The Duke's Holiday
Page 41
She moaned and struggled against her bonds. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands down his shoulders, underneath his clothing. “Untie me.”
“No. I rather like this. I can do exactly what I want to you.”
Her entire body vibrated with wicked delight, and she groaned in frustration. How very little it took him to make her lose her mind!
He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath catching. The last of Astrid’s good sense fled her as she snuggled against him as best she chould. He was the impossible one, to make her burn so despite her intentions otherwise. To make her love him, even when he had her tied up in a moving conveyance.
She tilted her head so that her lips touched his, and kissed him, tasted him. He went still, then surged forward, devouring her mouth, thrusting his tongue inside as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He finally broke from her with a gasp. “Stop that, or I shall pull this vehicle over and take you now,” he murmured against her temple.
“Were you planning on waiting?”
He laughed hoarsely. “You shall kill me yet. You make me lose all sense of propriety.”
“I think it is safe to say propriety parted ways with us around the time we entered the stables this afternoon.”
He cupped her face and stared down at her with a serious expression. “You deserve a bed. My bed. Our bed.”
She snorted. “I’ve not agreed to anything that would lead to us sharing a bed.”
His eyes went wide. He pulled back. “I swear, Astrid, if we drive all the way to Scotland and you don’t marry me, I think I might internally combust.”
Her heart jumped out of her chest in fierce joy. It was exactly what she had wanted to hear from him – sort of.
“But I can’t marry you!” she breathed.
He looked so angry and hurt, for once not bothering to hide his emotions, her whole body ached for him. He led the team over to the side of the road and pulled them to a stop before turning back to her. “Why the bloody hell not?” he demanded.
“You are a Duke, a very rich, important Duke. I could never be a proper Duchess.”
“I don’t want a Duchess!” he roared. “I want a wife. I want you.”
“You say that now because … for some reason you desire me …”
He barked out an incredulous laugh. “I love you, Astrid!”
Her heart began to beat wildly with hope. Her wheedling, it seemed, had paid off. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Really, truly, utterly. I don’t think I was alive until I met you. You make me so damnably happy! And miserable. And irritated. And insane. You drive me to distraction, but it is the loveliest sort of distraction I’ve ever known. I love you, I love you. Shall I say it again?”
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her madly, then drew away, his expression stern. “I love you.” His stern expression slowly faded into a smile. “I love you.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her chin. “I love you.”
“I think I get the idea,” she said with a dreamy sigh. A warm glow spread through her at his words.
He gave her a sheepish look between kisses. “Do you love me, Astrid?”
She decided not to let him have such an easy victory. She didn’t want their marriage to get off on the wrong foot and have him think he could just make her capitulate with a few declarations of love all the time. “Does it matter? It seems you’ll have your way, whether I like it or not,” she sniffed.
“Do you love me, you little monster?” he growled, tightening his arms around her.
“I might,” she hedged.
“Well, do you?”
He’d begun to sound genuinely worried, so she decided to put him out of his misery. She wasn’t that cruel. “Of course I love you. Even if you are Montford.”
He glared at her without heat, having seen through her ruse. “I’m afraid I’m stuck with the bloody title, Astrid. Much good it has done me. And I’m not going to give away my wealth, if that is what you want. And we must spend at least a few months in London every year. I have a country to run, you know. I’m sorry, Astrid, but we cannot be poor or common. You must be a Duchess.”
Well, when he put it like that…
“Can my sisters live with us?”
He looked at her in exasperation. “Of course. How could you think otherwise?”
“And Aunt Anabel?”
“If she keeps her wigs out of my way.”
“I want to rebuild the castle and live there.”
He grinned. “Done.”
She had not expected such an easy concession. She tried her best to contain her shock and pushed him for more while his defenses were down. “I want to continue to run the brewery. My way.”
His grin slipped a little. “Fine,” he said rather grudgingly.
“I want you to submit a bill to the House to give women the vote.”
His mouth flattened out. “We’ll see.”
She beamed at him. She knew by that noncommittal answer that she had conquered him utterly. He would have never so much as entertained such a radical thought a week ago. Oh, she was going to have such fun with this man.
His mouth turned down in a frown at her glee. “You’re trying to provoke me.”
“Is it working?”
He shook his head. “Damn it, Astrid, are you going to marry me or not?”
“You have hay in your eyelashes.”
“Do I?”
“All over your clothes, in fact.”
His eyes turned opaque, his expression made her blood simmer. “What are you going to do about it, then?” He inched closer to her, until she had only to crane her neck forward to reach his lips. He pulled his head back abruptly and regarded her severely. She cried out in frustration. “Not until you agree to marry me.”
She pouted. “You are cruel. Are you going to be such an ogre all the time?”
“Not all. Most.”
“Well, then, I suppose I must marry you. Someone must protect the rest of the country from your black moods.”
“Is that a yes?” he demanded gruffly.
“Yes.”
He hesitated. “You aren’t going to change your mind, are you?”
She scowled at him. “Never.”
“Good.” His expression softened. He grinned at her like a giddy schoolboy. Then he lowered his head and kissed her and kissed her, until they both forgot everything outside the circle of their hot, frantic embrace. Or rather, his hot, frantic embrace, since she was trussed up like a sacrificial offering.
Which she didn’t mind in the least.
“God, how I want you,” he murmured, then he proceeded to show her just how much, propriety be damned. His mouth was on her neck, then her throat, and his hands were everywhere, caressing her until she was certain she would die from unfulfilled need.
She couldn’t use her hands, but she used the rest of her body to urge him on, arching against him, legs wrapping around him greedily as he settled his weight atop her. His hands encircled her upper thighs, just as he had that day in the library when he’d seduced a book out of her pantaloons. He didn’t find a book this time, but something infinitely sweeter.
Her senses fractured. So did his, apparently, until a sudden, inconvenient realization intruded into this perfect moment, and she went still beneath him, staring up at him in amazement.
“What is it now?” he groaned, pausing above her, reining in his desire with a visible effort. His breath was little more than a ragged pant. His eyes were glazed, his hair stood up on end, and his shirt gaped open, revealing an expanse of naked, chiseled male torso. He was quite the most delicious, ridiculous, lovely sight she’d ever seen.
The Duke of Montford was nowhere to be found, and Astrid couldn’t have been more pleased.
What was it she wanted to say? Oh, yes. “I just thought of something. We’re in a carriage, and you haven’t cast up your accounts once.”
He grinned and hugged her close. “How could I? You have cured me, Astrid. Body and soul. I was a wreck
of a man before I met you.”
“And now…?”
He laughed and nuzzled her throat. “Now I am an even bigger wreck. Thank hell. I love you, Astrid Honeywell. Though you may very well drive me to Bedlam.”
“Then take me with you.”
“Oh, I intend to,” he said, resuming his seduction. “Just give me a moment, will you?”
The End
(Sebastian and Katherine’s story, Book Two in the Regency Romp Trilogy, coming soon.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MAGGIE FENTON is an avid reader, reviewer and scribbler of romance in between her work as a professional musician. She writes steampunk romance under another pseudonym and has enjoyed some success as a self-published author in that genre. She hopes to enjoy much much more. The Duke’s Holiday is her first foray into the historical romance genre, one of her personal favorites. It won’t be her last.
MAGGIE FENTON WEBSITES:
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Email her at margaretfenton12@gmail.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven