she hissed.
“Of course you will. You have always been generous, and have never denied my whims,” he said, his breath coming out in hot puffs.
Tristan had tethered his own needs to give her pleasure, but he was chafing against his self-imposed restraints. Imogene silently wondered what she could do to send him over the edge.
It seemed only fair.
He nibbled his way down her flat stomach, and teased her navel with his tongue. “I cannot wait to see you swell with my child,” he said, inhaling deeply to take in the subtle fragrance of her desire for him.
He pressed a firm, loving kiss to her belly. A kiss meant for their child.
Imogene’s face crumpled as she struggled not to cry. She was overwhelmed by his acceptance and love.
As if sensing her distress, Tristan was determined to distract her. He shifted lower until the backs of her legs rested on his shoulders. Parting the feminine folds, his mouth was pure magic as he kissed the inner sweetness of her vulva.
Imogene could not muffle her cry of surprise, and her shoulders lifted off the mattress. Her beautiful lover’s mouth was skilled and thorough as he teased the small fleshy knot and was rewarded with another raw moan of pleasure. Her thighs tightened as he used his fingers and tongue to send her body spiraling toward the blinding gratification she had only found in his arms.
“Again,” he rasped, nipping her inner thigh. “The taste of you is as intoxicating as a mulled wine. I want to drink deep, and keep drinking until I’m drunk on the taste of you.”
To prove it, his mouth descended again. Imogene glimpsed a mischievous grin on his lips as he anticipated her response. She found her release—a second and third time. Someone screamed, and to her embarrassment, she realized as she trembled from the lingering quakes that it was her.
Her duke raised his head and their gazes met. From his smug expression, he was quite pleased with himself. He was never going to let her live this down.
By her fifth release, she was panting and could barely move.
“No more,” she begged. “If your goal was to melt my bones, you have succeeded. I congratulate you on your devious scheme. If you continue, I will be unable to leave this bed on my own.”
Tristan had the audacity to laugh at her. Imog
ene offered him a weak smile. She could not begrudge his mischief, when he looked so happy and unfettered from the rage that had been burning in his eyes since he had found her in his mother’s bedchamber.
“You have deduced my wicked intentions,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. She laughed as he placed wet kisses on her stomach before crawling up the length of her body until they were face-to-face. “If I had my way, the nights without you in my bed would end this day. I consider it my duty to keep you boneless and satisfied.”
“Can a person die from too much pleasure?” she asked.
“My darling lady, give me some credit. I will never give you too much pleasure … you have my promise that you will always have just what you require,” he said, his eyes glowing with amusement and something she could not quite define.
Imogene had her answer a minute later. Her eyes flared as she felt the head of his manhood press against the nest of damp curls between her legs. Without any hesitation, she shifted her right leg so he could—there.
She was so drenched, Tristan slipped easily within her. He made a soft growling sound of approval as she felt her body stretch around his manhood. Before she could marvel at how perfectly they fit together, he began to move within her. Slowly, at first. His mouth closed over hers, and she could taste herself on his lips, She arched her back, savoring the feel of her erect nipples raking his chest.
“Christ, Imogene—I do not know if I can hold on. You feel—” He clenched his teeth as if he was in pain, and his pace quickened.
Imogene understood the wildness driving him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, and slightly lifted her hips, silently inviting him to not be gentle. His eyes widened in surprise, and she saw flashes of relief and approval cross his face. He clasped her by the hips, and began to thrust at such a frenzied pace that she understood at once that he had been holding back for her sake.
“Are you mine?” she gasped, amazed that the lethargy that had overtaken her was fading as she felt the fires he was building within her.
His eyes were glazed with lust and his expression was fierce when he uttered, “Aye, love.” Tristan thrust deeply. “Yours.”
Anyone walking past the bedchamber door would have overheard his strangled shout of elation as he surrendered to the blinding pleasure. Tristan tugged her hips closer and buried his face against her neck as his seed filled her in copious pumps. Imogene cradled him in her arms, and this time she let the tears flow.
When his breathing had calmed, Tristan lifted his head and was distressed at the sight of her tears. “You have been crying.”
“Tears of joy, Your Grace,” she said, smiling up at him. “Every time I think our lovemaking cannot be bested, you prove me wrong.”
He laughed, which caused his manhood to twitch deep within her. Sobering, he braced his weight on one arm as his other hand slipped lower until his palm covered her belly. “Has our love play disturbed my son?”
Imogene was not fooled by his casual tone. Tristan wanted to know if he had banished her fears. If a child had been conceived, the duke was the sire. He had no doubts. “Your son is fine, Your Grace.”
If she was wrong about her delicate condition, she was positive her days and nights in Tristan’s bed would swiftly remedy her error.
“Good. Do you have any objections to our announcing our betrothal tomorrow evening?”
A wave of shyness washed over her. It was ridiculous considering that she was naked in her lover’s bed. “Not a one.”
If Imogene resisted, she suspected Tristan would keep her in his bed until he seduced the correct answer from her lips. It was a pleasurable notion. However, she was too tired to fight him. “I am yours if you will have me.”
He gave her a roguish grin. “Oh, I will, darling. Again and again.”
Tristan spent the rest of the afternoon rewarding her for making the right decision.
Chapter Twenty-two
In a short time, Norgrave’s life had become positively domestic.
He smiled indulgently at the woman admiring the amethyst necklace he had given her in front of the small mirror mounted on the dressing table. Clad only in a chemise, Lady Charlotte made a charming picture. It was a pity he did not have any skill with a pencil.
Since the day she had entered the proverbial lion’s den, he had relieved her of her maidenhead and done things to her virginal body that he had only experienced with whores. The gradual corruption of innocence had held his interest for days. Sometimes she had been eager. More often than not, she had fought him, and that is when he closed his eyes and pretended that she was the defiant Lady Imogene, her eyes damp and filled with what she perceived as betrayal. In those brief moments, he could almost believe he loved her.
Lady Charlotte was never mad at him for long. He knew how to break down a lady’s resistance and convince her that his passion for her had caused him to handle her roughly. The necklace and other small tokens of affection had assuaged all hurts. If she had not believed she was in love with him, she would have wondered how he had procured the necklace so quickly. He had several that he kept in a locked box for such situations. This particular one had already been offered to another lady. When she realized that he had only given her the necklace as a parting gift, she had hurled the jewelry at his head and marched out of the room. Her fit of temper had prompted him to chase after her. He had shoved her onto her knees and mounted her with savage enthusiasm. When his seed had been spent, she had been eager to see the last of him.
“Oh, Cason, it is the most beautiful necklace I have ever owned,” Lady Charlotte said, returning to the bed that they had just shared.
Norgrave grasped her hand. “If it is, then your father has been miserly with his affection. A few months ago, I noticed one of his mistresses was wearing a similar necklace and the center stone was the size of a pigeon’s egg.”
The blonde frowned. “My father is devoted to my mother. He would never take a mistress.”
“Ah, little innocent.” He pulled her back into bed, and rolled her onto her back. “I grant you, the gentleman is discreet. Nevertheless, from the looks of his latest one, I predict you will have a new half-sibling in four months.”
Lady Charlotte’s expression grew mutinous. “I do not believe you.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he silkily asked.
Already familiar with that particularly dangerous inflection, she shook her head. “Of course not, my love. Forgive me for implying that you are spinning tales. It is just … my father.”
Since she apologized so prettily, he decided to be benevolent. The necklace was an indication of his boredom and he was content to let her go before he ruined her completely. His convalescence was over, and he was hungry for a lover who enjoyed the pain he could inflict on her.
“I understand, my dear,” he said in soothing tones. “We place those we love on such high pedestals. It hurts when they do not live up to our expectations.”
Lady Charlotte nodded, but the seeds of doubt were already sprouting. Norgrave did not know if her father had a mistress or not. He did not truly care. Her blind devotion to her family irritated him. Now she would always look at her father and wonder if he was a liar and an adulterer.
“What time is it, do you think?”
“After two o’clock, I suppose,” Norgrave said, stifling a yawn. “Why do you ask?”
“I must return home,” she said as she touched the necklace. “My family and I are attending Lord and Lady Ludsthorpes’ ball this evening. Rumor has it, the Duke of Blackbern will be announcing his betrothal to Lady Imogene. Not that it is much of a surprise. It is obvious to everyone that the duke is in love with her.”
Lady Charlotte’s voice faded into the distance as the blood roared in Norgrave’s ears. He abruptly sat up in an attempt to ease the pain in his head. Blackbern intended to marry Imogene. He caressed the healing wound on his cheek as if it somehow brought him closer to the lady who had marked him. Blackbern was marrying the chit? He had never
shown any interest in marriage. What Norgrave had done to Imogene should have sent his former friend scurrying away from the lady. Instead, Blackbern had tried to kill him and now he was marrying the lady who Norgrave considered his. Damn it all, the infuriating man was ruining everything.
“Cason, are you listening?” Lady Charlotte asked, her face clouded with unwarranted concern.
“What are you blathering about?” he snapped, and she recoiled at his impatience.
“I asked if you were planning to attend the ball this evening?” she said, unaware that her news had soured his mood. “I know there has been friction between you and the duke. However, betrothals are a cause for celebration, and a time for the two of you to put aside your differences.”
“Was that the only reason that you wanted me to attend?”
There was something in his tone that had her edging away from him. “I—I thought you might pay your respects to my mother and father.”
His hard smile heralded a brewing storm. “Have you told them that you begged me to fuck you?”
Lady Charlotte flinched as if he had struck her. “No! How could you describe what we did so crudely? What is wrong with you?”
What is wrong with me? I am not Blackbern.
The lady was far from finished with her tantrum. “You told me several times that you loved me. You gave me this lovely necklace. I would have never allowed you to touch me if I thought you did not—”
“Pray, shut your mouth,” he said with biting politeness. “Due to your limited skills, I can only think of one or two things you are capable of doing with that tongue.”
She gasped and backed away from the bed.
Oblivious to his nakedness, he stalked her. “Is there an hour in the day that you are silent? I can barely form a rational thought with you prattling on and on.”
Lady Charlotte’s hands went to her neck and fumbled for the clasp. “If you feel that way, then you can keep your precious necklace. I no longer want it.”
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