“I should like to call you by your Christian name,” she managed to say past the nerves tangling her up in knots. “To everyone else, you are Monty.”
He stopped before her, his gaze traveling hungrily over her. “I never liked my Christian name, but if you prefer, I suppose Ewan will do.”
Of course, she knew his full name, Ewan Christopher Hamilton, Duke of Montrose. But garnering his permission to call him Ewan felt intimate. Warmth blossomed inside her.
“Ewan,” she repeated. “Why do you hate it? It is a beautiful name.”
A beautiful name for a beautiful man, she thought. But she kept that part to herself.
“It sounds much better when you say it.” His gaze flitted to her lips.
How she longed for his mouth upon hers. The urgency rising within her took her by surprise. She must distract herself. Part of her felt like the hare being hunted. Part of her wanted him more than she wanted her next breath.
“Ewan,” she said again, testing the name. Her heart pounded. Heat pooled in her core, throbbed from her center. Her reaction to him was dangerous. He was dangerous. She needed to proceed with caution. To go slowly.
She wanted his claiming. His kiss.
And he gave her what she wanted.
But not as quickly as she anticipated. Rather, he took his time. His gentleness disarmed her. He cupped her face in his hands, tracing her cheeks gently with the pads of his thumbs.
“You are glorious, Hattie.” His voice was soft. There was no doubting the admiration glinting in his gaze or imbuing his rich tone with a husky quality.
More heat unfurled within her, along with a rush of tenderness she had previously not allowed herself to feel for him. He was her husband now, after all.
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a tremulous smile she knew would make it obvious just how fraught with worry she was on the inside.
With fears and doubts.
She was married to a reckless rake. And he owned her heart. But a voice inside her pointed out he had not been so very reckless over the course of the last few weeks. No rumors concerning him had reached her. Since the day she had smelled gin upon his breath during his proposal, she had not scented it again. Instead, his kisses tasted of only wine or tea.
Still, she knew it was too much to hope he had reformed with such ease. He was still the same wild rake he had always been. The trouble with Montrose was that there were moments of such incredible kindness. Gestures, words, and deeds that made her forget all the rest.
Until whatever prompted him in his hedonistic ways resurfaced, of course, and he was at it again.
“No, Hattie,” he said, interrupting her tumultuous thoughts as he tunneled his fingers into her hair. “Thank you. Thank you for marrying me. Thank you for becoming my duchess. I do not deserve you, it is certain. But I will do my utmost to be the best husband to you I can.”
She understood that this was as close to a declaration as she would get from Montrose. Scratch that—from Ewan, for that was how she must think of him now.
To that end, she worked up the courage to touch him as well. She settled her hands upon his shoulders first. They were broad and firm. Warm, too. Shielded from her for the first time without his many layers. Belatedly, she noted he appeared nude beneath the banyan, which parted in a vee to reveal a swath of his chest. Stippled with dark hair and lean and firm, and so very masculine. So very intimate.
She inhaled, dragging his scent into her lungs. “I will do my best to make you happy as well, Ewan. I am not accustomed to being a wife, after all.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Nor am I accustomed to being a husband. On that, we are well-matched, darling.”
When he called her darling, and when he was standing so near, and when his fingers were beginning to massage her scalp, and when her hands were upon him, all the anticipation coiling within made her weak. So weak.
“Ewan,” she said, breathless.
A slight frown furrowed his brow, and she supposed it was because he was unaccustomed to being called his given name. “Yes, Hattie?”
Her hands crept up his neck. She cupped his head, her fingers sinking into his thick, dark hair. It was so luxurious, so soft. She had never dared to caress him thus without him kissing her before. But it felt good to explore him now. To touch him freely, boldly, and as she wished.
She summoned the rest of her daring. All she had left. “Will you kiss me again?”
“With pleasure, my darling.” His frown was gone, his brow smooth, his countenance unfairly handsome as he lowered his mouth to hers once more.
Their lips met. Hers parted naturally. The fit of their mouths was right. Perfect. This kiss was more demanding than the last. And yet, it was still slow. Exploratory. Their tongues met. The kisses they had shared before had been the prelude to this masterful seduction. He was heat and strength and desire. He was sin and temptation and power.
Intoxicating.
That was what he was.
She kissed him back, grasping handfuls of his hair, holding him to her. He made her feel ravenous. He made her understand all the women who had fallen beneath his spell. There was something about the way he kissed, the way he touched a woman, that made her feel as if she were the rarest treasure laid before him.
He kissed her as if he wanted to devour her and as if she were a goddess to whom he paid homage. Long and deep and slow. He took his time. And she took hers as well, tipping back her head, opening wider.
They remained locked in each other’s embrace, their mouths fused, until at last he withdrew. His breath fell hot upon her lips as he tipped his forehead to hers. Their noses brushed. The moment was strangely intimate. Perhaps the most intimate of any of their encounters, even though their mouths no longer clung.
“I am trying to pace myself. To seduce you. But you are the one who is seducing me.”
The tip of his nose grazed the bridge of hers. The act itself was innocent enough. It should not have robbed her breath, and yet, somehow, it did. Or perhaps it was his words. The notion that she, Hattie Lethbridge, could possibly seduce the Duke of Debauchery, why it was…
Ridiculous.
Unbelievable.
Delicious.
There was something raw and real, resonating in his voice, in his touch. Tonight was different. Something between them had shifted. Whatever it was, it gave her a new sense of determination. She wanted to wrap herself around him and never let go.
She rubbed her nose against his. “How can I seduce you?”
He laughed softly. “London’s greatest sinner, yes? You are no fool, Hattie. You must know my reputation—”
No, never mind all that. She did not want those reminders. Did not need those ghosts coming between them.
She pressed her mouth to his instead, staying the rest of his words. Whatever he had been about to say, she knew it was not something she wanted to hear. Because all she did want now, in this moment, was him. Not words. Not reasons. Not excuses. Not explanations.
Just action.
Pure, unadulterated need. Hers for him, his for her. He kissed her back with all the passion burning inside her, with all the fiery need. This kiss turned voracious, possessing none of the pretty hesitance of its predecessors.
Her kiss had ended his attempts at being a gentleman. He was wild now. But that suited her fine, for so was she. His tongue plunged into her mouth, one of his hands fisting in her hair, angling her head to where he wanted it. There was no doubt who was in control now.
It was not Hattie, who had begun this with her kiss. It was Ewan. All Ewan. And he was determined to show her. To seduce her. To shift the power balance between them, back to where it had been.
She fell headlong into that kiss, into him. Greedy. Needing. It still did not feel real somehow, that the man she loved was in her arms. That he was hers. And perhaps that was because she knew—oh, how she knew—whatever happened between them must be temporary. This would not last. It was transient.
No one could ev
er contain the Duke of Montrose, least of all her.
But mayhap that was what made kissing him, joining herself with him, all the sweeter. Or all the more bittersweet. Their tongues battled. Their kisses grew harsh. Uncontrolled. The heat within her rose to a crescendo. So, too, the longing. The desire. The need.
“Hattie,” he murmured against her lips. “My sweet, beautiful, Hattie. You do not know what you are asking for.”
“Perhaps I do,” she said before thinking better of her words.
His head jerked back, gaze searching hers. “I want to be gentle, darling. To ease you into lovemaking. I have never… I do not know how to please a lady.”
A virgin was what he meant. For certainly, he had seduced and bedded more ladies than she cared to count. The rumors and the gossip had cut her. She could not deny that. But it had no place here and now. Tonight was about Hattie and Ewan, not about a wallflower and the Duke of Debauchery.
“I just want you, Ewan,” she told him honestly. Earnestly. “Not gentle. Not anything other than you, just as you are. You are the man I wed. You are the man I want.”
“Christ.” The epithet hissed from his lips, out of place in this moment of carnal surrender. “You do not even know me.”
No, she did not, not in the Biblical sense.
But she knew enough. She had known him for years as her brother’s trusted friend and confidante, after all.
“I do,” she countered, meeting his gaze, doing her best not to fall headlong into it. “I know you are my husband. I know your kisses. Your touch. I know I want you. How can you doubt it?”
“God’s fichu, Hattie,” he growled. “How did you get to be so bloody perfect?”
And then, he was kissing her all over again. Stealing her breath. Making her heart pound. Making her longing for him grow until it was a raucous clamor within, drowning out caution and fears. Silencing everything but the desire.
How did he get to be so bloody perfect? That was what she wanted to know.
But words were beyond her and unnecessary now. Because he was kissing away everything else. And his hands were busy removing all the rest. Her dressing gown parted to reveal the night rail she wore beneath. Prim and ivory, it was a garment for modesty. Her husband did not seem to mind.
He broke the kiss to gaze at her, the warmth of his hands on her shoulders as he slid the sleeves of her robe down her arms making her shiver. “Are you cold, darling?”
His voice was attentive. Tender. His eyes upon her felt like a caress. Every part of her was all too aware of him. Beneath the weight of that stare, her nipples hardened to puckered beads, stiffly poking the fine fabric of her night rail. Her breasts felt heavy and full, her entire body overcome by a simultaneous yearning and a sweet, heady sense of anticipation caused by his nearness.
“No.” She forced herself to answer his question.
He cupped her breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple in achingly slow, delicious strokes. The ache between her thighs intensified. She pressed them together to stave off the sensation, but it only served to heighten it. She was trapped in his gaze, cocooned in her own desire for him. Molten heat pooled in her core, making her wet.
“You look too damned innocent in this virginal night rail,” he said, his voice low. Dark with sensual promise. He plucked at her nipple, caught it in a gentle pinch and tugged. “I am afraid I shall have no choice but to debauch you.”
More wicked words from a wicked man. They should not affect her so. Her inner sense of caution warned her that allowing herself to wallow in the intensity of emotions and desire he stirred to life would only make it that much easier for him to break her heart. And not just break it but smash it into useless little bits.
But she was in his thrall now. Caught in his liquid gaze, his hands upon her. Instead of moving away from him or attempting to quell the need rising like the waters of a flooded river, she stayed where she was. Arched her back, driving her breast into his palm.
He grasped her, making a velvety hum of appreciation. “You want this, sweeting.”
It was not a question.
For they both knew he need not pose one.
Just as they both already knew the answer if he would.
“Yes,” she said on a sigh.
Chapter Eleven
Hattie’s sweet body had given her away before her words could.
A surge of raw, potent lust hit him. Hardening his already burgeoning cockstand. Drawing his ballocks tight. Turning the blood in his veins to fire. There was something about taking all her virginal innocence and making it his that spurred him in a way no other desire he had ever experienced before had.
Her breast was a warm, tantalizing weight in his palm. He already knew her bosom was generous. All creamy curves tipped with hungry pink nipples to match her lush lips. But knowing she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her—it was intoxicating.
He had to warn himself, remind himself to proceed with caution. To avoid tearing her modest night rail from her body like some ravening beast. To not simply stake his claim but to make her wild for him. Prolonging this bedding—bringing her pleasure, coaxing her body to life—would lead to a far greater reward than his mind could even comprehend. He was certain of it.
“Take it off,” he told her.
She blinked. The passion coursing through her had given her lovely face a dreamy quality. She was relaxed, so very unlike the protesting, prim, proper Hattie she so often showed him and the rest of the world. He rather relished the prospect of being the only one who saw this Hattie.
The passionate lover.
“Your night rail,” he elaborated when she seemed to freeze. “Take it off for me, darling. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”
And he wanted the exquisite pleasure of watching her divest herself of that modest virgin’s gown. To see it fall to the floor. To remove every barrier keeping him from his ultimate prize.
There were buttons on the high-necked affair. Her fingers went to them, plucking each from its moorings, one by one. He watched, need pulsing in his loins. He had never thought it possible to find the act of a woman undoing some buttons on spinster’s weeds so damned delicious. Then, he was reasonably certain he would find Hattie disrobing erotic even if she were wearing a smelly old horse blanket.
One more button. Her eyes locked to his as her hands fisted the skirt of her gown. He held his breath, wondering if she would have the mettle…
In the next breath, she whipped it over her head, sending it sailing through the air. Of course she had the courage. What the devil had he been thinking? This was Hattie. His Hattie. And she had more daring in her little finger than most virginal misses had in their entire bodies.
He drank in the sight of her.
Gorgeous.
Pale curves, long legs, full hips, a waist that emphasized her generous breasts. Lord God, all at once, she was a miracle of womanly decadence. Her ankles were tapered, her calves perfection, her thighs pure beauty, and the mound at the apex…
Need slammed into him.
He could not even speak. Words were beyond him. Curses, prayers, anything—he was speechless. But the yearning for her was relentless. He broke. His hands were on her. Bare, silken skin kissed his palms like a benediction. Such unsullied perfection, kept hidden. Waiting for him. All for him.
He moved them to the bed. All he could think about was kissing her. Tasting every part of her body. He had fucked some of the finest courtesans in London. Women who knew how to intensify a man’s need with clever ploys and tricks. Women who knew how to kiss and touch and tantalize. And yet, he had never wanted any of them in the way he wanted Hattie now.
“Ewan,” she whispered, her eyes wide, lips parted. Her breath fanned over his mouth. Her hands had settled upon his shoulders, grasping for purchase.
His Christian name on her lips sounded strange and yet…he rather liked it. He liked everything about Hattie. Even her disapproval made him want to bed her until she was mindless and breathless
beneath him. Here was an unexpected development.
He had set out upon the course of marrying Miss Hattie Lethbridge for practical reasons, paying the debts he owed, both to the line and to his friend. But along the way, his need for her had surpassed every other motivation.
And it was his raging need for her that was driving him now.
“On the bed with you, pet,” he urged.
She settled her rump upon the edge of the mattress, allowing him to guide her. He had the intense pleasure of framing her glorious hips in his hands until he had her where he wanted her.
“Perfect,” he praised. And he meant her positioning as much as he meant her.
He stole another kiss from her beautiful lips. But before he allowed himself to linger for too long, he dragged his mouth downward. Back down that sleek throat. He took care to bite the sensitive nerve he had found before, relishing her breathy gasp and the tightening of her fingers on his shoulders.
“Ewan.”
This time, his name emerged in a huskier tone. Part moan.
He vowed inwardly that he would have her screaming his name before this night was through. And it would be the most glorious sound he would ever hope to hear. God, yes.
He inhaled the sweet, innocent scent of her. Clean soap. Woman. Violets. Good Lord, when had violets ever been so damned carnal? He did not think he could ever smell their scent again without getting a stiff cock.
Monty played his mouth over her flesh, taking his time. The flutter of her pulse was strong, evidence of her desire along with the way she moved against him, bringing her bare breasts into contact with his chest. Her nipples burned him through the layer of his dressing gown, taunting him.
He had no choice but to work his way to them next. He sucked first one into his mouth, and then the other, bestowing equal attention on both. When he flicked his tongue over the hard bud before catching it in his teeth, she cried out. Her fingers went from his shoulders back to his hair, her nails raking his scalp.
The tender sting made his cock twitch.
Yes. Oh, yes. His Hattie was a wanton. He felt certain. And he would unlock her true nature one kiss, one lick, one touch at a time. He caressed her thighs, urging them to part. Her initial resistance gave way when he sucked her nipple deep into his mouth once more.
Duke of Debauchery Page 12
